pej A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 & OTHER WOMEN 
 
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 OCTAVE THANET
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 & OTHER WOMEN
 
 A 
 
 SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 fir 
 
 OTHER WOMEN 
 
 BT 
 
 OCTAVE THANET , <PSe.<L 
 
 HERBERT S. STONE & COMPANY 
 
 CHICAGO r NEW YORK 
 
 MDCCCXCVIII
 
 COPYRIGHT 1898, BY 
 HERBERT S. STONE A CO
 
 /7/7 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY - i 
 
 A COLONIAL DAME - 55 
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 87 
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 131 
 
 ON THE BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL - - 185 
 
 -3 QO 
 _ji..oo 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 A Slave to Duty 
 
 FRANK MALLORY was fond of his 
 mother-in-law. He was as delighted 
 as a boy when he could get away from 
 the pressure of a great business and spend 
 a few days in the little New England village 
 where Mrs. Wilder had lived ever since the 
 captain's death. In fact, Mrs. Wilder was 
 born in Jeffries. She was born a Jeffries, 
 one of the good old family from which the 
 town was named ; and she had never left the 
 town for any long interval, except during 
 the five years of her married life. She 
 married a naval officer, who made her very 
 happy and left her with two little girls and 
 his pension. 
 
 She went back to Jeffries, and somehow 
 managed to buy a house out of the pension, 
 and by taking a few boarders among the 
 boys attending the famous Jeffries Academy. 
 
 That was how Frank had met and loved
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Nora, his wife. That was how the other 
 son-in-law but they never talked of the 
 other son-in-law. 
 
 After Frank's wonderful prosperity in 
 business Nora had prevailed on her mother 
 at odd times to accept certain stocks and 
 bonds and other personal estate, which had 
 been so wisely invested that Mrs. Wilder 
 was very comfortable, and quite able, as 
 she told Frank, often oh, quite able to care 
 for Wait ! She would not build a new house. 
 She enlarged and beautified the old walls, 
 but she would not have new. 
 
 To-day, as Frank leaned back in the old 
 leather chair, he could see some of the same 
 furniture that he had known in the days 
 when he had courted Nora; and Wait had 
 comforted his boyish jealousies. Its presence 
 did not embarrass the new furniture, for it 
 was old and of no pretense, and rather gave 
 notice that its owners had been gentle-folks 
 in another century. Nora herself, hand- 
 somer in her dark, vivacious beauty than 
 when she was his sweetheart, sat on the 
 piano-stool, throwing her words and her 
 flashing smile over her shoulder at her
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 mother and Frank. Mrs. Wilder was the 
 image of a placid, sweet-natured gentle- 
 woman, softly shimmering in grays, with 
 crisp white tulle at her throat and in her 
 widow's cap. Wait was standing at the 
 piano. She had her mother's dove's eyes and 
 delicately fair skin, and her mother's slim 
 grace and sweet expression; but she had 
 never been pretty, like her mother only 
 what the Jeffries people called "nice look- 
 ing." She had been singing the Easter 
 hymns over with Nora, Mrs. Wilder joining 
 them occasionally in a thin, sweet, true 
 treble, and Frank listening. He extended 
 his immaculate lavender trousers, and peace- 
 fully surveyed his varnished shoes. His large ' 
 frame had relaxed every muscle. His keen 
 gray eyes were beaming with lazy kindness, 
 and he smiled under his brown mustache so 
 benevolently that one would hardly notice 
 the bold outline of his shaven jaws and his 
 Roman nose. Nobody, he least of all, would 
 have pictured this genial image breaking the 
 ten commandments and the laws of his coun- 
 try before sunset. That is because we are 
 not prophets. 
 
 3
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Close to Frank, rubbing his cheek against 
 the big man's knee, sat a boy of six, whose un- 
 happy fate was written on his face, in the low 
 forehead, vacant eyes and sagging mouth; 
 yet he was not otherwise repulsive Indeed, 
 he wore a smile of timid good-will that 
 excited good-will and compassion in return. 
 While the others were busied at the piano, he 
 plucked at Frank's sleeve and showed him 
 something hidden under the chair. He 
 chuckled and cooed like a baby of two, then, 
 instantly, made a face of exaggerated warn- 
 ing. 
 
 "What are you after, old man?" said 
 Frank, lazily. 
 
 Wait instantly turned her head. Any one 
 who saw her could tell that she was his 
 mother, and that her soul was bound up in 
 him. 
 
 "Maybe he wants his own hymn," she 
 said; "he can tell the difference, and always 
 knows his own. " She began to sing: 
 
 "Onward, Christian soldier, 
 Marching as for war.'' 
 
 But the boy, although apparently listening 
 to the hymn, slyly nipped his uncle's leg and
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 displayed his treasure. His mother detected 
 the action. 
 
 "What is he trying to show you? Why, 
 Bertie, you aren't playing boat on Sun- 
 day?" 
 
 Bertie hung his head, but his mother 
 crossed the room to kiss him, and her face 
 was alight. 
 
 "See, mother," she cried, joyously, "he 
 knows the difference ; he knows he is doing 
 wrong!" And she kissed him again. 
 
 ' ' It does show reason, ' ' said Mrs. Wilder, 
 a little dubiously. 
 
 "Of course it does," Frank agreed, in a 
 confident tone. "He actually pinched my 
 leg to get me onto his little game. ' ' 
 
 "You are so good to him, Frank," said 
 Wait; "but truly, don't you think he under- 
 stands? and he knows a good many more 
 words all the time. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, he's coming on," said Frank, "and 
 the boat is a nice boat for any boy of six to 
 make. It's neatly done, remarkably neatly 
 done." 
 
 "He does everything so neatly," said his 
 mother. "Why, he can sew a seam on the 
 5
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 machine so you can use it, and he doesn't 
 mind doing anything over and over again 
 until he has it right. Come, Bertie, let us 
 go out to walk." 
 
 "Uncle Nice," said Bertie, slowly, pulling 
 at Frank's sleeve. 
 
 "No, dearie, Uncle Nice must stay and 
 talk to grandma. ' ' 
 
 Bertie submitted with his usual docility; 
 but before he went he threw his arms 
 around his uncle's neck and kissed him. 
 Wait was looking; her pale face flushed up 
 to her eyebrows, as she involuntarily 
 extended her hand to draw Bertie away. 
 But Frank kissed the little fellow on his 
 cheek, and patted his shoulder and frankly 
 wiped his own cheek, smiling and saying: 
 
 "That was what I call a large, round, loud 
 kiss. Here, give me a small, square, soft 
 kiss like this." 
 
 Wait watched Bertie obey and laugh de- 
 lightedly at his uncle's approval. "I don't 
 wonder he calls you Uncle Nice, ' ' she said ; 
 "but you mustn't let him bother you. Don't 
 you think his picking up that name shows 
 he is beginning to think?" 
 
 6
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "Of course I do," laughed Frank; "it 
 shows discernment. ' ' 
 
 "I like that little chap," said Frank, when 
 Wait had gone; "there t's a chance for him. 
 Not to be like other boys, poor little 
 defrauded chap, but to be able to do things 
 with his hands so that his life will not be all 
 a burden. One thing anybody must see, he 
 is very sweet-natured. " 
 
 "That is his mother's gift to him," said 
 Mrs. Wilder. 
 
 "Yes, Wait had always the sweetest 
 temper," Nora stuck in, "and she was so 
 unselfish she nearly ruined my disposition. 
 Oh, I mean it, mamma; if I wanted a 
 thing, and two couldn't have it, she would 
 deceive and cudgel her conscience into alleg- 
 ing that she didn't want it at all, and I must 
 have it. Positively, I wonder I am as decent 
 as I am. She had a voracious appetite for 
 self-sacrifice, and I was her victim, because 
 you wouldn't be." 
 
 "Her husband didn't object to her self- 
 sacrifice," said Frank. "What a brute he 
 was! Do you remember that night when I 
 happened up suddenly, and she came over 
 7
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 with Nora? He had the jimjams and 
 imagined Nora was a devil's child he was 
 painting some sort of witch picture just 
 then and wanted to shoot her. Wait 
 insisted on going back herself. So I went 
 with her. He was quiet enough with the 
 doctor and me. I tried my best to get Wait 
 to leave him, then, but she wouldn't. He 
 was her husband ; she had promised for better 
 or for worse. There is only one thing that 
 would make it right for her to leave him. 
 'Well, the wnole world knows you've plenty 
 of that, ' says I ; 'if that's all you're haggling 
 about, come now !' But of course I had noth- 
 ing but gossip, and she wouldn't believe that. 
 I talked with her half an hour, until she was 
 shivering and blue around the mouth, and I 
 felt like an assassin, but it was no use. 
 She said, 'Oh, Frank, you've been a kind 
 brother to me; I hate to oppose you ' " 
 "She^," cried Mrs. Wilder. "Wait has 
 always thought everything of you, ever since 
 that time Clay ran away with the doctor's 
 phaeton and horse to Maxwell, and you 
 brought it home and wouldn't tell who took 
 it, and were suspended for it."
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "More fool I," said Frank. "I got that 
 sneak safe home to the house, drunk as he 
 was, and got two months off and a rowing 
 from my father, and a letter that was worse 
 than a rowing from my mother, for I know 
 she cried all the way through it. Oh, I owe 
 Clay one for that! But I was telling you 
 what she said. 'I can't desert Clay,' says 
 she; 'he has only me. You think I have no 
 influence over him. because you only see 
 when I fail. You see how unhappy we are 
 sometimes; you don't see our happier 
 times ' I cut in right there. 'Are your 
 happier times happy?' says I. She got 
 tangled up in her conscience directly, and 
 couldn't answer dodged, and went to talk- 
 ing about how a man of genius couldn't be 
 judged like other men, and how terribly Clay 
 repented, and how he felt that she was the 
 only thing that kept him from despair and 
 suicide. 'Oh, Frank,' she cried, 'his blood 
 will be on my soul if I leave him ! ' ' Blood 
 nothing,' said I. 'I know Clay's breed; he'd 
 drink himself blind drunk, and then he'd 
 brace up and paint a ripping good picture 
 and get a pot of money for it. ' I was right, 
 9
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 too, but I couldn't make Wait see it that 
 way. And I suppose I went off crosser than 
 I ever expected to be at Wait. Poor Wait ! 
 I begged her for little Nora, but she said 
 he was fond of the child. I told her it 
 wasn't safe. It wasn't." 
 
 He was talking with vehemence, striding 
 up and down the room before he finished. 
 Mrs. Wilder was brushing away the tears. 
 
 "Don't say it, Frank," pleaded she; "you 
 do him injustice. God knows I have no 
 cause to excuse him, but let us be just even 
 to the cruel and unjust. He threw that bust 
 at Wait, not Nora, and it never touched the 
 child. The doctor said it was her heart; 
 that she could not have lived many years in 
 any case. He thought that he had killed 
 her, because when she fell she struck her fore- 
 head, and the blood was streaming from it. 
 But it was all her heart. ' ' 
 
 "He frightened her to death instead of 
 hitting her with a wild throw. I don't see it 
 makes things any better for him," retorted 
 Frank, bitterly. 
 
 "But, Frank, Wait said he never was cruel 
 to little Nora. It was only in his delirium,
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 when he thought she was something else, 
 that he was was dangerous." 
 
 "And how about Wait?" said Frank, 
 between his teeth. "Did he ever strike 
 her?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilder flushed and shook her head. 
 
 "Wait would never tell if he had." 
 
 "But you have eyes; what do you think 
 yourself?" 
 
 "It may have been; I don't know. Once 
 Wait had a bruise on the side of her cheek. 
 She said it was an accident, and I I didn't 
 dare to question her, Frank. It seemed to me 
 I couldn't live if he had; and yet I knew she 
 wouldn't leave him, and so I was afraid to 
 know, and didn't question her. You will 
 think I was very pusillanimous and useless 
 all that bad time ; but, Frank, I never used to 
 question her about anything. I used to ask 
 about Clay, just as if he were like other hus- 
 bands, and I kept little Nora here all I could, 
 and did what I could for Wait in little ways." 
 
 "How New England!" exclaimed Nora, 
 "we would have had it out with Wait, 
 but we didn't half realize it, away off there in 
 Chicago. Clay always kept straight when we
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 made a visit, and Wait kept things so close ; 
 but she couldn't keep them from the servants. 
 And then the townspeople talked. They 
 never liked him because he never made no 
 secret how he hated Jeffries' people." 
 
 "I remember the reason he gave me for 
 living in Jeffries so he could leave the dam 
 place oftener," said Frank. "But of course 
 the real reason was that his uncle left him 
 his three thousand a year on condition he 
 lived in Jeffries. Then he owned the house, 
 and it could not be sold during his life. Oh, 
 his uncle was a wise old boy!" 
 
 "Didn't he have but three thousand at any 
 time, Frank?" Mrs. Wilder questioned. 
 "Why, he had four servants and horses and 
 carriages and those those people coming to 
 see him. Wait always came over to me when 
 they came. She had such a hard time keep- 
 ing nice girls; they said they didn't like to 
 have the gentleman of the house swear at 
 them, and," rather dryly, "I fancy they liked 
 less to have him kiss them. When I heard 
 that, I felt it would be right for Wait to 
 leave him. But I couldn't convince her. The 
 bills were 'a. part of the misery. It was so
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 humiliating to have a decent man like Hollin, 
 the butcher, for instance, that we have always 
 dealt with, come up to Wait herself and tell 
 her he wouldn't ask her, but he needed 
 the money to pay his own bills, and he had 
 sent in the bill to Mr. Bostwick so many 
 times; and when she asked him, to find it 
 had been running two years, and was eight 
 hundred dollars! And the others were not 
 quite so bad, but the amounts were larger 
 sometimes. ' ' 
 
 4 'What did Wait do?" 
 
 "Why, you know he was very generous to 
 her, and gave her beautiful jewels." 
 
 "I'm sure that as long as his credit held 
 out he would be the most lavish of men to 
 her or any other lady. ' ' 
 
 "That was the trouble, Frank. Wait took 
 a string of pearls he gave her and sold it and 
 paid Hollin; but when she came to try to 
 pay the others, she found that almost all of 
 the things had not been paid for. She 
 returned them all. Then she insisted that 
 they make some kind of arrangement with 
 their creditors, so they could get payments 
 on the debts. That was what made him so 
 13
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 furious. Of course, he made a large income 
 by his pictures, but he was so erratic. For a 
 month he would paint night and day, almost ; 
 make her fetch him all his meals and wait 
 on him, and then for six months he might 
 not touch a brush. I don't see how he ever 
 accomplished anything. And you know he 
 always had times of going away without 
 notice, and staying a few days or a week. 
 Once he stayed a month, and she was wild 
 with anxiety. That," added Mrs. Wilder, 
 with a touch of unconscious irony, "was 
 during the first year of her marriage; 
 she wasn't so anxious later. She didn't 
 venture to make any search for him, for that 
 threw him into a violent passion; so she 
 would appear as if he were absent quite 
 naturally. She struggled so hard, poor child, 
 to hide things, even from me. It was only 
 after he died that she told me about the 
 debts. That was because she wanted to take 
 the income which was continued to her and 
 the children in case of his death and pay the 
 debts. She took every cent from the sale of 
 the house, and, Frank, that girl hasn't spent 
 a hundred dollars a year on herself since 
 
 H
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Clay ran away and was drowned. Bertie 
 has his own income; she wouldn't stint 
 him." 
 
 "Did it ever occur to you, mother," said 
 Frank, by this time back comfortably in the 
 easy-chair, "that there is precious little 
 known about Clay Bostwick's death? He 
 ran out of the house when he found his child 
 was dead, and never was seen again until a 
 dead body in his clothes was fished up in the 
 Charles river. There was nothing except 
 the clothes by which he could be identified, 
 and while perhaps this meant nothing, the 
 body was an inch and a half shorter than 
 Bostwick. Oh, don't look so scared, both of 
 you! I haven't heard anything; I simply 
 spoke out my thoughts. If the cur wasn't 
 dead he would have sneaked back after the 
 money before this. But see here, mother, 
 why wasn't / told of Wait's scrimping her- 
 self? We've got to -stop it, you know. Pay 
 off the proper debts and squelch the others, 
 and generally clear decks. ' ' 
 
 "If Wait won't let me help her, do you 
 suppose she will let you?" Mrs. Wilder 
 asked, with a smile that trod hard on a sigh. 
 15
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "Well, hardly; and I dare say I ought to 
 be obliged to her for forgiving me the 
 tremendously plain talk I gave her the last 
 time I advised her to leave Bostwick. It 
 was one time I was here. Whenever I was 
 here, I advised her to throw her husband 
 overboard. The last time I came, she had 
 an errand to Boston, and I didn't see her. 
 But this time I sailed in at such a rate, I 
 didn't dare to tell Nora." 
 
 "I've always suspected you said frightful 
 things to her." 
 
 "Well, there you all were never mention- 
 ing the dog's habits to him or to her, and 
 being as polite to him as if he were a decent 
 man. It kept my temper on the jump, and 
 I determined to have it out with her. He 
 had come home drunk. He never got drunk 
 in an ordinary, respectable way like other 
 people topple over and put him to bed and 
 wake him up ashamed of himself and want- 
 ing a new heart and a new stomach created 
 in him the next morning not a bit of it. 
 He never got so he couldn't walk straight 
 and talk straight until the very collapse at 
 the end; but his nerves were all flayed 
 16
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 alive, as if good whisky were sulphuric acid. 
 But then he drank such grotesque sweet 
 stuffs in his esthetic, tommyrot notions 
 liqueurs and mixed stuff and sweet cham- 
 pagne, ugh! I don't wonder he went raving 
 crazy after a week of such insults to his 
 stomach. He came home and told his wife he 
 was tired of seeing that never mind what 
 he called poor little Bertie! I never saw 
 Wait angry before, but she did fire up at 
 him, then." 
 
 "Where were you to hear all this?" 
 exclaimed Nora. 
 
 "Outside on the veranda. It was a warm 
 summer night. I innocently walked on the 
 piazza until the maid could tell Mrs. Bostwick 
 I was there. After the maid had gone up- 
 stairs, Mr. and Mrs. Bostwick were having 
 it out in the music-room. I caught on to the 
 situation in a flash, and I listened." 
 
 "Frank!" Nora said the word, but Mrs. 
 Wilder looked at him. 
 
 "That's right," said Frank, tapping his 
 
 white, square finger-tips together softly. 
 
 "You must remember I haven't the New 
 
 England conscience in full bloom; I have 
 
 17
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 only a plain, horse-sense, working, Western 
 conscience that sometimes takes a nap. I 
 wanted to hear, and I listened till things got 
 warm, when I stepped in and offered Bost- 
 wick the choice of walking out of the window 
 or being kicked out. He was pretty wiry, but 
 he walked ; and then I read the riot act to 
 Wait; I told her she ought to leave that 
 brute next minute. I told her it wasn't 
 only the dam degradation of the life with 
 him; it was and then I pointed to Bertie. 
 Yes, I was determined to talk plain, for once. 
 I guess I did. It was a year after I had first 
 begged her to leave Bostwick that Bertie was 
 born. ' That is a worse crime than any 
 divorce,' said I. But I didn't do any good. 
 She fainted, and I loaded her into a carriage 
 and took her over to you, mother. But it was 
 no use; she went back the next day." 
 
 "Oh, Frank, it was harsh, dear, when her 
 whole being is so bound up in that boy! 
 She only did what she thought to be right. ' ' 
 His mother-in-law looked at him with a mix- 
 ture of fright and compulsory condemnation 
 and unwilling, womanly admiration for his 
 daring and his strength. <4 Yes, you did 
 
 18
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 very wrong, Frank, and I'm thankful Nora 
 has a husband like you, ' ' cried Mrs. Wilder. 
 
 "And that Wait's husband is dead, " added 
 Frank. 
 
 "Well, it's good to hear Wait singing as 
 she used to, and running after mother with 
 rubbers Hullo, here she is back again! 
 Well, young feller!" 
 
 But Bertie bounded into the room into 
 Frank's arms, and burst out sobbing; Frank 
 could feel the heart thumping against his 
 bony little chest. "Oh, now, that's not the 
 way to do, young feller!" He soothed the 
 child more by his voice than his words. 
 "What's happened?" 
 
 ' ' Bad man ! ' ' gasped Bertie. 
 
 "Bad man? What did bad man do to 
 frighten you? Come on, tell us." 
 
 Frank, it was noticeable, always talked to 
 Bertie as if he were of the same mental force 
 as other boys, and some obscure nerve in the 
 mother's shamed heart vibrated to the 
 unforced tone. As she watched the man 
 soothe the boy, the lines of her face changed 
 as the lines of a reflected face change in 
 running water. 
 
 19
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "Frank," said she, "if there were any 
 danger threatening Bertie, and I couldn't do 
 much for him, would you take him to some 
 good institution and see that he was properly 
 cared for, for awhile?" 
 
 Frank's keen eyes narrowed and his 
 mouth set itself in a hair's breadth straighter 
 line. 
 
 "Of course I'll look out for the little 
 chap," said he; "but what are you driving 
 at, Wait? Has Bostwick turned up?" 
 
 "Yes," said Wait. 
 
 Often when a family has, for a long time, 
 dreaded a blow in secret (ever struggling 
 to persuade itself that there is no blow to 
 fall), when the hair snaps and the sword falls, 
 there is a revulsion of frankness; they tell 
 themselves, out loud, that they always 
 expected it. 
 
 "I knew he would come!" exclaimed poor 
 Mrs. Wilder. She went to her daughter and 
 began with trembling fingers to remove her 
 cape ; it is the instant impulse to treat any 
 afflicted person as helpless. Nora fluttered 
 around her sister and made her sit down. 
 Then she brought a glass of water and a
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 fan, although it was rather a chilly April 
 day and a fire was blazing behind the old- 
 fashioned andirons 
 
 Frank, being a man and seeing no chance 
 of service, kept his seat and whispered to 
 Bertie, who suddenly burst out into a cackle 
 of laughter. Bertie's laugh was always 
 unhuman and painful; now it was ghastly. 
 
 ' 'You must be mistaken, Wait, " said Nora, 
 although a moment before she had echoed 
 her mother's plaint. 
 
 "No, I wasn't mistaken, Nora," replied 
 Wait; her voice was like ice. "He had been 
 very ill, he said; and he had for the most of 
 the time been away in Australia. That 
 was why we had not heard. ' ' 
 
 "Was he was he " Mrs. Wilder stum- 
 bled over the word; it seemed a dreadful 
 one to the reticent New England woman. 
 
 "He was perfectly sober," said Wait. 
 "He told me he hadn't been drinking for a 
 long time." 
 
 "How did he frighten Bertie?" Frank 
 asked. 
 
 "I was so startled I screamed; and he held 
 Bertie to to prevent him running away."
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Frank whispered a question in Bertie's ear, 
 to which the child nodded eagerly, beginning 
 to roll up the sleeve of his little velvet 
 blouse ; but Frank stopped him with another 
 whisper. "He didn't mean to hurt the 
 child," said Wait, turning her miserable 
 eyes on Frank. "He hasn't the strength. 
 He looked very ill; I never saw him look 
 so ill; and he said that he had only come 
 back to die. He said he wanted to see me, 
 and he asked if he might go to little Nora's 
 grave " 
 
 Nora's disgust overflowed her prudence as 
 the Mississippi races through a broken levee. 
 "The thing that made Clay so detestable 
 wasn't his wickedness, but his repentance!" 
 she cried. "He was loathsome, then! How 
 did he know he had not killed Nora?" 
 
 "1 told him." 
 
 Mrs. Wilder groaned ; she couldn't help it ; 
 Nora sprang furiously out of her c^ir, cry- 
 ing, "You let go the only hold we have on 
 him?" 
 
 "J know," Wait answered, meekly. "I 
 seem like a fool to you, Nora, but he asked 
 me, and I had to tell the truth."
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "That depends," muttered Nora, but it 
 was under her breath. She was now pacing 
 the floor, too feverishly excited to keep still 
 like Frank. "I think the best, the very best 
 thing is for you to go away with Frank some- 
 where, to-night, and leave us to settle with 
 that fellow. ' ' 
 
 But Wait in her turn rose, not with 
 energy, like her sister, but limply, dragging 
 herself up, and said, "I can't talk until I 
 have thought it over. Bertie, come with 
 mamma. ' ' 
 
 Bertie shook his head, and murmured, 
 "Uncle Nice." Not until Frank had whis- 
 pered a sentence to him and slipped his own 
 penknife in his pocket, would he clamber off 
 his refuge and follow his mother. It would 
 have been better for them to talk ; and each 
 of them sought in his or her mind for some 
 innocent sentence that Wait might hear 
 without being wounded; but nobody found 
 any, and they sat staring at each other, 
 while the footfalls wearily climbed the stair. 
 Then both women looked at the man, both 
 simultaneously said, ' ' Frank, what shall we 
 do?" 
 
 23
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Frank did not give them much comfort. 
 He had pulled out a note-book and pencil. 
 "Is the telegraph office open Sundays?" he 
 said; "and where does the operator live?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilder told him. 
 
 "Is Dacre still cashier of the bank? And 
 lives at the same place? And does old 
 Squire Barber still deal out justice?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilder answered his questions con- 
 cisely, without return questions, and to his 
 satisfaction, except in the last instance. 
 The old justice was dead. 
 
 "Well, never mind; it can't be helped. 
 Keep Wait in the house if you can; and 
 don't expect me back until you see me. 
 Mother, what does Wait mean to do?" 
 
 "She means to go back, to Clay, I think, 
 Frank. Do you suppose he really is likely 
 to die?" 
 
 "It's possible; he's gone the pace so that 
 his dying is always in the deal; but he's so 
 foxy you can't tell. He'd be a pestiferous 
 invalid, I should say. anyhow. Don't 
 worry; we shan't have to take care of him." 
 
 Then he had gone, and the women could 
 only sit and listen, or steal to the stair and 
 24
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 listen there for some sound behind the closed 
 door at the head. 
 
 And Wait kneeled by the bed, while Bertie 
 gurgled happily over his boat, which he had 
 recovered and was stealthily carving. 
 
 The attitude was a vague support to her; 
 for she was half fainting with weariness. 
 She tried to think, to consider; but instead 
 of definite arguments, or even definite 
 temptations, her married life floated vaguely 
 before her in detached scenes. She was 
 hearing Frank's impatient voice, "I tell 
 you, you go back to a life of infamy! That 
 man's marriage was a crime. His father 
 had insane streaks ; he himself is the worst 
 kind of an insane man a willfully vicious 
 one! You don't know half how bad he is!" 
 Didn't she? Yet there were scenes that 
 seemed burned into her heart with red-hot 
 iron, so that the touch of the lightest memory 
 on them made her writhe and moan in tor- 
 ment. "The dam degradation of it!" It was 
 cruel in Frank to say that. Didn't he know 
 she was his wife, Clay's wife! She could see 
 the nurse's oblong face and the two double 
 chins and the flap of flannel over the baby's 
 25
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 head. But the baby was all right. Not a 
 pretty baby, her poor little boy; but all 
 right. And she would not believe that he 
 must be like his father. God would be 
 merciful Anything! anything rather than 
 that ! And perhaps God had been merciful, 
 in this strange, distorted way. Her baby 
 was safe. He would always need her, 
 always be her baby. She turned her body, 
 still on her knees, to look for Bertie, and 
 saw him with his boat. He put it hastily 
 behind his back, and in so doing cut his hand 
 slightly with the knife. The sight of the 
 blood put the half-distracted woman into a 
 passion of anguish. She clasped him fran- 
 tically to her heart, in a clasp so tight that 
 he was scared. 
 
 "Hu't! hu't!" he whimpered, using one of 
 his few words, and rubbing his arm. She 
 pulled up his sleeve. There were the livid 
 marks of fingers on the white, soft flesh. 
 Her kisses and her tears rained down on it. 
 "I can't take him, I can't take him with 
 me," she would cry. And then, "Cruel! he 
 was always cruel!" But in a very little 
 while, bending over to help her dizzy way 
 26
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 across the floor, she knelt again ; and again 
 the squalid procession of her sufferings and 
 her struggles drifted to the accompaniment 
 of her prayers for light. 
 
 She tried to recall those earlier days when 
 she had felt the charm that many a woman 
 found in Clay Bostwick. He was a mere 
 stripling. They were only children when 
 they were married. Her mother had feared. 
 Even then there were ugly rumors and 
 stories buzzing about. Nora would fetch 
 them home and beg her mother to send Clay 
 away; he was not a nice boy. But Clay, 
 when her mother talked to him with pretense 
 of severity and inward compassion for the 
 delicate young lad Clay had burst into tears 
 and admitted he wasn't what he ought to be, 
 but if she would only let him stay, only 
 try him once more ! He had no mother, and 
 his father was worse than none. And Mrs. 
 Wilder had relented. He had stayed. How 
 attentive he was; how he worked over the 
 only thing he cared for, art! Yet how 
 could they tell, those unworldly, kindly 
 women, what those occasional absences of 
 his meant? Even now, Wait wondered, did 
 27
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 she comprehend all that they meant? And 
 the years in Paris, when the letters came at 
 intervals, and beautiful gifts for her 
 mother she was glad her mother would not 
 take them and then the handsome young 
 fellow with his halo of success about him, 
 and the notices of the picture in the salon, 
 and the intoxicating prophecies was it so 
 wrong and strange that they who did not 
 know the world, should believe in him, that 
 Wait should love him? "Waitstill, my own 
 little Waitstill, it's the sweetest name in the 
 world, the dear little Puritan name," he had 
 murmured, "and I have kept it in my heart." 
 His uncle had pushed the marriage. He 
 was sure with Wait the boy would be steady. 
 He knew better before he died. 
 
 The procession drifted on. Is there any 
 awakening so cruel as the slow, then faster, 
 then hideously swift awakening of a wife to 
 a knowledge of the real nature of marriage 
 with a man whose surface refinement, by its 
 greater power of imagination, only stimu- 
 lates and expands his vices! 
 
 There was not a clean, robust, honest ideal 
 of her childhood that her husband did not 
 28
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 outrage by his speech and his actions. He 
 was without truth or honor or temperance or 
 purity or any faithfulness. His first passion 
 waned before she had worn out her pretty 
 bridal clothes. It would return in the shape 
 in which such a feeling does return to such 
 a man; but it was never strong enough, 
 after the first, to hold his bitter tongue, nor 
 to curb a single brutal whim, far less to 
 cleanse his life. Wait was like the daintily 
 kept, warm, lighted home that was always 
 ready for him. When he had chased the 
 excitement for which his abused nerves were 
 crying, through vice into satiety and disgust 
 and despair, there was Wait always ready to 
 nurse him back to health. She never up- 
 braided him, she never sniveled over him ; in 
 truth, she never said anything about his 
 "ways." He liked that. On the whole he 
 had liked Wait. Wait found herself push- 
 ing his point of view and his words them- 
 selves into the foreground of her conscious- 
 ness, and trying to understand him, as an 
 outsider who knew the world would under- 
 stand him as Frank would, for instance. 
 "Wait, I'm played out. I'm out of the 
 29
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 scheme. All I want is a decent place to 
 crawl into and be safe, where I can see you. 
 Repent! You never talked repent before. 
 When I finished a spree and was sick you 
 amused me, and never mentioned. That's 
 the kind of wife for me. Wait, I can paint 
 a great picture still, if you'll only keep me 
 straight for six months and I live that 
 long. Wait, send that jabbering creature off 
 a little, so I can see you. Great oh, no, 
 I'm not going to swear; I was only going 
 to pay you a compliment on your looks. I 
 did love you, little sweetheart. . I never 
 loved any other woman. You might take 
 that into account about forgiving me. And 
 if suffering counts, the hell I went through 
 after " It was real, his shudder. It was 
 real, too, the pallor of his haggard face and 
 the glassy look of his beautiful violet eyes, 
 as he pleaded with her that afternoon. The 
 one plea that overquelled everything was his 
 dreary iteration. "Wait, I haven't anybody 
 but you ! Wait, save me ; let me die half- 
 way decent!" 
 
 She was not afraid of his cruelty ; she was 
 afraid, with a terror of fear, of his reviving 
 30
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 tenderness. "I never can love him," she 
 groaned. "To-day, I thought how horrid 
 he looked; and his hand I wanted to 
 scream when he touched me. And he is my 
 husband!" She began to pray in a whisper, 
 not in sentences that she shaped to hold her 
 own sore need, but in collects or prayers 
 from the litany or bits of childish verse, in 
 anything that might distract her mind from 
 the visions that cursed her. 
 
 It was at this moment that Mrs. Wilder 
 crept half-way along the hall and caught a 
 murmur, "cleanse the desires of our hearts," 
 and crept away again. 
 
 "She's praying, Nora," she whispered. 
 "Oh, child, surely if she prays only for light, 
 not to be happy or be saved, God will. He 
 must hear and enlighten her!" 
 
 "I'm not so sure, mamma," said Nora, 
 stolidly. "How is it that the Protestants 
 prayed and the Catholics prayed, and then 
 they got up from their knees and burned 
 and beheaded each other for the glory of 
 God? And besides, I'm not so sure we 
 don't make up our minds first, and then 
 pray to have them strengthened!" 
 31
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "But if we are acting against our own 
 happiness " 
 
 "Mamma, I think there are lots of people 
 who are sure anything that hurts them must 
 be right. Sometimes I think it is our duty 
 to be happy. And another thing that rouses 
 me almost to madness in pious people, is that 
 they usually pick out some worthless, selfish 
 object to sacrifice themselves to, and to 
 sacrifice all their friends and relations with 
 them, without a quaver! Now, if Wait 
 wants to sacrifice herself, that's one thing; 
 but dumping us beside her on the altar, 
 that's another." 
 
 Her mother sighed heavily, and slipped 
 out of the room. 
 
 Nora, in a fever of impatience, was per- 
 force left to pound "Rise crowned with 
 light," to the air of the Russian national 
 hymn, as the most powerful and yet proper 
 Sunday music left her. 
 
 Mrs. Wilder came down, looking as if she 
 had been crying. 
 
 "I can see Wait and you are agreed, 
 mamma" Nora ran into the fray at once 
 "well, what is it?" 
 
 32
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "She feels that she must go back to him, 
 Nora. He is her husband, and she promised 
 for better, for worse, you know; and then 
 she feels that he is not going to live long ; 
 and she can't thrust a helpless, maybe dying 
 man aside. So she is going to find him 
 and fetch him here!" 
 
 ""What/" screamed Nora. 
 
 "I know what Frank will say, Nora," said 
 Mrs. Wilder, sinking into a chair, "but I 
 can't have Wait away, exposed to I don't 
 know what miseries; and if he is in the 
 house he will be under some restraint a 
 little, anyway. If Frank and you will take 
 Bertie" 
 
 "Do you suppose Frank will stay in this 
 house one minute after that villain is 
 here?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilder began to cry. But Nora 
 raged on: "Of course, you haven't 
 thought of yourself; how Clay's habits will 
 turn the house upside down! Betty will 
 give warning, and I don't blame her; and 
 Frank said he never knew any cook to roast 
 ducks better than she does, or to so invari- 
 ably make lovely bread; she's got all the 
 33
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 old recipes that we used to like ; and lots of 
 good new things; and she's so used to your 
 ways, it will be like an earthquake to have 
 her go; and she'll take Liza, she'll never let 
 that young thing stay in a house where 
 Clay Bostwick is " 
 
 "But you forget how ill he is; he's going 
 to die." 
 
 "He isn't!" declared Nora, furiously. 
 "He'll outlive us all; and if he does die, 
 he'll contrive to run us all off our feet before 
 the Lord takes mercy on us. I saw Clay 
 Bostwick once when he was having a fit of 
 sickness. The whole house was upset, 
 and poor Wait didn't get a moment day nor 
 night, except when he was asleep. A self- 
 isher brute I never knew ; and I felt as if, 
 were I alone with him, I should be tempted 
 to skip all his medicines, in hopes it would 
 kill him. I tell you, mamma, you and Wait 
 will make a murderer out of me before you 
 get done. You shan't have him in the 
 house; I'll I'll burn it down first!" 
 
 "Would you have me let Wait go away, 
 with narrow means and this sick man to care 
 for, and their house sold? Wait talked of 
 
 34
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 going to the hotel to-night, and maybe 
 renting the Norris house to-morrow " 
 
 "That tumble-down shanty!" 
 
 "I couldn't have them go there. I know 
 Clay couldn't bear it; and I told Wait I 
 should appeal to him if she insisted. And 
 think how people would talk!" 
 
 Nora gave a cynical snort of laughter. "I 
 believe, mamma, you would think of that 
 if you were dying. Dying ! How do I know 
 Clay may not go raving crazy, and kill you 
 or Wait? He isn't safe!" 
 
 "Nora, Wait said, 'We can't do anything 
 but put our trust in God; though He slay 
 me, j'et will I trust Him!' If Wait is doing 
 what she thinks is right, God will not 
 permit " 
 
 " God permitted Bertie, " said Nora, 
 solemnly. 
 
 Mrs. Wilder had no answer; she looked 
 piteously at her younger daughter, who 
 seemed changed, all the gay lightness of 
 her nature vanished. 
 
 "Frank is right," Nora went on. "We 
 dare not assume that we are obeying God 
 when we are wronging our fellow-beings. 
 
 35
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 A woman may have a right to sacrifice her 
 own life ; she has no right to sacrifice the 
 lives of her possible children. Bertie's exist- 
 ence is a crime. It is a crime for Wait to 
 return to that man now, and abandon 
 Bertie." 
 
 "But where is the way out?" cried Mrs. 
 Wilder. 
 
 "Frank will find it," said Nora, con- 
 fidently. 
 
 At this moment she saw Frank at the gate, 
 and sank back in her chair with the breath- 
 less sensation that comes when one perceives 
 a crisis approach. 
 
 Frank opened the door and nodded smil- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Frank, Wait wants to go back to him," 
 cried Nora, "and mamma insists that they 
 shall come here!" 
 
 "Whew!" puffed Frank, "I'm out of 
 breath. Well, I guess Wait will have a time 
 finding him, that's all. Can't anyone get a 
 hard working and walking man a glass of 
 cool beer or lemonade, or something?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilder rose, but Nora pushed her 
 into a chair. "I'll get him a glass of water; 
 36
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 that's quite enough until he has told us. 
 Frank, tell us this minute, where 's that 
 man?" 
 
 "More than I know, my dear; running 
 still, maybe. Where's Wait?" 
 
 "Up-stairs. " 
 
 "Tell her to come down. No, I'll call up 
 to her; I'll see her, myself." 
 
 They heard him run lightly up the stairs 
 and rap on the door. Then he ran into the 
 room. After awhile they heard him coming 
 down the stairs. He held Bertie in his arms ; 
 his face was stern. 
 
 "Wait has taken matters into her own 
 hands, ' ' said he. ' ' She has gone. This is 
 a note from her. ' ' 
 
 He handed the slip of paper to Mrs. 
 Wilder, whose trembling fingers could not 
 unfold it ; she gave it to Nora. Nora read 
 it aloud: 
 
 "I cannot sacrifice you, too. I am going to 
 Clay. I must. God will help me do my duty. ' ' 
 
 The Jeffries station was built before the 
 days of fanciful architecture and parterres 
 and flower-beds. It was a dingy barn of a 
 37
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 place, a vast blackened roof above the double 
 tracks which shone like silver. On either 
 side, was a platform where the trains halted, 
 a mere breathing-space, and passengers, 
 previously warned by the agent, made a 
 frantic rush to clamber on the steps. There 
 was a kind of cage for the ticket-agent, a 
 dismal baggage-room, and a more dismal 
 waiting-room. Week-days the waiting-room 
 usually had a tenant, for the town is near 
 enough to Boston to have a continual rum- 
 bling of trains ; but Sunday afternoon there 
 are only two trains to Boston direct, and 
 these in this staid little village are scantily 
 patronized. Only one man, Frank Mallory, 
 walked up and down the platform waiting for 
 some one or something this Sunday after- 
 noon. The agent knew him, of course, and 
 watched him with the hungry curiosity of an 
 active man with leisure on his hands. Pres- 
 ently, Rufus Swift, who used to be constable, 
 but was now a private detective in Boston, 
 wafts of whose fame drifted occasionally to 
 Jeffries, walked briskly on to the platform. 
 The agent knew that Swift had come up 
 from Boston two hours previous. And he 
 38
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 wondered the more "what that rich Chicago 
 feller wanted with Ruf e. ' ' 
 
 His interest could not make him hear the 
 conversation, however. It was brief. 
 
 "Did you find her?" said Frank. 
 
 "No, Mr. Mallory. I think she had been 
 to the house, for I found that the chairs 
 were moved and one drawer in that table 
 pulled out. It is clear he had appointed that 
 little deserted summer-house as a meeting- 
 place. And she had kept the appointment ; 
 but she was gone. ' ' 
 
 "Could he possibly have got any word 
 to her after he left us?" 
 
 "Well, he might write a note on the train, 
 and send it back by some one. He had 
 plenty of money," with a grim smile, "to 
 pay a messenger. And he might do it just 
 out of meanness, to spite you." 
 
 "In that case which is quite possible 
 what would he be likely to ask of her? To 
 join him, I suppose." 
 
 "That's how it strikes me, too." 
 
 "It is half-past six. If she wants to go 
 to-night, she would try for this train, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 39
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "I do think, sir and there she comes 
 down the hill ! I can see her coming down 
 the hill. If we stand up close to the door 
 she can't see us, not till she steps out on 
 the platform." 
 
 "She's left herself ten minutes. She 
 means to go. " As he spoke, Frank flattened 
 his big person against the wall of the wait- 
 ing-room, outside, and Swift followed his 
 example. They did not have long to wait. 
 There was a light footstep, a rustle of skirts, 
 and Mrs. Bostwick stepped out of the door. 
 Frank laid his hand on her arm. 
 
 "Don't scream, Wait," said he, smiling. 
 "The agent is here, and he might hear you. " 
 
 Wait did not scream, but she turned very 
 pale. "Do you need to make it so hard for 
 me, Frank?" 
 
 "Of course. I'm not doing this for fun, 
 dear. If you'll take my arm and walk with 
 me I'll explain the whole affair." 
 
 "I'd rather stay here, Frank." 
 
 "As you please. Don't go, Swift. You 
 remember Mr. Rufus Swift, Wait?" 
 
 Even in the strain of the moment Wait 
 did not forget her sweet courtesy ; she held
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 out her hand to Rufus, saying with a tremu- 
 lous smile, "I hope your mother is well. 
 We have heard of your success in the 
 papers. ' ' 
 
 "Mother's well," returned Rufus, bowing, 
 and with a wrath at Bostwick struggling 
 with a sense of delight at her remembering 
 his "success" at such a time. 
 
 "Swift came up here in answer to a tele- 
 gram," said Frank. "Will you walk a little 
 with me?" 
 
 This time Wait did not refuse. He walked 
 as he spoke, not looking at her. 
 
 "Let us cut this short, Wait. You mean 
 to go to Boston to join Bostwick. Well, you 
 can't do it. Shall I tell you why?" 
 
 "I must do it, Frank; please don't make it 
 so hard for me ! ' ' 
 
 He patted the hand on his arm with a 
 brusque tenderness. "How you tremble, 
 poor child ! I believe you think I am going 
 to hold you by force. I would if there were 
 any need of it. But there isn't. You will 
 not want to go after you hear what I am 
 going to tell you. That is, simply that your 
 going would ruin Bostwick. It would, 
 41
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 because Swift and I would go, too, and follow 
 you, and arrest Bostwick. " 
 
 4 'It wasn't murder; you can't make it out 
 murder ' ' 
 
 "We don't need to try. We couldn't, at 
 best, get more than a manslaughter verdict, 
 and we have something else. Please turn. 
 We shall arrest Clay Bostwick for stealing 
 two thousand dollars from me to-day. We 
 have plenty of evidence on that. Swift saw 
 him take it. ' ' 
 
 Wait turned a strange entreaty up at his 
 face. "You are not telling me " 
 
 "Here is Swift," said Frank, coolly. 
 "Swift, is it true that Mr. Bostwick stole 
 two thousand dollars of me in the summer- 
 house at the Norris Place took it out of 
 my coat?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, it is true. I'll go before any 
 court in the land and swear it," said Swift. 
 
 "If you will walk a little way with me, 
 I '11 explain," said Frank, gently; "or shall 
 we sit on this bench?" He sat down beside 
 her and in an even voice told his tale. 
 
 "Of course, I had no idea of letting Bost- 
 wick carry you off. So I telegraphed to 
 42
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Swift. He luckily had been engaged on 
 some business of mine, and came up at a 
 moment's notice. I wanted him because 
 Bostwick would remember him as the con- 
 stable, and might not know of Swift's new 
 pursuits. I had him rig up with a star. It 
 was easy enough to run Bostwick down ; and 
 when I dropped a hint that I intended to 
 run him out of town, I knew I could count 
 on every man, woman and child in Jeffries 
 helping me." 
 
 "But why they don't know " The 
 words faltered on Wait's lips. 
 
 "Don't deceive yourself, Wait," said 
 Frank, gravely. "This is a New England 
 village, where they not only know how to 
 use their eyes, but know how to seem not to 
 see. They know everything. Everything, 
 Wait. They have for a long time. So 
 instead of your coming to meet him, I came ; 
 and I assure you he wasn't a little bit glad 
 to see me, either. I spoke to him fair 
 enough, at first. I told him I was willing 
 to pay him spot cash to leave, and I took out 
 the money that I had had the cashier get me 
 from the bank taking down the number of 
 43
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 the notes, by the way. I showed him I 
 could pay him if he would once for all clear 
 out, go to Australia, or anywhere that was 
 far enough. I admit that I wasn't mealy- 
 mouthed about it, and let him see that I 
 though him a hound. He flew into a passion. 
 Then I whistled, and Swift appeared and 
 arrested him for murder. He tried to brazen 
 it out, and fell back on what you had told 
 him. 'We'll try whether that is right,' says 
 I. 'We're sure of manslaughter, anyhow, 
 and that will keep you in prison long enough 
 to kill you, with your weak lungs ' ' ' 
 
 "Oh, Frank, that was " 
 
 "Brutal, wasn't it? It had a purpose; to 
 frighten him. And it succeeded. He said 
 he would write a note to you, telling you 
 that he would never come back, and releas- 
 ing you entirely. He said (with a sort of 
 leer) that he could write something that 
 would make you willing to give him up. 
 So I threw my coat down on the bench and 
 was bending over him, watching him, when 
 we heard a scream, and then another, com- 
 ing up from that pond; a woman's screams 
 that her baby would drown. I called to 
 44
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Swift to run to see, while I guarded the 
 door. The screams kept up, and I ran a 
 little way just a few steps to see, you 
 know, what was going on. But that was 
 enough for him. He was off, out the other 
 door with my pocketbook. ' ' 
 
 "But the woman the baby?" 
 
 "Oh, the baby was all right. The woman 
 was all right." 
 
 Wait whirled on her seat, and her eyes 
 dove into the evasive eyes of her brother-in 
 law. "Frank, why didn't you run out, leav- 
 ing Swift?" 
 
 "I I wanted to guard Bostwick. " 
 
 "But you didn't guard him!" 
 
 "Very well, perhaps it is better to give you 
 the truth straight. I wanted to have the proof 
 if Bostwick stole that money. I have it." 
 
 "Frank, was there any woman or any baby 
 in the water, at all?" 
 
 Frank shrugged his shoulders. "You see 
 what you drive a poor well-meaning Western 
 brother-in-law into, Wait, with your slavish 
 notions of duty. I have to pass off a bogus 
 policeman, which is undoubtedly against the 
 law, and I have to tempt a rascal into theft ; 
 45
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 now don't you think you have made enough 
 occasion for me to sin? and instead of throw- 
 ing your own happiness and ours away to 
 save that fellow, suppose you let up a little 
 and let me save my soul ! For I tell you, if 
 you follow that man, I will follow him, too, 
 and I'll send him to the penitentiary. I can 
 and I will. You can be sure he'll not thank 
 you for following him, if it comes to that. 
 Wait, are you ready to come home?" 
 
 The roar of the approaching train filled 
 the air. His hand was on her arm. 
 
 "Would you disgrace us all by doing such 
 an awful thing?" she breathed, faintly. 
 "Am I not unhappy enough without that 
 brand and Bertie " 
 
 "If I can't save you without sending that 
 brute to the pen, I'll send him. And I'll 
 send him to the gallows just as readily. As 
 to Bertie, the best thing in the world for him 
 is to have his father utterly effaced. Did 
 you see his arm?" 
 
 Wait turned away. The train creaked and 
 groaned and tore out of the station. The 
 telegraph wires whined overhead under the 
 lash of its wind. 
 
 46
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "Let yourself be saved, Wait," said Frank, 
 passing his arm about her. "Dear little 
 sister, there is no other way, for /won't let 
 you be lost ! ' ' 
 
 The village coach was waiting. The 
 agent related to his eager listeners that there 
 was nothing different that he could see in 
 the way Mrs. Bostwick looked; she just 
 walked to the coach with Mr. Mallory, and 
 Mallory gave the boy a dollar for coming 
 down so quick and that was the only queer 
 thing he saw happen. As for Mr. Swift, he 
 went on to Boston. 
 
 A day later, however, the village had 
 another sensation. Wait had submitted to 
 be put to bed. She had sobbed on her 
 mother's shoulder, and confessed the relief 
 that she could not resist; and Mrs. Wilder 
 had heard the story and sighed to Frank, 
 "I know you are acting wrong, Frank, but I 
 can't help being glad you were here ! ' ' Wait 
 was up-stairs now, and the household had 
 subsided into its customary decorous quiet. 
 Betty and Liza were washing the early 
 dinner dishes in a pleasantly excited frame 
 of mind. Nora sat in the little parlor with 
 47
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 Bertie and Frank. Frank was smoking. 
 Bertie, as usual, nestled close to him, whit- 
 tling at his boat. All at once, Bertie glanced 
 up and sank back with a cry of fright. Nora 
 lifted her eyes ; she sprang to her feet. 
 
 "Frank," she gasped, "it's Clay!" 
 
 Frank, too, rose ; and as he rose the door 
 opened, and not waiting for a ring, but quite 
 as in the times when he was living in the 
 town, Clay Bostwick walked into the room. 
 Behind him came Mrs. Wilder, white and 
 trembling. 
 
 "It's you, is it?" said Frank. Then he 
 beckoned to Mrs. Wilder. Any one could 
 hear his undertone. "Mother, please tele- 
 phone for a policeman and Squire Keats " 
 
 "Stop," said Bostwick's soft, cleanly 
 modulated tones he had a beautiful voice 
 "stop; after you have heard what I have 
 come to say, perhaps you won't care to call 
 the police in to help in the family wash ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' I have no objection to hearing you, ' ' said 
 Frank. Nora slipped out of the room. 
 
 "First, why didn't Wait come to Boston, 
 as I sent her word?" 
 
 "Wait has had better council than yours, " 
 48
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 said Frank. "Wait's done with you. Is 
 that all you have to say why you shan't be 
 arrested for stealing?" 
 
 "Not near But I wish you'd get me a 
 glass of wine or something this is a fright- 
 ful climate; I always hated it." He sat 
 down on the sofa and leaned back his head. 
 He did look ill and haggard. But, as Mrs. 
 Wilder instantly saw, he was dressed in his 
 old lavish style; his check tweed was new 
 and of the latest cut. There was a perfectly 
 fitting glove on one hand, and on the other 
 sparkled a diamond ring. 
 
 How strange is the power of custom! 
 This man had brought her the most cruel 
 grief of her life. If so mild a soul could 
 hate, she hated Clay Bostwick; yet when 
 she saw him leaning back on her sofa, just 
 as he used to lean when he was in the house, 
 addressing her in the old, familiar, petulant, 
 appealing tone, she could not resist the 
 impulse to serve him in the old fashion. 
 "You'll do better without wine, Clay," she 
 answered, "but I'll bring you a cup of hot 
 coffee. ' ' 
 
 He smiled. "You always were a dear, 
 
 49
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 and you made the best coffee in the world. 
 Yes, do fetch me some." 
 
 4 'Well," said Frank Mrs. Wilder had 
 pattered out of the room "well, come to 
 the point! What do you want?" 
 
 "I want that two thousand," said Clay, 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "What will you give for it? You know I 
 can send you to the penitentiary. It was 
 grand larceny. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, drop that, you don't want to send 
 me to the penitentiary. And you know 
 Wait has been using my money for two 
 years; and she has sold the house where's 
 that money?" 
 
 "You can have a lawyer inquire. You 
 will have plenty of leisure, for I'm going to 
 telephone, now. That was my money you 
 took, and not Wait's " 
 
 "But see here; don't get up. I want that 
 money and I don't want Wait! Now, will 
 you sit down and listen to me?" 
 
 "You were of another mind, yesterday." 
 
 "I was ill, yesterday; beastly ill; thought 
 I was going to die. Quarreled never mind, 
 I came out here on an impulse. You danced 
 50
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 your cursed money before my eyes, and I 
 had the impulse to teach you a lesson. I 
 swiped it and made off. On the train I sent 
 a message to Wait. She was going to meet 
 me in the summer-house. I sent the mess- 
 age there. Told her to join me in Boston. 
 She wouldn't. Very well, there are others! 
 I thought to myself, 'What a fool you are ! 
 that Chicago pig wouldn't mind sending you 
 to prison ' ' ' 
 
 "Not a rap," interrupted Frank. "You 
 read me correctly." 
 
 "Wait wouldn't come to me when I 
 needed her. All right, I don't care; she's 
 a tedious, mewling prig, anyhow. Say, 
 what do you say to letting me go if I'll give 
 you a confession that I won't have Wait, 
 and want her to get a divorce? I do. I can 
 marry there's the coffee." 
 
 He drank the coffee, and thanked Mrs. 
 Wilder. Then, disregarding her presence, 
 he looked up at Frank. "How's that?" 
 
 "I can assure you Wait doesn't want any- 
 thing to do with you, now or ever," said 
 Frank. "She loathes you. And at the 
 same time she does not want to touch your 
 51
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 money. So soon as your creditors are paid 
 and that will be pretty soon, for the house 
 and furniture all went to them so soon as 
 that, two thousand a year will be paid to an 
 Australian banking-house to you, in person. 
 Kindly notice the last words. They mean 
 you have to go for things yourself or send 
 a physician's certificate. You'll sign the 
 papers I have drawn up and had ready for 
 you if you ever turned up." 
 
 He drew something out of his pocket and 
 spread the paper on the table. "It's that or 
 the constable, ' ' said he. 
 
 Clay signed without a word. In turn, he 
 pushed a little bundle over to Frank. "That 
 will give Wait her divorce any time," he 
 sneered. "I'll bid you good-morning. And 
 you, Mrs. Wilder." He made a barely per- 
 ceptible pause to look at her, before he said, 
 "I don't suppose you'll have very pleasant 
 memories of me ; but you were good to me, 
 and I know you're a good woman. So's 
 Wait. She was too good. If she had been 
 a little less submissive it would have been 
 better for both of us." He took a step 
 toward the door, but midway paused again, 
 52
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 this time before Bertie, who had cowered 
 against Frank, not making a sound. "I 
 always hated him," he said to Frank. 
 "You can guess why." Frank nodded. 
 "Poor beggar, you've a hard row before you, 
 and that's a fact. Here, it's a pity you 
 shouldn't have one present from your dad. 
 Catch!" The diamond blazed as it whirled 
 and circled through the air. Bertie caught 
 it, and his heavy face reddened with pleasure. 
 
 Clay looked at him ; and suddenly in one 
 of the quick revulsions of his unstable tem- 
 perament, his fine blue eyes filled with tears. 
 He shook the hair from his brow and laughed 
 bitterly. "If I send you a picture will you 
 buy it at a fair price?" he asked Frank. 
 
 " If it is a good one, and I like it, ' ' said 
 Frank. 
 
 He laughed again, and stepped lightly out 
 of the room. They saw him for a second, 
 as he passed the house. They never saw 
 him again. 
 
 Mrs. Wilder drew a long sigh. "Poor 
 Clay," she said. 
 
 "And will Wait say the same?" said Frank, 
 a little puzzled, not quite pleased. 
 53
 
 A SLAVE TO DUTY 
 
 "I don't know. Yes. But we shall both 
 be thankful. Oh, Frank, what should we 
 have done without you?" 
 
 "In spite of my lack of principle?" 
 
 "I am afraid." said Mrs. Wilder, "it's 
 awful to think of it that a lack of principle 
 should be so helpful but perhaps it was 
 ordered that so we should be saved. ' ' 
 
 "It might be a good thing if more slaves 
 to duty had their chains broken by force," 
 said Frank. "Where's Wait." 
 
 Wait sat at her window. She had seen 
 Clay come in ; she saw him go out. As his 
 hand was on the gate he turned his head and 
 met her eyes. Something in them, appeal- 
 ing, solemn, held his own gaze a moment. 
 Then, without speaking, he lifted his hat, 
 as he might have lifted it at a funeral, 
 bowed, and turned away. 
 
 She watched him out of sight. Then she 
 kneeled down as she had kneeled the day 
 before but with what different thoughts in 
 her heart ! 
 
 Nora, outside, softly turned a key in the 
 iock, took it out and stole away, smiling. 
 
 54
 
 A Colonial Dame 
 
 THE Bowler block fronted a side street 
 down-town. There was a bakery in the 
 lower story, right-hand corner, and 
 the baker's family lived above. Two dress- 
 makers, a dyer and a seamstress occupied 
 the other rooms in the two stories over the 
 bakery. 
 
 The bakery had a local renown for its 
 cream puffs and a very white, delicious 
 bread, the secret of which the baker guarded 
 vigilantly. When any of the people of 
 the town gave large companies, the bread 
 for sandwiches (which, as every one knows, 
 forms an important part of "party refresh- 
 ments" in a provincial town) was always 
 bought from Brandt. He had a neat slicing 
 machine that saved the hostess no end of 
 trouble. Besides the bread and fancy cakes, 
 he was the author of a very respectable pate", 
 the contents of which could be varied at will. 
 
 55
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 The Cravens were valued customers of 
 Brandt's, and the Craven carriage was a 
 Frequent sight in the street. But Mrs. 
 Graven came oftener to see her old friend 
 m the third floor than to buy of the baker. 
 
 One day last June, when the smell of 
 violets and heliotrope was in the air, from 
 Miss Arnold's little window garden, the 
 Graven horses jingled their silver chains 
 aefore the curbstone, and a comely, stout 
 lady followed a slender young girl from the 
 [andau. The young girl stepped back into 
 :he carriage, but the stout lady crossed to a 
 side door and toiled up the narrow inside 
 stairs. 
 
 "Mrs. Craven is calling on Miss Arnold," 
 aid the neighbors. Miss Arnold (Miss 
 ferusha W. Arnold, read the card on her 
 lall door) was a seamstress. She could build 
 jowns, also ; but while her needlework was 
 exquisite, her critics said that she had no 
 deas. She did not "keep up with the 
 tyles," and more enterprising or more 
 >retentious dressmakers left her behind. 
 But she retained a sound clientage of a few 
 wealthy families, where she had her regular 
 
 56
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 engagements for spring and autumn; and 
 there was, besides, a modest little property 
 which had been judiciously invested by the 
 "Craven boys," and Miss Arnold was 
 esteemed a wealthy lady, in the block. 
 
 The Cravens (who were very great people 
 in the town) were not only friends; there 
 was, so the gossips related, a second or third 
 cousinship. In fact, Mrs. Craven always 
 spoke of her as "Cousin Jerry." The 
 children had used so to address her. They 
 might address her so now, but they had ceased 
 to speak of her as "Cousin Jerry." Mrs. 
 Craven, however, kept up the intimacy of 
 her girlhood. I suppose it is no secret that 
 the before -mentioned property was a bequest 
 of Mr. Craven ; at least, he told Mrs. Craven 
 that he wanted her to remember Jerry, and 
 Mrs. Craven had remembered Jerry liber- 
 ally. Therefore, the stairs were no new 
 journey to Mrs. Craven. To-day, however, 
 she struggled up them with an unusual 
 expression of anxiety and distress on her 
 kind face. 
 
 "I know it'll slip out some way," she 
 panted, "and I don't know but I'd rather it 
 
 57
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 would. Oh, I wish their father was alive; 
 he wouldn't let the girls do so, I know." 
 
 The speech ended in a heavy sigh and 
 a rap on Miss Arnold's door. Instantly it 
 was opened by the seamstress herself. She 
 looked like a caricature of a New England 
 spinster, being very tail, very thin, very 
 straight and very plain. It was a question 
 whether her Roman nose, her prominent 
 teeth, or a slight cast in her left eye ought 
 to have the most credit for this plainness. 
 Plain singularly, even grotesquely plain 
 she certainly was; yet to her old friend 
 Ellen Craven's eyes she was attractive. Her 
 hair was thin and straight and gray, but it 
 was silky fine, her skin was delicately fair, 
 and the large teeth were flashing white. 
 
 "Why, land's sake, Ellie! is it you?" she 
 exclaimed, as she drew Mrs. Craven into the 
 parlor and the coolest rattan chair. It was 
 a tiny little parlor, the furniture of which 
 tried the taste of the Craven girls, but which, 
 when they were children, they had dearly 
 loved. There was an old-fashioned black 
 haircloth sofa that Miss Arnold's mother 
 had when she was married. There was a 
 58
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 rosewood cabinet with shells and ivory 
 boxes and sandalwood and stuffed birds, that 
 an old uncle had brought back from over 
 the seas. And in the center of the room 
 stood the marble-topped table that held a 
 plush photograph album, N. P. Willis' 
 poems in red and gilt morocco, and a small 
 crayon portrait of a young soldier in the 
 clumsy private's blouse and huge trousers 
 of the early sixties. The children used to 
 view this photograph with awe, and be told 
 that it was the picture of a brave man who 
 had died for his country. After a while their 
 mother told them that it was Cousin Jerry's 
 betrothed. She called him "Cousin Jerry's 
 beau," because she was not a person of 
 elegant education like her daughters. The 
 picture faced Mrs. Craven as she sat opposite 
 the table fanning herself with a paper 
 pattern conveniently near. It seemed to 
 her that the dead soldier reproached her. 
 She shifted her position. 
 
 "Why, you're all beat out, Ellie!" said 
 Miss Arnold, tenderly. 
 
 Now that Timothy Craven was dead, she 
 was the only person in the world who called 
 59
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 Mrs. Craven "Ellie." The Craven girls 
 winced at the diminutive, which truly did 
 not seem appropriate to Mrs. Craven's 
 presence. Ellen, the older girl, said that 
 it was "ridiculous. " But Mrs. Craven never 
 heard it without a moving of the heart. It 
 affected her painfully to-day. 
 
 "You've been working too hard, that's 
 what's the matter, gittin' ready for Gertie's 
 young man. I hear he's coming to-morrow. 
 I'm so anxious to see him!" 
 
 "He ain't going to stay very long," said 
 Mrs. Craven. 
 
 "He'll stay to the party, won't he?" 
 
 Mrs. Craven's blushes came readily still, 
 in spite of her fifty-odd years. She flushed 
 now, and conscious that her color was 
 heightened, fanned more rapidly. Miss 
 Arnold was eyeing her with a keenness not to 
 be expected of her mild visage and almost 
 timid demeanor; but under her shyness 
 Jerusha Arnold concealed, or rather, it 
 would be fairer to say contained (since she 
 was not conscious of any disguisement) a very 
 shrewd gift of observation. And she had not 
 sewed in private families, and often seen the 
 60
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 feet of the skeleton when the closet door was 
 ajar, without picking up some worldly wis- 
 dom. 
 
 "I suppose you heard from Mrs Brandt 
 about the party, ' ' said Mrs. Craven, holding 
 the paper pattern higher. "No, I don't 
 need a fan, Jerry. It ain't much of a party 
 a lawn party, the girls call it. For Tim's 
 wife. She'll find it pleasanter, being intro- 
 duced to a good many at once. And I feel 
 grateful to her, being willing to live here 
 after all the attention she's had." 
 
 "But Tim's business is here. She don't 
 expect you to move the factory to Chicago 
 or Boston, so's she can go to parties, does 
 she?" 
 
 "Of course not; but I'm afraid she'll feel 
 the change. Coming West, too!" 
 
 "I guess we won't eat her! But there, I 
 don't show any justice to the girl. She's 
 pretty as a picture, riding by in Tim's new 
 surrey; but I did expect to see more of 
 Tim's wife than jest riding by in her 
 carriage. And I did feel awful cut up, and 
 that's the fact, when I gave up an afternoon 
 only to go and call on her, and a mincing 
 61
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 little girl with a cap, told me that Mrs. 
 Craven was very much engaged, and begged 
 to be excused, " 
 
 "It was her Dante lesson; she never lets 
 anything interrupt that, and the girl said the 
 same to everybody. " 
 
 "I guess it won't kill me, but it it hurts, 
 Ellie, to have Tim's wife making a stranger 
 of me. There, I feel better, now I have 
 talked it out! But I hope Gertie's young 
 man will not be so proud. I haven't really 
 had a chance to talk with Gertie since she 
 came back from the East, engaged to him. 
 I can't quite realize it, our Gertie being 
 engaged to be married. He's a fine-appear- 
 ing young man in his picture she showed 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Craven considered Reginald rather 
 plain, although she stood in awe of him 
 because Mrs. Tim mentioned him with 
 respect. "He's considerable freckled, " she 
 answered, dubiously, "and his nose being 
 broken at football makes his face not so 
 well, not exactly handsome; but he's of fine 
 family, connected with the Winthrops. 
 Hazel's his cousin. Johnny says he's a very 
 62
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 nice fellow, with no nonsense about him. He 
 was at Harvard with Johnny, only in a higher 
 class, of course. He's very s clever." 
 
 "Oh, you can call it smart when you're 
 with me, Ellie," said Miss Arnold, dryly; "I 
 don't see why it ain't just as good a word. 
 Well, I hope he'll make Gertie happy, that's 
 all; and I guess he will. I suppose they 
 they're very much in love?" 
 
 Mrs. Craven nodded and sighed. 
 
 "Well, we know what it is, Ellie; we've 
 had our day, " said the other elderly woman. 
 And she leaned over and gently patted Mrs. 
 Craven's gloved hand. The tears rose to 
 the matron's eyes. "There, there, Ellie! I'm 
 a fool, making you feel bad ! Let's talk about 
 the party. Shan't I come and fix the flowers?" 
 
 Miss Arnold had a gift for plants. Plain and 
 simple as she seemed, her floral effects showed 
 a magic touch envied by professional florists. 
 Yet the offer brought another and a deeper 
 flush to her friend's kind, anxious face. 
 
 "You're just as good as you can be, 
 Jerry," she cried, affectionately, "but I'm 
 ashamed to ask you, for for the invitations 
 ain't very general, and and " 
 63
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 "And you ain't going to invite me, you 
 mean?" said Miss Arnold, quietly, but her 
 own color had turned. 
 
 The tears in Mrs. Craven's eyes rolled 
 down her cheeks; she choked, trying to 
 answer. Suddenly, Miss Arnold put one arm 
 protectingly around the palpitating, plump 
 shoulder. 
 
 "There, Ellie, don't go to feeling bad; 7 
 know you want me; only tell me one thing, 
 was was it Gertie that asked you not to 
 have me?" 
 
 "No, it wasn't," Mrs. Craven cried, 
 regaining a little voice; "it was Tim's wife. 
 She of course, she doesn't know you, dear, 
 and she has so many social prejudices." A 
 queer smile stole over Miss Arnold's face 
 while Mrs. Craven continued: "She comes 
 of a high family, you know, and she thinks 
 so much of being a gentlewoman, as she 
 calls it, and she's a Colonial Dame, and so I 
 guess she thinks she has to be particular. I 
 told her how we'd been bosom friends for 
 thirty years, and no sister could be kinder 
 or more devoted; but she didn't understand. 
 And afterward, when I talked to the girls, 
 64
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 they said they knew Hazel would never get 
 over it. She's New England, and hoards up 
 things. And though they felt awful not to 
 ask you (Miss Arnold's lip curled a little, 
 bitterly), Ellen thought we ought to humor 
 Tim's wife, who is strange, and I guess 
 awful homesick, and well, I gave in, Jerry; 
 I couldn't bear to contrary Ellen, and Tim's 
 wife, too." 
 
 "Never you mind, never you mind, Ellie; 
 I know we love each other, and you don't 
 need to be afraid I'll shame you before your 
 grand friends. I'll come and fix the flowers 
 for you, and then I'll go home." 
 
 "And you'll come up to dinner to-morrow, 
 Jerry," pleaded Mrs. Craven. 
 
 "I guess not, to-morrow ; I've got a good 
 many things on hand. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Craven' begged in vain ; this one little 
 solace of a wounded spirit Miss Arnold 
 could not deny herself. Finally Mrs. Craven 
 left her, comforted, but still heavy-hearted. 
 And after she had gone, the seamstress sat 
 down and cried. 
 
 The humblest of us have our little 
 audience, whose approbation is as the breath 
 65
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 of our nostrils. Miss Jerry had lived in the 
 block for ten years ; they all knew her her 
 punctual payments and her charities, which 
 were not small, either, in comparison to her 
 income, or in the eyes of the recipients. 
 The Craven friendship was her mark of 
 distinction with her neighbors. She was a 
 great personage to them, although she might 
 be only Miss Arnold, the seamstress, to the 
 town in general. When she donned her one 
 black silk, rich and good, the gift of Mrs. Cra- 
 ven, and pinned on a bit of real lace, from 
 Ellen, with the pretty brooch that Gertie gave 
 her, and the Craven carriage was sent to 
 convey her to a Craven function, the build- 
 ing was agitated ; the tenants all felt that 
 they were touching the edge of fashion. 
 They talked about it to their neighbors, and 
 Mrs. Brandt, the baker's wife, always came 
 up next evening, when Miss Arnold returned 
 from her day's work, with a steaming cup of 
 coffee and some fresh rolls hot from the 
 oven, to learn the details of the toilets, and 
 how Brandt's own contributions to the menu 
 were received. 
 
 Now, poor Miss Arnold could not but 
 66
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 imagine the questions, "I suppose you are 
 going to the Cravens' great party? No? 
 Why not?" And Jerusha Arnold, who came 
 of Puritan stock, could not find it in her 
 conscience to utter a falsehood. With a 
 corroded heart she would have to answer 
 that she had not received an invitation; 
 further but her imagination recoiled. Not 
 only was her harmless vanity wounded, but 
 her tears welled from a deeper source. The 
 awkward soldier on the table was Miss 
 Jerry's only lover, and Ellen Craven was 
 her only dear friend. They had been friends 
 for so many, many years ; two little girls in 
 school, two apprentices in the dress-making 
 shop, now two women growing old. Both 
 had been orphans. 
 
 In the early, days Jerusha was the stronger 
 of the two. They opened a little shop 
 together, and it was then that the young 
 superintendent of the wagon works met and 
 loved pretty Ellen Pratt. He married her, 
 and he never regretted his choice of a wife, 
 although, perhaps, as his wealth and impor- 
 tance grew, other people wondered a little 
 that he had not married a woman of wider 
 67
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 education. But Ellen Craven was of so 
 gentle, sunny, unselfish a disposition that 
 every one, even her own highly educated 
 children, forgave her the lapses of her 
 tongue and manner. 
 
 Certainly Timothy Craven was not the 
 man to undervalue his wife's good quali- 
 ties. He laughed at her humility and her 
 painstaking, futile efforts to raise the girls' 
 standard. When he discovered her secretly 
 taking Delsarte lessons, he roared. 
 
 "And what for?" said he. "Is that why 
 I found you the other day hopping on one 
 foot and swinging your arms like a distracted 
 windmill? At your age, Nell!" 
 
 "Tim, I know the exercises look queer, 
 but they give you great grace, the teacher 
 says, and they make you very much less 
 fleshy stout ' ' 
 
 "Old lady," said Timothy Craven, "you're 
 quite graceful enough for me, and I love 
 every pound of you. Don't you let the girls 
 bully you into frills!" And even when he 
 lay dying, Craven said to her, faintly, 
 "Nell, I've left you everything; I know you 
 will do the best you can for the children, 
 
 68
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 start the boys in business, and marry the 
 girls off if they see the right kind of fellow ; 
 but don't you let them bully you!" 
 
 Timothy had been a kind friend to Jerusha 
 Arnold, always warm in her praise ever since 
 the bad diphtheria time, when the two boys 
 and Gertie fell ill and Tim nearly died. 
 Not a nurse could be had for love or money ; 
 and Jerry had watched night and day. As 
 for Jerry, she loved all her friends' children ; 
 but her soul clave to Gertie. Had she not 
 come before the doctor and before the nurse, 
 when Gertie was born? And had she not 
 held Gertie on her shoulder the dreadful 
 night through, when they thought Tim was 
 dying, and the mother was with him? Her 
 little fortune, after bequests in charity, was 
 left to Gertrude Jerusha Arnold Craven, "in 
 remembrance of many kindnesses showed 
 to her old friend." So her will ran; and 
 she often took it out and read it with 
 satisfaction. But since Gertie went to the 
 boarding school in Boston, and since the 
 Craven boys had so increased the Craven 
 fortune, although the boys were just the 
 same, and called her "Cousin Jerry" and 
 69
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 sent her costly Christmas gifts, the girls, 
 she fancied, were changed. 
 
 A chill that could not be analyzed, but 
 could be felt, was in the air. How should 
 Gertie know the way in which the heart of 
 a childless woman yearned over her? She 
 could not see, in the old cabinet, the bundle 
 of papers stored away with her mother's and 
 the dead soldier's; and once when she did 
 catch a glimpse of them by chance, how was 
 she to guess that they were her own childish 
 letters, written when they were away sum- 
 mers, to her "deer Cousin Jery," and the 
 later and rarer letters of her youth. 
 
 "I guess it's natural," said the desolate 
 woman. "Children don't notice that you're 
 queer and old and poor; they only notice 
 you love 'em ; but when they grow up they 
 know. I dont want to shame her before her 
 beau. Yes, I expect it's natural; but, oh, 
 Lord, it hurts!" 
 
 Yet it was not with Gertie's consent, that 
 the slight had been given; and she drove 
 away from Jerry's door with a clouded face. 
 Ellen saw things differently. "I do hope 
 that Miss Jerry won't be persuading mamma 
 70
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 to invite her to the reception," she began. 
 
 Gertie, a pretty girl, who looked more 
 like her dark-eyed, thin father than her fair, 
 mild mother, turned her brilliant eyes for a 
 moment on Ellen's frown. 
 
 "Cousin Jerry is not likely to persuade 
 mamma or any one else to invite her to any- 
 thing!" she said, coldly. 
 
 "Oh, you know what I mean. She'll seem 
 cut up, and mamma will cry and beg her to 
 come. 'I don't know what on earth I shall 
 say to Jerry,' says mamma, the dear, soft- 
 hearted thing. I told her to say nothing 
 about the party at all. If she speaks she's 
 lost, /didn't want her to get the things at 
 Brandt's. We could have sent to Chicago 
 perfectly well; then she wouldn't have 
 heard it until it was all over with. It was 
 your fault, Gertrude you would go there!" 
 
 "I think we mortified poor Cousin Jerry 
 enough without taking our trade away from 
 the Brandt's," said Gertie. "I wish we 
 hadn't given in to Hazel. Ellen, it strikes 
 me we were snobs." 
 
 "Perhaps you think Hazel is a snob, .too?" 
 
 "No," said Gertie, slowly, "I think Hazel 
 71
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 is a fine young creature, but she is narrow, 
 awfully narrow. It isn't Hazel I am angry 
 at, it's myself. I'm furious at myself! I 
 know my mother is worth a hundred of the 
 fine people I met East, yet I find myself 
 growing hot when I hear her talking about 
 being ' plenty > warm', and when she insists 
 on pressing everything twice on the guests 
 at a dinner, and oh, you know. You," 
 cried Gertie, in a burst of scorn, "are no 
 better than I, and you didn't even stand up 
 for poor, kind Cousin Jerry in the half- 
 hearted way I did ; but I declare I I shall 
 carry Reggy to see her!" 
 
 Ellen laughed, albeit with a rather shame- 
 faced air. 
 
 "No, you won't," said she, "you daren't! 
 And I daren't have her at the party. You 
 are afraid of Reginald, and I am afraid of 
 Mrs. Allen Masters." 
 
 Gertie did not answer for a while ; she was 
 redder than before, and seemed absorbed in 
 thought. The landau bowled smoothly 
 along the brick paving, past the new, tall 
 shops and the rounded windows of the better 
 streets which they were entering. Suddenly 
 72
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 Gertie opened her lips to speak. What she 
 would have said was: "Once Cousin Jerry 
 gave me a ridiculously expensive present, 
 that doll, when I was ten; and I overheard 
 mamma say, 'Why, Jerry, how could you!' 
 and she answered, 'Don't scold me, Ellie; 
 you and the children are all I have ! ' If we 
 are all she has, and we cast her off as not fine 
 enough for our friends, how will she feel?" 
 But this was never said, because at this 
 instant Ellen spoke, pursuing her own train 
 of thought. "Mrs. Masters met me on the 
 street this morning, and asked me if our 
 papers for the Colonial Dames were ready 
 yet; she said she had sent hers and six other 
 papers, and she wanted ours, because the 
 applications were coming so fast, and she 
 wanted us to be among the charter mem- 
 bers." 
 
 "She's an old cat!" said Gertie. 
 
 "I believe she is," sighed Ellen; "and I 
 believe you were right, and she only asked 
 us to join the Colonial Dames because she 
 thought we couldn't get in, and after we had 
 committed ourselves and everybody knew 
 for she had spread it far and wide we were 
 
 73
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 trying to join it would be humiliating to 
 fail." 
 
 "You can trust her for spreading it farther 
 and wider," said Gertie, "that the poor 
 Cravens feel so cut up ; they wanted to join 
 the Colonial Dames, and they couldn't find 
 an ancestor. What did you say?" 
 
 "I said you were looking up the genea- 
 logical tree, and you would tell her." 
 
 "Much I've found," said Gertie, gloomily; 
 "two solid nightmare weeks have I spent 
 rummaging the New England genealogical 
 register, until I dream of 'Early Marriages 
 and Deaths in Sudbury,' and 'Genealogical 
 Gleanings in old Braintree, ' and inscriptions 
 on porch doors ; and for two months I have 
 been writing people; and the only public 
 thing that I can find any of our ancestors 
 ever did was to hang a witch, and bring in 
 a bill for five shillings for doing it 
 and that isn't gratifying to the family 
 pride " 
 
 "If he'd only been hanged for witchcraft 
 himself?" suggested Ellen. 
 
 "But he wasn't; he hanged the other. 
 There was a certain Gregory Craven who 
 74
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 looted promising, but when I found a deed 
 of his with 'Gregory Craven, His Mark,' I 
 felt tolerably sure that he couldn't have been 
 a governor, or assistant governor, or mem- 
 ber of the colonial legislature for more than 
 three years, or a secretary of state, or have 
 written an election sermon, or been any 
 eligible thing. So I gave him up. And 
 the other Cravens, if they did anything, 
 didn't belong to us they were collaterals 
 instead of directs and if they belong to us, 
 they didn't do anything public, except that 
 one of Grandmamma Craven's ancestresses 
 received relief from the selectmen as 'a 
 poor, distressed widow woman subject to 
 fits' that's not gratifying, either!" 
 
 "It's awful!" moaned Ellen. "I wish you 
 hadn't told me. What shall we do?" 
 
 "What we ought to do, if we weren't 
 cowardly snobs, is to tell Mrs. Masters that 
 we find our ancestors did not do anything 
 of note, and say, 'Therefore, I pray thee, 
 have me excused!' " 
 
 "But think of her triumph!" 
 
 "Think of the triumph of our consciences 
 but don't be scared, Ellen; I am a cow- 
 75
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 ardly snob, too ; I shall try to invent some 
 plausible lie." 
 
 "We might but mammas ancestors are 
 hopeless." 
 
 "Absolutely hopeless, ' ' agreed Gertie ; "it 
 would be a waste of time to look. Maybe 
 some way out will suggest itself some lie 
 that is not too transparent." Ellen sighed, 
 and they drove home in silence. 
 
 That night Gertie wrote to Reginald. She 
 wrote with a frown and set teeth at the very 
 end of her letter. "There is one dear friend 
 of our family that I want you to meet. I 
 hope you will like her. She is very plain, and 
 not at all a fine lady" (she had lifted her pen 
 to make the word gentlewoman, but threw 
 it down, crying, "No, I won't deny poor 
 Cousin Jerry that"), "but she has a heart of 
 gold." 
 
 Reginald came a day earlier than she had 
 expected him. He was a tall young fellow 
 with a kind, ugly face and a simple manner. 
 He blushed when he met Mrs. Craven, and 
 said, "You're awfully good to let me have 
 Gertie. " He was interested in the town and 
 in the people. He spoke with an English 
 76
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 accent ; but even Tim, who viewed him with 
 an elder brother's critical eyes, could find 
 no nonsense about him. In the afternoon, 
 he walked with Gertie, affecting to look at 
 the streets, really busy with a slim and 
 dainty shape at his side. "I have seen 
 Timothy," said he, "and Johnny's an old 
 friend, and Hazel is a cousin I've seen 
 all your people, Gertie, except your 
 Cousin Jerry. Take me to see her, can't 
 you?" 
 
 A wicked cowardice whispered in Gertie's 
 ear, "It is perfectly safe, she will be out; 
 and you can please her by leaving cards. ' ' 
 She listened, and afterward she believed 
 she would have yielded; but even as she 
 lifted her head to assent, a glittering phaeton 
 wheeled by, turned ; out between the lamps 
 bent a delicate profile, and Mrs. Allen 
 Masters' silvery voice called, "Oh, Miss 
 Gertrude!" 
 
 The etiquette of a western town demanded 
 that Reginald be presented. Mrs. Masters 
 gave him one of her sweetest smiles. 
 
 "And oh, Miss Gertrude, may we hope 
 to have your papers to-morrow?" said she; 
 77
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 "never mind the supplemental one ancestor 
 is enough ! ' ' 
 
 "If you can catch him!" Gertie groaned, 
 within. But she answered, k ' I will send you 
 the papers or write to-morrow, Mrs. 
 Masters." 
 
 "Thank you so much." And Mrs. Mas- 
 ters, smiling, passed on. 
 
 "What a ripping fine woman!" said 
 Reggy. 
 
 A kind of disgust of herself, of her 
 deference to the woman who had gone, of 
 pretence of every kind swept over Gertie. 
 
 "Yes, she's handsome," she replied. 
 "Reggy, you were speaking of Cousin Jerry; 
 I don't think we should find her in ; she goes 
 out dressmaking by the day, and she would 
 be gone. After dinner we might go." 
 
 She hurried her words a little, and her 
 cheek wore a fine rose ; but Reggy answered, 
 easily, "Why, of course; I might have 
 thought of that. Your mother told me 
 about her. Don't you think there's some- 
 thing very touching in a friendship like 
 theirs?" 
 
 "Yes," said Gertie. "Cousin Jerry is 
 78
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 worth a dozen ordinary women. You know 
 we wanted her to live with us, but she was 
 too independent." 
 
 "She's a fine old gentlewoman," declared 
 Reggy, "and we will surely go to see her 
 after dinner. 
 
 Gertie looked at him dubiously ; her heart, 
 which had lightened marvelously, sank again. 
 What was Reggy 's idea of a gentlewoman? 
 Nevertheless, she took him to see Miss Jerry 
 after dinner. The bakery doors were pro- 
 tected by screens, but the flies watched their 
 chance, and were so many inside that they 
 buzzed unpleasantly. The baker, in his 
 shirt-sleeves, was wrapping up his wares 
 for a crowd of barefooted children, some of 
 whose faces needed washing. On the steps 
 outside, the baker's wife rocked the baby. 
 
 "This is the place," said Gertie. She felt 
 an instinct of defiance, of kinship, of fierce 
 young protection, rising to battle with her 
 own perception of the way Reggy must be 
 viewing the home of Cousin Jerry. Reggy, 
 however, at this moment was innocently 
 greeting Mrs. Timothy Craven. She had 
 just come out of the bakery a slender 
 
 79
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 young girl with regular features and a near- 
 sighted frown. 
 
 "Gertie, have you tasted the cream cakes 
 here?" she exclaimed, most amiably; 
 "they're delicious. Filled with real cream ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' They are nice, ' ' returned Gertie, calmly ; 
 "but we came to pay a visit to Cousin Jerry. ' ' 
 
 She was reminded of the experience (which 
 she had once read) of a woman obliged to 
 kill a chicken, who said that she trembled 
 all the way to the fatal block, and could 
 hardly see the hatchet, but the moment she 
 lifted it her nerve returned, and she needed 
 only to strike one blow. 
 
 "Didn't you know she lived here?" she 
 continued, with a composure that struck 
 herself as stony. "Come up-stairs and see 
 her." 
 
 Even as Mrs. Tim hesitated, the bakery 
 screens opened and Miss Jerry appeared, 
 breathless. She had run all the way down- 
 stairs to get a view of Reggy. She did not 
 mean to let them see her, but when she 
 heard Gertie's words her heart overcame her. 
 
 "Do come up," she urged, "and have 
 some cream cakes and ice-cream up-stairs." 
 80
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 Mrs. Tim was haughty, but she was well 
 bred. She saw no civil way out of the 
 snare, and meekly followed in Miss Jerry's 
 wake. Up-stairs, in the little parlor, she- 
 politely tried to make conversation, and 
 admired the cabinet. 
 
 "It's like one an old uncle of mine had," 
 said she; "they are immensely interesting, 
 these old rosewood things; yes, here's the 
 secret drawer, you press the spring oh, I 
 beg your pardon!" 
 
 "It's nothing, said Miss Jerry, but she 
 grew very pale; "just my little store of 
 letters thank you, Miss Gertie." 
 
 Gertie was as red as the other was pale. 
 In replacing the letters she had caught her 
 own name at the end of the childish scrawls, 
 and seen her own photographs in a bundle ; 
 from the baby's card, faded and dull, to her 
 latest carbon type, in a Paris gown. 
 
 "Do you like that gown?" said she, her 
 eyes flashing. "I've another Paris gown to 
 wear at the party. Cousin Jerry, what are 
 you going to wear?" 
 
 Miss Jerry looked very strange. "I don't 
 expect to go," said she, in a low tone. 
 81
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 "But you must," said Gertie; "you must 
 give up the whole day to it, and come early 
 to arrange the flowers." 
 
 "I will fix the flowers, and gladly, Gertie, 
 but I can't come." 
 
 "We'll see about that later," said Gertie, 
 imperiously; "here's the ice-cream." 
 
 There was a little bustle of hospitality, 
 and Gertie bent her hot cheeks over the 
 white mound, while Mrs. Tim's lips 
 stiffened; but she was too well bred to 
 betray resentment before a stranger; as she 
 phrased it, a stranger not of her own class ; 
 and she ate her ice-cream leisurely. Reggy, 
 conscious of an awkward pause, essayed a 
 new subject. 
 
 "I see, Hazel, you have started the 
 Colonial Dames here," said he. "A lady 
 spoke to Gertie about it on the street." 
 
 "Are you going to join, Miss Gertie?" said 
 Miss Jerry. 
 
 "I'm afraid it isn't a question of wanting; 
 we haven't the wherewithal of ancestors, 
 Cousin Jerry," said Gertie, trying to 
 laugh. 
 
 "You have at least five that / know of," 
 82
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 said Miss Jerry, and a streak of red crept 
 up her cheek, "in your mother's family." 
 
 "Has your mother any colonial ances- 
 tors?" asked Mrs. Tim. She habitually called 
 her mother-in-law "your mother," one of 
 her little ways that irritated Gertie. 
 
 "She can get in on old Governor Win- 
 throp, I expect, ' ' said Miss Jerry. 
 
 "You have the line proved?" Mrs. Tim 
 could not help the ring of doubt in her voice. 
 
 Miss Jerry smiled rather grimly. She 
 arose, and from the secret drawer she took 
 out a long, white box, from which she 
 removed and unfolded a roll of parchment 
 decked with softly engraved medallions of 
 coats of arms and a huge red seal, from 
 which depended a blue and buff ribbon. 
 Her finger traveled to the boldly written 
 names and the engraved inscription, "Miss 
 Jerusha Winthrop Arnold has been duly elected 
 a member of the Massachusetts society of the 
 Colonial Dames of America, in the right of 
 her ancestor, Governor John Wintkrop. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You can copy your paper and the dates 
 and things from mine down to your great- 
 grandmother, and your mother has got the 
 83
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 certificates and family Bibles after that," 
 said Miss Jerry. 
 
 "Your name is Winthrop," cried Gertie, 
 "but I never thought " 
 
 "Me neither, " said Miss Jerry. "I didn't 
 rightly know about it till last summer, on 
 that trip your mother made me take. I met 
 Cousin Phebe Abbot, and she's ancestor 
 mad; and she got it all ready. I thought it 
 might please you girls. I didn't get the 
 certificate until last week, and, of course, I 
 didn't want to speak before. I didn't even 
 tell your ma. You'll have her join, of 
 course!" 
 
 "Reginald is descended from the Win- 
 throps," said Mrs. Tim. 
 
 "Then you are my Cousin Jerry, too, Miss 
 Arnold," said Reggy, who looked very 
 amused. He told Gertie afterward that he 
 wouldn't have missed the scene for the world, 
 that Hazel's face was a sight to behold. 
 
 Gertie did not notice his amusement; 
 afterward she laughed; but it was another 
 emotion she felt at the time, which made 
 her fling her arms about Miss Jerry, between 
 laughing and crying, and exclaim: "You 
 84
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 gave me the prettiest doll I ever had, Cousin 
 Jerry, and now you give me the prettiest 
 badge ! ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Tim arose. She said she must go; 
 but she smiled on Miss Jerry, and asked her 
 to come to see her Copley miniatures. 
 
 "And you will come to the party," cried 
 Gertie, "and wear your badge, and be the 
 first Colonial Dame here!" 
 
 "Yes, do come," said Mrs. Tim. 
 
 And Reggy coughed and looked out of the 
 window before he added his entreaties. 
 
 Miss Jerry did come. She wore a new 
 gown presented by Gertie, which was vastly 
 admired by the whole building. Everybody 
 assisted at the toilet, and she departed in 
 the presence of the entire body of tenants, 
 who almost cheered her. Reggy was very 
 attentive to her, and called her "Cousin 
 Jerry." Many people told the Cravens that 
 Miss Arnold was a distinguished-looking 
 woman. The same people said that she had 
 a sweet, quaint way of talking. 
 
 "She is an old-fashioned New England 
 gentlewoman," said Mrs. Tim. "I like the 
 way they talk." 
 
 85
 
 A COLONIAL DAME 
 
 And Reggy ducked his head and actually 
 winked at Gertie. 
 
 As for Ellen, she was busy crushing Mrs. 
 Masters. She brought her up, and pre- 
 sented her in form to "My Cousin, Miss 
 Arnold. ' ' 
 
 "Miss Arnold will explain our line of 
 descent," said she, grandly; "please tell 
 her, Cousin Jerry. The Winthrop one, I 
 mean." 
 
 "Cousin Jerry" the Colonial Dame has 
 remained ever since to all the Craven family, 
 including Mrs. Tim; while Mrs. Craven, a 
 Dame now herself, is treated with so much 
 consideration that she feels the liveliest grati- 
 tude to Miss Jerry, old Governor Winthrop 
 of illustrious memory, and the Colonial 
 Dames of America.
 
 A Jealous Woman 
 
 ' ' TV T O W put the basket on the lounge 
 
 L il and move the lounge to the win- 
 dow." 
 
 "I'm 'fraid it hurt Mrs. Rogers after 
 such a bad night. " 
 
 "Never mind. Move it!" 
 
 Hulda had only been a month with the 
 Rogerses, but she knew enough not to dis- 
 regard that particular intonation. Being a 
 Swede and not a Frenchwoman, she did not 
 shrug her plump shoulders ; but she shot an 
 eyeblink through the crack in the door, at a 
 woman in the hall, before she wheeled the 
 lounge as directed. Drops beaded the brow 
 of the woman on the lounge ; she grew paler 
 and frowned with pain, yet not a sigh 
 escaped her lips. 
 
 The Swede eyed her covertly, admiration 
 and disapproval both in her heavy, fair face. 
 "Mrs. Rogers want any t' ing else?" 
 87
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 ''No, thank you. I've got the undershirts 
 to mend? Yes. Well, you dust the sitting- 
 room with a damp cloth it's not dusting, 
 it's only swapping dust, to dust with a 
 feather duster. And tell Susan to have 
 marrowfat peas instead of the string-beans 
 for dinner. Mr. Rogers doesn't like beans ; 
 and you can help Susan iron so she can make 
 some ice-cream. Some bread and butter 
 and tea is all I shall want. You needn't 
 toast the bread. ' ' 
 
 "Won't I stay wid Mrs. Rogers? Won't 
 s'e want some " 
 
 "Nothing. You go and help Susan. I 
 have a bell if I need you." 
 
 Hulda went, nothing loth, to join Susan 
 Pierce at the foot of the stairs. Susan was 
 a little, gaunt, plain woman in a scant-skirted 
 blue calico, such as the Amana colonists 
 wear. Indeed, before she married a worldly 
 farmer and became his widow, Susan was of 
 the colony herself it is only an hour's ride 
 by steam, from the little University town ; 
 and she always kept a hint of it in her 
 austere garb for work or leisure. 
 
 "Well?" said Susan Pierce.
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 "S'e looks awful sick, but s'e says s'e don't 
 want me. S'e made me move the lounge 
 so s'e can watch him from window. S'e 
 say you make ice-cream and I help you, and 
 s'e only like bread and butter not toast 
 bread " 
 
 " 'Cause it's ironing day," interrupted 
 Susan. "Some ways she's real considerate; 
 and I never did see sech a housekeeper as 
 her, sick or well." 
 
 "Nor I never see such a beautiful kitchen, 
 such pretty white sink and lots of t'ings to 
 cook out. And no company " 
 
 "I wisht there was more company. No 
 childern and no company makes a house dull. 
 But we don't lack for good eating when 
 he's home. I never seen a man so pam- 
 pered. I guess his second won't give him a 
 clean shirt every day. Well, you going to 
 help with the ironing?" 
 
 Hulda was going to help. She much pre- 
 ferred a gossip over the ironing-board to a 
 silent morning with the invalid. Smilingly 
 she led the way to the laundry and began 
 at a great, damp bundle. The wide west 
 door of the laundry was open, as were the 
 89
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 two south windows windows and doors 
 being covered with wire, against which 
 the lavish morning-glory vines were tap- 
 ping softly gorgeous bells of purple and 
 red, not yet shrunken by the sun. Morn- 
 ing or afternoon it was always shady 
 under the laundry windows, because of the 
 great cherry tree which glittered now with 
 little dots of flame. The birds were sing- 
 ing, and a blue jay scolded a sparrow with 
 grotesque travesty of wrath. Through the 
 greenery was a vista of pastures where cat- 
 tle were grazing among the trees, a swell of 
 shorn hay-field which glistened like yellow- 
 white silk, another field where the reaper 
 was moving; and beyond, the lovely, rich 
 green undulations of a field of corn, that 
 dipped into a snowy, shifting mountain 
 range of clouds. Once, when Professor 
 Rogers, as he was always called (although 
 really he had never advanced beyond the 
 modest state of "instructor") was teaching 
 English literature in the State University, 
 he asked an Iowa boy, what, in his judg- 
 ment, was the most beautiful object in 
 nature, to which the answer came promptly: 
 90
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 "A field of corn just ready to tassel when 
 the lines are drawn straight!'* 
 
 In the dry years that had quenched all 
 his young ambitions, often, Ben Rogers had 
 looked on "the big corn-field," recalling 
 the lad's words, and always with an obscure 
 moving of the heart. Even Susan Pierce, 
 who did not incline to sentiment, drew a 
 pleased sigh, as she gazed, that morning. 
 "Corn's looking real well," said Susan. 
 
 "It's a nice farm," agreed Hulda. 
 "Ain' it queer when folks own such a nice 
 farm and have such a pretty house dey 
 don't be happy? Just 'cause s'e's so yealous ; 
 but I don't see but what e's a nice mans." 
 
 "And he is a nice man, Hulda Oleson," 
 cried Susan ; "prompt to his meals and ready 
 to praise 'em, and grateful when you do 
 things, and always wipes his feet in muddy 
 weather. / call the professor 'bout as good 
 as they make 'em. But I ain't denying 
 she's jealous; she always was." 
 
 "Wat of?" 
 
 "Everybody. That's the mischief of it. 
 'Tain't only the women. They're the worst, 
 of course; but she's jealous of his friends. 
 91
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 Why, she was so jealous of an old dog he 
 had that he thought the world on, she 
 wouldn't let him have the critter in the 
 house, not even on the piazza.. Many's the 
 time I've seen him a-setting on the grass 
 so's to have Jumbo near him. He was a 
 little raggedy dog, but he called him Jumbo 
 'cause he had such a spirit. The professor, 
 he used to wash that dog and comb him and 
 teach him tricks; and then, when he got 
 him learned, one day he tied a blue ribbon to 
 his collar and combed him nice and sen 
 him in on the /z'azza to show off his tricks 
 to Mrs. Rogers. I was peeking 'round the 
 door, for I knowed what the professor was 
 up to ; and he had the dog go through all 
 his little tricks they was real cute and 
 some way the critter had a real anxious look 
 in his eye, like he knew he was trying to 
 please. But when he was through, and 
 the professor, who looked 'most 's anxious 
 as the doggie, turns to her and says, 'I'm 
 going to give this accomplished little animal 
 to you, my dear, if you will accept him, ' she 
 said she didn't want him. The professor 
 looked at her one minute, never said a word, 
 92
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 jest looked. Then he picked up the dog, 
 and looked at him real affectionate like. 
 'I'm sorry,' says he; 'I thought he'd be 
 company to you when I was away in the 
 fields. You'd have grown fond of him, 
 maybe.' He walked off a few steps and he 
 stopped, maybe hoping she'd call him back; 
 but she didn't. She sat there looking mad 
 awful mad ; and he took the dog off. He 
 patted it as he was walking off. Next morn- 
 ing that dog was dead poisoned!" 
 
 "Ihela verldenf" cried Hulda. "Say, did 
 s'e poison him?" 
 
 Mrs. Pierce bore harder on the flatiron 
 than seemed necessary. "I ain't saying. 
 All I know is, there he was; and the pro- 
 fessor found him all limp, lying on the /zazza 
 step, like he'd tried to get to his master. 
 He felt bad. I guess they had a quarrel. 
 Fact is, I did hear him say (as I passed the 
 door) : 'You might have left me a dog!' " 
 
 "What did he want to give it to her if s'e 
 was such cruel vomans?" 
 
 "She wouldn't have been cruel to it if 
 she'd a-taken it. No, I guess he knowed 
 how she felt, and that was how he tried to 
 93
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 save the critter. But, land! that's only one 
 thing. I've seen her when he was in the 
 university and they lived down-town I've 
 seen her refuse to set down at table when he 
 brought a friend to dinner right before the 
 man, too. Of course nobody was going to 
 call on him or take a meal with him if they 
 was exposed to sech treatment. And the 
 girls in his classes oh my! She went to 
 one of them and told her, 'You let my hus- 
 band alone!' The girl was a real nice girl 
 and hadn't done a thing 'cept let him walk 
 home with her one day when it rained and 
 she hadn't no umbrella. She was mad enough. 
 Then Mis' Rogers took to going to all his 
 classes, herself. I guess 'twas that shamed 
 him so he gave up his job. Maybe he had 
 to, for there was an awful sight of talk, her 
 acting that way. That's how he come to 
 buy this farm. Ruther, she bought it. She's 
 got the money. I will say for her she knows 
 how to run a farm her folks was farmers, 
 you know. It's her more'n him made the 
 money. They've been more peacefuller 
 sence she come out here. He's dretful care- 
 ful for one thing. But when he got kinder 
 
 94
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 interestid in politics and they was talking of 
 running- him for the legislatoor, she put a 
 stop to that in a jiffy. I've often wondered 
 she bought here, next to the Mori-ills, them 
 jest across the road. Maybe she didn't 
 know 'bout how he was supposed to have 
 been engaged to Hetty Morrill ; or maybe 
 for she's awful sharp in a bargain her git- 
 tin' this place so cheap on a mortgage, was 
 what moved her. Anyhow she done it she 
 herself. And for the better part of fifteen 
 year she's been jealous of poor Miss Mor- 
 rill." 
 
 "Say, how'd he come to marry her? Why 
 didn't he marry Miss Morrill? s'e seem such 
 nice lady." 
 
 "So she is, too; took care of her pa for 
 seventeen years, most, him helpless and she 
 running the place and making a good living 
 with early vegetables, and not only not call- 
 ing on the boys who are all married and got 
 families, but helping dress and educate their 
 children. And she, not letting the professor 
 much's cross the threshold nor let 'em have 
 milk when one of their cows died sudden 
 and t'other one was dry! He never did step 
 95
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 his foot over the doorsill till old Dr. Morrill 
 died sudden in the night, and he would go 
 over next morning to help. Why, Hulda 
 Oleson, she had the gall to be worked up 
 over that! Had hysterics and threatened to 
 kill him. She hollered and screamed so you 
 could hear her in the kitchen ; wanted him 
 to promise he'd not go to the funeral. But 
 I'm thankful to say he did go ; but he ketched 
 it, afterwards, I guess." 
 
 She paused to adjust the shining folds of 
 damask that she was ironing, and her 
 thoughts took a new turn. "Ain't that 
 pretty table linen?" she sighed; "there ain't 
 a lady on the faculty not even the presi- 
 dent's wife's got finer table-cloths and nap- 
 kins than she has; and she's been ailing ten 
 years, and only able to ride round in a 
 wheeled chair. But twict a year she'd be 
 lifted into the phaeton and druv to the depot 
 with the chair in the wagon follerin' after, 
 and she'd go to Chicago and buy things and, 
 as she says, see the fashions and give him a 
 real good time. She went when it was jest 
 torture to her and she wa'n't nowise able. 
 Never mind, she was going; and she'd go 
 96
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 with him to the theaters, too. But the last 
 year she ain't able to leave her lounge; 
 but you notice she won't move down-stairs 
 that's so she kin look over the fields from 
 one winder and over the Morrills' from the 
 other and watch him good. She's at the 
 Morrill winder (I call it), this mornin'." 
 
 "I t'ink e'd git wore out." 
 
 "I guess he does. I come to 'em when 
 they was first married. And then I got 
 married and lived on my own farm till Pierce 
 died, and then she wanted me back and I 
 was lonesome after my girl married and I 
 hadn't earned enough to live like I wanted, 
 so I come; and I can tell you, I seen a 
 change. When I was first here, they'd have 
 hot quarrels; but then she'd come round and 
 cry and beg him to forgive her and they'd 
 make up and seem real loving to each other. 
 Now, they don't seem to have so much 
 fights, he's looking old and discouraged and 
 broke, and he's patient with what would 'a' 
 sent him a-swearing, once. But they don't 
 have none of them old making-up times, 
 either. I never seen him real mad at her 
 but that one time 'bout the dog and one 
 
 97
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 time when she shot Miss Hetty's bronze 
 turkey. It someway got into our yard and 
 she was in her wheel-chair and she got her 
 pistil fetched her and plugged it full a- 
 settin' right on the grass and Miss Hetty 
 running to save it. That's the only time 
 she ever come in our gate ! Professor wanted 
 to give her another, but she wouldn't take it. ' ' 
 
 "Ain t it awful old folkses like im and 
 er going on dat way!" cried Hulda, to 
 whom, as to many young people, love, except 
 in its most decorous and placid forms, 
 appeared the property of youth alone. 
 "W'y! e must be fifty years ole and s'e's 
 ol'er!" she exclaimed, in a tone almost of 
 awe at the shameful spectacle. 
 
 "Fifty ain't so awful old," returned Mrs. 
 Pierce, drily, " 'specially for a man. Tho' 
 he is a good deal dried up and runted by 
 what he's gone through and being out in 
 the sun. She's some older'n him, I dunno 
 how much. I know when he married her, 
 he was twenty-eight " 
 
 " 'Ow'd e come to marry er?" 
 
 "I dunno ezactly. He was teaching, and 
 the girls were all going on 'bout him. She
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 was a only child, and her folks left her 
 money, and she took it into her head she 
 wanted to be a trained nurse, and she come 
 here to be in the hospital. And he was took 
 sick with typhoid fever and, fact is, she 
 saved his life with her missing; and when 
 he got well he married her. / always 
 thought he was in love with Hetty Morrill 
 and her with him; but they had a fool 
 quarrel, and then he couldn't make it up 
 'cause he went off and married this one. 
 Well, I will say when she ain't jealous, she's 
 good as gold to him. And I can't help 
 being kinder sorry for her lately, sence that 
 young flyaway niece of Miss Merrill's come 
 to 'tend the university and stay at her aunt's. 
 Minnit I set my eyes on her I knowed she'd 
 make trouble. She'd a young feller with 
 her; but she's one of the flirty kind, and she 
 druv up to our gate and begun making eyes 
 at the professor right before her ! Well, she's 
 kept it up. I dunno whether she's mean or 
 just mischievous] But I'd think a lot more 
 of her if she helped her aunt more 'bout the 
 house." 
 
 Susan folded the table-cloth before she 
 99
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 spoke again, this time with a lower voice: 
 "Say, Hulda, don't she strike you as sicker 
 all the time? She never complains, but she's 
 give up doing things. I guess he won't have 
 to wait long to be quit of her jealous ways. 
 And yet, I will say when she ain't jealous, 
 she's awful kind and good. I ain't nothing 
 to complain of myself, neither. ' ' 
 
 While the women talked Elsie Rogers was 
 lying on her lounge by the window. She 
 had been a pretty girl, with a plump, dashing, 
 high-colored comeliness. Now, she was thin 
 and sallow. Her skin showed the sickly pallor 
 of old ivory There were fretful wrinkles 
 about the lips that had been like rose-leaves 
 when young Ben Rogers used to lecture on 
 English literature and quote Swinburne in 
 his beautiful voice. 
 
 She could hear the very cadence of his 
 voice, again, telling how the gods made man 
 of "fire and the falling of tears and a hand- 
 ful of shifting sand. ' ' 
 
 "He weaves and is clothed with derision, 
 
 He sows and he shall not weep, 
 His life is a watch or a vision 
 Between a sleep and a sleep. ' '
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 A spark glowed in Elsie Rogers's smolder- 
 ing black eyes, as her thoughts went back to 
 those days. 
 
 "That's true enough," she muttered, 
 "and I am clothed with derision, I've given 
 him everything. He was poor; he owed 
 money when I married him. I paid it all 
 off for him. And when I came into my 
 money I bought this farm for him and 
 ran it. Much he knew of farming! And 
 I've stood between him and everything. 
 And it's been like hell, all the time. And 
 now when I know I've got to die, I keep 
 thinking of him, instead what's that?" 
 
 She raised herself painfully on her elbow. 
 She could see the Morrill doorway brightened 
 by a dainty shape in pink dimity, a golden- 
 brown head, with a broad leghorn hat 
 crowned with roses and decked in long 
 pink ribbon streamers that flew loose in the 
 breeze. 
 
 A little hiss of pain parted Elsie Rogers's 
 lips when she twisted her shoulders to watch 
 the pink figure trip down the yellow streak 
 of road. It stopped, a little space further 
 on; and the roses fluttered gayly, while
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 the girl leaned on the fence and talked with 
 a little man in blue overalls. Elsie could 
 almost hear the laughter. The talk was 
 brief, and directly the girl in pink was 
 tripping back to the house, while Ben (for the 
 man was her husband) turned on his heel 
 and came frowning towards her. But he 
 did not mount the stairs. Ten minutes, 
 perhaps, passed, during which she heard 
 his footsteps be 1 ow, the footsteps of a person 
 moving about a room, not passing from one 
 room to another, and then she saw him 
 come out, having changed his rough garb 
 for a white crash suit and his new straw 
 hat. 
 
 "That's why he has got to keeping his 
 clothes down-stairs, is it?" muttered his wife. 
 She smiled bitterly as the colt and the new 
 buggy with the red wheels were brought out 
 to the gate ; more bitterly as Ben drove the 
 new buggy up to the shabby brown gate of 
 the Morrills. It was no surprise to her that 
 the dainty pink skirts should flutter again 
 through the doorway and flutter into the 
 buggy, while Ben stood by the horse's head. 
 It was no surprise to have Sadie Morrill fling
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 the insolent challenge of her smile up at the 
 invalid's window, as the dust volleyed under 
 the red wheels. 
 
 For a second the jealous wife burrowed her 
 head in the pillow with a sick moan; but 
 she lifted it at the creak of the Morrills' 
 door. Hester Morrill, it was now, who stood 
 in the doorway and the sunshine, a slender 
 woman with gray in her brown hair and 
 lines about the patient brown eyes. 
 
 "My! doesn't she look old in that blaze!" 
 the watcher gloated, venomously; "she's 
 watching him, too. Does it hurt, Miss? I 
 hope it does. I'm not the only one to have 
 my heart cut out. How do you like it, now 
 it's your turn? Wearing baby-blue calico, 
 because it used to be becoming! And you 
 can see the gray in her hair across the 
 street. But she curls it on papers every 
 morning, just the same. Trying to look 
 young! You fool! can't you see he hasn't 
 eyes for you any more? Oh, I've seen the 
 look in his eyes many a night when he'd be 
 sitting out on the piazza with me, his wife, 
 but looking over to your old house that you 
 don't paint once in five years hoping to 
 103
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 catch a glimpse of you; and because you 
 never spoke to each other, do you suppose I 
 didn't know what he was thinking of and 
 didn't hate you? I did; but I don't now. 
 I've been jealous of you for twenty years; 
 but I'm not jealous of you now. Do you 
 hear, Hester Morrill? I'm not jealous of 
 you, now!" She barked the sentence aloud, 
 in a spasm of passion, forgetting the open 
 window. Was it possible that the other 
 woman heard? She lifted her eyes. They 
 shone, gentle, sad and quiet; and there was 
 in them, as they fell full on Elsie, some- 
 thing sorrowful but not angry. For the 
 first time in her life Elsie felt that Hester 
 pitied her. It was a queer, heavy emotion 
 that made her involuntarily lower her own 
 gaze. When, with an instant reaction of 
 defiance, she looked up again Hester was 
 gone ; and, what was most queer, the door- 
 way looked empty and lonesome. Then she 
 was conscious that Hester, after fifteen 
 years of silence, had nodded and smiled. 
 "I almost wish I'd beckoned to her," she 
 thought, half dazed by her own mood, "I 
 believe she would have come over. It 
 104
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 would have been fun to see her wince 
 when I talked about how pretty Sadie is. " 
 She caught her breath softly, and her head 
 rolled as she used to roll it in unbearable 
 pain (at night when she would not moan for 
 fear of waking Ben), while she whispered: 
 "I'd love to kill that Sadie!" 
 
 A spasm of pain seized her even in the 
 words, and for a few moments her physical 
 torment was too acute to let her mind get 
 away from it; but at last the breath came 
 painfully back to her body, the overtaxed 
 heart beat more quietly, and she took up 
 her needlework. "I'm only killing myself 
 the quicker," she said; "and I would like 
 to get Ben's underclothes mended up and 
 everything ready for him for winter, if I 
 could, first. She's a careless, bold-faced jig 
 that's let her aunt mend her stockings while 
 she flirts with the boys. And Ben's never 
 had to ask for a button. ' ' 
 
 An hour went by two hours. She sat, 
 propped on her pillows, sewing most of the 
 time, but, occasionally, from sheer weak- 
 ness, the needle would slip out of her limp 
 fingers. At times, also, she flung the work 
 105
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 aside with a groan and wrung her hands and 
 swayed her body, like one in a torment. A 
 score of vivid emotions wrenched her fea- 
 tures ; alike only in the misery that was in all 
 of them. Sometimes it was wild to frenzy, 
 and she had the face of a cruel maniac; 
 sometimes it was more remorseful than 
 angry and the tears ran down her thin 
 cheeks. 
 
 She was in this softer, kinder frame, when 
 the rattle of wheels penetrated the room. 
 "I won't look out," she thought; "I wont 
 spy on him. ' ' 
 
 The wheels stopped. She craned her neck 
 and pressed her face against the wire screen. 
 She could see the streak of yellow roadway 
 drawn straight through the green corn-fields. 
 She could see the modest brown house of the 
 Merrills, a rectangle and an ell with a narrow 
 piazza in the angle. But there was no 
 buggy in sight. "He has stopped at the 
 lower gate, ' ' she reflected bitterly ; and, not 
 for the first time, she called him a coward. 
 
 "But I won't say a mean word to him 
 this time," she added. "I'm too sick to 
 quarrel with him. I will be good." 
 106
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 The buggy-wheels rattled again. The 
 horse came in sight, then the buggy, in which 
 sat her husband alone. He looked up at 
 the window and lifted his hat. 
 
 She did not return the salute; he saw 
 only the averted oval of his wife's cheek; 
 she saw Sadie Merrill's pink skirt behind 
 the flower beds. She could not smile on 
 her husband, but she gnawed her under-lip. 
 "No, I won't say a word!" she resolved. 
 
 She could hear his step on the stair. It 
 was the heavy, springless step of a tired, 
 elderly man. He entered the chamber with 
 a diffident air. "Well, I've been to town," 
 said he. 
 
 "So I see; you and Sadie Morrill; I saw 
 you driving off together," answered Elsie. 
 She had meant to control herself; but at 
 this moment, happening to look across the 
 street, she saw Sadie come blithely out and 
 sink luxuriously in the hammock, where she 
 began to swing and read and eat candy out 
 of a pink box ; and an access of rage drove 
 the words out of Elsie's heart and fired the 
 tone. 
 
 The man sat down on the edge of the 
 107
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 nearest chair; he was, no doubt, as desper- 
 ately uncomfortable as he looked. He was 
 a small man. He had not grown stout with 
 years, but rather had withered. When he 
 was twenty-eight, the handsome young 
 scholar whose face haunted the girls' dreams, 
 he wore a mustache with curly ends. Now, at 
 fifty, he still wore a mustache with curly ends, 
 although his shaven cheeks were wrinkled 
 and hollow and the mustache gray. Ben 
 Rogers looked older than his years or his 
 farmer's life demanded; he looked crushed 
 and tired. His eyes, which had been full 
 of fire, were dull. 
 
 "Yes, their horse is lame; they've only 
 got one, now, " he answered without resent- 
 ment, fingering his hat and talking into it. 
 "It seemed unneighborly to let her walk 
 in the heat. I was going to town, any- 
 how." 
 
 "Did you have to carry her back, too?" 
 
 ' ' I suppose the walk back is just as sunny. ' ' 
 
 Elsie Rogers laughed spitefully. "Did 
 
 you have to give her candy because it was 
 
 sunny?" He shot a glance over to the 
 
 piazza, and his tanned cheek flushed. "Or 
 
 108
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 perhaps you didn't give her the candy; she 
 has lots of other beaux, you know. ' ' 
 
 "She may have the entire university for 
 anything / care, undergraduates, laws and 
 medics and dentals thrown in!" cried 
 Rogers. 
 
 "Did you give her the candy?" 
 
 "Well, if I did; now, Elsie" 
 
 He was arrested by the change in her 
 face, it was so ghastly. He got on his feet 
 to help her; but the attack, whatever its 
 nature, which had squeezed the color out of 
 her skin, passed as quickly as it came. The 
 blue shadow faded away from her mouth; 
 she even smiled. "Ben," said she, in a 
 changed tone, "do you know I'm going to 
 die?" 
 
 He came over to her before he answered, 
 and took a chair by her side. His face was 
 still flushed. "Don't talk that way/ my 
 dear," he said, awkwardly. "We we'll 
 change doctors if you say so. ' ' 
 
 "It's easier to change doctors than 
 diseases, Ben. Oh, I know ; and you know 
 too. I don't need to ask you and have you 
 try to lie to me. You knew before I did. 
 
 109
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 You haven't been cross with me for a month. 
 I saw you out walking in the pasture with 
 Doctor a month ago Sunday ; and when you 
 came in you kissed me. You hadn't kissed 
 me first for a long while. And that night 
 you didn't sit out on the piazza, and smoke. 
 You came right up and fanned me. It was a 
 hot night. I was so pleased. But I've 
 thought it out, since. Ben, there's a lot to 
 think of when one is going to die. I had 
 the lawyer up and made my will. Do you 
 know what I did?" 
 
 4 ' I have never asked you about any of the 
 wills you have made, Elsie," said he, with 
 a show of pride, the first sign of emotion 
 given by him. 
 
 "I left you everything the farm, the bank- 
 stock, the town lots, every cent I have in 
 the world; it's more than sixty thousand, 
 Ben; everything so long's you remain a 
 widower. ' ' 
 
 His hand did not quiver on her hair; in 
 fact, he smiled a little. 
 
 "So I presumed, Elsie; that's very gen- 
 erous of you ; but I hope you will be long 
 spared to me,"
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 "You can go back to town and be a profes- 
 sor again and write like you used to want " 
 
 "Ah, my dear," he interrupted, wincing; 
 "no, that's over and gone. I can't pick up 
 a profession. They wouldn't have me. I'm 
 a back number. The young men would 
 laugh at me. The world has been going on 
 while I have rusted by the wayside. Besides, 
 I like farming. I've done pretty well at it 
 with your money. ' ' 
 
 He took a light tone over it; nevertheless 
 she could see that she was touching the 
 quick. She flashed out: "You're a dozen 
 times better than those young upstarts; 
 you've sense, you've experience, you've " 
 
 "I haven't technique. I don't know the 
 new methods. Why, my dear, fancy your- 
 self back in a hospital. You were a good 
 nurse no one knows that better than I ; but 
 where would you be in a modern hospital 
 with the new antiseptic methods? It's the 
 same with me. Do you understand?" 
 
 She understood, whether she would con- 
 fess it or not ; and he perceived as much. 
 
 "Perhaps it is just as well," he went on 
 in his patient voice, dull like his eyes; "all
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 my fine dreams might have come to nothing, 
 and here I have at least made two blades of 
 grass grow where only one blade would 
 have grown. That's something. " 
 
 "Confess," she cried, suddenly raising 
 herself on one elbow and speaking shrilly, 
 while her eyes burned "confess, I've been 
 a clog on you. I made you leave your pro- 
 fession, I wouldn't let you go into politics ' ' 
 
 "Thereby no doubt saving my money and 
 my time, and probably my self-respect. 
 Don't reproach yourself for that, Elsie; 
 you've no need." 
 
 "I've estranged you from every old friend 
 you had " 
 
 'Now, Elsie, what is the use of going into 
 that again? I'm not accusing you. You'll 
 bring on an attack. There, there!" He 
 tried clumsily to soothe her, and she burst 
 into rasping laughter. 
 
 "Oh, how reasonable you are ! how cool and 
 calm and reasonable and forbearing! Ben!" 
 
 He jumped. "Yes? what's the matter?" 
 He looked bewildered. 
 
 "Ben, I know I've been a clog on you. I 
 know I've been jealous of yc ' and made 
 
 112
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 you ashamed and unhappy. Our life's been 
 a hell; do you know why? It's your fault! 
 Because you never loved me! If you had 
 loved me and I had been sure of it, once 
 sure of it, I'd have been able to control 
 myself. But you never did love me " 
 
 "Elsie," said her husband, with an effort 
 at sternness, "I married you " 
 
 "You married me because I asked you 
 oh, let me alone! I'm going to talk it out, 
 this once more. You were sick and weak, 
 and I'd saved your life, and you'd quarreled 
 with your girl, and you took me to comfort 
 you. And, at first, when I was young and 
 pretty and a slave at your feet, if you'd only 
 let other women alone, you had some kind of 
 feeling for me; but it wasn't love. Not 
 your soul's love, which I wanted. And I 
 knew it, and I raged against it; and the 
 more I gave way to the devil in me, the 
 stronger he grew. Ben, he's too strong for 
 me, now; he won't let me be kind and 
 patient to you the little time I've got left to 
 be with you. I want to be O God! I do 
 want to be ! I want to leave some memories 
 of me that will soften your heart to me ; but
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 I can't. It chokes me! I keep seeing you 
 with other women, young women, pretty, 
 laughing, happy, glad I'm out of the way! 
 You're glad, too! No, you shan't touch 
 me; you've killed me! The doctor said 
 excitement " 
 
 "Elsie, do be sensible," begged the man. 
 
 "I wish I hated jo\\\" 
 
 Ben only proffered a glass in which he had 
 poured a few drops from a vial, and said as 
 kindly as he could, that she must not excite 
 herself, it would be bad. 
 
 She struck the glass from his hand and 
 burst into screams and wild laughter. 
 Down-stairs two women exchanged glances. 
 
 "It's kinder awful," said Hulda; "do you 
 t'ink the pain is so dreadful?" 
 
 " 'Tain't pain," said Susan Pierce, "there 
 wasn't made the pain could get a screech 
 outer her. Now, she's stopped that's the 
 pain!" 
 
 She had stopped suddenly, as Ben at his 
 wits' end was about to leave the room and 
 summon Susan; she ceased her clamor and 
 gasped, "Oh, don't go, Ben. It's the pain 
 again! Please do something!"
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 He was quick to do something now. He 
 held her in his arms, he administered the 
 remedies with which all the household were 
 grown familiar; and in the midst of it her 
 marvelous patience, in so strange contrast 
 with the crazy abandon of a moment pre- 
 vious, extorted his admiration. It was easy 
 for him now to whisper tender words, for 
 there was a moment when her soul seemed 
 slipping away from him. His own was 
 chilled by the thought, Had he brought on 
 this attack? But it passed; she was able to 
 smile wanly up in his face, and to lay a 
 feeble hand on his cheek, murmuring: 
 ' ' Poor Ben ! I'm so sorry I was bad to you. ' ' 
 
 There had always been a charm about her 
 in her gentler moments; even now, faded 
 and ill as she was, it asserted its power over 
 him. Impulsively, after years of struggle, 
 in a single moment of pity he gave up the 
 contest. "Elsie," he said, "would you feel 
 better if if I promised you what you have 
 asked me?" 
 
 A light of rapture transfigured her face 
 until it was young again. "Oh, Ben!" she 
 breathed, faintly.
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 That was all; but it was enough. He 
 kissed her. "I promise you, Elsie, "said he. 
 
 Susan Pierce sat with the invalid that 
 afternoon. Susan hemmed a blue apron. 
 Her lips were compressed. 
 
 "How did Mr. Rogers like his peas?" was 
 Mrs. Rogers's first question. 
 
 "He didn't tech 'em," replied Susan, 
 crustily, "nor the ice-cream, neither. He 
 said he guessed the heat made him sick, and 
 he only drunk a cup of coffee forgot the 
 cream to that, too." She watched the cloud 
 gather over Mrs. Rogers's face with a certain 
 pity. "Can't help it," she thought, "that 
 man's been made to do something he didn't 
 want to, and I guess I know what ; and he 
 ain't got nobody to help him but me. " Her 
 sharp eyes had taken in the whole room, 
 not missing a charred document in the grate. 
 Elsie's glance ran after hers. "That's my 
 will," she said, using the reckless frankness 
 that was part of her untamed nature; "it 
 wasn't just to Mr. Rogers's liking, so I 
 burned it, this morning." 
 
 116
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 Susan thought a nod quite enough for the 
 demands of respectful sympathy. 
 
 Elsie lay back on her lounge, too weak to 
 work. She idly watched the sunlight flicker- 
 ing through the maples in front of the 
 Morrill yard and the flutter of the pink 
 dimity skirts on the lawn. Sadie was play- 
 ing croquet with a student who lived in 
 town, hence had not flown with the rest, after 
 commencement. Her laughter rippled above 
 his deeper notes. He laughed a good deal. 
 
 Elsie watched them ; and a wave of bitter- 
 ness rose again in her soul. The promise 
 which had so comforted her had made him 
 wretched. He regretted that unfeeling girl. 
 She turned to Susan, who sewed on with as 
 little emotion as an Indian. 
 
 "Susan," said she, "did you ever know 
 any men who promised their wives not to 
 marry again?" 
 
 "Yes'm," said Susan. 
 
 "And did they keep their word?" 
 
 "Not them I knowed," said Susan, after 
 
 a conscientious interval of meditation; 
 
 "well, I only knowed three, but a neighbor 
 
 of mine knowed two she used to tell me 
 
 "7
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 'bout. They all married within the year. 
 I dunno what excuses they give to their 
 consciences, 'cept old Captain White; he 
 told me, himself, he promised his wife 'cause 
 she was awful sick, and says he, 'I told her 
 that jest like I'd have told her any other 
 lie, to make her easy!' I guess it's nature's 
 to blame more'n the men." 
 
 Elsie made no comment. She asked no 
 more questions; but she remembered the 
 old man that she knew in her childhood, 
 whose wife had extorted such a promise. 
 He had been faithful to his word ; but she 
 thought of him with no lightening of the 
 weight on her heart ; for it was common talk 
 that his wife's unmarked, neglected grave 
 was the outward sign of his resentment. 
 In truth, it was rumored that he had said, 
 once, that he hated his wife. Would Ben 
 come to hate her as well as those invisible 
 fetters which she had bound on him?" 
 
 "Susan," said Elsie, "you go to town on 
 the street cars and have Judge Black come 
 back with you. ' ' 
 
 "Right now?" said Susan. 
 
 "Fast's you can." 
 
 118
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 There was nothing left for Susan but to 
 go, querying within herself whether she had 
 not hurt rather than helped Ben Rogers's 
 cause. 
 
 Elsie lay back on the lounge. She 
 suffered, but the forces in her being were 
 too low for any paroxysm. "I guess I'm 
 beaten," she said, drearily. "Oh, if God 
 would only let me stop loving Ben and die 
 in peace!" 
 
 The laughter of the young people opposite 
 came in more clearly. She hated their 
 youth, their gayety, their rampant health. 
 "I've got to die and leave him to that 
 girl!" she thought; "he wont keep his word 
 and the will's burned!" 
 
 She saw Hester Morrill come to the window 
 and drop the shade. A moment after Sadie 
 and the young man came on to the porch. 
 He was persuading her to go somewhere 
 with him, to some merrymaking. 
 
 "I don't know what Aunt Hetty will 
 say," said she; and he answered: "Oh, 
 the old lady is all right ! ' ' 
 
 "The old lady!" Why yes, Hester was not 
 young, in spite of her trim figure and her 
 119
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 careful curls. She wondered if Hester had 
 overheard. Then, she saw the fingers of a 
 hand pull the curtain a little further, from 
 within ; and she knew that Hester had over- 
 heard. The young people were sitting in 
 the hammock, eating candy out of the pink 
 box. "I'm going in to ask Auntie to make 
 some lemonade for us," exclaimed the girl. 
 She went in and came back ; and after a little 
 while Miss Hester appeared and left them a 
 salver with a generous jug of lemonade. 
 
 They sat on the piazza for more than an 
 hour; and Elsie could see the aunt weeding 
 in the garden. A strange feeling took pos- 
 session of her. She sided with the elderly 
 woman who had lost everything, against this 
 brutal and greedy youth. 
 
 For an hour or more she lay, thinking 
 deeply but quietly. Then the lawyer came. 
 
 Rogers heard of the lawyer's presence 
 when he came. He was not frank like his 
 wife ; he merely sank his gaze to the ground 
 and his lips twitched. Susan Pierce con- 
 tinued: "She passed a pretty good, quiet 
 afternoon, I guess. ' Bout five she sent for 
 me and had me take the biggest bronze
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 turkey over to Miss Merrill's with her com- 
 pliments." 
 
 Ben started violently. "Did did Miss 
 Morrill accept it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; and she sent word could she 
 come to see Mrs. Rogers, and Mrs. Rogers 
 she sent word she'd be glad to see her." 
 
 Ben slowly let the breath that he had 
 drawn into his lungs leave him, in a deep 
 sigh. "Thank you, Susan," said he, and 
 turned away. 
 
 He found his wife quiet and gentle; but 
 plainly was not disposed to talk; nor did 
 he disturb her. 
 
 In the morning Hester came. "And she 
 came jest as ca'm and easy as if she'd been 
 coming right along all these fifteen years. 
 But I'd give a good deal," said Susan, "to 
 hear what's going on behind that door, this 
 minute!" 
 
 However, she could not hear; Hester 
 Morrill never told any living creature. She 
 sat down by the lounge wheeled to its old 
 place. Elsie noticed that she wore a black 
 gown and her hair was drawn smoothly back 
 from her forehead.
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 "Did you think it was. queer I sent for 
 you?" said Elsie. 
 
 "I don't think it was really queer," said 
 Hester. ' ' I was glad to come. ' ' 
 
 "I sent for you, ' ' Elsie continued in a low 
 voice, "because I'm beaten. You know I've 
 hated you ' ' 
 
 "Yes," said Hester; "but I know you 
 don't hate me now." 
 
 "No. There's only one person I hate 
 now. It isn't you. You are sorry for me." 
 
 "I am from my heart." 
 
 "Yet you loved Ben, and you know I've 
 made him miserable. He has had no career, 
 and but for me he might have been almost 
 anything. He has had no friends, no 
 ambition; I've ruined his life; you can't 
 deny it. ' ' 
 
 "You never meant to hurt him," said 
 Hester. 
 
 "No, you're right, I never did. One way 
 no woman could have worked harder for him. 
 But he said to me once, that a man wanted 
 something more than money in the bank and 
 a comfortable home and a good dinner. I 
 didn't give it to him. I don't believe there
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 was ever anybody so unhappy in this world 
 as I've been. But the Bible's right, jealousy 
 is crueler than the grave. No matter what 
 I'd resolve, the moment I saw him caring 
 for anything but me, I Jiad to tear it away 
 from him. Now, I am going to die, and I 
 want to tear it away from him worse than 
 ever. Hester Morrill, did he really love 
 you?" 
 
 ' ' I thought he did, ' ' said Hester. She did 
 not flush, she who had guarded her secret 
 for twenty years; it seemed to her that 
 the absolute truthfulness of this doomed 
 woman compelled an absolute truthfulness 
 from her. 
 
 "I never thought he loved me," said 
 Elsie. "Oh, I was young and pretty, and 
 you know what men are ; he had a feeling 
 for me for a little while. But when that 
 died out there was nothing left. He was 
 sorry for me and he was afraid of me. 
 That's all. And I loved him so I was will- 
 ing to take loving words and caresses that 
 I'd begged tor. Hester, do you think, you that 
 lost him but kept his his respect, do you 
 think you suffered like me that won him?" 
 123
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 "No," said Hester. There were tears in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "And now, I've got to die, and he won't 
 have me to care for him. Hester, he isn't 
 a man to take care of himself. He needs 
 somebody. He'll lose money; he'll miss his 
 comforts that he makes so light of because 
 they have been as steady as the sun. Yet, 
 knowing that, I've made him promise not to 
 marry again. I've thought it out; I've 
 thought of killing him " 
 
 She hesitated and peered keenly at Hester. 
 
 "You poor soul," said Hester, "what good 
 would that do? You can't kill his soul; and 
 you'll have to meet him, you with that 
 awful sin on you " 
 
 "I'd be more afraid to meet him than I 
 would to meet God," cried Elsie. 
 
 "I suppose so. You oughtn't to be; 
 but you're a woman. I should be in your 
 place." 
 
 "And I've thought of killing her." 
 
 A flush that burned for a moment on 
 
 Hester's pale cheek and then ebbed away, 
 
 told that she did not need a name. "What 
 
 would be the good to stain your soul by 
 
 124
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 making him care for her the more if he 
 does care for her. ' ' 
 
 "Then, Hester, what am I going to do?" 
 
 Hester bent her head; and Elsie, with a 
 certain awe, was aware that she was praying. 
 When she lifted her face it was no longer 
 sad; but on it glowed a lofty flame which 
 poor Elsie could not understand, but which 
 instinctively she reverenced. She groped 
 for Hester's hand and held it. "My dear," 
 said Hester, "do you love Ben well enough 
 to want him to be happy, even if you are 
 not the one to give him happiness?" 
 
 Elsie shook her head. "No, I can't. I 
 want to make him happy myself." 
 
 ' ' But you want him to remember you with 
 kindness, with regret. Nobody can watch 
 over him the way you have. Why, I " the 
 flush came back a second "I have been 
 grateful to you when he was sick, seeing 
 how you cared for him. Do you suppose he 
 won't miss that care? Don't poison the 
 sorrow he will feel by trying to chain him 
 to your grave ! Be good to him, be gener- 
 ous, win his gratitude and his respect " . 
 
 "Do you know," interrupted Elsie, "that 
 125
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 you are pleading against yourself for Sadie 
 Morrill?" 
 
 "I am pleading for his future, for freedom 
 to choose, which is more to any manly man 
 than anything else. How do you know she 
 will not make him happy? How do you 
 know he will choose her? Let him be free. " 
 
 "And give him the money, too?" 
 
 "He's worked for it as well as you." 
 
 Elsie's face remained hard. 
 
 "And could you endure to leave him, 
 knowing he would be poor and have to 
 begin life over at fifty, and maybe lack the 
 luxuries you have made necessary to him, 
 have to pinch and slave " 
 
 "Stop!" Elsie cried; "you know I can't. 
 You know I am beaten." 
 
 "No," said Hester; "it is you that have 
 conquered." 
 
 Elsie smiled grimly. She lay silent; all 
 at once her face changed. "Send for Ben," 
 she whispered. 
 
 But when Ben came she was too ill to 
 speak to him. There was hurrying outside 
 where the colt was being led into the shafts 
 of the lightest buggy to go for the doctor. 
 
 126
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 Within Susan and Hulda stepped softly, and 
 Ben turned to Hester with no thought of the 
 strangeness of her presence. "She's so 
 patient," he said; "she always was." 
 
 Elsie opened her eyes. "I made plenty 
 of fuss, Ben," she gasped, "but not about 
 pain." There was a different quality in her 
 voice; it was hoarse and dry and small, as 
 if it came from a distance. Her features 
 had sharpened. Susan Pierce, who was in 
 the room, turned away and threw her apron 
 over her face. 
 
 "Why, if that isn't Susan, and she's cry- 
 ing," said Elsie. "Is that it? I guess it 
 must be, for I don't seem to mind any more, 
 Hester. Ben, I give you back your promise. 
 And the will send after it quick ; I want to 
 destroy it. Send after it quick!" 
 
 But after these few words she lapsed into 
 a lethargy from which the doctor could not 
 rouse her. 
 
 The moments of her life dwindled. 
 The doctor, with professional calm, sat in 
 the shadow, narrowly watching the patient, 
 yet his thoughts involuntarily straying to 
 the chance of his election to the vacant 
 127
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 chair in the medical department. Susan 
 and Hulda watched quietly in the hall. 
 Hester sat on one side of the bed, and Ben 
 on the other; and to neither did it seem 
 strange that they should be keeping this 
 darkling watch together. Ben supported his 
 wife against his breast and fanned her. 
 What visions of his wrecked married life, of 
 the poisoned happiness, the worse than 
 useless devotion, the strife and the heart- 
 break, were drifting in formless pictures 
 before his hot eyes, who shall tell ! At times, 
 his lip quivered, and he kissed her hand. 
 
 There was the noise of horse's hoofs and 
 the rattle of wheels in the yard. 
 
 Elsie opened her eyes. "Susan," said 
 she, "don't cry. I didn't think you minded." 
 Her voice was fainter ; she paused between 
 the words. "I was so busy with Ben I 
 didn't think I missed other things. ' ' She 
 leaned her head closer to her husband. 
 
 "Is that the lawyer? Destroy the will. 
 Hester, you're right. If you bend 
 closer, Ben, I want to whisper " She whis- 
 pered it in his ears. "If you want to 
 marry Sadie " 
 
 128
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 "That little fool!" cried Ben, "-never! 
 Oh, darling, don't think of her!" 
 
 Dying as she was, Elsie smiled. "Oh, I'm 
 so happy!" she sighed. She never spoke 
 again. The lawyer, who was already on the 
 threshold, advanced, saying: "You wish me 
 to destroy the will, Mrs. Rogers?" but she 
 only smiled and stirred her head a little on 
 her husband's breast, like a child nestling 
 its head for an easier sleep. "Don't disturb 
 her," said Ben, sternly. 
 
 "I think, if there is anything of impor- 
 tance," began the doctor, after a single 
 glance, "now " 
 
 "No" said Ben. He bent to whisper in 
 her ear ; his tears dropped on her face. 
 
 She smiled again, with a little soft, 
 shivering sigh, and was still. 
 
 The clock ticked in the hall. The lawyer 
 stood in the doorway, the yellow envelope in 
 his hand; and out under the eaves a thrush 
 was pouring a wealth of joyous melody from 
 his tiny throat. The doctor stepped gently 
 to the side of the husband and wife. His 
 eyes met Hester's. She rose and motioned 
 to the others to leave the room. 
 129
 
 A JEALOUS WOMAN 
 
 "I'm sorry to intrude on you, Mr. Rogers," 
 said the lawyer it was half an hour later 
 and they were sitting in the little parlor 
 below "but there are Mrs. Rogers 's instruc- 
 tions regarding the will. It is a question " 
 
 "There is no question. Let my wife's 
 will stand." 
 
 "Perhaps you would like to know the pro- 
 visions. I fancy they will not be objection- 
 able to you. After a few small legacies to 
 servants, she leaves you her entire estate on 
 condition that you do not marry any one 
 other than Miss Hester Morrill, who appears 
 to be a valued friend." 
 
 Ben did not answer; but at that moment 
 Elsie need not have feared to read his heart 
 
 130
 
 A Problem in Honor 
 
 THE doctor's boy caught Miss Con way's 
 surrey in the West End and handed 
 Mrs. Reynolds' note to her. Miss 
 Con way read it. There were only a few 
 lines hastily scratched with a lead pencil on a 
 card and pushed into an envelope. They ran : 
 
 "Dear Peggy: My brother feels worse and is very 
 anxious to see you ; I am afraid the end is near, but 
 perhaps not it is so hard to tell. 
 
 "ANN." 
 
 ' 'Tell Mrs. Reynolds I will be there at once, 
 as fast as we can drive, ' ' said Miss Conway ; 
 and the doctor's boy sped away on his wheel. 
 "To Mr. Wain wright's, " she added to the 
 coachman, who touched the horse lightly 
 with the whip. 
 
 The coachman was a handsome young 
 Irishman, smartly although soberly dressed 
 in a plum-colored livery exactly matching 
 the lining and body of the carriage. He
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 wore no glaring pomp of white doeskin and 
 top boots, but his coat fitted perfectly and 
 his shoes and his linen were speckless. 
 
 The lady who sat in the carriage might be 
 thirty-five or she might be forty- five. She 
 was undeniably handsome; indeed, for her 
 graceful and gentle charm, beautiful might 
 seem a truer as well as a kinder word. She 
 kept the girlish slenderness of her figure; 
 her smooth, pale olive skin only showed her 
 years in a few faint lines at the corners of 
 her dark eyes and in her low forehead. Her 
 hair was a very lovely gray. She was a 
 great lady in the little city, and several 
 ragged boys and girls came out from the 
 bakery and gazed upon her admiringly. 
 Two boys joined them presently; and the 
 boys grinned. They had no admiration in 
 their grin; but rather what one critic of 
 human nature is pleased to call the savage 
 emotion of humor. 
 
 The West End of Fairport is not a fashion- 
 able quarter. The shops are small and there 
 is an undue proportion of saloons. One of 
 these was opposite the carriage. It was of 
 brick with a wooden fagade, which was 
 132
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 painted a vivid crimson. In the doorway 
 appeared a white-aproned barkeeper with 
 elaborately smoothed hair scalloped over his 
 forehead, and a shabby man in wrinkled 
 clothes. These, also, were grinning. They 
 stepped to one side and the red door framed 
 several more faces all a-grin. 
 
 The surrey remained in the same spot. 
 That was the cause of the universal hilar- 
 ity on the street. Doolan, the coachman, 
 struck the horse again, this time sharply, 
 although he knew that Miss Conway hated 
 him to raise the whip. 
 
 The horse slightly heaved his flanks. It 
 was a motion in a horse that might be 
 compared to a shrug of the shoulders in a 
 man. But he did not stir. He was a 
 powerful bay, having a glossy skin and a 
 restless eye. Miss Conway had bought him 
 (at a great bargain) the week before. 
 Doolan had engineered the trade. Up to 
 this hour he had been proud of his horse ; 
 but now he was assailed by a darksome fear. 
 He tried new tactics. He made an encour- 
 aging chirrup with his lips, and said ' ' Sam ! ' ' 
 encouragingly. But Sam merely braced his 
 133
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 forelegs and rolled his eyes back on his 
 blinders with their shining silver C, and 
 took a fresh hold on his bit. 
 
 "Horse balky?" inquired the barkeeper, 
 cheerful and interested. 
 
 "He's a bit narvous and high-spirited," 
 answered Doolan, stiff and dignified. 
 
 "You must make him go, Doolan," cried 
 Miss Con way, "even if you have to whip 
 him!" 
 
 Doolan 's blow had good will in it; but 
 Sam only sagged his head. Doolan struck 
 again and harder. With an indescribable 
 expression of patient martyrdom Sam took 
 the blow and did not move. 
 
 " He is balky, " muttered Doolan. 
 
 "I had a balky horse, once, " the barkeeper 
 observed, the crowd by this time being 
 enlarged by four more men, and two women 
 in plain, scant, short skirts, basques of an 
 antique cut and checked aprons. The latter 
 housewives came from their domestic tasks 
 in the rear of the shops and wore no bonnets. 
 They looked sympathetically at the lady in 
 the surrey and said "Ach Himmel!" and 
 repressed the merriment of the boys. 
 134
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "Vat did you done to your balky hoss?" 
 one of the women said to the barkeeper. 
 The crowd hung on his answer; Miss Con- 
 way leaned a little forward. 
 
 "I sold him, " said the barkeeper, with the 
 effect of making a joke. 
 
 "You git out!" reproved the wrinkled 
 man, "you don't know nothing 'bout bosses. 
 Young feller, you jump down and lead the 
 critter a bit; and he'll go all right." 
 
 Doolan cast an oblique glance of scorn at 
 the adviser and did not move. 
 
 Neither did Sam. 
 
 "Lady," continued the wrinkled man, 
 "you tell that smart Alick to git out and 
 lead the hoss ' ' 
 
 "With his head blinded!" 
 
 "No, jest his head kept so he can't move!" 
 
 "Build a fire under the wagon, he'll be 
 glad enough to go then!" 
 
 "Say, Missis! lemme try my nigger chaser 
 on him; I'll git him running!" 
 
 These different suggestions were fired 
 from the crowd in almost simultaneous fusil- 
 lade. Miss Conway looked anxiously at the 
 horse; she said something to Doolan, who 
 135
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 handed her the reins and got down scowling, 
 ironically cheered by the boys. But although 
 he went to the horse's head and told Sam, 
 "Good Sam, good old boy -you dom divil!" 
 to move on, there was no persuading Sam. 
 Then the coachman set his teeth, sprang back 
 into his seat and caught up the whip. Only 
 one blow reached the horse before Miss 
 Conway touched his arm. 
 
 "Don't do that," she said, quite calmly, 
 "I've seen balky horses before; look at his 
 ears! The next blow you strike him, he'll 
 kick the dashboard to splinters!" 
 
 "You're right, lady, he will that," cried 
 the barkeeper. "I'd a buggy smashed by a 
 hoss looked like that one's twin brother. I 
 built a fire under that hoss one day and he 
 moved jest far 'nuff to set the wagon afire. 
 7 say unhitch him and maybe that'll fool 
 him." 
 
 "I saw a dandy thing in a newspaper, dead 
 sure for balky hosses, ' ' a man in the crowd 
 offered; "it had reformed more balky horses 
 than any remedy they'd tried in that town 
 for a year." (The crowd showed signs of 
 interest ; Miss Conway looked at the speaker.) 
 136
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "I wisht to goodness I could remember it! 
 Queer I can't. It was a real simple thing." 
 
 Miss Con way was desperate. "I must 
 get on," she said, almost imploringly to the 
 crowd, "I'm just summoned to a a dying 
 friend. Doolan, I'm going to get out myself 
 and try. ' ' 
 
 "Maybe so you vas to gif him some nice 
 grass," one of the women suggested. "I 
 go git you some. You valk ahead und he 
 coom after till he git by dis blace und den 
 he go all right. You see!" 
 
 But the gentle homeopathic remedy of grass 
 tendered by his mistress in person, proved as 
 useless as Doolan 's heroic medicines of whip 
 and voice. Sam hung his head. He looked 
 as if he wanted if such a thing may be said 
 of a horse to burst into tears ; but he did 
 not take a step toward the tempter. Miss 
 Conway threw the grass to the ground, and 
 looked at the horse. 
 
 "I'll give yous five dollars for him, lady, 
 just as he stands; he ain't worth a cent 
 more ! ' ' shouted a heartless boy. But the bar- 
 keeper took him violently by the ear and 
 asked him, "Didn't you hear the lady say why 
 137
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 she was in a hurry, you little ?" At which 
 between pain and fright the boy began to 
 whimper and Miss Conway instantly ap- 
 pealed for mercy. So the lad was released. 
 Meanwhile Sam craned his neck forward, 
 and being unhampered by any bearing rein, 
 which Miss Conway (who had distributed at 
 her own charges no less than fifty copies of 
 Black Beauty among the different stables 
 private and public in the town) considered 
 to be wickedly cruel, he was able to nibble 
 the bulk of the bribe that he had disdained, 
 without moving a leg. Then, refreshed, he 
 turned his pensive, mild eyes on Miss Con- 
 way. She was standing in the dust, the 
 pretty yellow chrysanthemums of her filmy 
 gown shifting about her in the wind, un- 
 comfortably warm with her exertions, her 
 dainty white hat blown to one side, and the 
 white Chuddah shawl that she carried, flutter- 
 ing from her arm. 
 
 Sam apparently thought well of her looks, 
 for he rubbed his head against her shoulder 
 with a little contented or was it com- 
 placent? whinney. Miss Con way's eyes 
 flashed. With a sudden movement she 
 138
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 wound the shawl about the beast's head and 
 bent over the place where his ear was wrig- 
 gling, holding the head steady with both 
 hands. "If you don't go I'll sell you to- 
 morrow!" she called in his ear, and tugged 
 at the bit. 
 
 Now, whether the unusual attack discon- 
 certed the firm soul of Sam so that, in an 
 amaze and vacillation of mind such as is 
 known to undermine the strongest spirits 
 when assailed unaware, he weakened in his 
 intent, or whether he simply had stood as 
 long as he wished and was now ready to go 
 on again, it is certain that Sam allowed him- 
 self to be led a block ; and that at the end of 
 his walk, Miss Conway having removed the 
 shawl and stepped into the surrey, he 
 instantly trotted off briskly and virtuously, 
 his head in the air and his eyes forward. 
 
 Miss Conway drew a long sigh. "What a 
 horse, Doolan!" she exclaimed, "but we 
 didn't lose much time, did we?" 
 
 "He's a fright!" said Doolan, "but no, 
 Miss, not twinty minutes." 
 
 They had, however, lost twenty-five 
 minutes; and twenty-five minutes to an 
 139
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 irritable hypochondriac who, after fancy- 
 ing himself dying for twenty years, is dying 
 in grim earnest at last, is a weary long 
 time. 
 
 Wainwright had received the message sent 
 by the doctor's boy, who unluckily liked 
 to "scorch" and seized upon this admirable 
 excuse to whirl back to the Wainwright 
 house at a breakneck speed. Wainwright 
 lived in an old-fashioned square brick house 
 with a wooden cupola, and a narrow piazza 
 supported by slender pillars running on three 
 sides of the house. The house, which had been 
 built when the town was new by one of the 
 pioneers and later bought by Wainwright, 
 stood in the center of a lawn covering half 
 the block. Wainwright's own chamber 
 looked out on the street and his bed faced 
 the window. Therefore he saw the boy roll- 
 ing down the gravel, hunched over his 
 handlebar and chewing gum as he rode. A 
 dull resentment seized him. 
 
 "Tell that little devil to come up here, 
 into this room," said Wainwright. 
 
 He spoke sharply, although a minute be- 
 fore he had whispered his wishes. 
 140
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 The boy was heard shuffling through the 
 hall, clattering up-stairs. 
 
 He was shown into the room by the nurse, 
 a professional nurse brought from the hos- 
 pital, who viewed him so coldly that he grew 
 embarrassed. He stared about the room, 
 comfortably but tastelessly furnished in the 
 florid and heavy fashion of the black-walnut 
 age. At last his eyes drifted to the great 
 black bed, the carved top of which nodded 
 its clumsy arabesques and rosebuds within a 
 scant foot of the ceiling ; and thence sank to 
 the gray face on the pillows. He was star- 
 ing at it when the eyes unclosed. 
 
 "Miss Gass, will you fetch me my purse," 
 the boy watched the thin lips part and 
 speak painfully ; he looked awed. 
 
 "Take a five-dollar bill out of it." The 
 boy had some difficulty in breathing natu- 
 rally. 
 
 "Did you find Miss Con way?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." The boy spoke in a small, 
 scared voice. 
 
 "Did you tell her give her the note?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. She said she'd come right 
 away. She was in a carriage, out riding. ' ' 
 141
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "I thought," said Mr. Wainwright, speak- 
 ing more distinctly, and keeping his eyes, 
 which were large in contrast with his hollow 
 cheeks, fixed on the shrinking lad, "I 
 thought I'd like to give this to the messen- 
 ger if he did his duty." He paused and 
 beckoned for the glass on the table, but he 
 only pretended to drink, watching the boy 
 over the rim. The boy looked a shade less 
 solemn. 
 
 "Yes," said Wainwright, "I thought I'd 
 give you this bill," he rubbed his finger 
 and thumb over it and held it up the 
 better for the boy to see, "but when I saw 
 you coming up the road to a dying man's 
 house, chewing gum and not caring a rap 
 for him or anything else but yourself, I con- 
 cluded I'd give it to a little kinder-hearted 
 person. That's all. You may go. Miss 
 Gass, put the bill away." 
 
 The boy gasped, but he moved away with- 
 out retort. 
 
 Wainwright leaned back on his pillow and 
 smiled. He was deadly faint with the 
 exertion, but he mustered strength to open 
 his eyes and watch the boy wheel away out
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 of the yard. At the gate he dismounted. 
 Perhaps it was for the outlet of some boyish 
 insult of gesture which he knew the sick man 
 could see, for he turned and looked up at 
 the window: but he must have had a streak 
 of rough chivalry about him; he looked, 
 lifted his cap and flung himself lightly on his 
 wheel. 
 
 "A pretty disappointed boy, /guess," said 
 Wainwright. 
 
 The nurse made no comment; but she 
 looked at the handsome, haggard face on the 
 pillow and thought her own thoughts. To 
 judge from the curl on her lip they were not 
 approving. 
 
 Little Wainwright would have cared had 
 he read her criticisms. He was busy think- 
 ing of his money. He had thought of his 
 money for thirty-five years. He had scraped 
 it together, dollar by dollar at first, then by 
 the tens and the hundreds, later by the 
 hundreds and thousands. When he was a 
 boy he had vowed to make a fortune. Well, 
 he had made it. Half a million was a big 
 lump of money for a country town ! He had 
 said he would do it and he had done it. He 
 143
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 had done most of the things that he said he 
 would do. Except yes, he hadn't married 
 Margaret Conway. Did he really want 
 the woman, or had he only kept up the 
 chase all these years simply because she 
 was the only thing that he had determined 
 to have and had not secured? But he 
 might, even yet why didn't the woman 
 
 come, d her? He lost his thought, 
 
 so great was his weakness, but his will 
 whipped his brain back to it, his last scheme. 
 There was Ann: how many times had he 
 felt a dull hatred of Ann, whom Peggy loved 
 so ridiculously while she would not love him ! 
 Now he would win her through her love for 
 Ann. Not one penny should Ann have 
 unless Peggy yielded. But then he would 
 think it out what was he asking so much 
 of Peggy? To give her his name, a good 
 name, good as hers if she didn't think so, 
 to make her a dignified married woman in- 
 stead of an old maid. And the money, too! 
 And she would be his widow in a few days 
 probably. How could any sane old maid 
 object? 
 
 But why didn't she come? He grew 
 144
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 feverish, his nurse wrote in her little book 
 and watched him furtively. He in his turn 
 felt the instinct of concealment that comes 
 to the sick so often, and pretended to sleep. 
 But all the while he grew more and more 
 impatient with Margaret Conway, all the 
 while his flagging wit struggled to plan. 
 But for that jibing horse he might have 
 been more merciful. So well as he knew 
 how to love he had loved Margaret ; and but 
 for the irritating delay his heart might have 
 gone back to softer and kinder memories; 
 and he might such thoughts had come to 
 him he might have yearned to have her 
 gratitude, her kindly memories of him : as it 
 was, his imperious hatred of defeat was 
 chafed to the raw by disappointment and 
 irritating fancies of her carelessness and 
 indifference to his state. 
 
 When the nurse finally announced, "She's 
 come, Mr. Wainwright, she came up the 
 side street, ' ' he was in his worst mood. 
 
 "You send over for Mrs. Reynolds; I want 
 her, too," he said. 
 
 ' ' Mrs. Reynolds is down-stairs. ' ' 
 
 "Then have her come up, too; I want 
 145
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 them both together. You go down yourself ; 
 it won't take a minute. Oh, I'm better; I 
 shan't die while you're out of the room. 
 Give me my box and my key and you go 
 down." 
 
 Unwillingly the nurse went. 
 
 Ann Reynolds was Wainwright's half 
 sister. Wainwright was eighteen years 
 older than Ann. Their father was one of 
 the pioneers of the town who came to the 
 Mississippi just as the Indians were sullenly 
 retreating from their hunting grounds. He 
 built the first flour mill in the town and the 
 first church. He came from Massachusetts, 
 a true Puritan, grim, pious, rugged, indom- 
 itably industrious, careful almost to niggard- 
 liness in the daily conduct of his business, 
 but capable of spending lavishly on occasion. 
 Thus, during the later years of his life he 
 built him a mansion on the principal street 
 of the town, of a size and pomp (for those 
 simple days) so striking that the gossips 
 named it Wainwright's Folly. The great 
 panic of '57 struck the town before the ham- 
 mers were out of the house, and came near 
 to justifying the nickname. 
 146
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 Perhaps, had he lived, Judge Wainwright 
 (he was judge, mayor, state senator, banker 
 and a colonel in the militia, playing many 
 parts on his small stage) would have steered 
 his fortune safely through the storm, but he 
 died at the most critical moment and his 
 son's credit was not that of his father; hence 
 there was an enormous shrinkage in the 
 property left behind. The rich man of the 
 town left only an inconsiderable estate when 
 all claims were paid. By a will made when 
 he believed himself to be rich, he left all his 
 estate for life to his widow, his second wife. 
 After her death it was to be divided equally 
 among the children. She was also charged 
 with the payment of some legacies to the 
 church and certain charities, further impair- 
 ing the estate. 
 
 The first Mrs. Wainwright had been a 
 woman of strong although curiously warped 
 mind, in whose family, dimming its pride 
 and public honor, was a black tradition of 
 insanity. Born a gentlewoman and reared 
 in luxury, there was no more insatiable 
 worker, no keener saver in the pioneer com- 
 munity than she. She was a far famed 
 147
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 house-wife, a nurse who traveled miles to 
 lend her medical skill, and with it all she 
 found time to read and to educate her chil- 
 dren. But she had lapses of strange melan- 
 choly, during which she performed duties 
 like one in a dream, faithfully but without 
 zest. 
 
 Her husband respected her, admired her, 
 and possibly, strong man though he was, a 
 little feared her. Her children had the same 
 mixture of feelings, with a predominance of 
 the fear. 
 
 The second Mrs. Wainwright was a very 
 pretty, delicate, obedient woman who played 
 classical music and did not know how to cook. 
 Her husband loved her devotedly, and often 
 at the old settlers' gatherings at the county 
 fair, the old story would be repeated how 
 Judge Wainwright drove across the Missis- 
 sippi on floating ice to get a cook for his 
 wife, by this peril leaving two other pursuers 
 of the gifted cook a night behind, since the 
 river was frozen by morning, and they also 
 crossed but meanwhile the cook had been 
 taken to Mrs. Wainwright. 
 
 There were six children Peter and his sis- 
 148
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 ter Dorcas, who was married and lived in the 
 town, children of the first Mrs. Wainwright ; 
 Ann, and three little brothers, the second 
 Mrs. Wainwright 's children. Peter felt sore 
 and angry over the will. He was just begin- 
 ning business, and he had a heavy load to 
 carry. Nevertheless, he bought the house 
 of the estate on easy payments, and he 
 managed the money judiciously. He was 
 the real head of the household for the next 
 ten years. It must be confessed that he was 
 rather a hard one, not hesitating to give the 
 boys a sound hiding if they disobeyed him, 
 and boxing Ann's ears if she interferred. 
 But he did save the roof over their heads. 
 He nourished the estate, he pared their 
 living expenses to the bone, he worked 
 early and late, and when Mrs. Wainwright, 
 rather glad to go, slipped out of the world 
 into the family lot, where she would not be 
 reprimanded for having the piano tuned, or 
 be obliged to turn little clothes, double the 
 original property was distributed among the 
 four heirs. Only four it was now, for two 
 of the boys had died. The third boy died 
 the year following, and then Ann married 
 149
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 Jacob Reynolds, a widower with four chil- 
 dren. She married him, making no profes- 
 sions of an affection beyond decent regard. 
 Two of his children were married, prosperous 
 young men out of town one in the far 
 West, the other in Chicago. At home was 
 a boy, an invalid from his babyhood, and the 
 eldest daughter, who was reputed to have a 
 will of her own. 
 
 Jacob Reynolds was a good fellow, quiet 
 and kind and of moderate success as a mer- 
 chant. He was not a brilliant match; but 
 Ann was a plain, quiet girl who had inherited 
 her father's harsh features as well as her 
 mother's beautiful complexion. She inclined 
 to stoutness in figure, starve and exercise as 
 she might. It was not to be expected that such 
 a girl would be able to marry at all. Most 
 people considered Ann to be doing a wise 
 thing. They would have been surprised to 
 know that Ann had moments of suffering 
 and absolute terror at the thought of what 
 she had promised; or that she had promised 
 more because of her pity for the crippled 
 child and her weariness of her own hard and 
 narrow life than anything else. Peter was 
 150
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 not especially moved by the deaths of the 
 little boys; he grew impatient at Ann's 
 "everlasting moping" ; and he was angry to 
 the point of rage when she announced her 
 betrothal. Already the foundations were 
 laid for his fortune. He didn't wish to 
 marry at present ; he did wish an orderly, 
 comfortable, frugally luxurious home, where 
 special dishes could be prepared for him 
 alone, and gas never burned in an empty 
 room, and there were no servants (except 
 the weekly washerwoman) to scatter prodi- 
 gally. 
 
 However, Ann, who had moments of 
 obstinacy (didn't she insist on giving the 
 washerwoman meat at both meals and 
 absolutely refuse to portion out the soap?) 
 had a moment, now. She even took her 
 miserable little fifteen thousand out of his 
 hands and let Reynolds have it in the 
 business. It served her right, Peter thought, 
 that two years later, when Reynolds died 
 suddenly (he was drowned at a picnic try- 
 ing to save a child that fell overboard from 
 an excursion steamboat), the business should 
 be in bad shape and eventually some of the 
 151
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 money should be lost. Mrs. Reynolds had 
 enough left, however, to be able to keep her 
 house and to live without asking help of her 
 brother. 
 
 The invalid boy died, but the girl with a 
 will of her own lived on, and no man 
 ventured to seek her. In fact, there was a 
 rumor that Patience (her unfortunately mis- 
 placed name), when excited, "threw things." 
 One of the maids said that she could live for- 
 ever with Mrs. Reynolds ; but that there was 
 no pleasing Miss Patty and she was " 'fraid 
 for her life with her. ' ' 
 
 But for "the terrible Patience," as Miss 
 Conway called Patty in secret, the two 
 friends would have lived together. They 
 had been friends ever since Miss Conway 
 came with her father to the town more than 
 twenty years ago. Why a brilliant, hand- 
 some, rich young girl like Margaret Conway 
 should be so attracted by a plain young 
 matron who had so few charms of face and 
 manner as Ann Reynolds, was a subject of 
 wonderment at first ; but the wonder lessened 
 in time. Mrs. Reynolds made a position of 
 her own. She was not rich, nor pretty, nor 
 152
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 fascinating, nor even of a picturesque piety; 
 but little "by little her acquaintances began 
 to find that Mrs. Reynolds had an even 
 temper and that useful if not shining quality 
 which in a man is called "horse-sense." 
 She was a woman that very many people 
 liked. They called her a cold woman, but 
 the critics would add, "There's nothing 
 false about her." 
 
 It was in the first year of her coming to 
 the town that Peter asked Margaret Conway 
 to marry him. He had asked her many 
 times since. The last time was when her 
 father died, five years ago. She thought of 
 it, to-day; and Ann, who was with her, 
 thought of it also, for since that day 
 Margaret had not met Peter except casually 
 on the street. 
 
 The two women entered together. Peter's 
 dull eyes, which had been of the keenest, 
 traveled from his sister's sturdy figure, to 
 which age and her sober clothing had given 
 a sort of dignity in default of the grace which 
 was forever beyond it, to the beautiful shape 
 in the shimmering yellow flowered gown. 
 Mrs. Reynold's features were almost fine 
 153
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 now, softened by her gray hair; but they had 
 none of the soft loveliness of the other 
 woman's broad, low brow and oval cheek 
 and exquisite mouth. 
 
 "I'll make Ann help me for once," he 
 thought, grimly; "what makes Peggy so 
 besotted with her anyhow?" 
 
 But that was not his affair. He held out 
 his hand and very faintly smiled. His sister, 
 guessing his wish, fell back behind Miss 
 Conway, that he might take her hand first. 
 
 He had not been a good brother to her ; 
 but she looked at him lying with the shadow 
 of the dread mystery that we all must meet, 
 on his pinched face, and awe and pity chased 
 every other feeling away. Perhaps his 
 health excused his temper and his lonely 
 unsatisfied life his greed. Poor Peter, he 
 had loved Peggy, then, and he wanted to bid 
 her good-bye! Ann, whom her world 
 esteemed a cold woman, felt her throat con- 
 tract and her eyes smart with the pity of it 
 all. 
 
 She saw Peggy take his hand and the 
 clawlike fingers close on her white, smooth 
 hand. He smiled. "I thought you weren't 
 154
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 going to come, " said he. His voice was a 
 whisper. 
 
 "I came as fast as I could," said she, "I 
 was delayed." 
 
 "Oh, I guess it's all right now you've got 
 here. Peggy do you mind my calling you 
 
 "Not now not here call me anything 
 you like, that gives you " 
 
 She had it on her lips to say "comfort," 
 but there was something so presuming in 
 taking it for granted that her presence or 
 her kindness would be a comfort to a lover 
 who had not made a sign for five years, that 
 the sentence hung in mid-air and she finished 
 it with an ambiguous smile. 
 
 "Peggy, you know say, is that nurse 
 woman here?" 
 
 The nurse moved into his sight with pro- 
 fessional gentleness and her professional 
 smile. 
 
 "I wish you'd go down-stairs and stay 
 there until I send you word to come up," 
 said Wainwright. 
 
 The nurse murmured something about the 
 doctor's orders. 
 
 155
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "There'll be a new doctor to order, if 
 you don't," Wainwright retorted; "I've 
 got something to say to these ladies in 
 private." 
 
 The nurse hesitated, then she said: "Very 
 well, sir. You take the responsibility of 
 any excitement. Shall I fetch the ladies 
 some chairs first?" 
 
 "No," snapped Wainwright, "they can 
 get their own chairs. Now, Ann, you look 
 out of that door" the nurse had gone, still 
 gentle but with disapproval bristling in every 
 stiff line of her back "see she isn't peeking 
 and prying somewhere! Give me a sip of 
 that whisky." 
 
 He eyed the cutting on the tumbler and 
 marked the height of the liquid after he had 
 drunk. "Hum," he sniffed, "nobody '11 
 take any of that without me knowing. " 
 
 "You needn't be afraid of Miss Gass 
 taking any," began his sister, a little 
 shocked. 
 
 "That's all right," he interrupted, "I'm 
 
 suspecting no one, but there's no harm in 
 
 keeping track of liquor. That's fine stuff. 
 
 Pat sent it to me. Pat's a fool! Peggy!" 
 
 156
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 There was something painful and rasping 
 about his voice ; he spoke breathlessly, as if 
 some inner, strong impulse pushed his words 
 out of exhausted lungs. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Conway. 
 
 "You know how long I've wanted to marry 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Conway, again; but it 
 was in a different tone. 
 
 "I want to marry you, now. No" as her 
 cheek burned and she opened her lips 
 "wait, you wait! I'll put it as a business 
 proposition. I can't last two days. You'd 
 only be my wife two days that's nothing 
 just look after me a little I won't be trouble- 
 some. Nurse will take care of me you 
 won't have to just sit around a little so I 
 can see you. And no, don't speak yet! 
 I've made my will" he fumbled in the box 
 and painfully lifted out a paper in an 
 envelope "you read that" he unfolded it 
 and dropped it on the bed "that's not the 
 one. That gives everything to found a a 
 never mind, that's if you won't do what I 
 want here here take it out!" 
 
 He was trembling with eagerness; he 
 i57
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 gasped hideously for breath, but his eyes 
 rolled on Ann, who would have summoned 
 assistance. "No, just you two whisky!" 
 
 The whisky revived him. He unfolded 
 another paper and read: "To my beloved 
 wife, Margaret Con way Wainwright, and my 
 sister Ann Wainwright Reynolds residuary 
 legatees, share and share alike that's what 
 you'd like, isn't it? Marry me and the 
 minute we're married I'll sign it. You want 
 to make Ann comfortable rich there's two 
 hundred and fifty thousand and up, apiece ! 
 Marry me, she gets it. Don't, and she 
 does not get one penny!" 
 
 Margaret Conway caught her breath. 
 Her indignation rose, but she looked at her 
 friend. Was the man in earnest or had his 
 mind gone? And there was Ann, too proud 
 to be helped by her as it was, but in this 
 odious way she could 
 
 "Oh, you ask a wicked thing!" she cried, 
 passionately. 
 
 "Where's the wicked? It it isn't as if I 
 was going to live ! ' ' 
 
 "You make a a mock of the sacredest, 
 the solemnest sacrament. You ask me to 
 158
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 swear to love and honor and obey you when 
 you know " 
 
 "You needn't have an Episcopal clergy- 
 man and say all that ; I'm not particular 
 have a justice of the peace! But don't 
 cheat Ann out of two hundred and fifty 
 thousand dol " 
 
 "Oh, Annie, what shall I do?" cried Miss 
 Conway, suddenly turning on her friend. 
 
 "If you say so " 
 
 It was what Wainwright had expected, it 
 was the contingency for the sake of which 
 he had kept Ann in the room. His lips 
 relaxed into the feeblest, strangest of smiles. 
 Ann was very white. 
 
 "There is something you haven't counted 
 in, Peter," she said, in a very quiet voice; 
 "the doctor told me this morning that there 
 was a bare chance of your recovery " 
 
 He interrupted her with a scream of rage. 
 "There isn't! there isn't!" he shrieked. 
 "Ann, go down-stairs! call Miss Gass!" 
 
 He clutched Miss Conway's hand and rolled 
 
 his head over on her arm, writhing. Mrs. 
 
 Reynolds really feared that he would have 
 
 a paroxysm and die then and there ; she 
 
 159
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 obeyed him as rapidly as she could. The 
 instant she was gone, however, he turned a 
 white, wolfishly eager face on Margaret. 
 
 " Don ' t believe her, ' ' he pleaded, ' ' it isn ' t 
 true. Promise, promise!" 
 
 "I can't promise" Margaret began; but 
 the awful change in his face stopped her. 
 
 "I guess it has come well, Ann won't 
 get a cent, that's one good thing," he 
 
 He rolled off her arm and the crumpled 
 wills lay on the bed before her. 
 
 Then the meaning of it all came to her as 
 the lightning strikes and sears. 
 
 She had been bending over him ; but she 
 leaped to her feet. Her eyes blazed into 
 his. "Oh, don't do it!" she begged. 
 "Peter, don't do it! let me burn this wicked 
 will just nod your head. There's a piece 
 of paper in the grate and matches ! Peter, 
 dear Peter, say you won't punish Ann for 
 my fault! You know that that there was 
 some one that I loved and he loved me and 
 we couldn't marry. I'm sorry for you, 
 Peter; won't you make me like to think of 
 yon and regret you and feel kindly and 
 1 60
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 affectionately to you? Please let me burn 
 the will!" 
 
 "No!" said Wain wright ; he thought that 
 she would yield. 
 
 "Then I'll do it, anyhow!" she flashed 
 back at him, and took two steps to the grate 
 with the paper in her hand. She scratched 
 the match ; and the same second he made a 
 supreme effort to rise in bed, stretched forth 
 his hand and fell back with a groan. 
 
 "I've killed him," thought Peggy; but 
 she lit the paper in half a dozen places and 
 watched it blaze high before she ran to his 
 side and raised him tenderly and put the 
 whisky to his lips. But he could not 
 swallow. 
 
 "I've killed him!" she thought, again. 
 
 Yet even with the thought, her eyes darted 
 over to the grate and the lean brown tri- 
 angles spreading downward under the 
 flames, eating the closely written lines. 
 She poured the whisky with frantic haste 
 over his lips, and it trickled hideously down 
 the corners of his mouth ; she forced a few 
 drops between his teeth; but she did not 
 make a motion toward the bell to summon 
 161
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 help until the blazing sheets were only a 
 heap of light, black ashes. Then she rang. 
 Already, however, Mrs. Reynolds and the 
 nurse were in the hall. They came into 
 the room before her fingers left the bell. 
 The nurse pursed her lips and almost imper- 
 ceptibly nodded her head. She was too well 
 trained to say "I told you so!" but outraged 
 talent must have some vent for its scorn. 
 Instantly she had her hypodermic syringe 
 out and into the whisky glass, and having 
 charged it, bared Wainwright's arm and ran 
 the tiny needle into the flesh, making each 
 motion with an extraordinary rapidity and 
 certitude. 
 
 "He was talking to me, and he had this 
 attack suddenly," said Miss Con way, "and 
 I'm afraid " 
 
 "Heart, of course," said the nurse, not 
 interrupting Miss Conway, whose words had 
 died away unfinished; "there was always 
 the danger. You fan him, please. There 
 ought to be a reaction. Yes. " 
 
 Wainwright had opened his eyes. He 
 looked feebly from his sister, who was fan- 
 ning him, to Miss Conway ; he tried to move 
 162
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 his hand. Margaret took it in hers; her 
 own eyes sank into his, which had a 
 strange, dull, peaceful, solemn expression, 
 while hers were filled with entreaty and 
 pain. 
 
 "You won't mind, Peter?" she said; "it 
 will be all right?" 
 
 He did not speak ; he did not even try to 
 speak ; only there was a light quiver of the 
 fingers loosely clasping hers, and he turned 
 his head very slightly and coughed. The 
 nurse bent over him. Then she gently dis- 
 engaged Margaret's hand. 
 
 "You ladies better go now," said she. 
 
 "He isn't " 
 
 "Yes," said the nurse, "we can't do any- 
 thing more for him. ' ' 
 
 She spoke in a subdued tone, without 
 emotion. She knew Wainwright (and had 
 known him during years) as a peevish and 
 selfish invalid, slowly petting and pamper- 
 ing imaginary diseases into real, and as 
 difficult a man about a bargain as she ever 
 had met. But if she had little respect for the 
 dead man, she had a professional quietude 
 in the presence of death. 
 163
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "I suppose you'll telephone Mr. Butler 
 and he'll see about the arrangements," she 
 continued. 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds nodded. She looked at the 
 box on the bed and the one paper beside it, 
 slipped to one side of the blanket; she did 
 not look at the grate, but with a curious 
 light on her face slipped her arm through 
 Margaret's and led her from the room. 
 
 "Wait," she said in the hall; "I must 
 attend to Pat, first." 
 
 The grim details which wait insistently 
 on death and make no account either of grief 
 or the indifference that is sadder than grief, 
 demanded their hour; and Peggy helped 
 her friend where she could. 
 
 Pat Butler came at once. He was the 
 only other near relative of the dead man, 
 the son of his sister who had died when the 
 boy was born. It had been supposed that 
 Wainwright would leave him the bulk of 
 his fortune, as he showed him some gleams 
 of human interest, and used to have him 
 stay in the house; but within the last six 
 months there had been a quarrel between 
 the two men (of what nature they kept 
 164
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 strictly to themselves), and apparently a 
 complete breach. 
 
 Pat had lived more with his aunt than 
 with any one else ; and she was as fond of 
 him as of a son. And next to his aunt he 
 both loved and admired Miss Conway, or, 
 as he always called her, "Aunt Peggy." 
 
 Pat came into the hall, a little breathless 
 he had ridden on his wheel up the hill a 
 little flushed, but, as usual, not in the least 
 overheated. He was not handsome; from 
 his Irish father he inherited not only a sweet 
 temper and high courage but a typical Irish 
 nose, broad at the base, long Irish upper 
 lip and red curls. To counterbalance this, 
 he had a fine figure, a dimple in his cheek, 
 a beautiful fair freckled skin, very white, 
 short, even teeth and small but brilliant 
 dark-blue eyes with thick eyelashes. 
 
 Pat had assumed a decent gravity of bear- 
 ing, but he made no pretense of grief. 
 
 "It took me a little while to arrange 
 things," said he, after he had kissed both 
 women, "so I didn't get here quite so soon. 
 I didn't think it would happen so soon. 
 Doctor Barker said he might have an attack 
 165
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 and go off in it any day, or he might live a 
 month longer. And Sellers, who was called 
 in consultation, you know, Aunt Peggy, 
 said he might possibly rally and get over 
 this and live for a year or two. These 
 kidney diseases are so uncertain. Well, 
 poor fellow, it wasn't to be!" 
 
 Peggy had turned pale at his last sentences : 
 she stole a glance at Mrs. Reynolds. 
 
 "He seemed to be sure he was going to 
 get over it, ' ' continued Pat, in a meditative 
 way. He felt obliged to make some appro- 
 priate conversation in a house that was so 
 mournfully not of mourning. "I was up 
 here, yesterday, and saw him. But he got 
 much worse at night, and when I called the 
 nurse thought he wouldn't better see me. 
 I offered to stay in the house all night ; but 
 the nurse thought it wasn't necessary. I 
 suppose he had another seizure this morn- 
 ing. I was superintending a house" (Pat 
 was an architect) "and I had arranged with 
 the man next door, to get any telephone; 
 but none came until yours. You were here 
 in time?" 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds described the last scene 
 
 166
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "briefly, making no mention of Peggy's part 
 in it, perhaps because of a warning pressure 
 on the arm from Peggy herself, who had 
 risen and stood behind her chair. She took 
 the word. 
 
 "He grew worse," said she, "and Annie 
 went down for the nurse, and I was alone 
 with him no, he asked Annie to go down ; 
 I think it was before he grew worse," a 
 little red spot flickered in her cheek as she 
 made the effort to be exact "and he was 
 talking to me. He he grew excited, and 
 all at once his face changed ; I gave him the 
 whisky, but he couldn't take it. Then the 
 others came. But the hypodermic didn't 
 more than rouse him. He never spoke." 
 
 Pat's bright eyes brightened with a sudden 
 intelligence. But he had no comment. 
 
 "Isn't some one coming?" said Peggy. 
 Pat instantly took the hint and went out into 
 the hall to avoid the indecorum of the bell 
 sounding. Peggy, who had known that he 
 would go, caught her friend's arm, saying 
 in a vibrating voice, "Annie, you must get 
 up to the room and put the will in the box 
 and the box away " 
 
 167
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "I have," said Mrs. Reynolds. "Peggy, 
 did he have you burn one of those wills? 
 Only the unsigned one was there. And I 
 saw some charred paper in the grate. I 
 thought it as well to take care of that." 
 
 Miss Con way's hazel eyes looked darker, 
 for their dilated pupils ; they gazed at Mrs. 
 Reynold's middle-aged, common-place face 
 with a curious tenderness. 
 
 "Yes, I burned the signed will," she said. 
 
 "But why did he want you to?" said Mrs. 
 Reynolds. "Did he relent. Did he forgive 
 you for refusing? You know why I spoke; 
 it was because he might get well; it was 
 not fair to you " 
 
 "I am glad I refused; it was a wicked 
 thing he asked me to do," said Peggy, "but 
 I forgive him. Don't let's speak of it ever 
 again." 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds' steady eyes, not beautiful 
 and liquid, like, the other eyes, but clear and 
 frank, never moved from her friend's pale 
 face. "I've got to understand, Peggy; 
 please don't evade me. I thought we didn't 
 conceal a thought from each other, dear." 
 
 Peggy unexpectedly smiled. 
 
 168
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "I don't want to evade you, dearie," she 
 said, and she sighed almost as if relieved, 
 "but it seemed selfish not to take this on my 
 own shoulders. But if you want me no, 
 he didn't relent. I begged him, I I called 
 him Peter and took his hand, I was as 
 humble but he said 'No' like that. And 
 then I told him I should burn it anyhow. 
 And I did." 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds got up out of her chair. 
 She did not spring, she rose deliberately as 
 she always moved, and walked deliberately, 
 a little heavily, to the window, where she 
 stood looking out. Miss Conway, still stand- 
 ing by the chair, looked after her. 
 
 "Mind, I didn't want to tell you," said 
 she, "but, since I have, I am going to speak 
 out. He was a hard, cruel brother to you. 
 He made a slave and a drudge of you all 
 your girlhood. He never gave you a penny 
 when you married " 
 
 ' ' He made me a present ; I had my own 
 money to buy my wedding things." 
 
 "He gave you a silver ice pitcher, plated. 
 I have seen it often. And the plate didn't 
 \vear well. He never helped you; he has 
 169
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 let you scrub along on narrow means while 
 he has piled up his thousands buying farm 
 mortgages and tax titles and charging high 
 interest. He pretended to like Pat, and 
 would take him away from you all he could 
 and say mean things of you. Then, for 
 some whim of his own, he quarreled with 
 Pat and cut him out of his will. And I 
 suppose he wanted to give every penny to 
 some charity to spread his name abroad as 
 a great benefactor and philanthropist. He 
 wanted to defraud Pat and you. Now he 
 can't. And I'm glad I made it so he can't. 
 Pat and you will get everything." 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds did not stir. She was look- 
 ing out of the window with knit brows. But 
 she did not see the wide lawn and the tall 
 maples that had been growing ever since 
 her father died. She was trying to under- 
 stand, to see her way. 
 
 "Annie," said Peggy, in a low tone, 
 "Annie, you don't think I did wrong?" 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds checked a kind of laugh, 
 rather a bitter laugh. 
 
 " Well, you know what you did was against 
 the law." 
 
 170
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "Why yes, of course" she threw back 
 her beautiful head, her lips parted in a scorn- 
 ful smile "it's a penitentiary offense, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "I don't know; speak lower. It's against 
 the law." 
 
 "Well, it doesn't matter. Nobody will 
 ever know. The law is a blundering sort of 
 thing. That doesn't bother me. It's you. 
 You seem to think I did wrong." 
 
 "Don't you think so?" 
 
 "Certainly I don't," responded Peggy, 
 with some warmth; "you know how you are 
 situated. You won't take money from me, 
 although we have been more than sisters for 
 twenty years almost. You won't come to live 
 with me and be comfortable we would be 
 so happy, Annie but you insist that so long 
 as there is Patience and you haven't enough 
 for her to board as she would like or to keep 
 house, you must stay with her; and you 
 won't let me try to put up with Patience. 
 You who could do so much with money, 
 have to calculate your car fare " 
 
 "But you are always giving me money to 
 give away!" 
 
 171
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 "You don't ask for half you would give, 
 yourself. Well, you'll have plenty, now, 
 Annie! Why don't you speak tome? You 
 are not angry with me?" 
 
 The tears were in her eyes. Mrs. 
 Reynolds crossed over to her not deliber- 
 ately, now, but swiftly, with a kind of fierce- 
 ness in her rapid steps and the look on her 
 face ; and there was a touch of fierceness in 
 the close embrace in which she crushed the 
 supple, slender figure of her friend. 
 
 "My darling, " she cried, "you can do any- 
 thing you please. I shan't be angry with 
 you. You are the best woman in the world, 
 the sweetest, the dearest; and I love you 
 better than anything in it, and Pat next to 
 you, and you did it for us; but, dear, we 
 can't take it!" 
 
 "You can't take it!" cried Peggy. She 
 was crying softly in a nervous reaction from 
 the strain of the last hours, but at the words 
 she slipped out of her friend's arms and faced 
 her. 
 
 "Don't you see, it's like like stealing his 
 money. He didn't give it to me. And it 
 was his to give. He made it all. There 
 172
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 wasn't enough to mention left by father; 
 and he increased the estate so much before 
 it was divided that he more than gave us 
 back that. He had a right to do what he 
 liked with his own. And he didn't mean to 
 give it to me or to Pat. I don't know 
 what to do about Pat. He ought to know, 
 and we ought to find out what the will said 
 and do it with the money. But I can't tell 
 Pat" 
 
 "I don't in the least mind your telling 
 Pat," interrupted Peggy; "he'll think as I 
 do, I'm sure, and tell you you are crazy." 
 
 "May I tell him?" Mrs. Reynolds asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 Peggy assented, repeating what she had 
 said before. And later in the day, after the 
 somber bustle of the preparations was over, 
 and the friends of Mrs. Reynolds and the 
 official associates of the dead man (friends 
 he seemed to have none) had come and 
 made their offers, after the kindly fashion 
 of a Western town, and gone their ways, 
 and Ann and Pat sat in the dark parlor, with 
 the noises of the street muffled by distance 
 and the closed blinds, she repeated the story.
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 Pat made no comment until the very end. 
 He jumped out of his chair and paced up 
 and down the room. 
 
 "Well! wouldn't that kill you dead!" he 
 remarked. Then he asked: "Is it perfectly 
 safe? Nobody suspects anything?" 
 
 "It's absolutely safe. But what shall we 
 do, Pat?" 
 
 "Do? Oh, there's only one thing to do. 
 
 Follow his d skinflint will. It was his 
 
 own money. He had a right to do what he 
 chose with it. And Aunt Peggy threw it 
 into the fire! And she can't see she did 
 anything wrong ! Mads the old man into a 
 fit that kills him, and burns his will before 
 his eyes, and goes home to say her prayers 
 without a ripple! Well, give me a sweet, 
 good, pious, womanly little woman to play 
 smash with the commandments." He 
 grinned, but Mrs. Reynolds answered with 
 fire: 
 
 "Peggy is the best woman I know, Pat. 
 Don't you remember how unfailingly sweet 
 she was with old General Conway. I liked 
 the old General, and he was Peggy's father, 
 but he did have cranky whims ; but she never 
 174
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 seemed to know they were anything un- 
 reasonable. And you know why she never 
 married. There was insanity in his family. 
 Finally the young fellow himself saw the 
 danger, and they parted, although it broke 
 her heart. You don't know, though, that 
 the weekly visit she used to make to Chicago 
 for years was to see him in the asylum 
 where he had to pass the last years of 
 his life. He died there ten years ago. 
 And when she came home her father fell 
 ill; and he wanted her every minute, and 
 she never let him see her anything but 
 cheerful. 
 
 ' ' My poor girl ! I remember how she once 
 was alone with me for a few moments, and she 
 began to cry and checked herself, saying: 'I 
 never let myself cry in the daytime, because 
 it's so hard to stop before it shows!' I used 
 to walk past the house every morning at a 
 certain time and she would come to the 
 window. And I used to write her little 
 notes to cheer her up ; but it was so little I 
 could do. Yet she never said one complain- 
 ing word. I know she never thought one. 
 And hasn't she been more than a mother 
 175
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 to Mabel? You said yourself that Mabel was 
 her very image and " 
 
 "I'm awfully in love with Mabel, and 
 mean to tell her so the minute I have enough 
 money to make it decent," interrupted Pat. 
 ' ' Sure. But I'm not criticising Aunt Peggy. 
 No, I only mean that Aunt Peggy is the old 
 type of a good woman and you are the new. 
 Aunt Peggy is just as conscientious as you, 
 but your lights are different. See?" 
 
 "Not entirely, Patrick. I only see that 
 we can't take Peter's money. Goodness 
 knows I wish we could; but I should feel 
 like a thief, and I should be one, too. ' ' 
 
 "That's the way I look at it," said Pat, 
 rumpling his red curls; "there are some 
 fundamental things underlying all creeds 
 and all morality. And in a scientific age like 
 this, up-to-date moralists try to get at those 
 and let the non-essentials go. But the old 
 woman isn't scientific ; keep her within the 
 beaten paths where she has been told all 
 about the right and wrong of things and 
 she'll go to the rack with a smile for her 
 principles that's Aunt Peggy. But give 
 her a sudden dilemma in morality where she 
 176
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 has to blaze her own moral way, and I tell 
 you her heart is going to handle the ax ; and 
 the ten commandments aren't in it!" 
 
 "She doesn't think about breaking the 
 commandments ' ' 
 
 "Of course not. Neither do you if you 
 are following them. You reason out the 
 question on the line of fundamental morality. 
 You don't consider the persons involved at 
 all. She doesn't consider anything else. It's 
 the old woman and the new. However, to 
 get back to the question. We decide we 
 must give the money to the object named 
 in that confounded will. What was it?" 
 
 "He didn't tell us." 
 
 "And the will is burned. But some 
 lawyer must have drawn it up." 
 
 "Carpenter and Bates drew it up. I went 
 to see them this afternoon, knowing that 
 they did things for him occasionally; and 
 most lawyers, you know, have some other 
 lawyer make a will I suppose on the same 
 principle that most doctors have another 
 doctor called in when they fall ill. They 
 had drawn it up. And he had it signed 
 and witnessed in their office March loth 
 177
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 of this year, and they know of no later 
 will" 
 
 "But in favor of whom?" said Pat, 
 impatiently, making a favorite gesture of 
 his with his hands, opening them and wav- 
 ing them. "Who gets the money?" 
 
 "They didn't know; he left the place 
 blank and filled it himself." 
 
 Pat whistled. Mrs. Reynolds put one knee 
 over another, an attitude which she never 
 allowed herself in public. "You see," she 
 continued, "we shall have to reason it out. 
 March loth? that was the day after his 
 quarrel with you. I think he made it because 
 he was angry with you." 
 
 "Very likely," said Pat composedly; "it 
 was one of his favorite amusements making 
 wills disinheriting me. He used to read 
 them aloud to me and then put them away 
 in his tin box. At first I would be furious ; 
 but I got so I used to laugh at him. I came 
 to the conclusion he meant to trick me and 
 leave all his property to a college, or a hos- 
 pital, something that would take his name, 
 and have a big picture of him hanging up 
 in the hall. The last time we 'quarreled 
 178
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 well, what do you suppose over? I didn't like 
 to talk about it while he was alive, but I'm 
 pretty cross, now, and don't mind talking. 
 It was the Catholic church, no less. He 
 knows I'm not much of a Catholic, and if 
 you'll believe, he wanted me to join the Con- 
 gregationalist church. Me! I didn't usually 
 get cross; but I confess I told him I wasn't 
 a hypocrite, and he was a cur to ask me to 
 forsake the faith of my fathers, which I liked 
 even if I didn't believe in every old thing 
 about it. He told me I'd never see a dollar 
 of his money, and I told him he might take 
 his money to humph, with him! I was 
 nasty, that's true; and I acted like a chump 
 to row with a sickly old sinner like him. " 
 
 ' ' Do you suppose he left his money to the 
 Congregational church? They are very 
 anxious to build, and they would name the 
 church after him. ' ' 
 
 "That wouldn't take it all. It might take 
 some. He used to tell me he thought the 
 best monument a man could leave after him 
 was a public park. He told me that a week 
 before he died." 
 
 "But he had a quarrel with the city after 
 
 179
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 that, and swore he never would pay the 
 pavement tax, and said he would move out 
 of town," said Mrs. Reynolds. 
 
 "Yes, I remember," said Pat, gloomily, 
 "and I remember, too, that he didn't like a 
 sermon of the Congregational minister, and 
 was going to go to the Episcopal church. 
 What did he think of hospitals?" 
 
 "He never spoke of one to me. A fund 
 for supplying every sick man with patent 
 medicines would be more in his line. Do 
 you remember how he used to buy every new 
 nostrum?" 
 
 "He hadn't any old servants to pension 
 off, for he was always changing. These 
 came last month. And we're about all his 
 kindred. I say, Aunt Ann, we are simply 
 driven into sin. We've got either to keep 
 that money for ourselves, or we have to give 
 it away according to our own notions and we 
 get the credit. I don't see any way out of it. " 
 
 ' ' Let us give it to the park, then ; have it 
 called by his name." 
 
 "But he was raging at the city." 
 
 "He was raging at everything, at us, at 
 everybody," 
 
 180
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 Pat rose. He had settled his disquiet in 
 a chair for the last ten minutes he came 
 up to his aunt. 
 
 "I have a queer sort of notion," said he; 
 "let us go up-stairs, where he is, and talk of it 
 before him. If there is such a thing as his 
 being around, he ought to give us a tip. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds agreed. She felt herself 
 before a blind wall ; and she did not dare to 
 listen to her own judgment lest she should 
 be selfish wherein, perhaps, she showed 
 herself a true daughter of generations of 
 self-tormenting Puritans. 
 
 "You know Peggy is there?" she said, as 
 she stood before the closed door. 
 
 She answered his look of astonishment. 
 "Yes, she said that he would like her to be 
 with him, his last night here." 
 
 "Well, I give up women," said Pat. 
 "They're too deep for me." 
 
 Peggy was sitting quietly beside her old 
 lover. The room was brightly lighted, and 
 his uncovered face wore the look of infinite 
 peace that is death's first merciful token. 
 Peggy had her prayerbook in her hand. 
 She looked sweet and calm, and Pat felt an 
 
 181
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 awkward shame of his words down-stairs. 
 And, then, as he stood nearer, he perceived 
 that there were traces of tears on her cheeks. 
 
 "I have been thinking," said Peggy, her 
 soft voice like a strain of music "I have 
 been thinking how sad it is for him to lie 
 here with no one to shed a tear because he is 
 dead. I could not help crying. As much, I 
 suppose, as he cared for any one, he cared 
 for me. I think he would like me to be 
 here. And you know, he did press my 
 hand. I think he forgave me. Poor Peter!" 
 
 Pat gave a little gasp. 
 
 "I wish to God I knew what is right to 
 do!" cried Mrs. Reynolds, with a sob. 
 "Peter, what do you want us to do with your 
 money? We'll do anything you say if we 
 only knew!" 
 
 But Peggy laid her hand almost caressingly 
 on the thin hands clasped above the quiet 
 heart. 
 
 "I know what Peter wants," said she, "it 
 has come to me, sitting here and praying. 
 I don't think I did wrong to make Peter do 
 right. He doesn't see things through a blur 
 now ; he would rather have our kindly, for- 
 182
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 giving thoughts and our gratitude than have 
 you scatter the money. Give some of it 
 away to something that will be called by his 
 name and divide the rest between you. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know but she is right," said Pat. 
 
 "If you had only seen a line in the will 
 to guide us, ' ' said Ann. 
 
 "I only saw the date," said Peggy, 
 "January 3" 
 
 "What!" screamed Mrs. Reynolds, "are 
 you sure! January?" 
 
 "I am perfectly sure but why?" 
 
 ' ' They told me of that will. It gave every- 
 thing to Pat. He must have destroyed the 
 other will himself. ' ' 
 
 "By Jove, he was only using that will for 
 a bluff," cried Pat. 
 
 "I know he destroyed one will," said 
 Peggy, "not long before he died. Miss Gass 
 told me. It was one of March loth, she 
 said. He told her the date. But, Annie, do 
 you mean that will gave everything to Pat? 
 Ought he" 
 
 "No," cried Pat, putting his arm about her 
 waist, "I'm the one to talk, now; you burned 
 up my rights, Aunt Peggy, and for that you 
 183
 
 A PROBLEM IN HONOR 
 
 will say your best for me to Mabel to make 
 me your own true nephew, and you will say 
 nothing while we share the estate, Aunt Ann 
 and I, and give Uncle Peter his memorial. 
 Uncle Peter, isn't that right?" 
 
 And as Peter Wainwright's placid mask 
 lay before them, almost seeming to assent, 
 his old love suddenly bent and kissed his 
 forehead. 
 
 "Poor Peter, " she said, "you did forgive 
 me, I know. And it will be all right. " 
 
 184
 
 On the Blank Side 
 of the Wall 
 
 MARY, the laundress, brought the card 
 to Margaret the cook for advice, it 
 being the waitress's "afternoon out, " 
 and Mary herself new to the place and timid 
 about the visiting list. 
 
 "She wants particularly to see Mrs. 
 Darcy," explained Mary. 
 
 "Who is it?" said Margaret. "I got my 
 hands in the bread. I do think folks 
 oughtn't to come on days that ain't Mrs. 
 Darcy's day, especially now we're in such 
 trouble. I know Mrs. Darcy's got a lot of 
 letters to write to-day." 
 
 "Shall I tell her Mrs. Darcy begs to be 
 excused? Is that what you say?" 
 
 Mary took kindly to social forms. She 
 felt that to live in a family which kept 
 "three girls," a coachman in livery, and 
 185
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 a boy to help about the stable was something 
 to write her friends. It was a quiet, unpre- 
 tentious Western city, and Mrs. Darcy's was 
 considered a large establishment. Mary felt 
 that she would have been much more ele- 
 gant than Annie the waitress, who hated to 
 "excuse" Mrs. Darcy and would blurt out a 
 lie cheerfully "She ain't to home, ma'am; 
 I guess she must have gone out" when she 
 knew Mrs. Darcy was up-stairs in her sitting- 
 room. 
 
 "No, you won't," said Margaret, grimly. 
 "That's Miss Harmon's card" she had 
 looked at it extended by Mary "and Miss 
 Harmon and the Senator used to send over 
 flowers 'most every day when Mr. Winthrop 
 was sick. I know Mrs. Darcy '11 see her. 
 They say the Senator ain't going to git well, 
 either. It'll come awful hard on her. 
 There's jest them two, and they've been 
 together so many years ! What you a-wait- 
 ing for?" 
 
 She sighed as Mary ran off. And she told 
 
 Thompson the coachman, who came in for 
 
 orders presently, ' ' I hated to disturb her, but 
 
 I knew she'd not refuse to see Miss Harmon. " 
 
 186
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 Thompson said: "Kinder queer, her com- 
 ing when her brother's so awful sick. It's 
 bad about the Senator, ain't it? I was 
 reading his resignation only last Sunday. 
 He's got a deal to leave. They was talking 
 of him for President, Mr. Win told me. ' ' 
 
 A tear shone in Margaret's honest eyes as 
 she kneaded the bread harder. "And who 
 knows but Mr. Win might have been the 
 President himself if he'd a-lived? He was 
 smart enough. ' ' 
 
 "Yes; he was smart," Thompson agreed, 
 sadly. "And he was easy on hosses " 
 
 "Well, I'm glad you admit that now, if it 
 is too late, all the same. The way you'd go 
 at that poor boy if a hoss was sweating in 
 summer! I don't wonder your conscience 
 is pricking, Richard Thompson ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, it ain't then," retorted Thompson, 
 in no discomposure. "I didn't mean noth- 
 ing serious, and he know'd I didn't, and he 
 always laughed. He was a hearty laugher, ' ' 
 added Thompson, with a little gulp. "I 
 can hear him now ! ' ' 
 
 "So can I," said Margaret, and began to 
 cry. 
 
 187
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 "There, now, Margaret," Thompson 
 soothed her; "I can't say a word about him 
 but you're all upset." 
 
 "I've known him ever since he was five 
 years old," sobbed Margaret, "and he never 
 give me a sassy word 'cept the time he took 
 my fresh sponge cakes to give to two rag- 
 gedy little dirty boys that said they hadn't 
 had anything to eat for a week little liars ! 
 And I run after him and snatched 'em 
 away, and he threw all the rest of the cakes 
 over to the boys, he was so mad, and called 
 me a stingy old tomcat, and said I was 
 crueler than Nero the precious lamb!" 
 Margaret wiped her eyes on her wrist "Oh, 
 dear! He was such a sweet little boy! I 
 remember how mad I was, too, for the 
 cakes was for charlotte russes, and company 
 coming and a big lunch, and we didn't have 
 so much help as we do now, then. I told 
 him jest how it was. 'And you needn't 
 think I'm going to tattle on you to your 
 mamma,' says I, 'for I ain't. I'm going to 
 make another batch of cakes, but I ain't 
 going to forgit how you treated me for one 
 while!' Why, that poor little tender- 
 188
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 hearted child he burst out crying, and what 
 does he do but run off and get me every one 
 of the eggs he was saving to hatch chickens. 
 Well, I never expect to see another child 
 like him ! And he kept his sweet way with 
 him after he growed up ' ' 
 
 "But you couldn't fool him worth a cent!" 
 Thompson struck in. "Nor you couldn't 
 scare him, neither! 'Member the time he 
 went out on the river in the sailboat and 
 they got tipped up, and he could swim like 
 a fish but he wouldn't leave the other boy 
 and held him on? And when they got 
 ashore them two boys walked eight miles 
 into town and telephoned so's his mother 
 shouldn't be worried. And that Mr. Cane 
 that was with him at college told me he seen 
 him with his own eyes run into a house 
 afire and git a woman out, and I know he 
 could fight with his fists, for I've seen him. 
 He got a prize at college for fighting, I 
 know, too." 
 
 Margaret sighed in acquiescence: "He's 
 just like his mother ; just her sweet way. ' ' 
 
 ' ' His pa was different, I heard, ' ' ventured 
 Thompson.
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 "Jest as hard as nuts and sharp as a file," 
 said Margaret, "and stick to things like 
 pitch. But no doubt he was a good man. 
 It was wonderful, though, the way Win- 
 throp got all his mother's good ways, and 
 all his father's, too. Oh ! the poor woman, 
 Richard! When I'm rebelling for myself I 
 think of her. No other child but him. and 
 her whole soul bound up in him like it was ! 
 How is she going to bear it? And think of 
 the villains that's let to live!" 
 
 "That's right," said Thompson, meekly. 
 "Well, if she ain't wanting the carriage I 
 guess I'll go." 
 
 Up-stairs, Augusta Darcy sat before a 
 heap of letters, her eyes wandering across 
 the street. The Harmons' modest wooden 
 house had a background of elms and great 
 oak trees, but in front only a narrow yard 
 held off the street. Mrs. Darcy could see 
 clearly the piazza with the greening honey- 
 suckle before the Senator's windows. His 
 study was on the right hand. Often during 
 those nights of watching which had seemed 
 to her so ghastly in their sickening anxiety, 
 but the worst of which she would welcome 
 190
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 now, she had seen the Senator bending 
 over his papers. There was a window gar- 
 den in the study. To-day, she could see the 
 Senator's nurse watering the Easter lilies. 
 
 The nurse had been head nurse at a hos- 
 pital. She prided herself on her professional 
 composure, but it could not restrain her 
 furtive tears that black day when, almost 
 without warning, hope let go its grasp and 
 they knew Win must die. With a kind of 
 gratitude the mother again saw the nurse, 
 whose hours of duty were over, begging the 
 doctor to let her stay through the night, 
 while the tears rolled unchecked down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 The woful cinematograph of those last 
 days enacted itself again, as it had enacted 
 itself every day, almost every hour, since 
 her boy died. His face, as she watched it 
 while the soul drifted away, was clearer to 
 her eyes than the scene before her. She 
 saw it change as a ripple changes water ; she 
 saw the placid, unrecognizing features 
 settling into peace ; she heard them trying 
 to rouse him, to win a last look for her. 
 She wished that they would not vex him. 
 191
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 All that she begged then was that he should 
 pass in peace. But now her heart cried out 
 for one farewell to remember instead of that 
 unearthly content that smile after he was 
 dead! 
 
 Yet it was her only comfort. Sometimes 
 she felt that she had seen the end, but some- 
 times it was as if his soul had waved a mes- 
 sage of hope and meeting to her in that 
 smile, before it went into the dark. If she 
 could only know that he was somewhere 
 Win himself, not a "glorified spirit," or a 
 different, unremembering soul, but Win, 
 whose baby fingers had smoothed the pain 
 out of her heart; the little, loving, velvet- 
 cheeked, impetuous boy ; the lad at school, 
 not over-fond of study, but doggedly work- 
 ing to win prizes for his mother's vanity; 
 the gallant young man who was her lover 
 and comrade as well as her son if she only 
 knew that he was happy, how little her own 
 desolation would matter ! She looked out at 
 the chill April sunshine, and felt it flooding 
 his grave. Where was he? Was he any- 
 where? 
 
 Augusta Darcy was what may be called a 
 192
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 "supporting member" of the church. She 
 was the largest contributor to the rector's 
 salary; she was President of the Guild; she 
 was a liberal giver and a reasonably con- 
 stant church-goer. She had the greatest 
 respect for religious things. And she often 
 wondered whether anything that she heard 
 was true. 
 
 This was not the first time that death had 
 robbed her ; it was not the first time that she 
 had groped vainly in the deep places of her 
 soul to find comfort. But, those times, 
 when comfort had come, it had been through 
 the slow healing of time, the gradual blurring 
 of pain by other interests, other affections 
 never through any answer to her questions. 
 And out of her sorrows she had brought 
 with her a keener sympathy for all sorrow ; 
 a biting sense of the helplessness of love and 
 a sick faintness of the soul before the 
 impenetrable future. 
 
 This time she knew that there never could 
 come to her interests or affections vivid 
 enough to console. Through a young, 
 strong, gentle soul that loved her she had 
 been akin to youth and hope and the splen- 
 193
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 did rush of growing life. She had lost more 
 than the darling of her heart she had lost 
 her interest in living. Something had 
 snapped in her heart. It is grief that makes 
 the soul grow old. Augusta had always 
 been young not merely "young for her 
 age," but young in her joyous readiness for 
 every new experience, her unquenchable 
 hope. Her own people had a fine old name 
 and a meager estate. Augusta had borne 
 the discomforts of poverty with a gay and 
 frank courage. When she had been menaced 
 by what might prove to be a mortal disease 
 she had not flinched. 
 
 "Glad did I live and gladly die; and I laid 
 me down with a will," she quoted to the 
 doctor when he told her the worst that was 
 to be feared. And when the danger passed 
 she was cheerful but not elated; assuredly 
 not awed and grateful, as the doctor secretly 
 thought that she should be. 
 
 But where was her courage now? Out- 
 wardly she was calm enough she had been 
 calm from the first. She had quietly taken up, 
 one by one, the daily household habits which 
 had been jostled aside by the unnatural life of 
 194
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 the sickroom. She was a woman of the 
 world ; a woman with a position and a host 
 of friends. She shirked nothing of the 
 etiquette of grief; she acknowledged every 
 courtesy in her own hand ; to the friends and 
 kindred near enough to express their sym- 
 pathy she responded, thanking them in the 
 fewest possible words, then talking of some- 
 thing else. She did not go to her club, but 
 she attended an "important meeting" of the 
 Guild, and her comments on the question at 
 issue were quite in her old fashion. The 
 women smiled, for she was not only dis- 
 tinctly to the point, but her shrewdness had 
 a dash of humor. And she smiled, too. 
 Yet she was thinking, "That would amuse 
 Win; I can't tell it to him." And she was 
 remembering, and she was saying to her- 
 self: "This it ,is to have a broken heart. 
 You care for nothing not even your own 
 suffering. That's how you know there is 
 no hope. If you were suffering so you 
 wanted to scream that would be a paroxysm, 
 and paroxysms, soul or body, pass! But 
 this is like the pain of a mortal disease not 
 beyond endurance but beyond hope!" 
 195
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 From such thoughts her fancy slipped back 
 to last summer "O God! only last sum- 
 mer" when they were in the Adirondacks 
 and she broke her arm. The guide set it, 
 they being miles from a doctor or an 
 anaesthetic, and Win and his two college 
 chums stood by, catching their breath. She 
 did not so much as shiver. All the while 
 she said to herself, "The pain's nasty, but 
 it's outside it isn't I. " A thrill of happiness 
 conquered the red-hot torture of the twists 
 as she heard Tom Cain (the great half- 
 back, and revered accordingly by Win,) 
 whisper, "Oh! isn't she a thoroughbred?" 
 She looked up to smile, cheering Win. 
 "It's not bad, really; he does it so skillfully. " 
 
 She knew that her boy was proud of her. 
 It was delicious to have Win proud of her in 
 a new way. Afterward, his soul overflowed. 
 "Tom says he knows, now, how the French 
 marquises looked on their way to the 
 guillotine!" cried he. "They wore just that 
 smile. You've made a mash of Tom, 
 mother!" 
 
 Then she told him about her thought of 
 the pain. 
 
 196
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 "Perhaps," said Win, thoughtfully, "that's 
 the difference between mental and physical 
 pain. Don't you remember how, when I 
 cut my knee breaking into the conservatory, 
 I whistled while the doctor probed for the 
 glass and was greatly admired for my sand, 
 as I very well knew " 
 
 "Yes, dear; we both dearly like to be 
 admired, you and I," said she. And their 
 eyes met. Win's were dark, with long, 
 black lashes, hers were violet, but the ex- 
 pression was the same. They both laughed. 
 
 "Dear!" said Win, patting her hand. 
 Then he went on: "And don't you remem- 
 ber how, the minute I discovered that the 
 injury would prevent my going to the 
 circus, all my sand leaked out and I bawled 
 like a calf? The first pain had only hurt my 
 knee. But not going to the circus, my first 
 circus, that loosened the very foundations of 
 being!" 
 
 The light words returned to her. They 
 were not light to her now. Yes; it was 
 true that foolish pain was not herself, but 
 this ache of the heart was a hideous part of her 
 very being. And by that token she knew 
 197
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 that she could never rid herself of it. So 
 long as she lived this cruel partner would 
 keep step with her soul. "But I wouldn't 
 mind it," she whispered; "I wouldn't mind 
 it, dear, if I could know that you were some- 
 where and were happy!" 
 
 She did not know. She looked at the 
 woodbine masking the drab front of the 
 Harmon house. The tulips and lilies of 
 the window garden swayed, and she remem- 
 bered that behind their gay pomp a man 
 lay, dying by inches. 
 
 "Poor Miss Harmon," she sighed, "she 
 will have to wonder about it, too. ' ' She half 
 smiled as she sighed in the kind of compassion 
 not unmixed with amusement which some 
 people always evoke. She was thinking of 
 Miss Harmon at the club. Ten years ago she 
 had become a member of Augusta's literary 
 club. She was a neutral-tinted woman of 
 small stature, modest demeanor and an 
 unobtrusive and self-respecting dowdiness of 
 garb. Viewing her, one saw at a glance 
 that she bought the best of materials and 
 was true to the dressmaker of her youth. 
 The other salient features of her presence 
 198
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 were a Roman nose, a nearsighted frown 
 and a trick of blushing, which imparted to 
 her elderly face a spectral girlhood. During 
 all the ten years she never had made a 
 speech, nor did she ever fail to second Mrs. 
 Darcy's resolutions. 
 
 The papers which she read before the club 
 were always described by the local journals 
 as "containing an immense amount of study 
 and thought. ' ' She read them in a hurried, 
 agitated voice and looked ready to faint 
 when she sat down. Once she had a severe 
 cold, and Augusta, out of mere careless 
 good nature, offered to read her paper. 
 Augusta's voice (the light, flexible American 
 voice, which can be as expressive as gray 
 eyes) was mellowed by the Western climate, 
 and had been carefully cultivated by good 
 masters. She had, moreover, the dramatic 
 gift and the magnetism of every good 
 speaker. She read as if Miss Harmon's 
 thoughts were her own, and the applause 
 was great. Miss Harmon wiped her eyes. 
 Every member present congratulated her 
 later, and many of them congratulated the 
 Senator. 
 
 199
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 "It was all Mrs. Darcy," said Miss 
 Harmon. 
 
 It was from this time that the impression 
 began to drift about the club that Miss 
 Harmon had an extraordinary admiration 
 for Mrs. Darcy. It was so diffident, how- 
 ever, that Augusta, who was usually ready 
 enough to detect her followers, did not 
 notice it until the glee club of Win's college 
 sang in the town, and the Harmons took 
 ten seats at the concert. 
 
 She was gracious to this humble admirer 
 because it was her nature to be gracious, and 
 she was grateful because the admirer never 
 seemed to expect any intimacy. 
 
 During Win's sickness, flowers came from 
 the Harmons almost daily, and daily the 
 Harmons' one maid (they were not rich) 
 went around to the kitchen door to inquire. 
 
 Miss Harmon explained to her friends: 
 "I hate to send Katy, but I don't want to 
 ring the bell myself and I don't feel free to 
 run around back, so I just take the dishes 
 while Katy goes. ' ' 
 
 Augusta told Win, and he laughed. "She's 
 aright good sort," said he, "and I don't 
 
 200
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 like her any the less that she thinks the sun 
 rises and sets in you, mother. It is good of 
 her to think of me when she's in such 
 trouble herself. You know I saw the 
 Senator at the reception they gave him. 
 He knew about it then, and I'd heard. It 
 made me feel queer to see him and hear 
 him. He told me a funny story, and I was 
 thinking all the time how he knew he must 
 give it up just as he had got his hand on it. 
 But he's a real old sport. He never made 
 a sign. I daresay it's worse for her, if any- 
 thing, than for him, for she's always been 
 with him. They pinched and scraped 
 together and she has been his private secre- 
 tary to save money. Now, just as he is 
 famous and successful he has to go. Mother, 
 there are some awfully cruel things in 
 life." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Darcy. He was so 
 much better that they thought him out of 
 danger, and he was eager to talk and to 
 listen to her. 
 
 He went on: "Do you ever wonder what 
 becomes of us when we die?" 
 
 Mrs. Darcy shivered. She who was
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 usually so ready, had not a word at her 
 command. "Yes," she said somberly, "but 
 I don't know." 
 
 "If we are immortal I suppose this one 
 little patch of life cuts a very small figure, 
 and our troubles here we think of just as a 
 man remembers how desperate he was as a 
 child over some fool little thing. Don't 
 you know how I cried over the circus and 
 wished I was dead because I had so many 
 enemies? The doctor was the chief, and 
 then poor grandma; but I excepted you 
 because I saw you were almost as mournful 
 as I. Now maybe it will be that way in 
 some other existence. All I remember now 
 is how nice you were to me, and that 
 always will be present, but all the bad 
 part is a joke. Maybe our bad quarters of 
 an hour will be like that all the pain gone, 
 but all the the love" he said the word 
 with a boy's shyness at any deep feeling 
 "left. I wonder how Harmon feels about 
 it all. It's queer, but I wish I could see 
 him!" 
 
 Augusta recalled the talk to-day. She 
 had never cared for Senator Harmon, a 
 
 202
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 rough-hewn old Spartan, who was called "a 
 man of the plain people," or a demagogue, 
 according to the critic's political point of 
 view. She conceded his integrity so far as 
 money was concerned, and no doubt he was 
 an able man, but his black frock coat vexed 
 her soul. The skirts hitched in the back 
 and sagged in front; never was it but- 
 toned. His manners were like his coat, too 
 individual to be pleasing. To women he 
 paid no attention whatever, which to a 
 woman is more offensive than rudeness itself. 
 Once, he took Augusta out to dinner and 
 talked all through, the dinner to the man 
 opposite. Augusta was not accustomed to 
 have men take her out to dinner and talk to 
 any one else. The sensation was new, but 
 not agreeable. The single remark that he 
 addressed to her was: "I see you ladies are 
 bound to get your rights ; you 've another 
 bill ready for the Legislature." To which 
 Augusta had responded dryly: "Yes, I 
 signed the petition against it. ' ' She did not 
 notice the twinkle in his eye, because she 
 was disdainfully eating her fish. Later, Win 
 repeated to her the Senator's private counsel 
 203
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 to the distracted legislators, who did not 
 want to pass the bill nor to offend its pro- 
 moters. "Well, boys," said he, "I can only 
 recommend to you the advice of old Uncle 
 Chet Tarbox, of Kansas, in the same case. 
 'That's easy,' says he. 'talk fur it and vote 
 agin it!' " 
 
 "And he calls that principle?" Augusta 
 sneered. 
 
 "No, dear, I think he calls it politics," said 
 Win, "but he is a man of principles." 
 
 And now, just as the stakes were highest 
 and he stood in to win, the poor fellow must 
 drop out of the game. Augusta's heart 
 softened to him. "And he knows it," she 
 thought; "he has to lie there and dread the 
 passage. At least Win was spared that. And 
 that poor woman will have to help him. She 
 doesn't strike me as a bit of a tower; poor, 
 weak, conscientious thing ! I suppose she is 
 very religious ; that kind of woman is likely 
 to be. Well, I hope her religion will be a 
 help to her," she sighed. 
 
 She drifted into a dreary reverie. The 
 maid announced Miss Harmon twice before 
 she heard. "It's Miss Harmon, ma'am. She 
 204
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 said she knew it wasn 't your day ; but she'd 
 be very much obliged if you would see 
 her." 
 
 Augusta hesitated. She would have 
 excused herself had she known any gra- 
 cious way. Not knowing any, she bade 
 the visitor be shown up. And she braced 
 herself for the ordeal of sympathy. 
 
 The sunlight made a shining bar across 
 the floor, which rose to the ceiling, in a wall 
 of radiant mist filled with dancing, golden 
 motes. She stood behind it, a slight and 
 somber figure, with listless eyes. Through 
 the mist the room was transfigured. The 
 dull shine of the mahogany, the soft dazzle 
 of the silver on her dressing-table, the roses 
 of the wall-paper, the etching on the walls, 
 the white curtains at the windows where the 
 afternoon light had painted exquisite trans- 
 parent shadows of violet; all these familiar 
 things looked different and unreal. Unreal, 
 also, looked the commonplace woman who 
 advanced to her, her face illumined by that 
 mystical glow. Augusta had a sudden im- 
 pression of a new quality in it ; it was as if, 
 for the first time, she saw the real woman, 
 205
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 not the exterior. And she remembered 
 quickly their kinship in pain. 
 
 "I'm glad you came," she said, im- 
 pulsively; "thank you for coming." 
 
 Miss Harmon stepped past the glow ; she 
 was her own, limp, neat, uninteresting self 
 again. She seated herself in the, manner 
 taught her by the Delsarte teacher who had 
 given the club lessons, and clasped her 
 hands before her; and it was a second 
 before Augusta realized that her silence 
 came from the effort to master her emotion, 
 and that the eyes behind her glasses were 
 full of tears. 
 
 "I hope you will excuse me coming to- 
 day," she began evidently it was a little, 
 carefully studied speech that she was recit- 
 ing "I appreciate how occupied you must 
 be; I would not have intruded merely to 
 express my my deep sympathy. But my 
 brother wished me to come. We were 
 always interested in Mr. Winthrop Darcy. 
 Brother was grateful to him, in the first 
 place, that night he met me the concert 
 night when I was with a lady friend and we 
 missed the street cars. I was very silly 
 206
 
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 frightened ; and he was so kind ; he insisted 
 on walking home with us, leaving his young 
 friends. And I never was at any public 
 entertainment that he didn't bow to me in 
 the pleasantest manner. Brother appreci- 
 ated it. And he appreciated your great 
 kindness^ too " 
 
 "My dear, I never was kind," began 
 Augusta. There had seemed to be a thin 
 crust of ice over her sympathies, which used 
 to run so quickly into any channel of need ; 
 but she thought to herself, "I always knew 
 that shy woman was lonesome. Why didn't 
 I be decent to her when I could feel!" 
 
 "And Brother always thought so much of 
 you," continued Miss Harmon, innocently. 
 For her the approbation of Roger Harmon 
 was a crown to be coveted by the kings of 
 earth. "Ever since one time that he took 
 you out to dinner. He so liked your man- 
 ners. And we used to like so much to watch 
 Mr. Winthrop with you. We'd so often 
 notice him at night before you pulled the 
 shade down, his manner to you I didn't 
 mean to pain you. I can't tell you how 
 sorry I won't detain you, but it was so you 
 207
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 would know why" she had forgotten her 
 studied phrases, her color flickered on 
 her cheeks like a lamp-flame in the wind, 
 she trembled "so you would know why 
 Brother wanted it. He thought it might 
 comfort you ; and whatever he asked me to 
 do, I couldn't refuse. ' ' 
 
 "Surely not," said Augusta, gently, and 
 she laid her hand on the trembling fingers 
 lifted a moment, "but don't distress your- 
 self, wait " 
 
 "Oh, you are so good," sobbed Miss Har- 
 mon. "Oh, I can't wait, I have got to tell it 
 quick for fear I'll break down. Don't be 
 kind to me or I'll break down! I haven't 
 broken down once. Nor cried. I don't 
 dare to. This is what Brother asked me to 
 tell you. 'She's a woman of sense,' said 
 he, 'and she's on the blank side of the wall. 
 She doesn't want to have folks talk to her 
 when she knows they know as little as she 
 does. I know how she feels. She can't 
 talk. Why, it's not to be talked. It's 
 unthinkable. You try to imagine where 
 you'll be when you quit. You can't do it. 
 You can't think yourself stopped nothing! 
 208
 
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 You go to her, Sis,' he said, 'and you've a 
 good memory, you give her exactly my 
 words. She's a woman of sense; she won't 
 talk any nonsense about maybe I'll get well. 
 She knows I'm man enough to take my 
 medicine without lies. Being a woman, 
 what she wants most is to know that boy of 
 hers is happy ; being a woman, as much as 
 she wants that, even more, maybe, she 
 wants to do something for him. As long as 
 you women can do something for those you 
 love, you'll walk over red-hot coals and say 
 it doesn't hurt. Well, I'll give her a chance 
 to do something for him. I don't believe my 
 soul is going to be done for entirely just 
 because it has lost its job, here ! I'm going 
 on. You tell her I'll hunt her boy up. I'll 
 find him. The will's going to count there as 
 much as it counts here. You tell her I'll 
 give him any message she wants to send. 
 You tell her in just those words. ' ' 
 
 Miss Harmon had spoken in a voice as low 
 and monotonous as a deaf man's. Her eyes 
 were fixed and vacant. The color had con- 
 centrated in a single spot on her cheeks. 
 One could see that she suffered frightfully, 
 209
 
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 and did not know that she was in pain, so 
 intent was she to obey. But at first Augusta 
 hardly noticed her ; the message was like a 
 lightning bolt on a strange landscape in the 
 night. 
 
 4 'He's right, he's right," she breathed, "if 
 he only can!" 
 
 "Brother always does what he says he 
 will," said Miss Harmon. 
 
 "And he is sure he will go on? Oh, how 
 cruel I am to say that to you! You poor 
 child!" 
 
 Impulsively she came to the other woman 
 and put her arms about her. Miss Har- 
 mon's arms hung limply, but Augusta 
 understood the strained whisper, "Don't be 
 kind to me!" 
 
 "I won't. I know. And are you on the 
 blank side of the wall, too? I thought that 
 you were so religious. ' ' 
 
 "I used to hope I had faith, but everything 
 is so dim now," Miss Harmon said, wearily. 
 "My thoughts wander even when I try to 
 pray. I'm no help to him, but" a strange 
 light dawned in her haggard face "he 
 doesn't need my help; he's finding it out
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 for himself. At first he said, 'It's tough. 
 But we'll go through it, together, Sis. 
 We've gone through ever) r thing together; 
 we'll go through this. ' But it has been he 
 that helped me. He's thought of me all 
 along. Doctor said that the first thing he 
 said when he knew the truth was: 'Well, I 
 always was glad I carried a big life insur- 
 ance. Sis will be all right. ' And only this 
 morning, after I promised to come here, he 
 said: 'Sis, when you come where I am you 
 remember I said, "I mind it less every 
 day." ' I must be getting back, now. I 
 can't bear to be away. When I'm with him, 
 I'm quite calm, indeed I am, for I can see; 
 but when I'm away I think of a thousand 
 things. Will you tell him the message?" 
 
 Augusta drew a long breath. "Thank 
 him, thank him from my heart. Tell him 
 we will try to comfort each other. I can 
 never forget his thought of me. And tell 
 him to tell my boy that he blessed me all 
 his life and that I know we shall be happy 
 again." 
 
 Then, as Miss Harmon rose their eyes 
 met. They went down the stairs together,
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 Augusta talking of other things what 
 neither of them ever knew. Augusta went 
 up-stairs. When she returned, she stood for 
 a moment before her boy's picture, looking 
 steadily at the beautiful young face. "I 
 believe I lied," she murmured, "just as I 
 would have lied when you were dying if it 
 would have helped you. 'The blank side of 
 the wall?' Yes. He believed no more than 
 I, and yet he is thinking it out, he thinks he 
 will live. ' ' 
 
 Somehow the manner in which the dying 
 man was planning his future as he would 
 plan a journey, obscurely heartened her. It 
 gave the homely comfort of a firelight shin- 
 ing from some cottage on a wanderer. The 
 world where messages could be given and 
 taken was not so aloof as it had seemed. 
 "He can't know," she muttered; but she 
 added, "He is on the very verge, surely he 
 ought to see more clearly than we!" And, 
 all at once, she found herself at the writing- 
 desk writing to Miss Harmon. Afterward 
 she was glad that she wrote those few words 
 of gratitude, and asked if she might see the 
 Senator. The reply came back immediately.
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 ' ' My brother will be very glad if you will 
 come to-morrow. He is feeling more com- 
 fortable, thank you. He told me to tell you 
 to come in the morning, please. ' ' 
 
 Augusta was consumed with the miserable 
 restlessness of grief all the evening. It was 
 some diversion to drive to a florist. The 
 windows were gorgeous with masses of lilies 
 and golden jonquils. She remembered, 
 when she saw them, that to-morrow was 
 Easter. While she waited her turn at the 
 counter she listened idly, yet with deepening 
 interest, to a clerk explaining to a customer 
 about the lilies. "You see," said he, "it's 
 the same plant, just as much as a rose-tree 
 is, if it does die down and there be nothing 
 but a bulb left. It sprouts and the flower 
 grows again. ' ' 
 
 Was there, she pondered, as her carriage 
 rolled past the lights, was there any analogy 
 between the lily and human life? Could 
 there be, she wondered, some common 
 meeting ground for all the souls that sought, 
 no matter through what devious and varying 
 paths, to find the eternal love? Was there a 
 kinship among worshipers running deeper 
 213
 
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 than any creed? How far was Win right 
 and the sorrows that rend the heart, only the 
 poignant but fleeting troubles of a child to 
 be remembered with a smile? 
 
 She slept ill that night, but it would have 
 been a new thing for her to sleep otherwise. 
 At the same time, amid her distempered 
 musings, she had the sensation of a lift 
 to her thoughts. There was something 
 different to think about instead of that old 
 futile treadmill of misery. 
 
 The sunlight awoke her, and while she 
 dressed she could hear the singing of birds. 
 There was the brilliant languor of spring in 
 the air, "the dear unrest," the clean 
 splendor in the tints of earth and sky, the 
 ineffable feeling of hope and resurrection 
 that comes with every spring. She looked 
 forward, actually she looked forward to her 
 interview with Harmon. She leaned on the 
 hope that was in her heart, and the beautiful 
 morning was like an omen. 
 
 When she heard the chimes she perceived 
 
 that she had slept later than usual. Their 
 
 deep, keen resonance struck a silent chord 
 
 in her heart. They were the chimes of her 
 
 214
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 own church, and they were playing a hymn 
 that Win loved to hear her sine. It was not 
 a distinctively Easter hymn, and she did not 
 know that because of her and because of 
 Win, whom he had loved, the rector had 
 chosen it. Whether Win loved it for the 
 music or the words she did not know, but 
 she said the words over to herself with a 
 thrill, wherein blended awe and remem- 
 brance and an unreasoning, timid hope. 
 
 Thou hidden love of God whose height, 
 Whose depth unmeasured no man knows, 
 
 I see from far thy beauteous light, 
 Inly I sigh for thy repose. 
 
 My heart is pained, nor can it be 
 
 At rest, till I find rest in thee! 
 
 As she said them she thought of Harmon. 
 Had he, who seemed a hard man, even 
 callous, had he perchance any moments 
 when his soul leaned wistfully towards an 
 unknown power that did not willingly afflict 
 nor grieve the children of men, when it was 
 comfort to him that he need not resent his 
 fate? She was impatient to see him, to win 
 from him any light that he might hold. All 
 through her anguish she had neither prayed 
 215
 
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 nor felt any inclination to pray. What 
 came to her had assumed the air of the 
 inevitable. She had so little confidence in 
 any power of the spirit that she had had no 
 thought to appeal to it. But while she 
 walked over the elastic turf where the grass 
 was springing, her eyes on the lilies that 
 had died and bloomed again, she felt an 
 impulse of her childhood before she tasted 
 of the tree of knowledge. 
 
 "Oh, if it were any good to pray! If 
 there were anybody!" she cried within. "I 
 want to pray!" 
 
 By this time, being at the Harmons' gate, 
 she raised her eyes, and the blood curdled in a 
 flash about her heart, for on the door-knob 
 hung a myrtle wreath, and the door stood 
 open. 
 
 ' ' I dared to hope ; I was a fool, ' ' she said, 
 with inexpressible bitterness. She was 
 minded to turn and go back to the loneliness 
 which was not to be lifted. But she re- 
 membered the dead man's sister. At least, 
 in return for what they had meant to do, she 
 would offer her ineffectual offices of kind- 
 ness. 
 
 216
 
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 The old servant, with eyes swollen from 
 weeping, met her at the door. 
 
 "I'm on the look-out for you, ma'am. I 
 knew you'd come," she cried, "and poor 
 Miss Lizzie, she left word she wanted to see 
 you. Will you come up?" 
 
 "Wasn't it very sudden?" Augusta asked, 
 feeling her nerves shrinking from the inter- 
 view before her. 
 
 "Oh, very, ma'am; the heart failed, all of 
 a minute, you might say. But oh, he 
 didn't suffer; went off so peaceful. And 
 she's been dreading him suffering at the 
 end. And he had his senses. She was 
 'fraid at the end he'd be delirious. It's a 
 great loss to the country, but no one knows 
 what we lose but us. ' ' 
 
 She panted up the stairs while her grief 
 thus found tongue. Augusta knew whose 
 rooms they were passing and who lay behind 
 that closed door. At the rustle of their 
 passage, the door opened and Miss Harmon 
 came into the hall. 
 
 Augusta had not thought how she should 
 greet her, but at the sight of her face she 
 took her into her arms without a word. 
 217
 
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 In a second, however, she saw that Miss 
 Harmon was quite composed. "Will you 
 come with me?" she said; she had no hesita- 
 tion, no timidity now. "I have a message 
 for you from him. You do not mind?" 
 
 "I came to see him," said Augusta; "I 
 didn't know." She followed Miss Harmon 
 into the room. Quietly she passed after her 
 to her brother's side. Alive she had thought 
 Roger Harmon ugly, almost coarse of 
 aspect. The mask before her wore the 
 mystical refinement of death. She noted it, 
 but she noted more the peace on the lined 
 and rugged features of this elderly man of 
 affairs was of the same quality and form as 
 the peace on the beautiful young face of her 
 son. 
 
 "Do they all smile like that when they are 
 dead?" she thought. 
 
 Miss Harmon softly pushed a straying lock 
 of the gray hair into place. She spoke 
 without emotion, her voice quite steady. 
 
 "I want to tell you about him. I told him 
 
 what you said. He seemed so much better. 
 
 It pleased him. 'You tell her I'll engage 
 
 to do it,' he said. He was glad you 
 
 218
 
 BLANK SIDE OP THE WALL 
 
 wanted to see him. 'She thinks I know 
 something,' he said; 'sometimes I think I 
 do myself. I know how little all this fret 
 and sweat of ours is worth. And if this 
 were the end of it, Lord, what a bungle the 
 world would be ! There must be something 
 under it all. Now, there is nothing in this 
 whole world that is destroyed; it only 
 changes. Why should we be destroyed? 
 Don't you worry, Sis; there is something 
 a good deal bigger than the Presbyterian 
 church, or any other church ; and men 
 have struggled to find it in all ages. And 
 they do find it, when they die. Don't you 
 worry, we'll talk this all over somewhere 
 else. It's all right.' 
 
 "I longed so to talk with him, but I was 
 afraid it might be bad for him ; so I didn't. 
 There was no reason to think he might not 
 live weeks. But in the night the nurse 
 called me. It came when he was asleep. 
 He was unconscious. He he never knew 
 me after he kissed me good night that night. 
 But this is what I wanted to tell you just 
 before he died he opened his eyes, with such 
 a bright, pleasant expression in them, as 
 219
 
 BLANK SIDE OF THE WALL 
 
 if he saw something, and he said: 'Well, 
 Winthrop! Yes, I'll tell her.' That was 
 all; he turned his head and sighed very 
 softly and that was all." 
 
 Augusta did not move, did not speak; 
 her only motion was to clasp more tightly 
 the hand that trembled in her own. 
 
 Peace stole into her heart. Had this dying 
 man seen her boy? It might be. She did 
 not know ; but an unearthly comfort born of 
 semething deeper than reason, tranquillized 
 her pain; afar off she perceived the possi- 
 bility of faith and hope. And it had come 
 to her from this man whom she held so 
 lightly! Yet in the repentance that swept 
 over her there was no abasement ; she felt 
 that were he to know he would understand, 
 and if a human soul would know and freely 
 forgive should infinite comprehension be 
 less kind? Unconsciously she sank on her 
 knees, but the prayer on her lips was not in 
 the majestic words that her childhood had 
 learned. Hardly knowing that she prayed, 
 there flowed from her soul the petition of 
 the old Buddhist: "Forgive me, O Lord, 
 as the friend forgives the friend, as the
 
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 father pardons his son, the lover his 
 beloved ! ' ' 
 
 She arose, she bent reverently over the 
 dead man, she kissed his hand. "My 
 friend," she promised, "I will believe you. 
 I am grateful. ' ' 
 
 Then she turned to Miss Harmon. "We 
 are both alone," she said; "let us help each 
 other." 
 
 At this moment the chimes began to ring; 
 through the window she could see the 
 eternal miracle of spring. The lilies 
 burned in the sunlight, like white flame. A 
 new meaning of Easter stole into her con- 
 sciousness, even as light steals or the 
 scents and sounds and mysterious stir of 
 springtime, while the hymn sang itself in 
 her heart. 
 
 I see from far thy beauteous light, 
 
 Inly I sigh for thy repose. 
 My heart is pained, nor can it be 
 At rest till I find rest in thee.
 
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