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 G 37
 
 l
 
 "SANG IT AS IF IT WE UK A MERUY UOUXDELAY
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 by 
 
 Elizabeth G. Jordan 
 
 Author of " Tales of the Cloister " 
 
 " Tales of the City Room " 
 
 etc., etc. 
 
 New York and London 
 
 Harper & Brothers 
 
 Publishers 1902
 
 Copyright, 1902, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 AU rights reserved. 
 Published June, 1902.
 
 TO 
 
 MY SISTER ALICE 
 
 2136400
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN ... 3 
 
 AN EPISODE AT MRS. KIRKPATRICK S . . 35 
 
 THE WIFE OF A HERO 59 
 
 VICTORIA DELSARO, MISSING 87 
 
 THE ONE WHO INTERVENED 119 
 
 HER FRIEND 147 
 
 Miss UNDERBILL S LESSON 181 
 
 THE STORY OF A FAILURE 213 
 
 IN THE CASE OF DORA RISSER ... .241 
 
 A COLLABORATION ... 267
 
 Illustrations 
 
 SANG IT AS IF IT WERE A MERRY 
 
 ROUNDELAY " Frontispiece 
 
 YOU VE KILLED THAT GIRL AMONG 
 YOU ! YOU KNOW IT, AND I KNOW 
 IT " Facing p. 52 
 
 SHE DROPPED HER LASHES AND 
 STUDIED THE NEW NEIGHBOR BE 
 HIND THE SCREEN THEY AF 
 FORDED " 150 
 
 EACH BENT HIS HEAD, WHILE TEARS 
 
 STREAMED DOWN HIS CHEEKS" . 176 
 
 NOW, MRS. RISSER, SHE SAID, I 
 
 WANT YOU TO ENJOY THIS RIDE 246 
 
 THE CARRIAGE TURNED A CORNER 
 SHARPLY AND ENTERED ANOTHER 
 STREET" . 262
 
 The Voice in 
 the World of Pain
 
 The Voice in 
 the World of Pain 
 
 7HEY had told her that only 
 an operation could save her 
 life, and that it must be per 
 formed at once. 
 
 The voice of the physician 
 who first spoke seemed a trifle strained 
 and unnatural as he delivered this deci 
 sion. He hesitated perceptibly over his 
 words, and his eyes moved restlessly as 
 she fastened hers upon them. Even in the 
 sudden mental panic that had seized her, 
 and which she was controlling so well, she 
 realized his discomfort and felt a vague 
 gratitude for the sympathy that caused it. 
 It could not be easy, she reflected, to 
 tell a young woman for whom life held 
 3
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 as much as it did for her that a mortal 
 disease had fastened on her. She who had 
 always analyzed herself and others dis 
 covered that even at this crisis she was 
 dreamily trying to follow the mental proc 
 ess of the famous surgeon who had begun 
 to roam restlessly about the room. 
 
 "He will say nothing for a moment," 
 she thought. "He is giving me time to 
 pull myself together. I can, but I do need 
 the time. He needs it, too. He has had 
 to tell a woman who is young and rich, 
 one who is ambitious and in love, some 
 thing that may mean the loss of all these 
 things. He has made her feel as if the 
 world were slipping under her feet. The 
 only thing that may save her the knife. 
 My work must stop, my friends must 
 stand by helplessly. Even Jack can do 
 nothing for me dear Jack who would 
 do anything " 
 
 The objects in the room grew suddenly 
 dim. She sank deeper into the big chair 
 that held her, while despair, sudden and 
 unreasoning, filled her soul. The ques 
 tion which has so often come to men and 
 4
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 women in agony through all time rose 
 in her. Why, oh, why, had existence 
 begun at all, if it must end like this? To 
 her the grim implacability of fate was 
 as awful a revelation as if she were the 
 only one to whom it had ever come. To 
 be projected into the world through no 
 volition of one s own, to be danced about 
 like a puppet on a string, to have the body 
 to which one is tied seized by disease, and 
 to be forced to watch one s own decay, 
 helpless to arrest or avert it that was a 
 horror before which the soul itself must 
 shrink. 
 
 Her strong soul was appalled by the 
 prospect. Many had leaned on it in the 
 course of her young life, whose brightness 
 had not made her heedless of the gloom 
 in which some have to walk. Her strength 
 had never failed them, but in this tragedy 
 it was failing herself and she found no 
 helper. She had made her appointment 
 with the specialists and had come to them 
 without a word even to those who were 
 nearest to her. "Why should I go to 
 them with my trouble?" she had asked 
 5
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 herself. " It may not be what I fear, and 
 I should alarm them unnecessarily. If it 
 is well, there will be time enough to tell 
 them when I know myself/ 
 
 She thought of them now at least she 
 thought of Jack. Was it only last June 
 they had been married? It seemed as if 
 they had always been together, as if they 
 had always belonged to each other as if 
 life had only really begun when she met 
 him. He came vividly before her, gay, 
 debonair, his brown eyes full of the ten 
 derness she knew so well. She pictured the 
 change that would come in them when she 
 told him. The thought wrung from her 
 what her own suffering had not done. 
 She groaned, and the three physicians at 
 once assumed an air of professional in 
 terest. 
 
 In the interval of silence they had worn 
 their usual calm. They were suave, pol 
 ished, hopeful. In this atmosphere of cool, 
 scientific interest the woman s will asserted 
 itself, and she set her teeth with the deter 
 mination to meet these men with a calm 
 ness equal to their own. She asked that 
 6
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 the operation might be performed three 
 days later, and found them thoroughly in 
 accord with her wish to have the matter 
 hastened. Every detail was arranged ; the 
 strain was lightened to the extent of a 
 mild professional jest or two dropped with 
 the friendly wish to convince her that the 
 situation was not hopelessly tragic. Then 
 she went to her carriage while three pairs 
 of eyes looked after her and then at one 
 another with an expression it was well 
 she did not see. She directed the coach 
 man to drive home, and, drawing her furs 
 around her, gave herself again to reflection. 
 Unconsciously she drooped forward a little 
 in her seat, staring at the falling snow 
 outside with eyes which hardly saw the 
 streets and scenes through which she 
 passed. At one point in the journey up 
 town the carriage was stopped for a mo 
 ment by a sudden congestion of traffic; 
 but she was not conscious of it. Her 
 beautiful face, outlined against the dark 
 collar of her fur coat and framed by the 
 carriage window, drew the eyes of another 
 woman who stood at the curb waiting for 
 7
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 an opening in the line of vehicles. She, 
 too, was miserable but something in the 
 expression of the eyes looking over her 
 head made her forget her own burden in a 
 sudden thrill of unselfish sympathy. 
 
 "Handsome and rich/ she mused, as 
 the line parted and she made her way 
 across the street. "She seems to have 
 everything; but her face with that look 
 of despair on it! She is wretched more 
 so than I am." 
 
 Nevertheless, she might have failed to 
 recognize the face had she seen it three 
 hours later when Mrs. Jack Imboden turned 
 it towards the young Englishman whom 
 her hostess of the evening had assigned 
 to take her into dinner. She herself knew 
 that she never had looked better, and Jack 
 had confirmed this conviction when he 
 folded her wrap about her as they were 
 leaving home. She had told him nothing 
 of the afternoon s experience; she could 
 not, she discovered. There were limita 
 tions even to her courage. She could dress, 
 she could meet a dinner engagement, she 
 could look her best and be her brightest 
 8
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 that much she could and would force 
 herself to do. But tell Jack no, not yet. 
 The next morning, perhaps. If only he 
 would have some business call to the West, 
 as he had once had during the summer, 
 and be detained until all was over there 
 was the germ of an idea in that. Perhaps, 
 after all, she could arrange it so he need 
 not know. 
 
 She was aroused from her reverie by the 
 soft laughter of the young Englishman 
 at her side. This is delicious/ he said, 
 appreciatively, and she became conscious 
 that she had been talking brightly, as 
 usual, and that what she had just said 
 was rather clever. Jack had caught it, 
 too, and was looking at her with the ex 
 pression she most loved to see in his eyes 
 a look of proud and tender proprietorship. 
 Her own expression changed so suddenly 
 that both men noticed it, and Effingham, 
 the Englishman, commented upon it the 
 next morning as he was giving an account 
 of the dinner to his cousin. 
 
 "Mrs. Jack Imboden, who wrote that 
 clever society novel last year, was in her 
 9
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 best form/ he said. "She got off some 
 clever things, and told a good story that 
 I d tell you, old man, if I could remember 
 how it went. But for all that, I don t 
 believe she is happy. I can t explain it; 
 but every now and then there was some 
 thing and once she looked at Imboden 
 in the strangest way. She is too much 
 of a thoroughbred to do that, you know, 
 without good reason, and I rather fancied 
 that something was up. Do you suppose 
 they have quarrelled, or that he is not 
 treating her right?" 
 
 His cousin, the Honorable Cuthbert Ef- 
 fingham, yawned widely. He had not met 
 Mrs. Imboden, and the subject did not 
 especially interest him. 
 
 "Since you ve got religion, Albert," he 
 drawled, " I ve noticed in you a melancholy 
 conviction that every soul but your own is 
 unsaved and unsatisfied. Mrs. Imboden s 
 all right. Perhaps her new gown didn t 
 fit, or something. You re getting morbid. 
 You won t even admit that I m happy. 
 Come with me and I ll give you my imitation 
 of boyish glee over a game of billiards." 
 10
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 "The germ of an idea" evolved during 
 the dinner that evening, developed well. 
 By taking Jack s partner into her con 
 fidence, a rapid exchange of telegrams 
 between the East and West made Mrs. 
 Imboden s plan succeed so well that she 
 drove with her husband to the station the 
 day before the operation, and saw him 
 whirled away in a westward-bound train. 
 He had rebelled loudly over going; the 
 subtle instinct that is the twin of perfect 
 love had told him something was wrong. 
 Once or twice she had almost faltered, 
 almost confessed it would have been so 
 great a comfort to have him to lean upon. 
 But she had sent him away, playing her 
 part perfectly until the end. If, when the 
 train rolled out of the station, she dropped 
 the mask for a moment, there was no one 
 who knew her to see it fall. 
 
 There was much to be done that last 
 night she thought of it, somehow, as the 
 last night, absolutely. Her mental process 
 refused to go beyond the events of the 
 next day, and though she did not allow 
 her thoughts to take on more than a Iwpo- 
 n
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 theticai foreboding of death, she made her 
 will, gave definite instructions to the friends 
 who were now aware of what was to take 
 place, and wrote a long letter to Jack which 
 was to be mailed to him, "unless," as 
 she put it to her maid, "within three days 
 I myself give you instructions to the con- 
 trary." 
 
 The great surgeon came in the evening. 
 He was deeply interested in the woman 
 as well as in the case. He persuaded her 
 to take a sleeping-draught, mixing it him 
 self with a solicitude which would have sur 
 prised his colleagues had they seen it. 
 
 "You must sleep well to-night, you 
 know," he said to her, "and you would 
 not do it without this. You d say you 
 would, and you would try, but you would 
 lie awake all night and think which 
 would be bad for you." 
 
 It was a long speech for the great sur 
 geon. He himself was a little surprised, 
 and was so still more when late that night 
 he found himself giving his wife the history 
 of the case. It was his rule not to carry 
 professional matters into his home, and he 
 12
 
 The Voice in. the World of Pain 
 
 was sorry he had broken it when he saw 
 the tears his remarks called forth. 
 
 "You ll save her, won t you?" his wife 
 whispered, clinging to him, and his answer 
 was brief but full of feeling. 
 
 "She shall have the best I can give," 
 he said, quietly ; and the aroused womanly 
 sympathy was content. 
 
 " I need not tell you to be brave," he said, 
 looking down encouragingly at Mrs. Im- 
 boden the next day, a moment before the 
 anaesthetic was administered. "You will 
 be that, I know. But you must be hope 
 ful. We are going to bring you through 
 all right." 
 
 She smiled back at him faintly. "I 
 will do all I can to help you," she said. 
 "I will give you no trouble." 
 
 The saturated cone settled over her face, 
 and the sweet fumes of the anaesthetic 
 filled her nostrils and crept into her lungs. 
 
 "Take a deep breath," she heard a voice 
 say. "Take a deep breath and count. 
 Begin with one and count as long as you 
 can." 
 
 She counted steadily to eight, drawing 
 13
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 in the fumes with each breath, and, un 
 consciously, breathing as little as possible. 
 At nine a sudden panic came upon her. 
 Her strong will broke and a sense of dark 
 ness and horror filled her. She opened 
 her mouth to shriek, and a great, cold 
 wave seemed to lift her and carry her 
 away. She heard some one say, "twelve/ 
 "thirteen/ "fourteen," and her heart 
 was filled with pity for a wretched woman, 
 who, far off in another world, was suffer 
 ing. The words seemed to be forced by a 
 tremendous will from a body in agony. 
 "Seven-te-e-n," "eight-een," "n-i-ne-te-en," 
 moaned the distant voice. Then all was 
 blackness and oblivion. 
 
 When she again became conscious of 
 her own identity she was one of a vast 
 number of souls floating through a long, 
 dark valley at the distant end of which 
 gleamed a ray of light. She seemed, like 
 the others, to be propelling herself towards 
 this light with the dimly defined concep 
 tion that it marked her objective point. 
 But the journey was endless. Centuries 
 seemed to pass, empires to rise and fall, 
 14
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 worlds to appear and disappear as she 
 travelled on. At first all was silence. 
 Then the air was filled with a low moan, 
 increasing in violence as she drew near 
 the end of the valley, until it swelled to a 
 vast diapason of human agony. Before 
 the horror of it her brain reeled ; she grasped 
 blindly at the shadowy forms about her, 
 but each swept on unswervingly. She 
 felt herself falling, and as she sank the 
 conviction settled upon her that this was 
 at last the end. She did not know why, 
 but she realized that if she lost her place 
 in that dim procession she would never get 
 back into the brightness of the world she 
 was seeking. 
 
 Suddenly a voice, rich, soft, and musical, 
 spoke beside her. It was a deep, strong 
 barytone a human voice. It rose and 
 fell softly, persistently. She did not hear 
 the words; but she knew at once that it 
 was meant for her, that it was striving to 
 reach her and to help her. To its humanity 
 and sympathy she responded as a fright 
 ened child in the dark responds to the 
 touch of its mother s hand. She felt strong, 
 15
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 well poised, resolute. She found herself 
 again a part of the throng around her, 
 hurrying towards the light which grew 
 brighter as they approached the exit from 
 the valley. Through it all the voice re 
 mained beside her, uplifting and sustain 
 ing. As it grew stronger the whole valley 
 seemed to her to be full of it, but the other 
 shadows took no h eed. The conviction 
 strengthened that it was for her alone 
 that she alone heard it. A buoyant hope 
 and strength took possession of her, and 
 the appalling sense of loneliness departed. 
 She floated calmly onward, out of the dense 
 gloom into a gray twilight, then at last 
 through the great arch at the end of the 
 valley and into a broad, green field over 
 which lay the blessed light of day. 
 
 As her eyes grew accustomed to the 
 brightness around her she saw that the 
 light came not from a sun, but from a 
 brilliant dome arching over the field and 
 from which radiated myriads of golden 
 wires converging to a vast instrument in 
 the centre. These wires threw out blind 
 ing and many-colored lights. At the in- 
 16
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 strument sat a woman of heroic size in 
 flowing white robes that melted into the 
 brilliance around her. Her great face 
 was calm, beautiful, benign. On the green 
 sward in front of her were thousands of 
 men, women, and little children. Each 
 was dressed in white, each face was dis 
 torted, and from each open mouth came 
 cries of agony. From time to time the 
 ranks parted, and one person was swept 
 into the space directly before the instru 
 ment. The mighty hand of the woman 
 sitting there struck a key, and as the note 
 sounded one of the wires faded and the 
 shrieking, foremost figure sank from sight. 
 
 Florence Imboden stood on the outskirts 
 of the throng and looked at those near her, 
 forgetting her own physical suffering in 
 the sight of theirs. She seemed to under 
 stand at once what it all meant, and she 
 accepted without question the explanation 
 that suggested itself as one accepts the 
 strange experiences that come in dreams. 
 
 "This is the World of Pain/ she told 
 herself, "and these are the souls of men 
 and women whose tortured bodies are ly- 
 17
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 ing on operating-tables in our world below. 
 The surgeons tell us when we come back 
 that we have not suffered; but we do, we 
 do!" 
 
 The young girl standing next to her 
 was suddenly swept by some invisible 
 force to the open space before the instru 
 ment. The woman left behind knew that 
 her time was coming and braced herself 
 to meet it. But fear, hideous, sickening, 
 demoralizing, again claimed her. The 
 head of the woman at the instrument bent 
 to her, and she felt herself propelled for 
 ward. The pandemonium around her grew 
 wilder. She realized now that the distant 
 echo of it was what she had heard in her 
 journey through the valley. She saw the 
 mighty hand before her move towards the 
 key, and her eyes followed it. The sur 
 face of the key was a transparent crystal. 
 Looking through, she saw a room, bare, 
 marble lined, with a table in the centre 
 around which were grouped half a dozen 
 white-robed figures. Four were men and 
 two were women nurses. On the table 
 lay a figure. As she looked, the cone in 
 18
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 the hand of one was lifted; a sudden stir 
 of excitement was noticeable in the tense 
 circle. Under the raised cone she saw 
 her own face, white, still, terrible. There 
 w T as a quick rush to and fro, the body was 
 raised, something that looked like a gal 
 vanic battery was produced and used. 
 The great surgeon turned from the table 
 and threw up his hand in a gesture of 
 hopelessness. 
 
 The mighty finger of the instrument 
 moved implacably towards the key, shut 
 ting off the glimpse into the world below. 
 She felt herself sinking, going, when again 
 the wonderful voice that had sustained her 
 sounded in her ear melodious, golden, 
 with musical inflections never heard in 
 any other world, but never to be forgotten 
 now. This time she could hear the words : 
 
 " Give her strength for the ordeal before 
 her, and if it is Thy will restore her to the 
 life in which she has done so much good, 
 to the husband whom she has so greatly 
 blessed. We ask it in the name " 
 
 She raised her head without fear and 
 looked into the calm eyes of the woman at 
 19
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 the instrument. The voice went on. She 
 heard the words no longer; but those to 
 which she had listened were enough. She 
 would live. She would live for Jack, 
 "the husband whom she had so greatly 
 blessed/ Some benign, some powerful in 
 fluence was behind her, strengthening and 
 upholding her. She would live. 
 
 "She is coming round at last," said a 
 voice, softly. 
 
 "That was a close call, doctor," said 
 another. " I never saw a closer one. I was 
 certain for a few seconds that the pulse " 
 
 She opened her eyes. The white-walled 
 room was whirling round her. Faces, 
 vaguely familiar, appeared and disap 
 peared. One, mistlike at first, gradually 
 shaped itself into the features of the great 
 surgeon. His stern eyes smiled at her. 
 
 "It s all over/ he remarked, tersely. 
 "Now you have only to get well." 
 
 "Doctor," she said, dreamily, "there is 
 a soul there is a soul. I have never felt 
 certain of it before. And that voice that 
 wonderful voice that saved me the voice 
 that prayed. Where was it?" 
 20
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 She saw them smile a little at her seem 
 ing incoherence. 
 
 " Never mind, dear Mrs. Imboden, that s 
 the ether/ one of the nurses said, gently. 
 But she persisted and questioned until the 
 surgeon himself came to her bedside. 
 
 "Who prayed," she asked. "Who was 
 it that prayed?" 
 
 He laid lightly on hers the steady hand 
 that had worked so well for her, and spoke 
 to her as one speaks to a fretful child. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Imboden," he said, sooth 
 ingly, "you must be very quiet. Don t 
 talk. Don t think. As for this voice of 
 yours there has been no praying here." 
 He drew on his gloves as he added, with 
 professional pride, "We have been work 
 ing." 
 
 She regained strength rapidly and some 
 of her old-time brightness and buoyancy 
 came with it. But when the news of the 
 accident in which Jack Imboden had met 
 his death was flashed to his New York 
 home, they kept it from her as long as 
 they dared. Before this double tragedy 
 in her life her friends succumbed in silent 
 21
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 despair. There was none among them 
 strong enough to tell her, so they delayed 
 while she talked of him constantly and 
 counted the days that must pass before he 
 could return to her. 
 
 When ihey finally told her, she turned 
 her face to the wall without comment and 
 asked them to leave her alone. Through 
 the weary days and nights that followed 
 she lay there making no outcry, no com 
 plaint; accepting what was done for her 
 without question, silent, tense, automatic. 
 
 "She s losing strength every hour," 
 said the day nurse, uneasily, to one of her 
 associates. This has destroyed her only 
 chance. They shouldn t have told her 
 and yet how could they help it? She was 
 constantly asking for him, and the anxiety 
 and suspense would have been as bad as 
 the truth. Her courage would have pulled 
 her through but this ends it. She will 
 not have to mourn her husband long." 
 
 As the weeks passed, the same con 
 viction came to Florence Imboden, like a 
 flash of light across a midnight sky. After 
 all what matter? It would not be long. 
 
 22
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 In any case she might not have lived more 
 than a year or two, and if that were so the 
 situation was as Jack himself would have 
 wished it to be. He would have felt that 
 he could not live without her now she 
 need not live on without him. It was well. 
 Only a short time and they would be to 
 gether. But would they? The question 
 loomed suddenly before her, black, for 
 bidding, shutting out the light that had 
 entered her soul. 
 
 Would they? Was there a hereafter? 
 Was the soul immortal or was death 
 merely the sinking of the mortal into that 
 nothing which is poetically called eternal 
 peace and sleep? 
 
 In her full, bright life she had never 
 before had these questions come home to 
 her. She had attended church, she had 
 freely given from the abundance that was 
 hers, she had felt deep respect for the aims 
 and teachings of religion and for the con 
 viction of her religious friends. But in 
 her soul she was conscious that she did not 
 know that she had never been convinced 
 that religion was not the vital thing to 
 23
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 her it was to some others. Now her heart 
 cried out for faith, for conviction, for im 
 mortality. 
 
 "If I could be certain of meeting Jack 
 again/ she breathed, " how cheerfully, how 
 gladly I could bear whatever comes." 
 
 She recalled the firm conviction in which 
 she had come back to life after her opera 
 tion. "There is a soul, there is a soul," 
 she had told the doctors, with her mind 
 full of that experience in the upper world, 
 her ears still hearing the tones of that 
 marvellous voice. They had smiled over 
 her words, telling her the episode was 
 merely an ether vision and a common one 
 at that. No doubt they were right, she 
 told herself. The shock of Jack s death 
 had pulled her down from any spiritual 
 heights she might have reached to the 
 earthly plane on which her only need was 
 the sound of his voice, the touch of his 
 hand. The mysterious voice had haunted 
 her for a few days. She had thought of 
 it, dreamed of it but now that, too, was 
 gone. She was getting out of touch with 
 every human thing worse than that, 
 24
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 with every spiritual thing. This, at last, 
 was agony. What had gone before was 
 nothing. She was alone, hideously alone. 
 She had called on God and heard no an 
 swer. She tried to pray and the prayers 
 seemed a hollow mockery. She sank into 
 lethargic despair. 
 
 Effingham found her so one day when 
 he had begged to see her for a moment. 
 It was the first time they had met since 
 her illness, as he had unexpectedly sailed 
 for England the day after her operation 
 was performed. She had always liked the 
 sympathetic, clean - souled, ascetic young 
 Englishman, and she found herself speak 
 ing to him as she had spoken to no one 
 else. 
 
 "You believe in a hereafter, do you 
 not?" she asked, wistfully, while he was 
 studying, with a sense of shock, the great 
 changes in her. 
 
 He flushed a little, with the English 
 man s disinclination to touch upon the 
 subjects most sacred to him. But some 
 thing in her eyes and face made him re 
 spond simply and fully. 
 25
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Imboden," he said, "I do, 
 indeed. The faith I have in God and 
 heaven is very near to me. You know/ 
 he added, slowly, "I am preparing for the 
 Church, and I am here to study with a dear 
 friend who has helped me more than any 
 one I have ever known. If you have doubts 
 if you are looking for strength and con 
 viction, he can help you, I am sure. He is 
 a wonderful man. Will you let me bring 
 him to you, or, better still, will you go with 
 me to his church some day? It is not 
 very far up-town, and I would like to have 
 you see him among his people. Just 
 now he is giving a series of afternoon 
 talks : every one of them is an inspiration. 
 Perhaps," he added, "you would be will 
 ing to drive up there with me now." 
 
 She hesitated. " I have gone out but a 
 few times," she said, doubtfully. "I am 
 perfectly able to go, but it seems so hard 
 for me to move to rouse myself from the 
 condition of lethargy I am in." 
 
 The tone and her expression made Ef- 
 fingham unusually persistent. 
 
 "Come," he urged. "We ll sit at the 
 26
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 back of the church, and nobody will see us. 
 You need not see Livingston afterwards 
 unless you wish, although I fancy you 
 will want to talk to him when you have 
 heard him. People usually do." 
 
 She allowed herself to be persuaded, 
 and they drove up-town together to the 
 little church, tucked modestly out of the 
 way in an unfashionable side street. The 
 winter day was drawing to a close, and 
 the church was but dimly lighted. As they 
 entered a pew near the door they saw that 
 all the seats were filled by shadowy figures 
 leaning forward as if in prayer. They 
 settled themselves comfortably and gave 
 themselves up to the quiet and peace of 
 the place. Through the door at the right 
 of the sanctuary a man came. She could 
 see his figure but dimly in the uncertain 
 light. He stood for a moment looking over 
 the assembly and then began to speak. 
 
 At the first word, Florence Imboden 
 started to her feet. The voice was a deep 
 barytone, full of musical inflections, heard 
 by her but once before but not to be mis 
 taken when heard again. It was the voice 
 , 2 7
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 of the World of Pain the voice that had 
 comforted, the voice that had saved. She 
 buried her face in her hands while her 
 brain reeled. Her mind was going at last, 
 she thought ; no mind could stand the accu 
 mulated horrors of these last few months. 
 She tried to think calmly. It was the 
 voice but the other had been only "an 
 ether vision." Had they not told her so? 
 This man was strange to her but that 
 voice was not could never be. She tried 
 to pray but could not. A nervous tremor 
 convulsed her. She rose and groped her 
 way out of the pew. Effingham, sud 
 denly roused from his absorption, assisted 
 her without question into the street where 
 her carriage stood waiting. She motioned 
 the footman away. 
 
 "I want the air," she said to Effingham. 
 "Let us walk up and down for a few mo 
 ments/ 
 
 They strolled along the deserted street, 
 the young Englishman supporting her 
 with friendly sympathy. He did not speak 
 at first, but as he saw her grow calmer he 
 broke the silence. 
 
 28
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 "I am afraid you did not like him," he 
 said, with some disappointment ; " and I am 
 so sorry. I felt sure he could help you." 
 
 She made no reply, and he went on talk 
 ing with the friendly purpose of giving 
 her time to collect herself. 
 
 "He has helped me, as I have told you, 
 more than any one else, and I have perfect 
 confidence in him. I turn to him not only 
 with my own troubles, but with those of 
 my friends. I hope you won t mind my 
 telling you," he went on, a little diffident 
 ly, "that I took yours to him. When I 
 learned of your your illness, I went to 
 him the day before sailing and asked him 
 to pray for you during the operation, which 
 was to be performed the next afternoon at 
 two. Before I had been in England a week 
 I had a letter from him. 
 
 "He wrote that your case strongly ap 
 pealed to him had taken hold of him, 
 as he put it. So much so, in fact, he said, 
 that he had knelt down in his study and 
 prayed for you for two hours while your 
 operation was going on. Why, Mrs. Im- 
 boden " 
 
 29
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 She reeled slightly, but his strong arm 
 held her up. Her mind was not going, 
 after all ; it grasped as much of the strange 
 experience as she could understand. She 
 did not know why it should have come to 
 her of all the world, but she did not ques 
 tion, either. It was for some great purpose, 
 she felt. When the human soul was taxed 
 beyond its powers something divine en 
 tered in and helped it. She was no mere 
 atom whirling through space, to exist for 
 a little time and perish. Back of the mys 
 tery of life was some benign power she 
 did not know what, but she was satisfied. 
 In these dark hours of her life it had given 
 her this proof that it existed. She could 
 safely trust herself to it. She looked up 
 into Effingham s eyes with a sudden light 
 in hers which gladdened him. 
 
 "Your friend can help me," she said, 
 "and he shall more than any one else in 
 the whole world. He shall teach me and 
 I will believe I know it. Let us go to 
 him now." 
 
 The people were coming out of the lit 
 tle church as they turned back together. 
 30
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain 
 
 They stood aside for a moment to let the 
 others pass. Off in the darkness the street- 
 lamps began to twinkle; above, the cres 
 cent of the moon hung pale in the twilight. 
 Florence Imboden drew a deep breath as 
 she looked up at it. The tragedy of life, 
 of which her mind had been so full what 
 was it? Nothing. Fear, pain, loneliness, 
 all these were swept away by the mental 
 illumination that had come to her. The 
 grim spectre of death itself was a benign 
 friend, waiting smilingly beside her. Her 
 prayers were answered. It was well with 
 her it was to be well with her. No matter 
 what came, or how long or short the time, 
 she could bear, she could wait. This little 
 life was not the end. There was another 
 world, another existence complete, perfect. 
 She did not know where, but it was some 
 where and in it Jack was waiting!
 
 An Episode 
 at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s
 
 An Episode 
 at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 : ROM the first the new-comer 
 did not appeal to the other 
 boarders at Mrs. Kirkpat- 
 rick s select establishment. 
 There were various reasons 
 for this. She was, to begin with, very 
 diffident and rather plain. The close ob 
 server might have seen beauty in her face, 
 and the student of human nature would 
 have liked the character shown in the 
 poise of her head and in the direct glance 
 of her brown eyes. But there were few close 
 observers at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s table, and 
 fewer students of human nature. They 
 were busy men and women, slightly im- 
 bittered, perhaps, by boarding-house meals, 
 35
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 and by abortive efforts at hospitality with 
 in the confines of one room. They ob 
 served that the new - comer did not con 
 tribute to the persiflage that served as 
 conversation at meal - time, and they de 
 cided that she was dull. When they dis 
 covered that she had taken a hall bed 
 room and moved a piano into it as an aux 
 iliary to her efforts to master the art of 
 singing, their indifference gave way in sev 
 eral instances to acute disapproval, and 
 the young woman whose room was next 
 to the singer s sought the landlady with 
 an energetic protest. 
 
 The landlady soothed her, as she soothed 
 all the worms that turned. It was doubtful, 
 she said, whether Miss Dixon would re 
 main long. Yes, Dixon was her name 
 Helen Dixon and her home was in some 
 little town up in Pennsylvania. The girl 
 had come to New York as an experiment, 
 with a small amount of money she had 
 "saved up" by teaching school. She 
 could remain only as long as this money 
 last-ed; but she thought she had a voice, 
 and that it needed cultivation. Mrs. Kirk- 
 36
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 patrick did not agree with her in this theory, 
 and her own voice dropped mysteriously 
 as she added her suspicion that the ex 
 periment would be a brief one. 
 
 "An I guess you won t be troubled 
 much when she is singin ," she ended, 
 cheerfully. "She s got a poor little peep 
 of a voice that can t creep through the 
 key-hole. I don t think she ll find many 
 teachers in New York to encourage her." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkpatrick was wrong. Miss Dix- 
 on had no difficulty in finding a teacher 
 a young man recommended by the organ 
 ist in her native town, and sadly in need of 
 pupils. He accepted a large portion of 
 the girl s savings as advance payment, 
 and the lessons began. 
 
 Several days later it dawned upon the 
 members of Mrs. Kirkpatrick s "family" 
 that they had among them a source of 
 inexhaustible hilarity. It was Miss Dix- 
 on s voice, and it was always with them. 
 They heard it when they left the house 
 in the morning, and when they returned 
 at night; and it never failed to greet them 
 as they came to luncheon or dinner. It 
 37
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 was in the air the livelong day a feeble, 
 plaintive thread of voice, chirping like a 
 depressed sparrow under the eaves, some 
 times running on scales and exercises, 
 again pitched high on ambitious operatic 
 efforts, but ever and always off the key. 
 
 The inmates of Mrs. Kirkpatrick s house, 
 being humorists, did not observe that it 
 was plaintive. When they discovered that 
 Miss Dixon took herself very seriously in 
 deed, the situation developed in humor 
 ous charm, and when she finally began 
 to talk shyly about her "art," which was 
 at the beginning of her fourth week of 
 study, they gave themselves up to unre 
 strained joy, and to a secret and corporate 
 understanding from which she alone was 
 shut out. 
 
 Meal-time actually became popular at 
 Mrs. Kirkpatrick s. There had been a 
 " once " when her boarders permitted them 
 selves to be lured away by other attrac 
 tions, but this was past. Now they as 
 sembled gladly around the festive board, 
 and the subject discussed there was music, 
 and the favorite authority on that topic 
 38
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 was Miss Helen Dixon, assisted by her 
 admiring associates. She remained se 
 renely unconscious of the pleasantry that 
 went on at her expense, and when they 
 urged her to sing for them, as they did, 
 she accommodated as many as she could 
 in her room, in which the folding-bed curled 
 modestly up against the wall, and the 
 remainder of her guests sat in the hall 
 outside and clasped each other s hands in 
 ecstasy. She sang a great deal of operatic 
 music for them, and there was one simple 
 song, only one, which she deigned to at 
 tempt "The Land o the Leal." She 
 pitched this very high, sang it as if it were 
 rather a merry roundelay, and in a key 
 not even on speaking acquaintance with 
 that in which the accompaniment was 
 played; so it made a delightful evening s 
 entertainment, and was greatly appre 
 ciated by her guests. She used to accept 
 their thanks with a shy smile and a really 
 pretty blush; and once or twice, under 
 much urging, she repeated to them en 
 couraging tributes from her "master/ a 
 gentleman who seemed to share their sense 
 39
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 of humor, for he allowed her to choose her 
 own music, and assured her that she was 
 making gratifying progress. 
 
 At the end of her second month she be 
 gan to appear only at breakfast and dinner, 
 omitting luncheon on the ground that it 
 interfered with practice, and by the middle 
 of the third month she was dispensing 
 with breakfast also, substituting milk and 
 a roll in her room. It looked as if she 
 might soon lead a foodless life through 
 practice. Mrs. Kirkpatrick admitted that 
 the girl had made a new arrangement 
 with her by which she paid only for her 
 room and her dinner, thus saving the re 
 mainder of her money for lessons. 
 
 "Of course I don t do that often," she 
 added, " but she is so dead set on it, and I 
 suppose it won t do her any harm. She 
 gets one good meal a day, anyhow." Mrs. 
 Kirkpatrick was good-natured and philo 
 sophical. 
 
 Under some conditions it might possibly 
 have occurred to Miss Dixon s fellow- 
 boarders that at this point her position had 
 ceased to be unrelievedly funny. But 
 40
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 habit is a great power, and she had been 
 amusing them for three months. More 
 over, just at this time she caught a cold, 
 which, while it did not seem to be serious, 
 added an especially grotesque quality to 
 her voice. It did not seem necessary to 
 her to cease singing for the benefit of her 
 inflamed vocal cords, so she continued the 
 usual evening concerts, and on one of 
 these occasions the enjoyment of a certain 
 3 7 oung man was so intense and unclouded 
 that it gave birth to suspicion in Miss 
 Dixon s mind. She wheeled on the piano- 
 stool and faced her audience with a long, 
 direct gaze. They took it variously 
 some, like the unfortunate youth, with 
 most primitive shame, others with ill- 
 cloaked confusion, one or two with a mut 
 tered apology but on each face lay re 
 vealed the story of deception. Miss Dixon 
 rose, opened the door, and stood for one 
 instant facing them. Then, with a gesture 
 surprisingly full of dignity, she indicated 
 the small hallway which, to her mind, stood 
 for the wide outer universe. 
 
 "Will you please go all of you?" she
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 said. "I see I have been amusing you 
 this winter. I am sorry I did not under 
 stand, but where I came from people 
 are different " 
 
 It was not a florid rebuke, and there was 
 no elocution about it, but there was an 
 unsought dramatic touch in the manner 
 in which she suddenly sank into a chair, 
 rested her head on the back of it, and burst 
 into tears. Her cold and the lack of food 
 had perhaps weakened her but to those 
 who left her there and went slowly down 
 stairs she seemed very strong in that weak 
 ness. They had not meant to be cruel; 
 they were merely shallow and foolish, 
 and because they w r ere they did not know 
 how to show the real contrition that now 
 disturbed them. They stood around aim 
 lessly in the hall for a while, before drift 
 ing away, and as the days passed they 
 sought to catch her eye, and to beam upon 
 her, and to say genuinely friendly things. 
 She remained very quiet and unresponsive. 
 She still practised, but much less than 
 formerly, and never in the evenings; and 
 she was at the table now so seldom that 
 42
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 she had been ill for several days before 
 they missed her and dared to ask each 
 other where she was. The landlady told 
 them, rather shortly. The doctor had 
 talked about pneumonia, and "she was 
 sure she didn t know what she d do if 
 the girl got sick!" It was useless to 
 send for her mother, who was old and 
 delicate. 
 
 Boarding-houses are like prisons in that 
 vital things are occultly communicated. 
 The boarders grasped at the opportunity 
 for reparation, and the women said eagerly 
 that they would nurse Miss Dixon, taking 
 turns by day and night, if she would allow 
 them that privilege. A committee of two, 
 whose deeper shame did duty as a welling 
 sympathy, waited on her with this request, 
 and even to their untrained eyes the utter 
 collapse of the girl was evident. She 
 thanked them listlessly, but showed an 
 entire indifference to her situation. Ap 
 parently it was a matter of no importance 
 to her whether she was nursed or not. 
 She turned her face to the wall and sank 
 into a singular condition of stupor, over 
 43
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 which the doctor frowned reflectingly when 
 he came again that night. 
 
 Just once, during the days that followed, 
 she roused from her lethargy, and this 
 was when a young girl in the neighbor 
 hood, also a musical student, who had 
 met her once or twice, came in to make a 
 sisterly call. Miss Dixon suddenly opened 
 her eyes and asked the visitor to sing, 
 repeating the demand several times with 
 strange persistence and energy. She want 
 ed "The Land o the Leal," and the other 
 sang it softly, but very sweetly, in a sym 
 pathetic mezzo voice, suited to the sim 
 ple pathos of the words and melody. At 
 the end Miss Dixon thanked her. " Some 
 how," she said, drowsily, "I seem to un 
 derstand it better than I ever did before." 
 She dozed again, and through the even 
 ing and the long night the women who 
 watched beside her heard her repeating 
 some of the \vords softly to herself, over 
 and over: 
 
 " I m wearing awa , Jean, 
 Like snow in the tha , Jean," 
 
 44
 
 An Episode at Mrs Kirkpatrick s 
 
 and for the first time it came home to them, 
 as it had seemingly already been borne in 
 upon her, that this was true that she 
 was "wearing awa " that she had long 
 been "wearing awa " before they noticed 
 it, and that she might not get well. 
 
 The next morning they sent for her 
 mother, and the doctor came twice during 
 the day, and over the establishment of 
 Mrs. Kirkpatrick there rested a heavy 
 gloom. The men were able to go off and 
 divert their minds. The women who were 
 at home,, and on day duty in the sick-room, 
 went about with reddened eyelids and 
 with aching hearts. It was late in the 
 afternoon when she turned upon them 
 the direct glance of her brown eyes, which 
 seemed suddenly wide awake and brill 
 iantly expressive. 
 
 "When my mother comes/ she gasped, 
 "be good to her. And don t tell her 
 don t tell her" her face twisted strangely 
 as she struggled for utterance "don t 
 tell her you laughed at me. Don t let 
 her know I failed!" In that gasping 
 prayer lay for two women both the pun- 
 45
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 ishment and the lesson of a lifetime. For 
 she spoke no more. At long intervals a 
 few words of the old song passed her lips, 
 and during the night she moaned wearily 
 once or twice. Towards morning she threw 
 her arms up over her head with a long 
 sigh of utter exhaustion, and lay very 
 still and over the room settled the great 
 solemnity and the peace Death brings 
 with him when he comes. The watchers, 
 who had never been so near him before, felt 
 his presence before they turned to the bed 
 from which the soul of Helen Dixon had 
 passed, leaving there a most unhumorous 
 little dead woman who smiled up at them 
 inscrutably. 
 
 That odd smile still rested on her lips 
 when her mother came, and the delicate 
 old woman who was led into the dark room 
 seemed to find in it the comfort of a message 
 and a promise. For hours she sat there, 
 holding the hand of her dead child, her 
 one child, and to her came the kind friends 
 who had done so much for her Helen. She 
 knew, she said, for Helen had written 
 home during the winter of their friendli- 
 46
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 ness and their sympathy with her work. 
 Now she wished them to tell her of her 
 daughter s last weeks. The letters had 
 been less frequent, and a little depressed, 
 she thought; no doubt it was this illness 
 coming on. Would they tell her all every 
 thing? no detail was too trivial for a 
 mother s ear and a mother s lonely heart 
 
 The brave old voice trembled slightly, 
 but she conquered the human spasm, and 
 faced her visitors with a quaint, old-fash 
 ioned dignity of manner. One by one 
 they talked to her there and told her all 
 all that they had planned to tell her after 
 her daughter s dying charge. 
 
 It was of the girl s voice they spoke 
 most of its beauty and its promise ! They 
 told her what it had been to them to know 
 her daughter and to enjoy her singing, 
 and to watch her delight in the art she 
 was studying with such gratifying results. 
 It was not subtle lying that a diplomat 
 could have admired, but it was convincing 
 to the one hearer. They said no one of 
 them had ever heard a more sympathetic 
 voice, and they repeated enthusiastic com- 
 47
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 ments of her teacher, and finished with a 
 little tribute from a musical critic brought 
 forward for the occasion. As they talked 
 the woman bowed at her daughter s side, 
 straightened herself, and held her white 
 head erect, and almost forgot for a few 
 seconds that her daughter s voice was 
 hushed forever. 
 
 Then she was happy/ she breathed. 
 "She was happy the last winter of her 
 life! I sometimes feared she had had 
 so man3^ disappointments, so much grief. 
 And towards the last her letters But 
 you all loved her, and you were kind to 
 her, and she was happy she was happy 
 oh, thank God thank God for that!" 
 
 She laid her head on the silent breast 
 of her child, and cried softly, but they 
 were not bitter tears; and as she wept it 
 seemed to the women sitting there as if 
 the smile on the cold face against the pil 
 low became ironical but that was perhaps 
 because they were tired, over-strained, and 
 knew it should be very ironical. 
 
 They carried out with unfaltering men 
 dacity their plan of atonement, and what 
 48
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 they lacked in finesse they made up in 
 human pity and zeal. They had Miss 
 Dixon s teacher call on her mother the 
 next morning, and the young man did 
 his part simply and naturally, and told 
 his dim -eyed listener of the career her 
 child might have had, if she had lived. 
 Then he did something which would not 
 have occurred for one moment to his artless 
 mind save for the conversation he had the 
 night before with Miss Dixon s fellow- 
 boarders. 
 
 " I want to ask a very great favor of 
 you/ he said, a little huskily. "Miss 
 Dixon had just paid me in advance for 
 another quarter, and that money, of course, 
 would in. any event be returned without 
 question. I would not trouble you with 
 such a detail at such a time, but I wish 
 also very much to return to you all 
 she has paid me this winter. It it was 
 enough payment to have her as a pupil." 
 With which masterly lie he laid the little 
 packet on the table, and stood up, looking 
 with boyish and genuine sorrow at the 
 white head below the level of his broad 
 4 49
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 shoulders. A sudden thought of his own 
 mother came to him, and he gulped hard 
 as he said good-bye, anjd went away. 
 
 In her place by her daughter s side Mrs. 
 Dixon talked that afternoon to Mrs. Kirk- 
 patrick. 
 
 "So much kindness, so much sympa 
 thy," she said. "Oh, how it has helped 
 to l<now that my poor darling had such 
 friend,s! They knew her so short a time, 
 and. yet they loved her so. But it was 
 always that way with Helen; she won 
 hearts easily. In our town every one 
 loved her; they have always come to her 
 with their troubles the children and the 
 young girls, and even the older women. 
 She was the teacher so long, you see 
 and she was so good to them. Strangely 
 enough, they were not interested in her 
 music, and they tried to discourage her 
 from going to New York. Several times 
 she had money saved to come, and she 
 gave it to friends who were in trouble. 
 My neighbors would say to me often after 
 she finally came, Well, Mrs. Dixon, if 
 Helen has found friends half as good to her 
 50
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 as she is to others, she is fortunate/ And 
 I was glad to be able to tell them that she 
 had." 
 
 The little woman rambled on, and Mrs. 
 Kirkpatrick moved restlessly in her chair. 
 She had not been oblivious to the situa 
 tion in her house that winter; she firmly 
 reminded herself now that she had taken 
 no part in it, and that, on the whole, she 
 had been considerate towards the girl. 
 The situation seemed to call for some re 
 assuring reflections. 
 
 That afternoon there came to the house 
 from the little town in Pennsylvania a 
 silent, dark-browed man who quietly and 
 capably took charge of the Dixons, living 
 and dead. The mother burst into wild 
 weeping when she saw him, but later she 
 confided to Mrs. Kirkpatrick how supreme 
 was the relief of his presence. 
 
 "He told me he would come," she said, 
 "but I was afraid he could not get away. 
 He is almost like a son to me is Jean 
 and I would have liked him as a son. He 
 has always cared for Helen, since they 
 were children together. But she did not
 
 Talcs of Destiny 
 
 love him that way, so they were just friends. 
 I ve always been sorry she didn t marry 
 him, and I hoped perhaps she would, some 
 day, when I left her. But she has gone 
 from me first, and I am alone " 
 
 The simple services were held that even 
 ing in the tiny room of the dead girl and 
 because it was so tiny there were present 
 only the mother and Jean and the clergy 
 man, which was as it should have been. 
 Mrs. Kirkpatrick s ample proportions over 
 flowed across the lintel of the door into the 
 hall, and back of her were members of 
 "the family," unhappy and strangely ill 
 at ease in the presence of Jean Mackenzie. 
 Then, as the exigencies of boarding-house 
 sensitiveness require consideration, the 
 other painful details were attended to late 
 at night. At half-past eleven a sombre 
 vehicle stood in front of Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 house, and grouped about it in attitudes 
 of patient waiting were the driver and the 
 undertaker s two assistants, who were to 
 go with it to the midnight train. In the 
 drawing-room the mother waited for the 
 precious burden to be carried down-stairs; 
 52
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 above, Jean Mackenzie turned his sombre 
 eyes on the men and women of the house 
 hold who had assembled in the little upper 
 hall. 
 
 "I m not going through the farce of 
 thanking you people for what you ve done/ 
 he said. "You ve tried to make up for 
 it these last few days, and you ve man 
 aged to spare her mother. She ll thank 
 you the dear old soul! But you ve killed 
 that girl among you! You know it, and 
 I know it. She wrote me the whole story 
 and God knows I tried to get her away 
 from you. I tried to make her come back 
 home where people knew her for what 
 she was the sweetest, gentlest woman 
 that ever lived tender beyond words to 
 everybody and everything. It was that 
 kind of woman you chose to guy to death. 
 No wonder she didn t see it; no wonder 
 she didn t understand. How could she 
 when there wasn t an atom of meanness 
 and cruelty in her beautiful nature. And 
 to think she did not let us know when she 
 was ill! To think she had to die here 
 among you you " 
 53
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 The door of the bedroom opened softly, 
 and the men came out with their burden. 
 Gently they bore it past the group and 
 down the three nights of stairs to the hearse 
 which awaited it. The street was dark 
 and silent; there was no one near as the 
 plain casket was slid into its resting-place 
 and the door was snapped shut. The 
 undertaker s men climbed to their places 
 beside the driver, and the horses started 
 off at a slow walk, their iron-shod hoofs 
 falling with a harsh, metallic click on the 
 asphalt pavement. 
 
 A single carriage drew up at the curb, 
 and Mr. Mackenzie gave his arm to 
 the little mother in the drawing-room, 
 and tenderly led her forth. At the 
 door she paused and looked once more 
 around the circle of pale faces which a 
 strange fascination had drawn together 
 for this last scene. She kissed the 
 women. 
 
 "How can I thank you?" she sobbed. 
 "How can I ever thank you?" 
 
 The hand of the man beside her tightened 
 on her arm. 
 
 54
 
 An Episode at Mrs. Kirkpatrick s 
 
 " Come, mother/ he said; " I have thank 
 ed them for you." 
 
 He helped her down the steps, put her 
 in the carriage, and took his place beside 
 her without a backward look. 
 
 "Helen s friends," they heard her sob, 
 as the driver lifted the reins. " Such good 
 friends to my poor little girl." 
 
 The carriage moved off slowly through 
 the deserted street, following Helen Dixon 
 on her journey home to the people who 
 loved her. The group of men and women 
 on Mrs. Kirkpatrick s front steps looked 
 after it with straining eyes until it turned 
 the corner. They were a silent and a 
 downcast group, in which a too exuberant 
 sense of humor had been blighted at its 
 fullest flower as by a heavy frost. 
 
 OF 
 
 PROPERTY OF 
 
 wsr r.c
 
 The Wife of a Hero
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 ?HEN Sergeant Ralston, of 
 "the th United States In- 
 Jgfantry, received his com 
 mission before the outbreak 
 , of the Spanish - American 
 war, the enlisted men of the regiment re 
 joiced exceedingly and the officers with 
 out exception gave him a cordial welcome 
 to their ranks. Ralston was not only 
 an excellent soldier, but a very popular 
 one. There was something singularly 
 magnetic in his personality. He was the 
 handsomest man in the regiment and its 
 crack athlete; but he remained wholly 
 unspoiled by success and an amount of 
 praise and attention enough to have turned 
 any young head. He was wholesome, loy 
 al, sincere, and unassuming. He worked 
 59
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 indefatigably, but never lacked time to 
 serve a friend. Radiating health and 
 happiness as the sun does warmth, he 
 was yet the one to whom his associates 
 instinctively turned in times of sickness 
 or trouble. He was a paragon, in brief, 
 about whom, in the entire course of his 
 military career, but one unkind remark 
 had been made. That emanated from 
 Major Buckstone, a confirmed dyspeptic, 
 who had long contemplated with gloomy 
 eyes the joyous existence of the young 
 sergeant. He once said, tersely, that 
 young Ralston would be endurable if he 
 had a redeeming vice a comment over 
 which Ralston himself smiled with utter 
 simplicity. 
 
 When the young man became lieutenant 
 and a more interesting object than ever in 
 his new uniform, the officers promptly ad 
 mitted him to their club, while their wives 
 began no less promptly to speculate as 
 to what manner of woman Mrs. Ralston 
 might be. He had left the post the week 
 after he received his commission, and had 
 returned a fortnight later with a bride of 
 60
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 whom nothing was known save that she 
 was a very beautiful woman. Ralston 
 adapted himself to his new position with 
 an easy grace which left nothing to be 
 desired, though it stimulated a mildly 
 wondering speculation as to his past. 
 His wife, however, might be wholly differ 
 ent "quite impossible/ as the Colonel s 
 wife apprehensively put it when she was 
 considering the matter in council with her 
 friends. It was finally decided to invite 
 the Ralstons only to the large social func 
 tions of the post such as receptions and 
 balls. On these occasions a critical eye 
 could be kept on Mrs. Ralston, and if she 
 conducted herself fitly the glorious possi 
 bilities of more exclusive affairs would lie 
 open to her. 
 
 It was an excellent solution of the prob 
 lem, which doubtless would have met 
 every requirement had it been carried 
 out. But just at this juncture war was 
 declared, and, before the women of the post 
 had recovered from the shock, the regi 
 ment was ordered to the front. There was 
 joy among the men and grief among their 
 61
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 wives. There was a tumult of expectation, 
 preparation, and excitement. Then the 
 regiment marched away with band play 
 ing, colors flying, and hearts under the 
 new uniforms beating less gayly than they 
 would have but for the heavy hearts left 
 behind. 
 
 Mrs. Ralston was at the station to see 
 the last of her handsome husband, and 
 even in their grief many of the women 
 observed her. They saw that she was 
 young and lovely, with a Madonna-like 
 beauty that touched the heart appealingly ; 
 saw, too, that she was suffering and bear 
 ing her suffering with a dignity equal to 
 their own. Several of the older women, 
 steeled by experience in Indian campaigns 
 on the frontier, mentally resolved that they 
 must and would do something for her. 
 They had each other to lean on and she 
 was utterly alone. But they forgot her 
 as they watched the crowded train bearing 
 away their own to sickness, to battle, per 
 haps to death. To each woman there 
 was that day just one man in the world 
 not especially striking or heroic to the 
 62
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 casual glance, but already a laurel-crowned 
 hero to the wet eyes that strained for a 
 last look at him. 
 
 Mrs. Ralston was turning away when 
 the Colonel s wife touched her lightly on 
 the arm. The two looked at each other. 
 For a moment neither could speak. Both 
 faces were wet with tears tears that had 
 not fallen until the last car rounded that 
 distant curve. The appealing brown eyes 
 of the young lieutenant s wife gazed piti 
 fully into the motherly gray ones of Colo 
 nel Holman s "commanding officer/ as he 
 called her, and in that instant there was 
 born an affection and an understanding 
 between the two which helped them both 
 through the weary months that followed. 
 
 For a time it was not so hard. The 
 regiment was comfortably camped at Tam 
 pa, and glowing reports came back of the 
 excellent condition of men and officers. 
 May days in Florida were not unpleasant, 
 they discovered, and the active exercise 
 and out-door life kept them in good health 
 and high spirits. The women left behind 
 at the post sewed, read the newspapers, 
 63
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 wrote long letters to their absent lords, 
 and became acquainted with Mrs. Ralston 
 something last in fact but not in impor 
 tance. Mrs. Holman, who did nothing by 
 halves, took up energetically the wife of 
 the young lieutenant. There were no social 
 functions in progress; but the two rode 
 and drove and sewed together, read each 
 other extracts from the letters written by 
 their husbands (Ralston s epistolary style 
 was as charming as himself, the Colonel s 
 wife discovered), and the bond of friend 
 ship between the two grew stronger as the 
 weeks rolled on. 
 
 The other women followed the example 
 set them, for no one could long resist Mrs. 
 Ralston. She was so sweet, so charming, 
 so unconscious of her striking beauty, 
 so warmly sympathetic and so modestly 
 responsive to each friendly advance that 
 she slipped without effort into the very 
 heart of the exclusive circle and found 
 a loving welcome there. When they dis 
 covered that she had a beautiful contralto 
 voice and sang with art as well as feeling, 
 her little triumph was complete; but she 
 64
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 remained as unconscious and as unspoiled 
 as her husband. The Ralstons were much 
 alike so alike that Mrs. Buckstone voted 
 such even sweetness open to distrust. As 
 this sentiment was regarded as a wifely 
 plagiarism, it fell rather flat. Mrs. Ralston 
 sang to them, banished their headaches 
 by the soothing touch of a woman s mag 
 netic hand, raised their drooping spirits 
 by her own bright hopefulness, thought 
 of and did a thousand little things that 
 soothed any fretful forebodings of theirs, 
 without a thought of sympathy for herself 
 from any one. She wrote something of it 
 all to her husband in the field, whose fond 
 and proud replies were not among the 
 extracts read to Mrs. Holman. 
 
 Then came the sailing of the transports 
 for Cuba, and anxious days at the post 
 until it was known that the regiment was 
 landed safely on Cuban soil. News, more 
 or less accurate, filled the extra editions 
 of the newspapers. The th Infantry, 
 under Colonel Holman, was to take part 
 in the attack on Santiago that much, 
 at least, was definitely known by the women 
 65
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 at the post. They read the defences of 
 the intrenched Spanish army, they ab 
 sorbed the surmises of gifted journalists 
 as to the plans of attack, they followed 
 with sick hearts the accounts of the weary 
 marches and the bitter hardships of their 
 husbands, sons, and brothers. Then came 
 the days of waiting when both armies were 
 lined up face to face, like blood-hounds in 
 leash, awaiting the signal to fly at each 
 other s throats. 
 
 The great battle was to begin at sun 
 rise the next morning. Then on the day 
 following that. As a matter of fact it 
 had already begun and was raging at 
 that moment with great loss of life among 
 the Americans. These conflicting reports 
 flooded the country in the extra editions 
 of the newspapers, for heartaches must 
 not interfere with circulation. Hour after 
 hour dejected army women pored over 
 them with eyes that saw only blood-stained 
 battle-fields and stricken, helpless figures 
 lying uncared for in the long grass. 
 
 There were few open moans among these 
 women that would have seemed beneath 
 66
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 the dignity of brave officers wives. They 
 merely kept out of sight, away from the 
 sympathetic questioning of friends, and 
 bore the agony of apprehension as best 
 they could, in dignity if in despair. Mrs. 
 Ralston alone was buoyant and hopeful. 
 
 They will come home full of glory 
 and triumph/ she said to Mrs. Holman. 
 "Your husband will be a brigadier. Ev 
 erybody will be a hero, and the regiment 
 will parade through the streets while the 
 city goes mad with patriotic joy. I feel it 
 I know. If it were to be otherwise, some 
 instinct would tell me." 
 
 Mrs. Holman took the younger woman s 
 face between her hands and kissed it lightly 
 on the cheeks. 
 
 "My dear," she said, "in that remark 
 you show your artless innocence. From 
 your adaptability to all things here I had 
 fancied you knew more about army life. 
 If you really think that glory follows valor 
 and that anything but a pull will bring 
 promotions you are a dear little baby in 
 your knowledge of us." From which com 
 ment it will be seen that Mrs. Holman 
 67
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 was in a depressed and bitter frame of 
 mind. 
 
 In the field Lieutenant Ralston was no 
 less sanguine than his hopeful young 
 wife. Through the terrible days when 
 the army was marching towards Santiago 
 he was, as ever, the life and inspiration 
 of the regiment. His superb physique 
 seemed to defy illness and fatigue. He 
 was always cheerful, always hopeful, al 
 ways stimulatingly gay. A few of the 
 men who had withstood his fetching ways 
 up to this time succumbed to them now. 
 Ralston s name ran through the letters 
 home as the love motif runs through Wag- 
 nerian opera. Ralston had nursed this 
 one; he had "braced up" that one; he had 
 divided his last suit of flannels with another 
 who had recklessly thrown his knapsack 
 away during the weary march. Ralston 
 was "a thoroughbred," "a trump," "a 
 corking good fellow," so ran the enthu 
 siastic tributes from enlisted men and 
 officers alike. When they reached the post 
 these eulogies were passed on to the young 
 officer s wife, who proudly thanked God 
 68
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 for them and for him, and felt how much 
 she had to live up to. 
 
 When the day of the fight dawned and 
 the regiment made its historic charge up 
 San Juan Hill, no one went into the action 
 more blithely, more gallantly, than Ral 
 ston. The men of his company loved their 
 captain, but adored their second lieuten 
 ant. It was Ralston s yellow head to which 
 their eyes turned, his flashing eye to which 
 their courage responded. They saw them 
 both for a time as the regiment began its 
 bloody climb up the slope. Slowly the 
 men crept forward, the death-song of the 
 Mauser bullets on every side, the crash 
 of artillery in the distance, the moans 
 of dying men at their very feet. Death 
 ploughed many furrows in their ranks, but 
 men dashed forward to fill up the gaps, 
 and the blue lines crawled irresistibly on. 
 Far up the slope they saw Colonel Hoi- 
 man, his left hand whirling his sword 
 awkwardly above his white head as his 
 right arm hung broken at his side, while 
 his hoarse-voice orders boomed above the 
 roar of the fight. An electric thrill of pride 
 69
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 ran through the regiment at the sight, and 
 the men cheered wildly. 
 
 Ralston, his virgin sword gripped tightly 
 in his hand, heard the cheer, and won 
 dered what had gone wrong in him that 
 he felt its force so dully. He kept his 
 place, climbing slowly up the hill with 
 his company against the enemy s fire, 
 but a strange, indescribably horrible sen 
 sation was settling upon him. Was he 
 hurt? He had thought so at first, for the 
 feeling had numbed him so suddenly. A 
 moment ago he had been laughing at his 
 men. The next, the space at his right 
 and left, where two eager comrades had 
 been pressing forward against his shoul 
 ders, was suddenly made void as two limp 
 bodies fell with grotesque abruptness at 
 his very feet dead things, that but this 
 moment had been men. The hand that 
 was so tightly grasping his sword began 
 to tremble. An unseen force seemed to 
 clutch his throat. He felt giddy, and a 
 deathly nausea seized him. There an 
 other man in front had gone, and another 
 just behind him. His captain had fallen 
 70
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 early in the action, and the first lieuten 
 ant was in command of the company. At 
 last he, too, was down on his knees first, 
 dying hard, with spasmodic effort to rise, 
 his hand reaching for the sword that had 
 fallen beside him, his tongue calling a last 
 order to his men a hero thrust out of the 
 world through glory s wide portal. 
 
 Ralston s place was forward. It was 
 his to lead. The men in the company 
 were looking at him, with a new lust for 
 blood in their eyes, their faces distorted 
 by the savage wish to bring swift retri 
 bution to the enemy for the loss of their 
 officers. 
 
 Nothing could hold them back; it was 
 Ralston s place, his envied privilege, to 
 lead them on amid that deadly hail-storm 
 of shrapnel and bullets. 
 
 It was his duty, he told himself dully, 
 but he could not move. His feet seemed 
 nailed to the earth. His tongue felt para 
 lyzed; he could not utter an order. His 
 brain was numb. The next bullet would 
 hit him, he reflected, and he, too, would be 
 a dead thing, trampled upon by comrades
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 hurrying to the front. The Spaniards 
 were aiming at the American officers, that 
 was evident. They fired at men who 
 carried swords and had stripes on their 
 trousers. He would be the next victim or 
 was he in some horrible nightmare from 
 which he might mercifully awaken before 
 his mind went? No, it was no dream. 
 He was in the great fight of the nineteenth 
 century a fight that would go down in 
 history. He was there an officer in the 
 American army placed by the death of 
 his superiors in command of his company. 
 They were waiting for him to lead them; 
 already the human lines were wavering 
 a little, and on the familiar faces near 
 him he saw settling a look of doubting 
 comprehension and horrent consternation. 
 They saw what was the matter. Well, 
 let them see. He could not lead them. 
 He knew he was afraid. He branded 
 himself a cursed coward as he tottered on 
 his trembling limbs, then fell full length 
 on the trampled grass. With a yelp of 
 mingled rage and loathing his men swept 
 on, in glad obedience to the leadership 
 72
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 of Sergeant O Grady, who had promptly 
 grasped his opportunity. 
 
 How long he lay there he did not know. 
 One in extreme mental agony takes little 
 heed of the flight of time. At first he 
 thought only of himself his young, boyish 
 self, so full of life and the joy of living, 
 and so soon to be swept out of the sweet 
 ness and beauty of it all into the coldness 
 and darkness of some Cuban grave. His 
 teeth chattered, a tremor shook his powerful 
 figure. Then his mind turned to her his 
 wife, the woman he so loved, the woman 
 who tried to love God as much as she loved 
 him. At this very hour she was sitting 
 in their far-off home, unconscious of his 
 peril, unconscious of his 
 
 The thought seared his soul like a red- 
 hot iron. Unconscious? Yes, thank God 
 for that! Unconscious that he had failed 
 that he had turned his back on comrades 
 and country in the supreme moment. He 
 groaned aloud. But it was not too late 
 even yet. Already the strange numbness 
 was leaving him, already the blood was 
 beginning to stir again in his veins. He 
 73
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 would follow his company, he would fight, 
 fight, fight! He would wipe out with 
 blood, his own if necessary, the memory 
 of that damning syncope of the coward s 
 panic. He would up and follow his com 
 rades, and some day he could look into her 
 dear eyes again. 
 
 His yellow head, lying like a cluster of 
 flowers in the dusty, trampled grass, caught 
 the eye of a Spanish sharp-shooter in a 
 distant tree. He grinned as he took aim; 
 the man doubtless was wounded, but it 
 was so easy and such pleasure to end the 
 whole business with that yellow target 
 gleaming there invitingly. The willing 
 bullet sang on its way. There was a 
 convulsive leap of the powerful figure on 
 the grass, a silence, a stiffening. The 
 golden head, red now and matted from 
 the swiftly flowing blood, turned a little, 
 then buried itself more deeply in the dusty 
 soil. The sharp-shooter watched it closely, 
 then turned to other prey with a smile of 
 satisfaction. He knew the signs. Another 
 American officer was out of the fight out 
 of all fights for all time, unless, perhaps, 
 74
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 somewhere one who has failed here is 
 given another chance. 
 
 The desperately fighting regiment push 
 ed doggedly on, the rear companies work 
 ing like demons to follow their comrades to 
 that hill-top. Men and officers recognized 
 the recumbent figure, the fair head resting 
 in the dark pool that told the story. Even 
 in the tigerish excitement of the hour a 
 lump came into many a throat at the sight, 
 and it stung to added fury these men who 
 had not seen the prologue which made it 
 so much more a tragedy than they dream 
 ed. To them the beloved young officer had 
 died as an American soldier should, fight 
 ing bravely with his face to the foe. Some 
 of them turned aside for a moment, carried 
 the limp figure to a more sheltered place, 
 covered the distorted face and the blood- 
 dappled, curly head, and rushed back into 
 the fight with set teeth and one more score 
 to settle. 
 
 It was these men whom the newspaper 
 
 correspondents saw that night after the 
 
 sun had gone down over the hill where so 
 
 many of the th Infantry lay dead and 
 
 75
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 dying. And so, in the brief and inac 
 curate reports, sent with infinite difficulty 
 to the great American dailies, the name 
 of Ralston stood out in a way to demand 
 the largest type the editors could select to 
 do honor to the hero dead. Ralston was 
 only one of the many brave men who had 
 fallen that day, but he was the idol of his 
 regiment not only a hero, but one who 
 lent bravery a new charm by the insouci 
 ance of a courage which was magnificent 
 in itself Ralston, the gay, the blithe, 
 the debonair. He had figured in prelim 
 inary despatches that told of his strength, 
 his athletic prowess, his influence over 
 the men. All the newspapers had his 
 photograph "in stock/ and the first page 
 of every "extra" showed his winning 
 face, smiling sunnily within the black 
 border with which the editors had deco 
 rously framed it. 
 
 By the time the enlightened correspond 
 ents were able to send correct reports, 
 Ralston was enshrined in the hearts of 
 his countrymen as a hero. The meagre 
 despatches from the front had been skil- 
 76
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 fully padded in the home offices of the 
 newspapers. The most brilliant writers 
 of the staff had been bidden to exercise 
 their imaginations and utmost style on 
 this fascinating subject, so full of "tears" 
 and "human interest." In the editorial 
 columns, too, there were lengthy tributes 
 to Ralston, "the brilliant and striking 
 ly handsome young officer who lies dead 
 on Cuban soil, but whose magnificent bra 
 very in action has stirred the pulse of all 
 America." 
 
 At the post, anxious-eyed women whose 
 husbands lay wounded in the field hos 
 pitals turned from the contemplation of 
 their own trouble to read those extracts to 
 Mrs. Ralston. At first she had not been 
 able to bear them. She had gone down 
 before the blow of her husband s death as 
 a prairie - flower sinks under a bronco s 
 heel. But as the days went on and she 
 began to realize that the heart of her coun 
 try was yearning over her in her sorrow, 
 she roused from her stunned apathy and 
 sought to demean herself as behooves a 
 hero s wife. 
 
 77
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 It was not easy. Glory is not a full 
 offset for happiness in gentle souls. She 
 had never been well, notwithstanding her 
 cheery assumption of health; but she 
 prayed for strength to go through what 
 was left of life as Herbert would have her 
 go. She would live for others, do for 
 others, as he had done. She would make 
 herself worthy of him of this magnificent 
 being who had been given to the world 
 for a little to teach her the meaning of 
 happiness, and to show men how to live 
 and how to die. 
 
 She went among the women of the post, 
 calming the frantic fears of the wives of 
 enlisted men, nursing the sick, caring 
 for the babies, tiding over for eve^ one 
 the bitter days and nights of waiting for 
 official lists of dead and wounded. The 
 slender figure, which grew pathetically 
 thinner from day to day, went in its black 
 gown "along the line," bringing comfort 
 and peace in its wake. Even the asser 
 tive lamentations of Mrs. O Grady learned 
 modesty in the presence of the brave woman 
 who was bearing her great grief so ad- 
 78
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 mirably. But something in her expres 
 sion disturbed these friends, slightly skill 
 ed as they were in analyzing expressions 
 of the human countenance. She looked 
 "like an angel," as Mrs. O Grady said, 
 but her color was too feverishly crimson, 
 her eyes too brilliant, not to cause anxiety 
 in those who loved her. Every one did, 
 by this time so much that when at last 
 the long-looked-for letters came and the 
 truth about Ralston s death lay coiled in 
 them, there was a hurried conference at the 
 post and a decision prompt and general. 
 "She must never know/ said Mrs. 
 Holman, with nervous emphasis. "Colo 
 nel Holman writes me that the corre 
 spondents have decided to keep the matter 
 quiet, and we must do it, too. If she were 
 to find it out the shock would kill her. 
 Her heart, the doctor says, is very delicate. 
 All that sustains her is the thought of the 
 courage God help us! with which he 
 died. When the regiment comes home 
 she may be stronger, and perhaps, even 
 then, it may be possible to keep it from 
 her. None of the men will tell." 
 79
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 It was not hard to keep it from her. She 
 was so unsuspecting, so secure in her 
 great pride and faith. If her friends at 
 the post talked less of him, she talked 
 more. She would not have his deeds 
 forgotten so soon while she had a tongue 
 to voice them. The slight constraint with 
 which her words were met seemed to her 
 a little touch of envy, perhaps felt on ac 
 count of some brave fighter whose record 
 had not met so prompt and complete a 
 recognition. And so she talked to Ser 
 geant O Grady s wife, and the Irishwoman 
 listened with bent head and wet eyes, and 
 replied with the tact and sympathy which 
 women of higher caste could scarce have 
 bettered. It was not easy to have Mike 
 deprived of any particle of his share of 
 honor but Mrs. Ralston was speaking, 
 and Mrs. Ralston was the terribly widowed 
 charge of the post. 
 
 The situation when the regiment came 
 home in September was a difficult one. 
 But the men were warned by their wives, 
 and the honest, gallant fellows consented 
 to keep the secret. She was the bravest 
 80
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 of the brave. Why kill her because her 
 husband was a coward? They had 
 dumped Ralston without ceremony into 
 as hastily made and as shallow a grave 
 as bare humanity would permit. It was 
 not easy to give a dramatic story of the 
 burial, but they did it somehow, though 
 they could not meet the eyes of the widow 
 as they told it to her. As the days passed, 
 however, and they saw the results of her 
 ministrations at the post and heard of 
 her unselfish efforts to help their wives 
 and families, they improved in their irk 
 some role of lesser comrades of a dead 
 hero. Mrs. Ralston wanted the detailed 
 account of every look, every word, every 
 act of Herbert s, and they gave it to her 
 with what generous mendacity they could 
 command. 
 
 In this reminiscence of the earlier days 
 at the front, even the bitterness against 
 Ralston himself began to die out. It 
 could not live in the face of his widow s 
 beautiful love and trust, and among the 
 thoughts of the time when he had been so 
 dear to them all. Perhaps it had been in- 
 e 81
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 sanity poor, earth-born servant of char 
 ity! But the delicate shoots of pity and 
 regret for him, that began to push up 
 through the crust of contempt which had 
 formed about his memory, were chilled 
 by a sudden frost. President McKinley 
 announced that the bodies of American 
 soldiers would be brought home in all 
 cases where their families wished this to 
 be done. Mrs. Ralston was one of the 
 first to act upon the permission. Her 
 bert should lie among his people, be laid 
 in his glorious grave with all the honors 
 to which his rank and heroic death en 
 titled him. 
 
 The decision created consternation at 
 the post. Men who had until now aided 
 the kindly deception, announced firmly to 
 their wives that here they drew the line. 
 Sergeant O Grady was especially intol 
 erant on this point. His disgust drove 
 him to deep potations. The result of this 
 effort to quiet his desire to protest was 
 that he called on Mrs. Ralston with the 
 purpose of opening her eyes a little. He did. 
 
 He stumbled home afterwards with but 
 82
 
 The Wife of a Hero 
 
 little understanding of what he had done. 
 When morning had brought sobriety and 
 reflection he tried with a sick heart to re 
 call the interview. He could not, beyond a 
 general conception of a kind of nightmare 
 in which two terrified brown eyes stared 
 at him out of the darkness. One thing 
 she said penetrated even his numbed in 
 telligence, and he told it to his wife in the 
 depth of his contrition. 
 
 "I do not doubt your word, sergeant," 
 she had said. "You are an honest and 
 a brave man, notwithstanding the condi 
 tion you are in to-day, and I know you 
 would never have said this unless you 
 thought it true. But if the whole regi 
 ment, the entire American army, told me 
 so in chorus, I would not believe them 
 any more than I do you. There is some 
 thing behind it all that we do not under 
 stand something which some day" her 
 voice for the first time broke a little " my 
 husband will explain to me." 
 
 Mrs. O Grady repeated this to Mrs. Hoi- 
 man the next morning as the two stood 
 together looking at Mrs. Ralston. The 
 83
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Irishwoman had gone to her after the ser 
 geant s conjugal confession, to make such 
 explanations and apologies as she could. 
 She had found her sitting at her desk, 
 fully dressed, her cold fingers grasping 
 the pen with which she had begun a let 
 ter to the President. She had been dead 
 many hours. Heart disease, the doctor 
 said, and he added with wise gravity that 
 probably death had been caused by some 
 sudden shock. If that were true, there 
 was no evidence of it in the beautiful face 
 at which Mrs. Holman looked through 
 bitter tears when she came in answer to 
 their agitated summons. Death had come 
 to Mrs. Ralston with tender courtesy and 
 she had received him with a smile so 
 serene, so sweet a smile, that one look at 
 it was to know that all was well with her. 
 
 It checked Mrs. Holman s tears. She 
 bent and kissed with twitching lips the 
 parting in the soft, dark hair. 
 
 "She died because she could not hear 
 her hero wronged/ she said, sadly. "Now 
 that she is with him look at that smile! 
 He may be her hero still." 
 84
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 IISS VICTORIA DELSARO 
 was wont to remark in mo 
 ments of extreme bitterness 
 that in the length and 
 breadth of Manhattan there 
 was no one so persistently and unscrupu 
 lously made use of by friends and ac 
 quaintances as herself. 
 
 It was natural that this reflection should 
 occur to her. Being a young and not es 
 pecially attractive woman, with two mill 
 ion dollars and no incumbrances, she was 
 regarded as a source of income by a sur 
 prisingly large number of persons. In 
 the beginning, when she had attained her 
 majority and her fortune, and her guard 
 ian had stepped aside with a suave fare 
 well and a few words of conventional but 
 87
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 well-meant advice, she had rather enjoyed 
 the role of Lady Bountiful which was im 
 mediately assigned her. She was natural 
 ly generous, and she liked to make peo 
 ple happy. Her desire had full scope, and 
 two or three very busy, rather educative, 
 and distinctly expensive years had passed 
 before she began to analyze the effect of 
 lavish giving on the subjects of her bounty 
 and herself. Several "disappointments" 
 had, of course, been sufficiently deep to de 
 mand her attention, but she had waived 
 these lightly enough, and had refused to 
 consider them as having any bearing on 
 her future actions. Still, when disap 
 pointments ceased to be conspicuous be 
 cause they became the rule rather than 
 the exception, the thoughtful mind of Miss 
 Delsaro, surprisingly mature even then, 
 took up the problem this fact presented, 
 and considered it while she went on in 
 her chosen course. 
 
 Gratitude, she decided, was a sensa 
 tion that had no home in the breasts of 
 her protege s. Not even the stimulating 
 expectation of coming favors developed 
 88
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 a present sense of appreciation. She dis 
 covered very slowly, for all this was a 
 matter of years and evolution that it 
 was considered almost a kindness to her 
 to permit her to occupy her mind with 
 and expend some of her great wealth on 
 "worthy objects. " 
 
 "It is a fad with her, you see," one of 
 her dear girls had explained, in cheerful 
 ignorance of the fact that Miss Delsaro 
 was within hearing. "She likes to find 
 clever people and get the credit of their 
 training and future success. When I go 
 into opera, of course she ll boast that she 
 discovered me, sent me abroad, and paid 
 my expenses, but " this very magnani 
 mously "I shall not mind." 
 
 Miss Delsaro did not mind, either, in 
 this case, for the refreshing egotism of 
 youth and talent was back of it. The girl 
 was at least studying and profiting by 
 her advantages, which could not be said of 
 all of Miss Delsaro s " finds." She learned 
 to give with good-natured indifference to 
 the absence of gratitude, finding her re 
 ward in other results, and in the fact that
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 she was presenting to the world many 
 artists and singers whose talents, but for 
 her, might have perished obscurely. She 
 was, she knew, not alone in her experience, 
 but her comparative youth, her freedom 
 from all restraint, and her great wealth 
 made her, as she said, "a chronic victim 
 of the undeserving poor." 
 
 It was natural that after five or six years 
 of this she should learn to look with some 
 what jaundiced eyes upon a greedy world. 
 It was perhaps natural, too, that when 
 greed had in several instances manifested 
 itself acutely within the circle of her closest 
 friends, she should magnify the impor 
 tance of the incidents and necessarily con 
 clude that here, too, lay coiled the serpent 
 of guile. Nevertheless, she was at heart 
 a sane woman, with a well-balanced mind 
 and an inheritance of common-sense from 
 her eminently practical and successful fa 
 ther. She might have forgiven and for 
 gotten the friends who had so skilfully 
 used her for their own purposes, had not 
 the One Man appeared precisely at this 
 juncture and furnished her with the final 
 90
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 and pitiless lesson fate intended her to 
 learn. 
 
 The One Man was singularly attractive. 
 His handsome eyes had a merry twinkle 
 as he looked at life s play, and he found 
 special favor in the eyes of Miss Delsaro. 
 She liked his optimistic point of view, his 
 lack of the tact and suave policy of other 
 men in her circle, his apparent indiffer 
 ence to wealth, society, and high places. 
 
 "He is merely a great big happy boy/ 
 she reflected, as she watched him play 
 tennis one afternoon at the Country Club. 
 He had hurled himself into the game with 
 the zest of a school-boy, and his crisp, fair 
 curls were damp from the energy of his 
 play. Under his small mustache his white 
 teeth flashed as he smiled at his oppo 
 nent, and his movements were as light 
 and graceful as those of a trained athlete. 
 Victoria Delsaro studied the picture with 
 a satisfaction she conscientiously strove to 
 analyze. 
 
 "He is merely a boy/ she thought 
 again; "thirty-four years of life have not 
 made him a man, and thirty-four more
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 will not do it. He is as irresponsible and 
 as care -free as a fawn. His income is 
 large enough to live on comfortably, and 
 he will never add to it by a penny earned. 
 He cultivates the people he likes, shuns 
 the people he doesn t like, no matter what 
 they could do for him in a worldly way, 
 pursues pleasure, carefully avoids pain, 
 is supremely selfish and absolutely hon 
 est the darling!" 
 
 The last words flew from her brain to 
 her lips, but no one heard them not even 
 the One Man, who suddenly presented 
 himself before her, wiping his damp brow, 
 and blithely indifferent to the informality 
 of his attire. 
 
 " May I drive home with you after I ve 
 gotten into things, and have some tea?" he 
 asked, eagerly. " I ve something I want to 
 tell you." 
 
 Miss Delsaro gave him a smile which 
 proved that something pleasant can hap 
 pen to a dark and rather heavy face. She 
 felt the weight of her thirty-six years drop 
 from her under the influence of his radiant 
 youth. 
 
 92
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 "Can you be ready in twenty minutes?" 
 she asked. "I am to take Mrs. Allen 
 home, and she is leaving at five." 
 
 He assured her that he could. "Ill 
 be dressed in ten/ he laughed. "And 
 then I shall come out here and sit around 
 and say things in your hearing about 
 women who delay men with important 
 matters on their minds." 
 
 He hurried away as he spoke. Miss 
 Delsaro rose from her place among the 
 spectators and wandered leisurely across 
 the grounds and up the steps leading to 
 the cool veranda of the Country Club. She 
 told herself that she would send some one 
 in search of her coachman. In reality, 
 as she well knew, she longed to sit in 
 a cool, deserted corner and think, and 
 smile inanely to herself with no one near 
 to see it. For Miss Delsaro was in 
 love! 
 
 She was recalling every look and feature 
 of the One Man when steps echoed round 
 the corner of the veranda, chairs scraped 
 the floor, and the voices of two men reached 
 her. They had taken seats out of sight, but 
 93
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 unfortunately not out of hearing. She 
 knew the voices well. 
 
 "So Harrington s going into the new 
 trust, too, is he?" asked the first voice. 
 It belonged to the stout and wholly ami 
 able president of the club. 
 
 Miss Delsaro unconsciously pricked up 
 her ears. Harrington was the One Man. 
 
 "Yes," said the second voice, that 
 of Tompkins, the multi-millionaire. "He 
 wants to come in, but we re not going 
 into that for our health, and I told him it 
 would cost him a cool half-million. He 
 knows it s the chance of his life, and he ll 
 take it, with Miss Delsaro thrown in. 
 She ll accept him at the drop of the hat 
 every one knows that and as the deal 
 doesn t go through till fall he can get her 
 to cash up in time." 
 
 The president moved restlessly in his 
 chair. 
 
 "I didn t suppose he cared for her," he 
 said, slowly. "I imagined he didn t care 
 for anybody, the selfish young pup." 
 
 There was an instant of silence. While 
 it endured, Victoria Delsaro pictured to 
 94
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 herself very accurately the look of su 
 preme scorn the financier turned on the 
 president, and the length of time before 
 he spoke showed he got the full enjoy 
 ment of letting it sink in. 
 
 "Harrington wants the money," he 
 said, dryly. " I thought I mentioned that. 
 He s very ambitious under that irrespon 
 sible, play-boy jollity of his." 
 
 Miss Delsaro did not wait for the presi 
 dent s reply, nor did she draw her breath 
 too sharply. She walked quite with her 
 wonted air into the club-house, gave her 
 order to a servant, and descended the steps 
 when her carriage arrived, her dark head 
 high and an enigmatic expression in her 
 eyes. Harrington was waiting, and Mrs. 
 Allen was not far off. She motioned to 
 them rather curtly. Mrs. Allen took her 
 place with a depressing sense that one of 
 Victoria s moods was also a guest of the 
 day. Harrington, sitting in front, wheeled 
 half round and poured forth a cheery 
 monologue. If he observed Miss Delsaro s 
 reticence at all, he ascribed it to natural 
 modesty over the coming interview. 
 95
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 They deposited the relieved Mrs. Allen 
 before her own mansion and went on. 
 On Harrington s smooth face a slight 
 shadow was gathering a reflection, per 
 haps, of the heavy cloud resting on his 
 lady s brow. It was growing late. Be 
 fore them a declining sun was painting 
 the water and the sky in tones of gold and 
 crimson. 
 
 "Wouldn t you like to walk?" asked 
 Harrington, suddenly. " Why not let the 
 coachman go on, and we can follow slowly 
 and enjoy that. " He indicated with a wave 
 of his hand the gorgeous panorama before 
 them. 
 
 Miss Delsaro gave the order. "Better 
 have the farce over," she decided, "than 
 prolong this agony of anticipation." 
 
 Harrington scrutinized her curiously as 
 they fell into step. 
 
 "You look," he said, "as if somebody 
 had offended you. I hope it is not I. If I 
 have, it is the bitter irony of fate. For I 
 came with you to-night to ask the greatest 
 of favors. I want everything from your 
 hands I want you." 
 96
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 Under the circumstances, it was badly 
 put. Miss Delsaro turned white. 
 
 "And the half - million?" she asked, 
 harshly. "That, I understand, may wait 
 until fall." 
 
 He stopped sharply, faced her, and looked 
 into her eyes for a long minute. She re 
 turned the gaze steadily, showing in her 
 own eyes the scorn she felt. 
 
 "Some enemy of mine " he began. 
 
 "Oh no/ she said, lightly, "a friend 
 your future partner, in fact. Mr. Tomp- 
 kins confided all your hopes and prospects 
 to Mr. Hamilton on the club veranda this 
 afternoon, and I necessarily overheard him. 
 He did not know that, or he might have 
 shown a more delicate reserve." 
 
 Harrington lifted his head, resumed his 
 place by her side and walked on. 
 
 "When you interrupted me," he said, 
 "I was about to add an explanation to 
 my proposal. I was going to say that I 
 don t amount to much which I need not 
 say now, in view of your recent discovery. 
 But I am not a mere fortune - hunter. I 
 have some money of my own ; quite a good 
 7 97
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 deal. If you had married me you would not 
 have had to support me. I should certainly 
 have asked you for that half-million, but 
 you know Tompkins, and you must realize 
 how safe and good an investment it would 
 have been. It would have made me a 
 rich man, and, so to speak, in your class. 
 You would have lost nothing. I love no 
 other woman. There is no woman in the 
 world who has a claim on me and I was 
 offering you a good name and a clean 
 record. I think," he added, naively, "we 
 should have been very comfortable together. 
 
 Miss Delsaro s severe brows formed a 
 straight line. 
 
 "I disagree w r ith you," she said, briefly. 
 "If you consider that you have proposed, 
 you may consider that I have refused." 
 
 There seemed to be nothing more to say, 
 and Harrington walked on beside her in 
 a depressed silence. The coachman, full 
 of a lively appreciation of the situation as 
 he conceived it, had driven rapidly and 
 was out of sight. There was a constrained 
 parting at the entrance of Miss Delsaro s 
 country house. 
 
 98
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 The next day she went back to town, 
 engaged a suite of rooms in a Fifth Avenue 
 hotel, and gave out that she was soon 
 going abroad. 
 
 "What I should like to do," she con 
 fided to her one confidante, a delightfully 
 worldly but unspoiled spinster of forty 
 " what I should like to do is to drop abso 
 lutely out of sight for a year or two. If I 
 could, I would disappear to-morrow and 
 begin a new life in a new land and under 
 a new name." 
 
 Miss Van Dorn laughed quietly. 
 
 Too sensational," she said, tersely. 
 The yellow journals would trace you to 
 the other side of the world, and the Sun 
 day after the discovery they d have page 
 pictures in red, green, and purple, show 
 ing you trying to jump off the earth s sur 
 face. Really, you ll have to give it up, 
 dear." 
 
 She looked at her friend with real sym 
 pathy as she spoke. In her mind there 
 was a shrewd conjecture as to the reason 
 for this sudden restlessness. 
 
 Victoria Delsaro said no more, but the 
 99
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 words she had spoken carelessly and with 
 out thought had in them the germ of an 
 idea which grew. It was one of her fads 
 to carry a large amount of money in a 
 small bag she wore around her neck. 
 
 "One can never tell when my friends 
 may need it/ she had said, ironically. 
 Now she began to add to this fund. In 
 the back of her brain there lurked the 
 thought, never again expressed, that some 
 day she would step on a train for San 
 Francisco, and sail from California to the 
 Orient without the idle ceremony of fare 
 wells. 
 
 "They ll say I m crazy," she reflected, 
 "but I cannot fancy anything on earth 
 that is of less importance to me than what 
 they say/ 
 
 Her subconscious thoughts were run 
 ning in this channel one afternoon as she 
 walked up Fifth Avenue to her hotel. At 
 Fortieth Street she became vaguely aware 
 of the presence of a crowd, and, self-ab 
 sorbed though she was, she felt the tense 
 excitement of men and women who surged 
 past her, bent apparently towards one 
 100
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 objective point. Farther up the avenue 
 a yellow flame leaped into the sky, and 
 at the same moment the shrill, warning 
 scream of fire-engines rang in her ears. 
 Close upon the echo of this came the tu 
 mult of the approaching trucks and the 
 wild hoof -beats of flying horses. Men 
 and women took refuge on the steps lead 
 ing to residences, in their efforts to avoid 
 the horses driven to the curb and on the 
 sidewalks by excited drivers striving to 
 make way for the engines. Miss Delsaro 
 fell back with the rest against the in 
 hospitable stone. 
 
 "It s the Winfield Hotel/ she heard a 
 man cry. " It s burning down, and hun 
 dreds of people in it are burning to death." 
 
 The clang of ambulance bells lent a 
 dread emphasis to the statement. Swing 
 ing round the corners from east and west 
 came the frenzied horses, lashed by their 
 drivers, while trim surgeons in spotless 
 white duck uniforms made hurried prepa 
 rations for patients. Miss Delsaro looked 
 on, sick at heart, and with straining eyes. 
 Her hotel was burning down her ac- 
 101
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 quaintances in it were perhaps among 
 the victims. She tried to move forward, 
 but her trembling legs refused to carry 
 her, and the rapidly increasing crowd 
 held her a prisoner. To go farther up 
 the avenue was impossible. She succeeded 
 in pushing her way back to the corner, 
 and forcing a path through the crowd in 
 the side streets. She was terribly ex 
 cited. Strange noises rang in her ears, 
 and she felt herself shivering. She had 
 a childlike longing for the sound of a fa 
 miliar voice, for the touch of a friendly 
 hand. Instinctively she directed her steps 
 towards Miss Van Dorn s home, only a 
 few blocks away. Suddenly a thought 
 flashed into her mind as vivid in its im 
 pression as if it had been written and held 
 before her eyes. For one moment she 
 hesitated. Then, with a characteristically 
 quick movement of decision, she walked over 
 to Third Avenue and Forty-second Street 
 and took an elevated train for South Ferry. 
 
 One week later Miss Delsaro, tucked 
 in a steamer-chair and cosily wrapped in 
 102
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 rugs by an attentive steward, watched 
 the California coast recede into the dis 
 tance as the great liner cut its way tow 
 ards Yokohama. 
 
 The rush of departure and the numer 
 ous small details needing her attention 
 had so occupied her mind that in all those 
 seven days she had not really faced the 
 fact of the exceedingly vital step she had 
 taken. She had not looked at a news 
 paper until she reached San Francisco; 
 then she had read with entire calmness 
 her own name among the long list of vic 
 tims of the Hotel Winfield fire. There had 
 been a good deal of " fine writing " on the 
 subject of the dead heiress and much 
 speculation as to the division of her great 
 fortune, for she had no relatives, and, so 
 far as was known, had left no will. Miss 
 Delsaro postponed the reading of these 
 details until she was safely away from 
 America. She had experienced, during 
 those last days in her native land, almost 
 the sensation of an outlaw fleeing from 
 justice. She was desperately afraid of 
 being caught! Without too much thought 
 103
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 or secrecy she had, in a way, disguised 
 herself. She scorned any facial change, 
 but few would have recognized the ele 
 gant Miss Delsaro in the very plainly 
 dressed and rather dumpy woman who 
 went on board the City of Peking just be 
 fore it sailed. She had arranged her hair 
 in a severely simple fashion, and her gowns 
 were of the ready-to-wear variety. She 
 might have been a companion or governess 
 going to the other side of the world to join 
 her employers. But rolled up among her 
 rugs were several newspapers, full of the 
 harrowing details of her last hours, whose 
 scenes no one had witnessed but all had 
 imagined, and it was these newspapers 
 Miss Delsaro unfolded before the Cali 
 fornia coast was two hours behind her. 
 The cool audacity of the act would carry 
 it, she reflected. No one would see in her 
 the dead heiress to millions. She must 
 take chances in this enterprise. If she 
 were recognized, her plans must fall 
 through. If not, it would be another 
 proof that the gods were with her in her 
 new life. 
 
 104
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 Nevertheless, as she read the journal 
 istic accounts of the Winfield victims, 
 strange sensations visited her soul. She 
 herself, she read, had not been seen to 
 leave the hotel the day of the fire. Her 
 maid, the only servant with her at the 
 hotel, had asked and secured leave of ab 
 sence for the day, and had left the hotel 
 early in the morning to visit relatives in 
 New Jersey. Miss Delsaro was seen in 
 her rooms after luncheon by a servant 
 who answered her bell and delivered a 
 note she gave him. Not one of her friends 
 had seen her alive after that, but some 
 one had seen her, he thought, at the win 
 dow during the fire; and the next day, 
 among the charred bones found in the 
 ruins was a hand to which still clung 
 a ring recognized as one Miss Delsaro 
 often wore. 
 
 The heart of the woman in the steamer- 
 chair contracted. She had given that 
 ring, only the day before the fire, to Lettie 
 Ormsbee, who lived with her mother in 
 the hotel. They had been Miss Delsaro s 
 best friends there, and she had loved the 
 105
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 girl dearly. Both mother and daughter 
 were among the dead. Dear little Lettie! 
 Where was she? And she herself Vic 
 toria Delsaro? Was this whole experi 
 ence a horrible nightmare? It began to 
 seem like one to the woman who had 
 voluntarily given up identity and her 
 place among the living. Her nerves, 
 strained by the crowding episodes of the 
 week, revolted fiercely. For an awful 
 moment she doubted her sanity, her very 
 existence. Back there lay her native land 
 the land she loved, for she was a loyal 
 American. Back there, too, were wealth 
 and luxury and many friends who loved 
 her, and many others who needed her. 
 She had forgotten them. She had given no 
 thought, either, to those proteges of hers, 
 helpless in distant lands if her bounty 
 failed them. She had turned from all 
 that was hers and from all she had been 
 for what? She tried to pull herself 
 together and answer the question reso 
 lutely. For individuality, for freedom 
 for the privilege of living her life as she 
 pleased and of being weighed by the stand- 
 106
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 ards of other men and women. She 
 would drift round the world under the new 
 name she had assumed, avoiding, for a 
 time at least, the beaten paths of travel. 
 She would study the men and women who 
 made up the average of humanity, and 
 she would find friends among them. She 
 would earn her living when her money 
 gave out and it became necessary she 
 felt that she could do so and enjoy the 
 work. But suddenly the great ship and 
 its surroundings of brilliant sunshine and 
 white -capped waves faded away. The 
 voices of the passengers chatting on deck 
 became inaudible. A great wave of black 
 ness, silence, and despair settled over her 
 soul, and an unreasoning terror, none the 
 less acute because unreasoning, gripped 
 her. Not one human being who knew 
 her knew that she was alive. She had 
 no right on earth. Her place was with 
 the dead. Horrible pictures printed them 
 selves on her brain, morbid messages 
 seemed entering her ears. She turned 
 with swift despair to the woman who sat, 
 half dozing, in the steamer - chair next to 
 107
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 her own. She was a pleasant neighbor, 
 this woman, with white hair and kind 
 eyes. Victoria Delsaro, the haughty and 
 dignified woman of the past merged whol 
 ly into the terrified woman of the present, 
 caught her fiercely by the arm. 
 
 "For Heaven s sake/ she said, "say 
 something to me! Divert my mind! I m 
 I m so hideously, so appallingly 
 lonely!" 
 
 Eight years later Miss Helen Van Dorn, 
 of New York, made her second trip to Japan. 
 She had gone once before at thirty, and 
 had loved the country. She wondered 
 now, finding herself again among its 
 admirable toy -houses and flowers, why 
 she had waited all these years to come a 
 second time. Her first visit had been 
 with Victoria Delsaro poor Victoria ! Miss 
 Van Dorn had suffered various losses in 
 life, not the least of them that of this friend. 
 Even yet, she did not let her mind dwell 
 on the tragedies of the Winfield fire. But 
 this day thoughts of Victoria persistently 
 obtruded themselves. There were mem- 
 108
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 ories of her on every side in this quaint 
 and distant land. That tiny house, wis 
 teria-covered and almost lost in a small 
 forest of roses and camellias, was like the 
 one in which she and Victoria had ex 
 perienced two months of the joys of Jap 
 anese house-keeping, with nine servants 
 and in four rooms. She recalled the tragic 
 comedy of their first bath, the party they 
 gave for little Madame Hekayamagi, the 
 dinner at the home of the first lady of the 
 village how Victoria had enjoyed it all, 
 and how different she had seemed from 
 the woman of after-years the Victoria 
 who had turned morbid, suspicious, and 
 hyperanalytic. 
 
 Miss Van Dorn was so full of these 
 thoughts that she did not at first see a 
 woman who had come out of the door of 
 the house, and, sheltering her eyes with 
 her hands, was looking down a winding 
 road fringed with low Japanese pines. 
 It was the unusual gesture that attracted 
 Miss Van Dorn s attention. She looked, 
 and then looked again with deeper interest. 
 The woman was white, and evidently a 
 109
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 lady. She was well but plainly drevSsed, 
 and her movements were quick and grace 
 ful. There was, even in the three-quarter 
 view she obtained, something strangely 
 familiar in the outlines of the figure and 
 profile. Helen Van Dorn stared, winked 
 a little, stared again, took four strides 
 forward, and caught the woman by both 
 hands. 
 
 " Victoria ! she gasped. " Victoria Delsa- 
 ro!" Her voice trembled and tears gushed 
 from the sharp eyes behind her glasses. 
 
 "I ve always had, deep down, some 
 where, a hope a blessed little hope that 
 I would some day find you," she said. 
 
 The other woman hesitated, flushed, 
 paled, and then laughed. There was no re 
 sisting the tremor in her friend s voice, nor 
 those most unusual tears in her friend s 
 keen eyes. 
 
 "Dear Helen," she said, "what an ap 
 parition you are out of that old, almost 
 forgotten life of mine." 
 
 "I m coming in," announced Miss Van 
 Dorn, breathlessly. "I m coming in to 
 talk to you." 
 
 no
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 Victoria slipped her arm round her waist 
 in a gesture that recalled the days of their 
 girlhood. 
 
 "It s nicer out here/ she said. "Later 
 I wish you to come in, for I have some 
 thing to show you. She blushed a little. 
 "I m Victoria still," she added, with a 
 smile, "but not Victoria Delsaro." 
 
 She swung her friend down on a low 
 bench framed in flowers, and took a place 
 beside her. 
 
 "Never mind me," she said, lightly. 
 " I ll tell you all about myself later. Tell 
 me about yourself and New York." 
 
 Miss Van Dorn plunged into her reci 
 tal. News of men and women, music, lit 
 erature, politics, society gossip, dropped 
 from the end of her clever tongue in a 
 monologic bridging of eight years. Then 
 she faced her friend squarely, with the 
 high courage of her Dutch ancestry. 
 
 "You must come back to it all, Vic 
 toria," she said, resolutely. "You must 
 drop this farce, so unworthy of you, and 
 return to your own country and your old 
 friends. Your wealth is still yours for 
 in
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 that myth of a cousin of yours has nev 
 er been found, although every effort has 
 been made to trace him. Come back and 
 claim your own. Come back to life and 
 friends and civilization and luxury and 
 love." 
 
 The other woman had been watching 
 her speculatively as she spoke. It was 
 impossible to read what she felt in her 
 serene face, but under this cool composure 
 a conflict was raging. She drew a long 
 breath. A wave of memory rolled over 
 her, drenching her in the atmosphere of 
 the past. Civilization, luxury, beauty, 
 wealth, and all that these things implied, 
 seemed to call to her across the sea from 
 her native land. The heavy odor of the 
 tropical flowers around nauseated her, and 
 she turned with a quick distaste from the 
 grotesque, familiar little figures that bobbed 
 an evening salutation to her as they passed. 
 They seemed not men, but dolls, and their 
 country in that instant of revolt seemed a 
 dolls land, fit only for toy men and women. 
 Through the open windows of the next 
 house came the soft twang of the samisen, 
 112
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 like a fitting undertone of her own sudden 
 nostalgia. 
 
 Then, suddenly, far down the road that 
 fronted them, she saw coming towards 
 her a man. It was a white man an 
 Englishman, apparently, strong, resolute, 
 good-looking, and with a slight stoop to 
 his broad shoulders. Miss Van Dorn saw 
 him at the same moment, and a sudden 
 intuition made her look with close interest. 
 He was, she noticed, simply dressed, but 
 he radiated the exquisite physical whole- 
 someness of his race. He was evidently 
 a book-keeper or accountant in some Jap 
 anese business house with English in 
 terests. As he drew near he caught his 
 wife s eye, and there passed between the 
 two a look of such perfect love and under 
 standing that Miss Van Dorn instinctively 
 dropped her eyes before it. She had seen 
 it only once or twice in all her eventful 
 life, but it was something no human being 
 could mistake. 
 
 At the same moment, as if drawn by a 
 magnet, a deliciously roly-poly baby tod 
 dled out of the door, adoringly followed 
 8 113
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 by a Japanese nurse. It was a little boy, 
 with his mother s dark eyes and the Eng 
 lishman s fair curls, and with a marked 
 unsteadiness of gait, for he was just learn 
 ing to walk. He lurched down the road 
 towards his father with a triumphant 
 crow that carried far in the perfumed si 
 lence of the evening. 
 
 The woman who had been Victoria 
 Delsaro turned on her old friend a trans 
 figured face. All the triumph of happy 
 wifehood and adoring motherhood was there, 
 together with a sweet humility that seemed 
 strange to one who had known her in the past. 
 
 She took Miss Van Dorn s thin shoulders 
 in her strong, brown hands and looked 
 at her affectionately. 
 
 "Come, Helen/ she said, lightly, "and 
 meet my husband and my son. But mind, 
 no word of my past, for my husband knows 
 nothing of it and he never shall. He 
 may not seem much to you, but he s the 
 man I ve travelled this earth over to find, 
 and he has given me the greatest happi 
 ness I have ever known. I shall make it 
 my affair to keep that." 
 114
 
 Victoria Delsaro, Missing 
 
 She stopped a moment, and then con 
 tinued slowly : 
 
 " For just one instant when you were 
 talking it seemed possible to go back to 
 America with him and my baby, and take 
 up life there with their help. But that 
 was madness. We are happy, we have 
 all we want, we can take care of our boy, 
 and God forbid that I should put him and 
 his father through the bitter school I found 
 there. We love each other, and that is 
 all that really counts in life. This is our 
 home our paradise. Here we remain/
 
 The One 
 
 Who Intervened
 
 The One 
 
 Who Intervened 
 
 iiT was rumored in the offices 
 of the New York Evening 
 Trumpet that Gordon, the 
 city editor, had a "grief." 
 
 The exact nature of this 
 heart-soreness was a mystery. Many con 
 jectures concerning it, offered by the mem 
 bers of the staff, were successively de 
 clined after the thoughtful consideration 
 the subject merited. The most plausi 
 ble theories were advanced by two of the 
 men whose opinions usually carried much 
 weight. One of these was by Northrup, 
 the "star reporter," who inclined to the be 
 lief that the city editor had a love affair. 
 The other was by Morton, the sporting 
 119
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 editor, who asserted that, in his opinion, 
 Gordon s evident gloom was caused by a 
 debt a large one. 
 
 Morton s diagnosis of the case would 
 have been very valuable if he himself had 
 not been haunted by a bill collector, whose 
 patient stand at the front entrance of the 
 Trumpet building had constrained the 
 newspaper man to the use of the side door. 
 Recalling this, his associates adjudged 
 him unable to bring to the solution of the 
 office problem the unclouded mind its im 
 portance deserved. They therefore received 
 his surmise with a certain coldness. They 
 felt, on the other hand, that Northrup s 
 suggestion was less telling than it would 
 have been if he had not, at the same time, 
 been proudly exhibiting to his friends the 
 photograph of a young person in white. 
 
 It was hinted that perhaps Miss Wet- 
 more knew something of the cause of the 
 city editor s carking care. Almost every 
 man on the Evening Trumpet had con 
 fided his woes to her. Why not Gordon? 
 True, he was not communicative at the 
 best, but man s tendency to talk of his 
 120
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 troubles to a sympathetic woman had, of 
 course, some place in him. Every one 
 knew that he admired and respected his 
 leading woman reporter. What more nat 
 ural than that he should have offered 
 at least a half-confidence, if only in the 
 form of an apology for the curtness and 
 grumpiness he had shown of late to the 
 members of his staff? 
 
 If he had, Miss Wetmore had not be 
 trayed his trust. She was conscious of 
 the quiet discussion which went on around 
 her each day after the first edition of the 
 newspaper had gone to press, but she took 
 no part in it except to remark on one occa 
 sion that Mr. Gordon s private affairs were 
 of no interest to her, and that such free 
 comment on them in the office was in sin 
 gularly bad taste. Her associates look 
 ed ill - used for half an hour afterwards, 
 but the criticism did not prevent them 
 from watching the city editor closely every 
 time he approached her desk or sent for 
 her to come to his. Nevertheless, they 
 were temporarily off guard during one of 
 these visits on a certain Friday, and with 
 121
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 what they would have called the irony of 
 fate it was on this occasion that Gordon 
 for the first time touched upon personal 
 matters to the newspaper woman. 
 
 He was looking pale and haggard, and 
 the girl noticed this with a thrill of sym 
 pathy. She liked Mr. Gordon. He had 
 been very considerate in his treatment of 
 her, and she remembered her experience 
 with other city editors vividly enough to 
 appreciate his almost invariable courtesy. 
 Something of her feeling was in her eyes 
 as she glanced down at the tired -faced 
 young man who was bunched forward 
 over his desk with depression in every 
 line of his relaxed figure. Perhaps it was 
 this sympathetic expression which wrung 
 from Gordon the unexpected speech that 
 left his lips. 
 
 "I m in great trouble, Miss Wetmore," 
 he broke out, so suddenly that the reporter 
 started. The remark was too unlike his 
 usual cool reticence for her not to look at 
 him in surprise, and then cast an appre 
 hensive glance around. There was a tem 
 porary lull over the city room. The first 
 122
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 edition of the Evening Trumpet was on 
 the presses, and the young men of the 
 staff had turned from copy writing and 
 reading to spirited discussion of the points 
 of a certain pup. The pup was present 
 with his owner, a vividly attired Bowery 
 youth, who bore a striking resemblance 
 to his pet in face and figure. The city 
 editor s eyes followed the direction of the 
 woman s, and rested with quick appre 
 ciation on the interested group. 
 
 "They re all right," he said, "and we 
 can talk. I have no right to bore you 
 with my affairs," he w r ent on, apologeti 
 cally. " I wouldn t do it if it were not that 
 I believe you can help me and I m afraid 
 nobody else can." 
 
 "Then please tell me all about it," she 
 replied, with quiet earnestness. " It will 
 be a pleasure to me," she added, "to do 
 anything I can. I hope you feel that." 
 
 " If I did not, I should not come to you/ 
 he told her. He leaned back in his chair, 
 closely studying her expression as he went 
 on. 
 
 "I m going to tell you the whole story. 
 123
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 It won t take long, and the boys will think 
 I m giving you an assignment. You 
 might make it look like that by taking a 
 few notes. Here s the situation. There s 
 a woman in it, of course. I ve been devoted 
 to her for three years. Her people object 
 to me. I can t tell you why it s too long 
 a story, and that doesn t matter. Lately 
 they have boycotted me, so to speak. I 
 haven t been allowed to enter their house. 
 She and I have managed to meet once or 
 twice at the home of a common friend, and 
 to get a few letters to each other, but they 
 discovered that. The result of it all is 
 that they re sending her to Europe. They 
 have engaged her passage on the Cham 
 pagne, and she sails to-morrow morn 
 ing, nobly guarded by the entire family. 
 They ve surrounded her with a human 
 wall of big brothers, maiden aunts, and 
 all that. I ve attacked it from various 
 points and it s surprisingly strong. I 
 can t reach her; I can t even get a letter 
 to her. Of course, if they take her off 
 before I can communicate with her it will 
 end everything. She ll think I m indiffer- 
 124
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 ent, or they ll tell her some yarn Heaven 
 knows what. They intend to keep her 
 abroad two years. No doubt they ll spend 
 that time poisoning her mind against 
 me," ended Gordon, pausing to reflect 
 bitterly upon this gloomy prospect. 
 
 Miss Wetmore made a few notes on the 
 pad before her. Morton was sauntering 
 past the desk. 
 
 " Last night an inspiration came to me," 
 continued the city editor, more slowly. 
 He had drooped forward again and was 
 nervously fingering the papers on his desk. 
 "It s a fine one, but the practical appli 
 cation of it depends on you. I have man 
 aged to get a few words to her this morn 
 ing, asking her to receive Miss Smith 
 to-day. She will understand. What I want 
 you to do is to be Miss Smith for this oc 
 casion only. Call on her, send up your 
 name, talk about your plan to get up a 
 series of parlor readings for the Hotten 
 tots, or something of that kind, and the 
 moment you re alone with her give her 
 this letter from me." He extracted a 
 bulky envelope from his pocket as he spoke 
 125
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 and laid it on her desk. It bore no name 
 or address. 
 
 " I I really, I don t want to seem to 
 hesitate for a moment and yet " stam 
 mered the girl, doubtfully. A dozen ques 
 tions were rising in her mind. It seemed 
 to her that she should have the answer to 
 one or two of them, at least, before consid 
 ering the matter further. Gordon looked 
 at her, and his eyes fell rather consciously 
 before the glance in hers. Then he raised 
 them again suddenly. 
 
 "She is utterly wretched," he urged. 
 "If I can get her away from them she ll 
 be happy for the first time in years. You 
 don t know the conditions and I can t ex 
 plain them. I m afraid you wouldn t un 
 derstand them if I did. Women don t 
 reason as men do about well, about these 
 things. All that I can say is that I love 
 her devotedly, and I know she cares for 
 me, although she has not yet admitted it 
 in so many words. She is miserable, 
 and my greatest wish is to make her 
 happy." 
 
 His voice grew slightly husky as he 
 126
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 spoke. There was no questioning the 
 depth and sincerity of his feeling. 
 
 There is no sense in giving you a half- 
 confidence/ he went on. " I tell you frank 
 ly that I am asking her to be taken sud 
 denly ill and miss that steamer to-morrow. 
 That will give me a few days more time, 
 in which I may be able to carry out an 
 other plan I have in mind. Everything 
 is put before her here/ touching the letter 
 on the desk as he spoke. " Where s the 
 woman in you if you don t appreciate the 
 beauty and romance of a confidence like 
 this?" he added, more lightly. She was 
 evidently yielding, and his spirits rose as 
 he observed this. He broke out in one of 
 his unusual but infectious laughs. 
 
 "Come now," he said, coaxingly. "You re 
 going to help us!" 
 
 Miss Wetmore closed her note-book and 
 put the letter he had given her into her 
 pocket. 
 
 "I ll do my best," she said. "Where 
 am I to go, and what is the lady s name?" 
 
 He gave the street and number promptly 
 enough, but there was a perceptible hesi- 
 127
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 tancy in his manner as he added: "The 
 name is Gresham. I thank you more than 
 I can say, Miss Wetmore/ he went on, 
 hastily, as he saw that she was about to 
 speak. "I rely absolutely on your help 
 and your discretion. I shall always hold 
 myself ready to do anything I can for 
 you in return/ 
 
 The office - boy came to him with the 
 message that he was wanted in the busi 
 ness office and he rose quickly. "You re 
 going at once, aren t you?" he asked. 
 And as the girl nodded he left the room 
 with a brighter look on his face than he 
 had worn for many weeks. 
 
 Miss Wetmore buttoned her coat thought 
 fully. She would not have been a true 
 woman had she not felt deeply interested 
 in the visit before her, but there were cer 
 tain phases of her mission which did not 
 appeal to her so convincingly. 
 
 "I wish I knew more about it all/ she 
 mused, as she walked towards the elevated 
 station at Park Place. "Probably they re 
 both wretched; but there may be some 
 thing to say on the other side of the ques- 
 128
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 tion, too. I ought to hear from one of 
 the maiden aunts. No doubt she d be 
 eloquent on the subject/ added the news 
 paper woman, smiling at the vision this 
 thought called up. "At all events," she 
 reflected, as she entered the train, "Mr. 
 Gordon has been very kind to me, and he 
 is thoroughly in earnest about this matter. 
 I ve promised to help him, and I shall do 
 all I can." 
 
 She repeated to herself this resolution 
 as she sent her card to Miss Gresham by 
 the maid who answered the bell. She 
 was ushered into the library, and while 
 she awaited the maid s return she found 
 herself unconsciously studying the books 
 and pictures around her as possible indi 
 cations of the taste of their owner. A 
 bright fire in the open grate invited her to 
 a leather-covered chair drawn closely up 
 to the blaze. As she sank into its open 
 arms she noticed that the perfume of roses 
 filled the room, and that a vase on the table 
 held great masses of the beautiful flowers. 
 Low bookcases lined the walls, and above 
 them hung a number of excellent water- 
 9 129
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 colors and etchings. On the large library 
 table were scattered magazines and peri 
 odicals illustrating the current literature 
 of Europe and America. 
 
 A book, with a paper-knife thrust be 
 tween its uncut leaves, lay open on the 
 rug, as if the reader had dropped it hastily 
 in response to some sudden summons. 
 Miss Wetmore picked it up and glanced 
 at the title. It was a new edition of Her- 
 rick s love-songs, and several of the sweet 
 est were marked by a swift pencil stroke. 
 On the fly - leaf, also in pencil, was the 
 name "Alice Gresham." The writing was 
 Herbert Gordon s. Miss Wetmore had seen 
 it too often on assignment slips and curt 
 office messages not to recognize imme 
 diately the characteristic sweep of the 
 letters. She smiled as she laid the little 
 volume on the table, for the few pencil- 
 marks had brought the city editor s love 
 affair before her almost as vividly as his 
 own hurried words had done. She re 
 membered that she was in the house of the 
 woman he loved, and that she was there 
 with the avowed purpose of helping them 
 130
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 both. Judging by these surroundings, 
 Miss Gresham was a woman of wealth 
 and culture. The city editor had only his 
 good name, his brains, and his salary, the 
 latter a liberal one, but not sufficiently 
 elastic to meet the demands of an estab 
 lishment like this. Doubtless that was 
 why the stern parent objected. Perhaps, 
 after all, the young people were justified 
 in questioning parental authority. Miss 
 Wetmore had not felt so sure of that when 
 she entered, and her spirits rose as this 
 solution of the problem presented itself to 
 her as feasible. Her reverie was inter 
 rupted by the reappearance of the maid 
 who had admitted her. 
 
 " Madame asks if it will inconvenience 
 mademoiselle to wait ten or fifteen min 
 utes/ she said. "She wishes to see mad 
 emoiselle, but several of her friends are 
 with her to say good-bye. She leaves 
 for Europe to-morrow. When they have 
 departed, she will ask mademoiselle to be 
 so good as to come to her up-stairs." 
 
 " Please say I will await her convenience 
 but it is Miss Gresham, not Mrs. Gresh-
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 am, I wish to see/ corrected the news 
 paper woman. 
 
 The maid looked surprised. 
 
 There is but one/ she replied, quietly. 
 " My meestrees is Madame Gresham ; there 
 is no Mees Gresham in the family. It is 
 madame who has been expecting Madem 
 oiselle Smeeth all day. She told me to see 
 that she was informed the moment Madem 
 oiselle Smeeth came." 
 
 The Frenchwoman had spoken slowly 
 and meaningly. Miss Wetmore glanced 
 up and met her eye. The expression in 
 it could have but one significance. The 
 woman evidently knew the reason of her 
 visit. It had been through her, probably, 
 that Gordon s words of warning had pen 
 etrated the carefully guarded household. 
 The whole situation unrolled itself before 
 the reporter, and her enlightenment was 
 not pleasant. 
 
 "I will wait for Mrs. Gresham," she 
 said, quietly. The maid immediately left 
 the room with a soft " Merci, mademoi 
 selle," and there was a little time before 
 her in which to readjust herself to the sit- 
 132
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 uation. She was trying to do this and to 
 call her chaotic thoughts to order when 
 she heard a gurgle of childish laughter, 
 which floated to the library from some 
 upper region of the house. It was fol 
 lowed by a succession of small thumps, 
 like the dragging of an object down the 
 stairs, and by various infantile ejaculations, 
 vague at first, but growing in distinctness. 
 Then there was the rattle of little wheels, 
 the clink of toy harness, and in another 
 moment a small boy about five years old 
 walked composedly into the room, draw 
 ing after him a wagon to which two ex 
 ceedingly spirited wooden horses were at 
 tached. 
 
 He was dressed in a black velvet suit, 
 with a wide, white lace collar. He wore 
 also an air of the most ingratiating friend 
 liness. His short curls stood on end, as 
 if through lively interest in the occasion, 
 and every tooth in his head shone as he 
 walked towards the caller, with one dim 
 pled hand extended and the other guid 
 ing the mettlesome animals behind him. 
 
 "How do you do?" he asked, with blithe 
 133
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 hospitality. "Celeste said somebody was 
 here to see mama, so I fought I d turn 
 down. Mama doesn t know I turn," he 
 added, more slowly, and with a slightly 
 apprehensive glance towards the door. 
 
 Miss Wetmore laughed and gave him 
 an appreciative hug, which seemed to sur 
 prise as well as reassure him. 
 
 " But I m afraid you ought not to be 
 here," she added, dutifully, "if mama 
 doesn t know." 
 
 The infant responded to these advances 
 by getting into her lap with a confiding 
 smile. 
 
 "She won t tare," he said, carelessly. 
 "She lets me turn, sometimes. She tells 
 me to muse tallers. Shall I muse you?" 
 he added, politely. He had rested his head 
 against her shoulder, and as she looked 
 down at him she saw the creases in his 
 fat little neck under the lace collar, and 
 the big dimples in the hand that rested on 
 her lap. His eyes were brown an un 
 usually vivid brown, strangely like a cer 
 tain pair of eyes she loved and had not 
 seen for years. An unusual tenderness 
 134
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 rose in the heart of the matter-of-fact re 
 porter, whose profession had long since 
 checked any excess of sentiment in her 
 nature. She kissed the boy softly, and 
 rested her cheek against the velvet one so 
 near it. 
 
 "You should be out in the park," she 
 said, "looking for the first spring flowers. 
 The dandelions are beginning to come up 
 now, and little boys with sharp eyes are 
 finding them." 
 
 He laughed, looking up at her with 
 eyes that sparkled with the delight of this 
 new friendship. 
 
 "I do, sometimes," he added. To-day 
 I touldn t. We are doin to Europe. We re 
 doin to-mowwow. Everybody is putting 
 fings in trunks and boxes." 
 
 "Why, that will be very nice," his new 
 acquaintance said. "Perhaps you ll find 
 other little boys to play with on the steamer. 
 Have you any brothers and sisters?" 
 
 "No," her youthful host replied, slowly. 
 
 " There s only papa and mama, and me 
 
 and Uncle Herbert Gordon. Mama s nice, 
 
 but she cwies all the time, and Uncle Her- 
 
 135
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 bert s vewy nice. He s nicer than papa. 
 Uncle Herbert works on a newspaper. He 
 isn t my weally, twuly uncle, but he said 
 I could tall him uncle. I work on his 
 newspaper, too. I wite rings, and he 
 bwings me money in a little wen wen- 
 velwope." 
 
 He stopped for breath after this struggle 
 with the last word, and Miss Wetmore 
 seized the opportunity to turn his infant 
 mind to other topics. These glimpses 
 into the Gresham menage, while exceed 
 ingly interesting under the circumstances, 
 were certainly not wholly justified. She 
 fixed admiring eyes on the horses, tem 
 porarily forgotten on the floor. 
 
 Those are very nice horses/ she com 
 mented. " Do they ever run away?" 
 
 "Uncle Herbert gived em to me," was 
 the prompt response. "He gived me lots 
 of fings a wocking-horse an soldiers an 
 dwums an a team -car that goes when 
 you wind it up. I haven t seen him for a 
 great many days. He doesn t turn here 
 any more. I asked papa why, and he 
 went wight out, and mama cwied," con- 
 136
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 tinued this cherubic-faced enfant terrible, 
 the words pouring from his innocent lips 
 like the rush of a small Niagara. 
 
 Miss Wetmore gasped a little as if the 
 conversational spray had dashed into her 
 face. She was conscious of the hope that 
 Master Gresham did not " muse " all his 
 mother s callers by a like artless revela 
 tion of family affairs. Much to her relief, 
 he changed the subject with childish in 
 consequence. 
 
 "Papa s pwetty dood, too," he went 
 on, patronizing^. "He taked me to the 
 park one day. I cwied cos I touldn t do 
 out wif Uncle Herbert. Papa cwied, too. 
 He wiped his eyes wif his hankfish, and 
 en we hed a nice time sailing boats." 
 
 Miss Wetmore put the boy gently on 
 the floor. She felt a little dizzy with it all, 
 and longed to think. He stood in front 
 of her, surprised but unoffended by his 
 exclusion from her lap, with his hands 
 behind his back, his small legs very wide 
 apart and his big brown eyes fixed on 
 her face. 
 
 "I like you," he remarked, with frank 
 137
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 appreciation. Tan t you do to Europe 
 wif us? Papa said we will begin gain 
 in Europe. How do you begin gain?" 
 
 Miss Wetmore looked at him rather 
 vaguely, but did not speak until in some 
 disappointment he turned away. 
 
 "I shouldn t mind beginning again 
 in some ways," she then said, slowly, 
 watching the rear view of the child s fat 
 legs he was now giving her as he strug 
 gled with the little cart which he had up 
 set. Hearing her voice, he desisted and 
 turned a flushed face towards her. 
 
 "I ve bwoke my wheel," he said, with 
 the calmness of despair in his tone. "If 
 Uncle Herbert was here he d fix it. He 
 always fixed fings wight off." 
 
 Miss Wetmore rose quickly, and took 
 the little cart from the floor. By diligent 
 work on the broken wheel, and by leading 
 the conversation to the joys of out -door 
 and in-door games, she diverted the mind 
 of the infant and restricted his prattle to 
 legitimate topics. 
 
 "If you had a wittle bwother you d be 
 dood to him, wouldn t you?" was the flat- 
 138
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 tering comment won by the return of the 
 wheel with its usefulness unimpaired. 
 
 "I have a brother/ his new friend told 
 him. " He isn t a very little brother, but I 
 try to be good to him." 
 
 " Would you be dood to me always, if I 
 was your wittle bwother?" was the next 
 question. 
 
 "Very. We ll play you are, anyhow. 
 You aren t the first young man I ve prom 
 ised to be a sister to," she laughed, pinch 
 ing the plump cheeks of the face so trust 
 fully upturned to her. The boy was leaning 
 against her knees, his elbows resting on 
 them, and his chin in his little hands. 
 " I m going to be very good to you, as it is. 
 You ll never understand how good," she 
 added. 
 
 She spoke brightly and decidedly. The 
 situation, as now revealed to her, left but 
 one course open. Her cheeks had flushed 
 scarlet as she realized the part Gordon 
 had meant her to play. It was strange 
 not flattering, she told herself that he 
 understood her so little after their year of 
 work together in the same office. But he 
 139
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 evidently was desperate, and had staked 
 all on one forlorn hope. 
 
 " The fostering friend of such a couple 
 is not exactly my role in any event/ she 
 had mused, as she toiled over the broken 
 wheel. "When the party of the second 
 part is a married woman and the mother 
 of an adorable child like this, I must de 
 cline to go further. They can t communi 
 cate without my help, and they shall not 
 have that. Consequently they can t com 
 municate at all. By all means let her go 
 to Europe and forget the man. It may be 
 merely a sentimental episode and she has 
 a wise husband." 
 
 She debated mentally as to whether she 
 should wait the coming of Mrs. Gresham. 
 A little natural curiosity prompted a meet 
 ing, but the girl s better judgment pre 
 vailed. 
 
 " Why should I see her?" she asked 
 herself. "I don t think I d be foolish 
 enough to let her change my decision. 
 Still, one can t tell, and anyhow a meeting 
 would only be unpleasant for us both." 
 She pushed Gordon s thick letter deeper 
 140
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 into her pocket. Then a sudden inspira 
 tion came to her and she turned again to 
 Mrs. Gresham s son and heir. He was 
 ostentatiously unbuckling the straps in 
 the harness of his mettlesome steeds, but 
 he stopped courteously as she spoke. 
 
 "My little brother/ she said, smiling, 
 "I am going away now, and I want you 
 to give your mama a message for me. 
 Do you think you can remember it?" 
 
 Tourse I tan," responded the small 
 brother of her adoption, with cheerful as 
 surance, "I member lots of rings." 
 
 Recalling the conversation with which 
 he had favored her, Miss Wetmore felt he 
 was justified in this modest tribute to him 
 self. She took his small hands in her 
 own, and looked steadily into his brown 
 eyes as she gave him the message. 
 
 " I want you to tell this to your mama, 
 and not to anybody else. Do you under 
 stand?" 
 
 Tourse I do," said the infant diplo 
 mat, again. " I mustn t tell papa. Mama 
 tells me lots of rings not to tell papa," 
 he added, with some expansiveness. Miss 
 141
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Wetmore promptly checked further revela 
 tions along these lines, sorry to be obliged 
 to add to the list. 
 
 "Tell mama that Miss Smith made 
 a mistake in coming here, and that you 
 showed it to her. Can you remember 
 that?" she asked. 
 
 "Miss Smiff made a stake tumin here 
 and I showed it to her," repeated the boy, 
 slowly. " But I didn t," he added, quickly. 
 "I didn t show you any stake." 
 
 His lower lip quivered treacherously. 
 He evidently felt that something was 
 wrong. The newspaper woman reassured 
 him with a kiss as she rose and struggled 
 into her coat. 
 
 "Oh yes, you did!" she laughed. "You 
 tell your mama how you mused me, 
 and she ll understand. It s all right, dear 
 little man. You re a very good boy, and 
 both your mama and I have reason to 
 be grateful to you." 
 
 She waited for his responsive smile, 
 
 which dawned brightly as he trundled his 
 
 little cart out into the hall after her. A 
 
 light ripple of laughter came down the 
 
 142
 
 The One Who Intervened 
 
 stairs, accompanied by the rustle of silk 
 skirts. Mrs. Gresham s guests were tak 
 ing their departure. That lady s son ac 
 companied the newspaper woman to the 
 door, and followed her wistfully with his 
 eyes until she closed it from the outside. 
 It looked very bright and sunshiny down 
 there in the street. Other little boys were 
 playing marbles on the sidewalk, and 
 there was an organ only half a block 
 away. It was not so nice in the house 
 with mama crying and everybody put 
 ting things in trunks. The corners of the 
 small boy s mouth went down a little. 
 
 Then he remembered that he had some 
 thing to do a message to deliver. He 
 might forget it if he waited longer. His 
 face brightened as he recalled it, and the 
 little wheels of the wagon squeaked as he 
 started up-stairs to his mother, repeating 
 it softly to himself.
 
 Her Friend
 
 Her Friend 
 
 IISS WINGATE sank com 
 fortably into her steamer- 
 chair and submitted herself, 
 with the ease of one long 
 used to such service, to the 
 ministrations of a deck steward. He deftly 
 tucked her rug around her and folded it 
 in under her feet, adjusted the cushions 
 at exactly the right angle to support her 
 back, and then laid in her lap the package 
 of mail and the book and periodical whose 
 leaves were still uncut. 
 
 The New York pier from which the great 
 ocean liner had just swung out was not half 
 an hour behind. Some of the passengers 
 were now hanging over the deck - rail, 
 gazing homesickly at the receding Amer 
 ican shore. Others bustled actively about, 
 147
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 settling themselves for the morning as 
 Miss Wingate had already done, but even 
 among these she saw suspiciously red eye 
 lids. She had shed no tears over her de 
 parture from her native land, and the 
 distinguished friends who had come down 
 to the pier to see her off had also borne the 
 parting with undiminished cheerfulness. 
 She felt they would exist very comfortably 
 during the four months that were to elapse 
 before they saw her again. So would she ! 
 There was not one among them, as she 
 was only too well assured, at all vital to 
 her. Humanity interested her imperson 
 ally, but for individuals she had found 
 surprisingly little affinity. She glanced 
 carelessly over the letters in her lap, and, 
 as she recognized the handwriting, could 
 forecast the entertainment or support each 
 was likely to afford. Many of them would 
 be entertaining, a few brilliant but there 
 was not a heart throb in one of those letters. 
 She smiled as the thought crossed her 
 mind, but let herself dwell on what it con 
 noted. 
 
 Why should there be a heart throb? 
 148
 
 Her Friend 
 
 She had done nothing to call for one, that 
 she could remember. Her intercourse with 
 others was cordial, but never close. Many 
 men had pretended to love her, but her 
 money, she feared, might account for that; 
 and women flattered her, for her position 
 was an enviable one and she could do 
 much for her so-called friends. Now she 
 was trying a new experiment. She was 
 going abroad. She knew no one on the 
 ship, and exulted in the fact. She had 
 dropped a part of her name and was trav 
 elling very simply, without a maid. For 
 a time she would be a spectator of life 
 as acted on the steamer s stage, with its 
 human freight as the dramatis personae. 
 Then, when she reached Europe, she would 
 work among the poor and do what good 
 she could among them. 
 
 The chairs on deck had begun to fill, 
 for the morning was passing. She looked 
 more closelj 7 at her nearest neighbors. 
 At her right an open door led to the stairs 
 that descended to the lower deck. There 
 was no chair on that side, as it would have 
 interfered with the people who used the 
 149
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 passage-way. The first five of the chairs 
 beyond the door were occupied by a Ger 
 man family of eminent respectability and 
 unmistakable dulness. At her left was a 
 vacant chair, and beyond that several 
 travelling salesmen held forth in animated 
 discussion of the merits of their respective 
 business houses. Miss Wingate surveyed 
 the empty chair with a curious eye. In 
 the place for the owner s name there was a 
 small card, which, without compunction, 
 she leaned forward to read. It bore one 
 word that rose in black from its white 
 background with almost painful direct 
 ness. The word was Smith. 
 
 Miss Wingate closed her eyes weari 
 ly and struggled with an unmistakable 
 sense of disappointment, for she had taken 
 a slow ship, and there were eight days 
 of this environment before her. A little 
 bustle made her open them again. The 
 steward, bearing an armful of rugs and 
 cushions, stood beside the empty chair, 
 and a woman was just preparing to 
 seat herself in it. She dropped her 
 lashes and studied the new neighbor 
 150
 
 M ffi 
 
 O M 
 
 a co 
 
 > w 
 
 i] O 
 
 V 
 
 O H
 
 Her Friend 
 
 behind the effective screen they af 
 forded. 
 
 She was young, Miss Wingate decided. 
 She herself had reached the age when all 
 women seem young who are under forty. 
 Miss Smith or was it Mrs. Smith? 
 was perhaps thirty-five. She stood with 
 her back to the silent spectator, and the 
 latter observed with appreciation the per 
 fection of her figure and her costume. On 
 her head was a small cap with a peak 
 to shade the eyes. Buttoned around her 
 was a tightly fitting reefer of foreign make, 
 with an embroidered collar that came up 
 closely under her chin. Her short skirt 
 was of heavy tweed, and as she settled 
 into her chair Miss Wingate saw that the 
 small feet the steward hastened to cover 
 with her rug were clad in dark tan boots, 
 of perfect fit and style, with rubber heels. 
 All her travelling outfit for comfort spoke 
 of luxury, and the slight gestures of the 
 hand with which she emphasized her wish 
 es were those of a woman accustomed to 
 command and to be obeyed. She did not 
 speak until Miss Wingate made a move-
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 ment to withdraw her own rug from where 
 it encroached on her neighbor s chair. 
 Then she turned alertly, with a singular 
 ly brilliant smile and a courteous word 
 of acknowledgment. The word and one 
 glance of her face supplied Miss Wingate 
 with an instantaneous conviction. "It is 
 neither Mrs. Smith nor Miss Smith/ she 
 told herself. "It is not Smith at all." 
 
 It was true that nothing could be more 
 foreign than her neighbor s face. Her 
 eyes, of which Miss Wingate had caught 
 so brief a glimpse, were very large and 
 dark of a peculiar velvety brown. Her 
 skin was richly olive, and against this 
 depth of color the whiteness of her teeth 
 was almost startling. Her abundant hair 
 was black and had a natural wave. But 
 it was her mouth to which Miss Wingate s 
 gaze reverted irresistibly. Seen in pro 
 file, it showed exquisite curves and a tragic 
 sadness. 
 
 Later, Miss Wingate glanced over her 
 passenger list for any additional informa 
 tion it might afford. The ship was a 
 German liner, and there was a long array 
 152
 
 Her Friend 
 
 of Teutonic names, with a liberal sprink 
 ling of others. Among the S s she found 
 repeated the simple legend of the chair 
 Mrs. Smith. There were no initials. She 
 glanced again at her neighbor, and at 
 that moment the first bugle-call for lunch 
 eon echoed on deck and Mrs. Smith unrolled 
 herself from her mummy-like wrappings, 
 rose, and strolled below with no eagerness, 
 but a wholesome, normal interest in com 
 plying with its summons. The American 
 woman looked after her as she walked 
 down the deck, and the conclusion she 
 had reached earlier in the day strength 
 ened. Miss Wingate had travelled much, 
 and had lived among peoples of varied na 
 tionalities. That supple, undulating walk 
 she would have recognized among the 
 women of a hundred races. It was the 
 unmistakable walk of the Slav. 
 
 After luncheon she drifted aimlessly 
 towards the front of the ship, and, leaning 
 over the high rail, looked down upon the 
 steerage passengers. They were stretched 
 out upon the deck in various stages of 
 discomfort and cold >and illness. Just 
 153
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 below her a mother, holding a sick child 
 in her arms, was vainly trying to force 
 some food past its lips. It turned its head 
 away with a wail of protest. She had 
 been conscious when she reached the rail 
 of another silent figure leaning there, and 
 she was not surprised when at her ear a 
 contralto voice with a foreign accent said, 
 quietly : 
 
 " We are good sailors, you and I, made 
 moiselle. Our poor friends below are less 
 happy. How ill they all seem, the un 
 fortunate ones." 
 
 Miss Wingate looked into the brown 
 eyes under the little peaked cap and saw 
 that they were wet. The sick baby and 
 the dumb suffering of the others had ap 
 pealed strongly to Mrs. Smith, who, she 
 knew in that instant, was sympathetic 
 and loved the poor. There was no pose 
 in the attitude. Every line in the woman s 
 face showed that those wet eyes had looked 
 long on human suffering and that she 
 had suffered, too. The idle curiosity of 
 which the American was half ashamed 
 seemed to die at once, and in its place 
 154
 
 Her Friend 
 
 blossomed a sudden sense of intimate 
 sympathy and understanding. She an 
 swered simply, as if they had known each 
 other for years. 
 
 They are ill now/ she said, "and, of 
 course, they are miserable. But there is 
 another side to it. Most of these people, I 
 think, are emigrants who have succeeded 
 in America. They have saved up a little 
 money and are going home for a visit, or 
 to stay there because they prefer it. The 
 discomfort of the moment is no more to 
 them than it is to any of the sea-sick pas 
 sengers on board. My heart aches for 
 them when they are coming to America 
 for the first time when they have left 
 their own land behind and are travelling 
 to a strange country to begin life all over 
 again, handicapped by ignorance and 
 poverty/ 
 
 The dark face beside her lighted up 
 with one of its irresistible smiles. 
 
 "But, pardon, to me it seems that you 
 
 have it all wrong," she said, quickly. 
 
 "You are looking at the situation upside 
 
 down. When they are coming here they 
 
 155
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 are taking a long stride away from misery 
 towards progress. They have left be 
 hind them their own land, where there is 
 no hope for such as they. In this big, 
 fine country of yours work and liberty 
 and a future await them. That they had 
 the courage to come shows that in them, 
 in most of them, will be the courage to 
 conquer. America lifts them up. Europe 
 grinds them down. Some of these peo 
 ple below us are going back to that. 
 Already I have talked to them. The 
 mother with the sick child found no one 
 to meet her. Those three men in the cor 
 ner are returning because they have not 
 succeeded. The two near them, the old 
 men, had not the money to land. So 
 they are facing their grim misery those 
 brothers of ours whom not even America 
 could help." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, as if she realized 
 her own vehemence. 
 
 "Pardon me/ she said; "do not think 
 I am a platform speaker. But I love these 
 people and I have been among them a 
 great deal." 
 
 156
 
 Her Friend 
 
 Miss Wingate responded frankly. She 
 had worked among the poor for years, 
 she said, and now she was going abroad 
 to study their condition over there. She 
 could accomplish more at home, she add 
 ed, if she knew better what their life had 
 been before they came here. It was not 
 her habit to discuss this interest of hers, 
 but she found herself doing it now in de 
 tail, and was surprised by her own un 
 usual expansiveness. 
 
 The foreigner turned a sudden glance 
 upon her. It was not long, but in that 
 instant Miss Wingate felt that she was 
 weighed and judgment passed. The idea 
 amused her a little. She herself had a 
 habit of holding the scales in her world ; 
 vshe had long been a just but exacting 
 judge of the men and women around her. 
 Mrs. Smith spoke soberly. 
 
 "I would like to talk with you more 
 about it all/ she said "your work and 
 your plans. I can perhaps help you. I 
 know well the condition of the people in 
 France, Italy, Germany " She stopped 
 and looked out to sea. Far off, against 
 157
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 the horizon - line, a whale was spouting. 
 They watched him idly until he disap 
 peared, and then drifted back to their 
 steamer chairs and settled there cosily to 
 gether, quite as if their association was 
 not to be lightly disturbed. 
 
 That night at ten o clock Miss Wingate 
 sat on deck wondering what had become 
 of her new acquaintance. It was cold, 
 and over the water hung a gray mist, 
 through which the moonlight forced its 
 humid way. Madame, as she called her 
 in her thoughts, had not been at dinner. 
 For an instant Miss Wingate wondered if 
 she were ill, and at once rejected the idea 
 as unworthy. Illness or other weakness 
 seemed remote from that striking person 
 ality; but as the thought crossed her mind 
 she modified it, for the woman herself 
 stepped out on deck through the open 
 door beside her, and Miss Wingate saw 
 that she was very pale. 
 
 "The child has just died/ Mrs. Smith 
 said, taking the other s interest and com 
 prehension for granted, as a matter of 
 course. "The poor mother! She did not 
 158
 
 Her Friend 
 
 realize how ill it was. They never do. 
 And now, poor soul " 
 
 " Have you been in the steerage the 
 whole evening ?" Miss Wingate asked. 
 
 "Oh yes, since five o clock. They had 
 the baby in the hospital and the mother 
 was almost insane. Fortunately, I speak 
 her language and I could explain matters 
 to her. But I came now for you to help 
 us, if you will. They bury the little one 
 at midnight when people are asleep and 
 the ship is quiet. The mother is to be 
 present they are willing; and if you are 
 there with us it may comfort her. She 
 knows no one, you see, and it is all very 
 terrible for her " 
 
 Mrs. Smith s voice trembled slightly. 
 Calm as she was, she showed the strain 
 she had been under. She looked very 
 tired and almost old. Miss Wingate rose 
 at once, lending herself to the situation 
 in hand with characteristic energy. 
 
 "We will do all we can for her," she 
 
 said, " but this moment it is you who need 
 
 attention. You are worn out, and you 
 
 have had no dinner. " She called a passing 
 
 159
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 steward, and gave him a few brief instruc 
 tions. "Bring it here," she added. She 
 wrapped the rugs around the other woman 
 as she spoke, and pressed her gently back 
 among the pillows. 
 
 "You should have let me know," she 
 said, reproachfully. " I might have helped 
 instead of dreaming here." 
 
 Mrs. Smith succumbed with a little sigh 
 of relaxation. 
 
 "I thought it might last all night," 
 she explained. "I meant to call on you 
 later, as I have done, you see. Now we 
 are both free for the time; she sleeps, and 
 one of the steerage women watches her. 
 She has had a dose of chloral, but I have 
 promised to wake her at twelve, that she 
 may look her last on the little one." 
 
 She drank the bouillon when it came, 
 and ate a sandwich. "And now," she 
 said, suddenly, "let me doze for a little 
 time. I have not slept for a week, and I 
 have been under a great strain. I feel 
 to-night as if there were a pall over the 
 whole world." 
 
 Miss Wingate leaned back comfortably 
 160
 
 Her Friend 
 
 in her chair and gave herself up to thought 
 Soon she knew, by the regular breath 
 ing of the other, that the tired woman 
 was asleep. Drawing her watch stealthily 
 from her belt, she saw that it was eleven 
 o clock. Madame had a full hour in which 
 to rest after the strain of the day and before 
 the greater strain of the midnight hour to 
 come. She kept watch faithfully by her 
 side, and, for once in her life, forgot to 
 analyze the feeling that made this service 
 possible and pleasant. 
 
 She never forgot that midnight burial, 
 brief as it was. The steamer hung silent 
 on the water for a few tragedy-filled mo 
 ments, and the faces of the officers and the 
 three women looked ghastly in the moonlit 
 mist. The waves seemed to take their 
 tiny burden reverently, but Miss Wingate 
 felt soul-sick at these rapid revelations of 
 the tragedies of life. It was almost dawn 
 when the two women left the mother, and 
 in the interval they had walked the steerage 
 deck with her hour after hour. Towards 
 morning chloral again worked its insid 
 ious benefit, and they were free. They 
 161
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 parted at the door of Miss Wingate s state 
 room with a clasp of hands. As she un 
 dressed drowsily in the gray light of the 
 dawn stealing through the port-hole win 
 dow, she thought how singularly full and 
 unique had been this first day and night of 
 the voyage. She seemed to see again, 
 as she lay in her berth, the little body 
 consigned to the waves, and the ghastly 
 face of its mother. But clearest of all was 
 her sense of the dominant personality of 
 all those hours, the beautiful-faced stranger 
 who had, without knowing it, knocked at 
 the door of her heart and entered. After all 
 these years she had found a friend. It 
 was with this thought that Miss Wingate 
 fell asleep. 
 
 Two women can become very w r ell ac 
 quainted in eight days on shipboard, if 
 each is travelling alone and has, for the 
 moment, no other dominant interest. These 
 two hardly realized how much they were 
 seeing of each other as the days passed. 
 They visited their steerage friends, and it 
 became the natural thing that they should 
 walk and talk and spend the days and 
 162
 
 Her Friend 
 
 the long evenings together. In their con 
 versations they touched on a surprising 
 range of subjects. Neither wished to speak 
 of herself, and a week had passed before 
 each realized that it was the exquisite 
 tact and good breeding of the other, as 
 well as her own preference, that kept the 
 topics so impersonal. It was extraordinary, 
 Miss Wingate reflected, that it should be 
 so. They were now at the point of part 
 ing; she herself was to leave the steamer 
 at Cherbourg that night, while Mrs. Smith 
 went on to Hamburg. In a very few 
 hours they would have separated, per 
 haps forever, and neither knew the other s 
 name or home, aught of her family or of 
 her friends. They had met like disem 
 bodied spirits on the ocean; they had dis 
 cussed music and literature and art and 
 travel, and each had felt a surprisingly 
 strong sense of affectionate intimacy 
 but not a clew to identity had slipped 
 through their lips. At their parting this 
 mysterj 7 would leave them as sharply 
 cleft asunder as the great waves cut by 
 the ship s prow. 
 
 163
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 All these thoughts passed through Miss 
 Wingate s mind as she leaned over the 
 deck-rail, looking at the lights that twin 
 kled on the French coast. Very soon the 
 tender would come out for the passengers 
 who were to disembark for Cherbourg, 
 and in the midst of the commotion and 
 excitement she and her new friend would 
 say good-bye, and that would be the end 
 of the most satisfying friendship of her 
 life. But need it be? Not so far, surely, 
 as she herself was concerned; only too 
 gladly would she tell the other anything 
 she wished to know. But Mrs. Smith s 
 attitude, she realized, was essentially dif 
 ferent from her own. The foreigner s 
 was the impenetrable mask of the woman 
 who keeps her counsel for good reason 
 and for all time. In other respects she 
 was intensely feminine and human to the 
 core; but beyond the impenetrable bar 
 riers of that reserve Miss Wingate could 
 not encroach for one instant. It had made 
 her own reserve the natural and inevitable 
 course. Under no other conditions could 
 they have reached their common footing. 
 164
 
 Her Friend 
 
 While they were together this had been of 
 little importance, but now Miss Wingate 
 was conscious of the shyness of a school 
 girl as she turned to her silent companion. 
 
 "It will soon be good-bye, madame," 
 she said. " Must it be a final one? May 
 I not hope to meet you again some time?" 
 
 The Slav hesitated a moment, and in 
 that pause Miss Wingate found her cour 
 age. 
 
 " We have been very impersonal during 
 this voyage," she went on, hurriedly. " We 
 have exchanged no confidences, and we 
 know nothing of each other. But I have 
 not felt for one moment that we were stran 
 gers. It seems to me that I have known 
 and loved you for years. I would gladly 
 have told you at any time the little there 
 is to know about myself if you had seemed 
 to wish it. But I have not desired to force 
 confidence on you or from you; I am not 
 trying to do that now only" her voice 
 faltered a little "I cannot let you slip 
 out of my life without some effort to keep 
 you there. Will you not write to me, and 
 may I not see you some time again?" 
 165
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 She felt her hands taken in a strong, 
 quick grasp. The brown eyes looking 
 into her own were dim. She turned her 
 head away and looked again at the dis 
 tant lights, for she knew at once what 
 was coming. 
 
 " If I could choose to - night a friend 
 from all the world," said the voice that had 
 grown so familiar, " I would say to Fate, 
 Let me have this one/ I have never 
 liked any one so much in so short a time. 
 I could trust you and I want you 
 but friendship is not for me. I cannot 
 tell you why, though you would under 
 stand only too quickly if I could. Do you 
 see that tender coming over the waves? It 
 is coming for you and the other passen 
 gers. When you are on it, it will steam 
 away to the French coast, and this ship 
 on which I remain will head towards the 
 North Sea. Each must go its way, and 
 their ways are different. If they kept 
 together, only one could reach its destina 
 tion. It is so with you and me. It was 
 never meant that we should hold together. 
 Chance some strange, blessed chance 
 166
 
 Her Friend 
 
 has given me these few days with you. 
 During them we felt, if we did not speak 
 it, how close to each other we had grown. 
 I shall remember them and you all my 
 life and I shall need that memory in the 
 days to come." 
 
 Miss Wingate s head sank lower. 
 
 "You are in trouble. Is there any 
 thing I can do?" 
 
 "Nothing! Or, yes, there is," her friend 
 answered, with sudden energy. "Put me 
 out of your dear heart as soon as you can! 
 But first say a prayer for me, and if, in 
 the future, you should hear something of 
 me that hurts you do not judge. What 
 can you know of what my people suffer?" 
 She uttered the last words almost to her 
 self, and then checked herself abruptly. 
 
 " We are growing very sentimental for 
 mature women with a purpose in life, are 
 we not?" she added, in a lighter tone. 
 "But see, your tender is here, and the 
 passengers are getting ready to leave the 
 ship. Good-bye God bless you." 
 
 She kissed her slowly on each cheek, 
 giving the caress its highest eloquence, 
 167
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 and Miss Wingate returned it, almost sol 
 emnly, like one in a dream. She heard 
 the band begin the swinging march which 
 was the German ship s farewell to its pas 
 sengers for France. Still as in a dream 
 she descended the gangway and took a 
 seat in a remote corner of the tender. It 
 pulled away from the great ship and she 
 saw the line of water widening between. 
 On the deck far above the passengers hung 
 over the rail, waving their handkerchiefs 
 and calling good-bye to the friends they 
 had made on the voyage. Their voices 
 grew fainter as the distance between the 
 boats increased. Finally only the music 
 of the band came softly across the stretch 
 of water, and at last even that was silent. 
 The sturdy little tender was puffing its 
 way to the coast; far off on the sea the 
 lights of the liner were growing dim and 
 dimmer. 
 
 For a moment Miss Wingate felt in 
 gulfed by the most horrible loneliness of 
 her whole life. Something very like a 
 sob shook her. Then she lifted her head 
 and the pride of many generations came 
 168
 
 Her Friend 
 
 to her rescue. In her life there had been 
 singularly little heart interest, and for 
 that reason this new friendship had been 
 a very beautiful and precious thing. But 
 it was over, and she would bear the dis 
 appointment yes, the grief, for it was a 
 grief with dignity. She reminded herself 
 that she was a woman of the world and 
 not a sentimental school-girl. And hav 
 ing worked out this conclusion to her en 
 tire self-respect, Miss Esther Wingate, pos 
 sessor of millions, dropped her head on 
 her folded arms and cried for quite ten 
 minutes. 
 
 She was too strong and self-reliant to 
 remain depressed. For a few days she 
 let herself indulge in rather softening 
 reveries, in which her lost friend figured, 
 and she found herself haunting the places 
 where she knew the other had been, and 
 dreaming in the Louvre and the Luxem 
 bourg before the pictures and statues the 
 other woman loved. But very soon she 
 was again looking at life in her own char 
 acteristic fashion a little suspiciously, 
 more wistfully, but always bravely. She 
 169
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 found comfort in working among the poor; 
 "Madame" had loved them, and she felt 
 almost as if she were doing something 
 for her in this care of the under ones of 
 humanity. She travelled slowly through 
 Europe, finding work, and interest in the 
 work, and successfully concealing her own 
 identity behind the name she had chosen. 
 It was characteristic of her that, in visiting 
 the cities and the localities to which Mrs. 
 Smith had referred her, she made no effort 
 to discover the identity of that mysterious 
 stranger. Perhaps she could not have 
 succeeded had she tried ; but however easy 
 the task might have been, it was as im 
 possible for Miss Wingate to ask a ques 
 tion in the matter as it would have been to 
 read, uninvited, another person s private 
 correspondence. Mrs. Smith wished to re 
 main unknown that was sufficient. 
 
 It was almost four months later, and the 
 date of her return voyage was very near, 
 when she visited a little city, the seat of a 
 reigning duke. Before she had been there 
 two days she was recognized by the wife of 
 a high official of the court, who had met her 
 170
 
 Her Friend 
 
 during a visit to New York. Miss Wingate 
 good-naturedly and even willingly threw 
 off her incognito and reconciled herself to 
 the round of festivities which followed. 
 There had been several occasions when it 
 had been distinctly inconvenient to be 
 merely Miss Wynne, an eccentric American 
 travelling alone. She felt a surprisingly 
 keen zest in the return to a sphere more 
 like her own. And then, suddenly, the 
 gay little town was thrilled by a tragedy 
 such as it had never known before. A 
 debonair young Russian grand-duke, a 
 guest at the court, was murdered at the 
 very door of the palace. The assassin 
 was captured at once, and on the day of 
 his crime news came to the city of three 
 other attempted assassinations, two in 
 St. Petersburg and one in Moscow, the 
 four revealing a nihilistic plot of far-reach 
 ing power and malignity. Had all suc 
 ceeded, the Russian throne might have 
 trembled on its foundations, but only the 
 young grand-duke fell a victim to one of 
 the deepest, most ingenious plots of mod 
 ern times. Within an hour the great net- 
 171
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 work of the Russian secret-service system 
 was spread all over Europe. The police 
 had, in each case, promptly arrested the 
 would-be assassins; it was the power back 
 of these for which they were reaching out 
 now. 
 
 Miss Wingate was intensely thrilled. 
 She had met and liked the grand-duke 
 a sweet-faced, unspoiled boy; his tragic 
 fate seemed especially terrible in contrast 
 with the good he might later have done in 
 his high place. Her position as the guest 
 of a court official put her in touch with 
 much that was kept from the general public. 
 She saw the drag-net closing in with its 
 victims, and she met the silent and terri 
 ble man who came from St. Petersburg 
 and drifted like a shadow round the court 
 and through the little city. His presence 
 brought awe to court circles; none knew 
 why he was there this supreme power 
 of the secret police, this man whom, of all 
 men, the Czar most trusted. Looking into 
 his cold eyes, Miss Wingate felt her blood 
 congeal. 
 
 Late that night, after a day of great but 
 172
 
 Her Friend 
 
 suppressed excitement, Miss Wingate s 
 host explained many things with care 
 and elaboration to his wife and her guest. 
 They did not understand them even after 
 this attention on his part; they had a con 
 fused sense of technical formalities and 
 foreign laws in unprecedented complica 
 tion, but out of it all they grasped the fact 
 that there was to be a legal hearing of 
 some kind the next morning, after which, 
 with due ceremony and red-tape, the capt 
 ured nihilists were to be escorted back to 
 St. Petersburg by the authorities there for 
 that purpose. It would be a dramatic oc 
 casion, they gathered, and they were priv 
 ileged to attend, if they wished. 
 
 Miss Wingate almost regretted that she 
 had come the next morning, when she found 
 herself conspicuously placed in a circle of 
 court officials and their wives, the former 
 in all the pomp of glittering uniforms. It 
 must look to the miserable wretches ar 
 raigned there, she reflected, very much as 
 if the members of her party had gathered 
 for social enjoyment. The officers were 
 paying much attention to the rich Ameri- 
 173
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 can, and the Parisian-garbed women with 
 her, while decorous as the occasion de 
 manded, were obviously enjoying a new 
 experience. Miss Wingate looked at the 
 line of victims of the Russian drag-net. 
 She was far from being the type of wom 
 an who feels a sentimental sympathy for 
 criminals; still, she knew these defiant 
 creatures were merely instruments in the 
 hands of others. Why did they not find 
 the instigators of the plot, she wondered, 
 and make them bear the burden of their 
 crime? 
 
 For some time the Russian chief of police 
 had been speaking to the officers of her 
 party in French, a language she herself 
 spoke perfectly. She had paid little at 
 tention to his words, but suddenly she 
 noticed that they were pouring forth with 
 unusual rapidity. She listened to his 
 closing sentences: 
 
 "And we are therefore/ he concluded, 
 "in possession of the chief actor in this 
 entire movement. We have, in addition to 
 the prisoners sitting here, the person who 
 originated and carried out the plot, who 
 174
 
 Her Friend 
 
 directed the correspondence, who assigned 
 to these poor dupes the hellish work they 
 were to do. We have finally captured the 
 most subtle, the most dangerous character 
 in all Russia, whose hand has been time 
 and again raised against the Czar, whose 
 influence has extended even to America, 
 whose brain has inspired half the plots of 
 the past fifteen years, and whose cunning 
 has until now eluded us. Her great family 
 and powerful influence, too, deferred the 
 capture, but we have in our grasp to-day, 
 and in this very room, that arch fiend, the 
 Princess Sonia Alexandrovna. " 
 
 He brought out the last words with a 
 snarl of such savage triumph that Miss 
 Wingate turned cold as she listened. His 
 face fascinated her, in its vindictive delight. 
 For a moment she could not turn her eyes 
 away from it, but they finally followed 
 the direction of his. He was looking at a 
 little group pushing its way to the front 
 of the room. There were several men 
 guarding the central figure of the group, 
 but they fell back when the vacant space 
 before the court was reached and Sonia 
 175
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Alexandrovna stepped forth alone. Miss 
 Wingate s slow glance travelled to her 
 face and there rested petrified! 
 
 She was never quite sure what happened 
 after that. She was dimly conscious of a 
 sullen roar, which grew and swelled, and 
 of a mob surging towards the front of the 
 room, and of police officers beating it back, 
 and of one undaunted figure with its brown 
 eyes looking unwaveringly into space. 
 Miss Wingate had heard that a drowning 
 man recalls all the scenes of his past life 
 as he goes down. Long afterwards she 
 remembered that in those few seconds, so 
 full of horror, she had seen not the Princess 
 Sonia Alexandrovna as she stood at the 
 bar, but Sonia Alexandrovna as she was 
 on shipboard the nurse of a dying baby, 
 the comforter of a broken-hearted mother, 
 the friend of every unfortunate on the 
 great liner, her own friend, whom she had 
 learned to love. Picture after picture of 
 that ocean trip came before Miss Wingate s 
 eyes, as if some one had thrown them on 
 a screen stretched across the dingy room. 
 
 She came back to the present with a 
 176
 
 Her Friend 
 
 long shudder. The crowd had been swept 
 back and quiet was being restored. Miss 
 Wingate looked once more at the figure 
 in the foreground. Sonia Alexandrovna 
 was looking at the row of nihilists hand 
 cuffed together near her. There were five 
 of them, and as her eyes passed in turn 
 from one to another, each bent his head, 
 while tears streamed down his cheeks. 
 It was a beautiful look she gave them 
 such a look as she had turned on the dying 
 child and the crushed mother and on Esther 
 Wingate herself when she had put away 
 her offered friendship. As if some spring 
 had been touched in her own nature, Es 
 ther s tears welled forth, and as they fell 
 the prisoner turned suddenly and recog 
 nized her. Their eyes met and clung 
 together. Miss Wingate saw the other 
 through a heavy mist, but, to her excited 
 senses, the brown eyes shining from it 
 seemed to repeat the message of that for 
 mer farewell: "Do not judge; how can 
 you know what my people suffer?" 
 
 An officer touched her on the shoulder, 
 and Sonia Alexandrovna turned slowly 
 177
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 away. For just one moment she faltered 
 and her knees seemed to fail her as she 
 walked under the eyes of her friend down 
 the narrow passage formed by the two 
 lines of police. The next she had pulled 
 herself together and moved steadily forward 
 with her characteristic, superb carriage, 
 looking neither to the right nor to the 
 left. 
 
 And then, as if that sight were not in 
 itself enough to bear, the court-room seemed 
 to fade away, and Esther Wingate saw 
 the woman who had stolen into her heart 
 as no other friend had ever done, making 
 her last long journey on this earth; walk 
 ing on and on and on, under snow and 
 bitter sleet, over bare, frozen earth, with 
 captors who wrenched her to her feet when 
 she stumbled and fell; but borne forward 
 through it all by indomitable love for her 
 people to the dumb, living death of Siberia.
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 ?HE city editor of the New 
 York Searchlight was in an 
 exceedingly bad humor. This 
 condition, neither new nor 
 startling, was unpleasant and 
 had an immediate effect upon the mem 
 bers of his staff. Even Hawkins, the star 
 reporter, who was believed to fear no man, 
 after a glance at his chief s clouded brow 
 subdued the merry whistle with which 
 he had entered the city room. The other 
 men wrote busily, or ostentatiously clipped 
 from newspapers extracts supposed to bear 
 on their assignments. One or two, who 
 had finished their "stories/ wrote their 
 initials many times on their copy paper, 
 ending the capitals with elaborate and 
 painstaking nourishes. The office - boys 
 181
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 remained at a respectful distance from 
 the desk, but kept their eyes and ears wide 
 open, that no signal or order of the editorial 
 autocrat might escape them. 
 
 Only one person in the room remained 
 apparently oblivious of the displeasure of 
 the nervous young man who was now 
 striding up and down between the rows 
 of desks, his hands deep-thrust in his 
 pockets, and his teeth viciously chewing 
 a corner of his mustache. Miss Kath 
 arine Underbill continued with much se 
 renity the ungrateful task of clearing out 
 her desk a duty which usually presented 
 itself at the busiest and most inopportune 
 times, and gave her no mental rest until 
 she had accomplished it. The perform 
 ance was not novel she had gone through 
 it several times a year for three years 
 but it never lost interest and charm for her 
 fellow - reporters. Usually they gathered 
 round her, watching the stationery, notes, 
 and manuscript pile up before her, or rescu 
 ing with some excitement forgotten articles 
 of their own which they had lent to her in 
 the remote past. They also found a mild 
 182
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 satisfaction in reminding her that the 
 dust-covered photograph of a sweet-faced 
 old lady in gray was the one for which 
 the obituary department had been calling 
 for weeks, while the small water -color 
 beside it, borrowed from a distinguished 
 artist months ago for reproduction, had 
 been loaned on her fervid promise to re 
 turn it the next day. 
 
 These episodes, mortifying to a sen 
 sitive nature, did not disturb the poise of 
 Miss Underbill. She frequently remarked 
 that great minds should not be burdened 
 by details, and that the exhaustive work 
 of bringing in a " big beat " every day or 
 two banished trivialities from her thoughts. 
 She had further intimated that really loyal 
 fellow-workers, such as hers pretended to 
 be, would themselves have attended to the 
 small matter of returning these things 
 for her, finding their compensation in the 
 credit she was constantly reflecting upon 
 the staff. 
 
 The men grinned cheerfully, but failed 
 to act on the suggestion, and so the dust 
 and borrowed articles and photographs 
 183
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 continued to accumulate, while Miss Un 
 derbill gained the reputation of a "corking 
 good reporter/ but one who lacked some 
 of those finer qualities which so ennoble 
 the nature of woman. 
 
 Even the most loyal of her many friends 
 admitted that she was careless, sometimes 
 seemingly unscrupulous, and often so 
 sarcastic as to prove that her sense of 
 humor was a trifle too developed. Bran 
 don, the city editor, never gave her as 
 signments demanding the writing of " teary 
 tales," as Hawkins called them. "Teary 
 tales" were news stories full of sadness. 
 Henshaw, who wrote the greater number 
 of those published in The Searchlight, was 
 fond of reading poignant extracts from 
 them to any one who would listen, and it 
 was a prime diversion of the staff to have 
 Henshaw favor Miss Underbill with an es 
 pecially "teary" bit, and hear her "punct 
 ure the pathos" with an audaciously per 
 tinent but unfeeling remark. 
 
 To-day, owing to the tense atmosphere 
 of the office, she was uninterrupted at the 
 task of setting her desk in order and was 
 184
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 making commendable headway in it when 
 the city editor stopped abruptly at her 
 side. In the last moment of his restless 
 wandering around the room his expression 
 had changed from the irritated look of a 
 worried man to the alert masterfulness of 
 the editor who has thought out his prob 
 lem and sees the way clear before him. 
 
 "I have something for you to do," he 
 said, briefly. "Come to my desk and I ll 
 tell you about it." 
 
 Miss Underbill rose with a sigh and 
 followed him. She was not in an indus 
 trious mood, and she knew by the city 
 editor s expression that it was no light 
 task he had for her. His first words deep 
 ened this conviction. 
 
 " I don t know whether you keep the run 
 of politics," he said, " and it isn t necessary 
 that you should; but if you can help us to 
 pull off this thing I have in mind it will 
 be the biggest local story we ve had in 
 years. It will knock the town off its feet. 
 I ve got as far as I can, unless you can 
 help me out. There s a woman in the 
 case of course." 
 
 185
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Miss Underbill listened without enthu 
 siasm, slightly annoyed by the editor s 
 cool assumption of her political ignorance. 
 
 "You know, I suppose/ he continued, 
 ironically, "that we are in the midst of a 
 city campaign, with three tickets in the 
 field. There is the Republican ticket, 
 headed by Van Nest; the Democratic 
 ticket, headed by Knowles; and the Citi 
 zens ticket, made for the virtuous who 
 are yelling for reform. They have the 
 only good man of the lot James Ken- 
 drick, the philanthropist, and it looks now 
 as if he would be elected. The Search 
 light is working for him. His prospects are 
 good enough to frighten the Democratic 
 and Republican leaders badly, and they re 
 up to some trick to beat him. The bosses 
 of the two parties are hobnobbing at a 
 great rate and they are probably going 
 to combine in a deal to defeat Kendrick. 
 That is," the city editor continued, pa 
 tiently keeping his discourse down to the 
 level of a woman s intelligence, "each of 
 the two parties would rather see the other 
 win than have Kendrick get in with his 
 1 86
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 reform ideas; so they are said to have 
 joined forces against him. Then, which 
 ever party gets into power will divide the 
 plums with the other. I suppose this is 
 clear?" 
 
 "Yes; but where does the woman come 
 in?" asked Miss Underbill, tersely. 
 
 "Right here. We ve known for some 
 time that the two big Democratic and Re 
 publican bosses have been fixing up some 
 scheme, but we haven t been able to prove 
 it. A few days ago a fool clerk in the 
 office of Briggs, the Republican leader, 
 boasted to his chums that he knew all the 
 inside facts of the case, and had himself 
 hired a room at the Franklin Hotel, where 
 the bosses meet at night and do their talk 
 ing. One of the chums promptly gave me 
 the tip and we got after the fool clerk. 
 Of course he denied the whole business. 
 At first he even disclaimed having said 
 anything at all. Then, when confronted 
 with the men he had said it to, he tried 
 to squirm out with the bluff that he had 
 just been bragging telling tall stories 
 to make the fellows think he was a big 
 187
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 man. And there he stands; we can t 
 shake him. But he has a wife. She is 
 the woman in the case." 
 
 The city editor stopped. Miss Under- 
 hill, who had been marvelling over this 
 long recital on the part of an individual 
 usually so taciturn, looked up quickly. 
 "Did she betray him?" she asked. 
 
 "No, but she will," asserted the young 
 man, dryly, "without knowing she is do 
 ing it. They are an ignorant pair. She 
 was a working - woman of some sort a 
 box -maker, I think, at Brynsville. His 
 salary is about fifteen dollars a week, and 
 they re both afraid he ll be discharged and 
 lose it. Of course, she must know the 
 truth, and if we get her here we may be 
 able to pull it out of her; and, if we can t, I 
 have something else up my sleeve. Here 
 is where you come in. Get her here on 
 any pretext. It s two now. I want you 
 to have her at the Franklin Hotel at six 
 this evening. I ll meet you there with 
 Briscoe and White, and we ll make her 
 tell all she knows. Her husband doesn t 
 get home till seven, so you won t have 
 188
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 him to contend with. We won t detain 
 her more than an hour, and we ll see 
 that she gets back safely by nine. Think 
 you can do it? You can if any one 
 can," the city editor added, with tact. 
 
 Miss Underhill modestly agreed that 
 she could. She was interested in the 
 case by this time, and realized her good 
 fortune in being connected with a " story " 
 of which she clearly saw the journalistic 
 possibilities. She planned her campaign 
 as she got on the suburban train and trav 
 elled towards Brynsville. 
 
 " I ll have to convince her that her hus 
 band is in serious trouble, and that by 
 appearing before the committee she may 
 be able to help him out of it," she reflect 
 ed, dispassionately. " I ll bring her there, 
 somehow, and, if I do, and we get the story, 
 they ll give me the vacation I ve been 
 asking for. I simply cannot work an 
 other month without a rest." 
 
 It was not hard to find the house in 
 
 Brynsville where the "fool clerk" lived. 
 
 It was a poor little house with pathetic 
 
 efforts at decoration, shown by a "trans- 
 
 189
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 parency" in the window, and muslin cur 
 tains tied with ribbons which the sun had 
 faded. The "fool clerk s" wife came to 
 the door herself. Miss Underhill knew 
 it was she as soon as she saw the pretty, 
 worried little face and the worn shirt-waist 
 and tie that were none too clean. The 
 woman s eyes looked as if she had been 
 crying, and the anxious expression in 
 them deepened as Miss Underhill asked 
 for a few moments* conversation with her. 
 " I have something to say to you concern 
 ing your husband," she said. 
 
 She followed the hostess into the small 
 parlor. On the centre-table lay the in 
 evitable album, and an ornate clock stood 
 in lonely splendor on the mantel -tree. 
 From the floor above came the fretful cry 
 ing of a child. 
 
 Miss Underhill came to the point with 
 business-like directness. "Your husband, 
 Mrs. Williams, is in serious trouble, as 
 you know/ she began. "He is getting 
 into it deeper by telling a lot of contradic 
 tory stories. Circumstances make the mat 
 ter very important, and an investigation 
 190
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 is in progress. To-day, at six o clock, a 
 committee of men are to meet at the Frank 
 lin Hotel to look into it. You must be 
 there, and they have sent me to bring 
 you. They will not keep you long, and 
 I ll see myself that you are safely home 
 by nine o clock." 
 
 The wife of the "fool clerk" twisted 
 her fingers nervously in her lap. Slow 
 tears gathered in her eyes ; but with a cer 
 tain dignity which surprised the reporter, 
 she kept them from falling. "I can t go," 
 she said, weakly. "They wanted me be 
 fore, and Jim told me not to pay no at 
 tention to em. He said I was to keep 
 out of this or I d make it worse." 
 
 Miss Underhill smiled reassuringly. 
 "You couldn t make it any worse than it 
 is," she said. "Mr. Williams has done 
 everything possible in that line. Come 
 now, Mrs. Williams," she urged, "you 
 must admit that your husband has made 
 a bad mess of this. Under the circum 
 stances, his advice is not worth much. 
 On the other hand, you may perhaps clear 
 everything by a few words. The com- 
 191
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 mittee won t hurt you; they will merely 
 ask you some questions. You don t have 
 to answer them, if you don t think it will 
 help matters." 
 
 The other woman hung back. "Jim 
 said I oughtn t to go/ she repeated, dog 
 gedly, " an , anyhow, I don t know nothin 
 about it. I can t tell em nothin ." 
 
 "Well, then, tell them that," retorted the 
 reporter, good-naturedly. " Tell them any 
 thing you please, but you must tell them 
 yourself. They won t be contented until 
 they see you, and you might as well come 
 and have it over with. You may be doing 
 your husband a great injury by refusing 
 this little thing." 
 
 Mrs. Williams weakened. "I dunno," 
 she said, doubtfully. " I can t do no harm, 
 I s pose, an if I go, mebby they ll leave 
 me alone. But I wish I could send a telly- 
 graf to Jim first." 
 
 Miss Underbill rose, promptly taking 
 advantage of the concession. "You come 
 right along with me/ she said, cheer 
 fully. "Never mind about the telegram. 
 You ll be home soon after Mr. Will- 
 192
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 iams and you can tell him all about it 
 then/ 
 
 Mrs. Williams clung to her chair. "I 
 s pose mother could take care of the baby/ 
 she hazarded, looking questioningly at 
 this positive young woman who seemed 
 to decide everything so quickly. 
 
 " Of course she can," agreed the reporter; 
 " she ll love to. You know she s never so 
 happy as when she s with the baby," she 
 added, recklessly. "Get your hat and 
 coat and I ll help you with them. We 
 must catch that 5.10 train." 
 
 The "fool clerk s" wife still demurred. 
 She thought she ought to dress. She 
 felt she should write a note to Jim. She 
 would like to put the baby to sleep first. 
 Perhaps she ought to "eat a bite" if she 
 was to be back late. 
 
 Miss Underbill swept her objections away 
 with a whirlwind of cheery comment. She 
 pointed out the uselessness of a fresh shirt 
 waist under a jacket, promised a good 
 dinner in town, and laughingly chided 
 the selfishness that would deny a loving 
 grandma the pleasure of putting baby to 
 13 193
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 sleep. Then she hustled the little wom 
 an into her coat and got her on board the 
 train in the nick of time. It had all been 
 surprisingly easy, and she was comfortably 
 complacent over her success. She chatted 
 cheerfully as the train whirled Mrs. Will 
 iams to the inquisition, and learned much 
 about Jim and the baby and other details 
 of domestic life in the Brynsville cottage 
 which did not especially interest her but 
 helped to keep her "subject" from dan 
 gerous reflections. 
 
 When they reached the Franklin Hotel 
 the "committee" was waiting, and a light 
 flashed into the city editor s eyes as he 
 saw the shabby little figure in Miss Under 
 bill s wake. He was so pleased that he 
 could afford to be considerate. "You and 
 Mrs. Williams haven t dined, I know," 
 he said, "and neither have we. So we 
 can all have dinner together while we are 
 talking." 
 
 The small private dining-room to which 
 
 they were escorted was bright and cosey. 
 
 Under its influence and that of the food 
 
 Mrs. Williams s diffidence wore off. She 
 
 194
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 forgot to watch Miss Underbill s table 
 etiquette as a guide to her own, and she 
 answered simply the adroit questions the 
 committee began to ask her. It soon be 
 came evident, even to the most suspicious, 
 that she had spoken truthfully when she 
 asserted that she "didn t know nothin" 
 more about the case than they themselves. 
 Williams had neither boasted to nor con 
 fided in his wife, though he had made her 
 life a burden by his irritability and ner 
 vousness since the denouement. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Williams, I ll tell you how 
 we can get at the truth of this," said Bran 
 don, leaning forward with his most brilliant 
 smile. He was a handsome young man, 
 and even the faded eyes of the " fool clerk s " 
 wife showed that she thought so as she 
 looked at him. A little color had come 
 into her cheeks. She had smiled once or 
 twice with unexpected girlishness. Her 
 fears of the terrible committee were quite 
 dispelled by this atmosphere of friendli 
 ness. She smiled back at Brandon in a 
 confiding fashion that almost caused a 
 twinge of compunction in that young man. 
 195
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 "Here s my idea/ he said, lightly. 
 " Mr. Briggs has a private secretary named 
 Van Alen. I understand that you have 
 met him, and that he has been at your 
 house several times/ He looked at her 
 for confirmation. 
 
 "Yes, he has," she said, slowly. "He 
 always seemed to like Jim, an he s been 
 good to all of us the baby, too. He got 
 Jim s pay raised last year, and he was 
 goin to try to get more for him when Jim 
 went an got into this trouble " She 
 stopped and her lips quivered. Brandon 
 smiled at her reassuringly. 
 
 "Don t worry about that," he said, 
 "you re coming out of this all right, es 
 pecially if you can help us to get at the 
 truth of it. Here is what I want you to 
 do. Go yourself to Mr. Van Alen now, 
 and say you want to have a little private 
 talk with him. He boards at the Evans 
 House, only two blocks from here, and the 
 chances are that he will be there at dinner. 
 When you are alone with him, tell him 
 that you ve come because you re afraid 
 your husband is about to lose his position. 
 196
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 Say you are sorry that your husband 
 told what he should not have told be 
 sure to say it just this way. And say 
 that if he gives your husband another 
 chance, Mr. Williams will deserve it, for 
 he has learned a bitter lesson and will 
 never again betray the confidence of his 
 employers. Then, remember every word 
 that Mr. Van Alen says to you, and come 
 back and tell it to us. But of course you 
 must not mention us, or let Mr. Van Alen 
 know that any one suggested your going 
 to him. He will think it perfectly natural 
 that you should intercede for your hus 
 band, especially as he has been kind to 
 Mr. Williams." 
 
 Miss Underbill looked at the handsome 
 face of the city editor with keen interest. 
 This then was what he had up his sleeve! 
 He would use the little woman as a cat s- 
 paw, and through her win an admission 
 from Van Alen, when he was wholly off 
 his guard, that her husband had enjoyed 
 the confidence of Briggs and had betrayed 
 it. It was a plan very characteristic of 
 Mr. Brandon. 
 
 197
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Mrs. Williams protested feebly. "But 
 mebbe Jim didn t do it," she said. "I 
 ain t never thought he done it." 
 
 "Never mind that," said Brandon, cheer 
 fully. "You put it just the way I say. 
 If you don t admit Jim s guilt, Van Alen 
 won t trust either of you. And if he 
 should ask you if any one sent you, say 
 no. Nobody has sent you, for I ve only 
 asked you to go. And be sure to remem 
 ber exactly what he says, and come right 
 here and tell me. You should be back in 
 half an hour an hour at the latest, even 
 if you have to wait for him. I will stay 
 here till you come." 
 
 He watched her go, with a quizzical 
 gleam in his eyes. They had left the 
 dining-room and were in one of the small 
 reception-rooms giving on the avenue. 
 Looking out of the window, Miss Under 
 bill could follow the progress of the thin, 
 shabby figure, that was pushed and 
 jostled by the crowd, until it was out of 
 sight. 
 
 That doesn t seem quite fair, Mr. Bran 
 don," said White. He was walking ner- 
 198
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 vously back and forth, looking unusually 
 grave. Brandon threw up his head. 
 
 "Had to," he said, tersely. "Our last 
 card." He drew a small note-book from 
 his pocket and plunged into its pages with 
 no other expression than that of concen 
 tration on his smooth face. 
 
 It was almost an hour before Mrs. Will 
 iams returned, but the committee did not 
 complain of that when they heard her story. 
 Van Alen, as unsuspecting as was hoped, 
 and full of sympathy for the wife of the 
 young fellow he wished to befriend, had 
 dropped several careless remarks that were 
 convincing in their bearing on the case. 
 
 Mrs. Williams was a little alarmed when 
 she was asked to write these out and 
 swear to them before a notary who was 
 called in. She looked at Miss Underbill 
 for encouragement, and that young person 
 promptly gave it in a series of easy nods. 
 Then she took her weary charge out to 
 the sylvan home at Brynsville and left her 
 there to make such explanations as she 
 could to "Jim." Jim was hanging over 
 the gate when they arrived, and the ex- 
 199
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 planation had begun before Miss Under 
 bill was out of hearing on her way to the 
 station. 
 
 The night was a busy one in the office 
 of The Searchlight, but morning brought 
 reward, for Brandon s " big story " filled the 
 first page, and all New York discussed it 
 at the breakfast-table. That shrewd young 
 man s assertion that it would " knock the 
 town off its feet" was wholly realized, 
 and there were lamentations and woe and 
 much bad language in the offices of the 
 bosses. 
 
 Miss Underbill had an out-of-town as 
 signment, and was in the office but a few 
 moments long enough, however, to re 
 ceive congratulations on her work in con 
 nection with the "biggest beat" for years. 
 
 When she reached her rooms that night 
 it was after twelve o clock, and the gas 
 in the halls of the big apartment -house 
 burned low. As she made her way to the 
 door, she stumbled over a figure crouch 
 ing at the threshold. It stood up, and in 
 the pale reflection of the dimly burning 
 light, she saw the pallid face and shabby 
 200
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 figure of Mrs. Williams. Her clothes were 
 still damp, for it had been raining, and 
 her face was swollen and distorted by much 
 weeping. Resigning herself to the situa 
 tion without a word, Miss Underbill un 
 locked the door and ushered her in. She 
 drew her to a comfortable chair, placed 
 her in it, and bustled about to light the gas 
 and draw the shades. Then she poured 
 sherry into a glass, put it on a tray with 
 some biscuits, and set the modest refection 
 before the drooping woman seated near 
 the open fire. 
 
 "Drink that/ she said, with as much 
 cheerfulness as she could muster. " I sup 
 pose you came to have it out with me, 
 and you may say just what you please 
 after you get warm and have had some 
 thing to eat and drink. I m sorry you 
 had to wait so long. I have been out of 
 town all day." 
 
 Mrs. Williams pushed the tray aside 
 as if the food were poison. "I ve been 
 here since four o clock this afternoon/ 
 she said, " and I ain t had a mouthful all 
 day. But I d starve before I eat anything 
 201
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 you give me. I ain t quite so far gone 
 as that, yet." 
 
 Miss Underhill flushed with vexation. 
 "You can suit yourself, Mrs. Williams, 
 about that," she said. "It isn t much, 
 but it s honestly earned." 
 
 The remark was unfortunate. The thin, 
 meek woman of yesterday, who had looked 
 to her for tuition and judgment, was trans 
 formed by her v/rongs into an arraigning 
 judge not to be ignored. 
 
 " Honestly earned!" she flung out. " By 
 honest work like what you done yester 
 day, I s pose. Honest work that ruins 
 the lives of hard-working men an inno 
 cent women an little babies. That s why 
 I m here to tell you what I think of such 
 honest work, an what it s done to me an 
 mine. I says to myself, I may have to 
 wait all night, but she sha n t sleep till she 
 knows what her trickery done for me this 
 day. It s cost me my husband an my 
 home. It may cost me my baby before I 
 git through with it. But I s pose you ve 
 made a few dollars out of it, so what do 
 you care?" 
 
 202
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 Her anger flickered and went out, 
 drowned by the wave of woe that rolled 
 over her. She began to cry, gaspingly. 
 Miss Underbill felt suddenly sick at heart 
 and at a loss for words. 
 
 "Come," she said, at last, "tell me ex 
 actly what has happened, and perhaps I 
 can help you. I may not be as bad as 
 you think." 
 
 There was bitter rebellion in the eyes 
 that looked over the edge of the grimy 
 handkerchief. " What s happened?" she 
 repeated, bitterly. "There ain t nothin 
 that hasn t happened, I guess. Soon s I 
 told Jim last night what I done, he got 
 me on the train an took me right back to 
 the city to see Mr. Van Alen. Jim knowed 
 it would all be in the paper, an he thought 
 he could keep it out. He wa n t home, 
 nor nowhere, seems like, an bout one in 
 the mornin we had to give up an come 
 home cause Jim didn t know what else 
 to do next. First thing this morning he 
 got your paper, and there it was an made 
 the very worst of. Jim simply acted crazy- 
 like. He he struck me! He never done 
 203
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 that before, an he ordered me out of the 
 house, an swore he d git a divorce. He 
 said mother could stay a day or two to 
 take care of baby. Then he went out; 
 and I never budged. I thought he d git 
 over the worst of it. But he come back 
 at two and got worse than ever when he 
 seen me. He said he had everything 
 fixed so the paper couldn t have found 
 out nothin if I hadn t mixed up in it. 
 Then he took me by the shoulders and 
 shoved me out of the house, and said he 
 never wanted to look at me again. I said 
 I d take the baby, an he said no court 
 would give a baby to a woman that was 
 sich a fo-fool!" 
 
 She ended the last word with a childish 
 wail, but Miss Underbill s sense of humor 
 was obscured. It was unpleasant, this 
 midnight arraignment, and certainly not 
 funny. She listened silently. 
 
 " An all I got to say to you is that you 
 done the whole thing," continued the other 
 woman, resuming with new indignation. 
 " You ought to be the one that s punished, 
 not me. You come to me so pleasant an 
 204
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 smilin that I took a fancy to you right 
 away. It seemed s if anything you said 
 must be right. I wouldn t a gone with 
 any one else. I trusted you. I thought, 
 She s all right ; she ll look out for me an 
 see that I don t do nothin wrong. An 
 when I looked at you that time just before 
 I signed that paper you nodded. I wouldn t 
 a signed it if you hadn t. But I was sure 
 you was lookin out for me, because you 
 said you would. And what was it? Trick 
 ery nothin but foolin me all the way 
 through." 
 
 She rose suddenly and stood before an 
 oil portrait that hung over the mantel. 
 It represented a beautiful woman with a 
 little girl four years old leaning against 
 her knee. It was easy to see that they 
 were mother and daughter. 
 
 "Is that your mother?" demanded the 
 wife of the "fool clerk." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An it s you with her?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Underbill, humbly. 
 
 "Well, if she s alive and you love her, 
 I hope she don t know what kind o work 
 205
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 you re doin / remarked the woman, al 
 most as if hurling a curse at her deceiver 
 before her mother s portrait. 
 
 Miss Underhill shrank as if she had 
 been struck. An idea resolutely kept down 
 in one s mind has staggering force when 
 brutally uttered by a stranger s voice. 
 
 A paragraph in one of her mother s 
 recent letters flashed across Miss Under 
 hill s memory with burning appositeness. 
 
 "You know my opinion of yellow jour 
 nalism/ darling/ the loved hand had 
 written. "I cannot endure the idea of 
 your being identified with a newspaper 
 of that tendency. But I know my dear 
 child too well to feel that she will have any 
 hand in it, or do what she should not do. 
 Still, I tremble for its influence on you, 
 and shall thank God when you secure a 
 position on a higher grade of journal." 
 
 Miss Underhill walked abruptly away 
 for a moment, and returned, bringing with 
 her the despised tray, this time contain 
 ing two glasses and a double supply of 
 biscuits. She set it down before her guest. 
 "Now, Mrs. Williams," she said, quietly, 
 206
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 " you must admit that you have said every 
 thing you can have to say. You couldn t 
 hurt me more if you talked all night. On 
 the other hand, I will admit that you are 
 justified in every word you have uttered. 
 I have done you a wrong, and I am sorry 
 for it. I will make what amends I can. 
 In the mean time I think we shall both 
 feel better if we eat something while I tell 
 you my plans." 
 
 She smiled the sympathetic smile that 
 had won many friends. Mrs. Williams 
 hesitated a moment, then lifted the glass 
 to her lips. 
 
 That s right," said the girl, heartily. 
 She went to her desk and took her check 
 book out of the pigeon-hole where she 
 kept it. The stubs showed a bank bal 
 ance of one hundred and ten dollars 
 not a large sum for a young person whose 
 earnings had averaged fifty dollars a week 
 for the last three years. The mother out 
 West could have explained that, however. 
 Miss Underbill wrote out a check for one 
 hundred dollars, and brought it back to 
 the fire. She handed it to the quieted 
 207
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 woman, whose eyes opened wide as she 
 looked at it. 
 
 "Here s what you re going to do/ said 
 the reporter, blithely. She was again in 
 her element. " You re going to take this 
 money and your mother and the baby 
 and go to the country to-morrow. That 
 will do you all good. Go to the house 
 after Jim is gone of course, you will stay 
 here to-night make your arrangements 
 there, and leave before he gets home. I ll 
 take Jim in hand. I know a man who can 
 give him a much better position than he 
 has had, and I ll get it for him on condition 
 that he eats humble pie for his treatment 
 of you. He will be writing in a week for 
 you to come back, but you let him wait a 
 while. We ll discipline him a little. We 
 will make him feel that he has treated 
 you abominably, for he has, and that he 
 is to blame for the whole business, which 
 he is not, really. But that is the only 
 plan by which you can get along with him 
 afterwards." 
 
 Mrs. Williams smiled wanly and nodded. 
 The food, the wine, and the swift untan- 
 208
 
 Miss Underbill s Lesson 
 
 gling of all her troubled skein put new 
 life into her. "I guess that s right," she 
 murmured. 
 
 " And so it s all settled/ said her hostess, 
 gently. "Now you go into my room and 
 sleep. You ll find everything there you 
 need. The bath-room opens from it. Take 
 a good hot bath before you go to bed and 
 you will sleep like a baby. I will forage 
 round and make you some sandwiches. 
 Those biscuits," she added, looking at 
 the empty plate, "are only an apology for 
 food." 
 
 When Miss Underbill entered the city 
 room of The Searchlight the next morning, 
 Brandon greeted her with self - satisfied 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 "Glory enough for us all, " he quoted, 
 jovially, "and you re to get a check, too. 
 You re in luck all around, for I ve another 
 big story for you." 
 
 "Not the same kind, if you please," 
 
 said Miss Underbill, with deliberation. 
 
 " Mrs. Williams came to see me last night," 
 
 she went on, "and told me very candidly 
 
 >* 209
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 what she thought of me. It was not pleas 
 ant. It never is, to get a blow at your self- 
 decency. But it made me do some think 
 ing, and I have resolved that in future, 
 when you have such work, you ll have to 
 give it to some one else. I d rather do 
 even the teary tales." 
 
 She smiled grimly at the expression of 
 utter astonishment on Brandon s face. 
 It appealed to her sense of humor. He 
 gazed at her open-mouthed, without speak 
 ing. 
 
 "So you, too, thought I hadn t a re 
 deeming point?" she went on more lightly. 
 " Well, I don t blame you. But I have 
 several, and one of them is a suddenly 
 aroused and imperiously active conscience. 
 I shall work along new lines. My space- 
 bills may not be as large, but I am quite 
 sure I shall be better company for my 
 self. And," she added, inwardly, "for 
 my mother."
 
 The Story of a Failure
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 saw him for the first 
 time at a students ball in 
 the Quartier, and it is very 
 probable that he interested 
 her then as an embodied 
 reflection of her own gloom. She had 
 been in Paris but a few weeks, and was 
 desperately homesick so much so that 
 this, her first ball, merely deepened the 
 bitterness of existence. Already her New 
 England soul had recoiled from the vul 
 garity and license which w r ere substitutes 
 for the innocently joyous abandon she 
 had expected. Young men with flushed 
 faces and unpleasantly glittering eyes 
 whizzed unsteadily past her trying to 
 guide the steps of dishevelled partners 
 sadly in need of such help. The big room 
 213
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 was close and hot. The shrill voices of 
 women mingled with the piercing wails 
 of the violins, and both beat unpleasantly 
 against her tired ear-drums. She crept 
 into a corner occupied by a couple too ab 
 sorbed in primitive love-making to notice 
 her, and her eyes looked out wearily over 
 the gaudily dressed figures of the dancers. 
 
 This, then, was a foretaste of her en 
 vironment in Paris. These were the people 
 she had come to live among. In the studio 
 they were not so bad. Some of them were 
 enthusiastic and clever. But they had 
 in them the temperaments which made 
 this kind of thing enjoyable. The young 
 men who worked hardest seemed to throw 
 themselves into the whirl with peculiar 
 zest, and were dancing with the girls who 
 demanded least restraint and whose com 
 ments on their escorts and one another were 
 most stimulating. Miss Huested heard 
 several of these remarks, and her sallow 
 cheeks burned. She was very new to 
 Paris. 
 
 It was at that moment she caught sight 
 of him. He was lounging against the 
 214
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 wall in an opposite corner of the room, 
 looking very much as she felt. A wave of 
 fellow-feeling rolled over her as she ob 
 served his depressed expression, his ill- 
 fitting clothes, and his evident isolation. 
 He was so tall that she could see his head 
 above most of the dancers, and get an oc 
 casional glimpse of his broad shoulders as 
 the lines parted. She decided that he had 
 a nice face. It was not strikingly hand 
 some, but his complexion was clear and 
 his eyes were large and, she thought, gray. 
 She speculated about him idly for a few 
 moments, until he strolled away and ap 
 parently sat down somewhere, for she lost 
 him in the crowd. 
 
 She herself remained persistently where 
 she was, declining primly several good- 
 natured invitations to join the dancers. 
 She would leave, she decided, as soon as 
 she could capture the girl acquaintance 
 who had brought her there and get minute 
 directions about the way back to her lodg 
 ings. She was straining her eyes in search 
 of this one familiar face when the crowd 
 gathered suddenly at the other end of the 
 215
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 room, caught up something, surged back 
 with it, and deposited it at her feet. It 
 was the youth with the nice face. He 
 picked himself up ruefully but good-nat 
 uredly as the human wave receded and 
 left him stranded there. She smiled at 
 him irresistibly, and he promptly took a 
 seat by her side in response to that mute 
 invitation. 
 
 " I hope you don t mind," he said. " It s 
 merely one of their cunning little ways. 
 They don t like, it seems, to have a fellow 
 stand and look at them, so they gave me 
 this gentle hint." He rubbed his knee 
 and smiled as he spoke. His teeth, Miss 
 Huested noticed, were white and even, 
 and his eyes were brown, not gray. 
 
 "You looked as out of place as I felt," 
 she said, cheerfully. " I m afraid we are 
 both failures as contributors to this gay- 
 ety." 
 
 "I don t care for it," he said, frankly. 
 "And I m awfully glad," he added, with a 
 little diffidence, "that you don t, either. 
 It s such cheap hilarity, and they ll have 
 such bad heads to-morrow." He laughed. 
 216
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 "However," he went on, " I m not a theo 
 logical student, as you may think, and 
 I m not going to favor you with a sermon 
 at the expense of our fellow artists here. 
 I d like, though, to stay and talk a few 
 moments, if you don t mind." 
 
 Miss Huested s heart warmed to him. 
 He was a nice boy, she reflected thirty-one 
 or two, perhaps, but what was that to her 
 in view of her mature age of thirty-three? 
 She assumed the motherly attitude she 
 felt the occasion demanded, but it soon 
 dropped from her unconsciously as they 
 talked art and artists and Paris. His 
 native State was Iowa, he told her. Hers 
 was Maine near neighbors to lonely souls 
 in France. They told each other the sim 
 ple story of their lives with artless candor. 
 His came first, of course. He had been 
 in Paris a little more than a month, and, 
 like herself, had not yet learned French. 
 They laughed together over some of the 
 embarrassing predicaments in which this 
 lack had placed them. He was alone in 
 the world, she learned, with no near rela 
 tives. He had worked as a book-keeper 
 217
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 in Sioux City until he had saved enough 
 money to make possible the realization of 
 the dream of his life, which was to come 
 to Paris and study Art. They both cap 
 italized the word whenever it occurred in 
 the conversation, and Miss Huested, in 
 addition, spoke it in a hushed voice. His 
 health had not been very good, and desk- 
 work did not benefit it. He thought he 
 had talent, and his friends thought so too, 
 so here he was this last with his ingenu 
 ous boyish smile. 
 
 He forgot to mention in what studio he 
 was studying, and she did not ask. She 
 told him, however, she was at the Colarossi ; 
 her work so far consisted of simple an 
 atomical studies. Her masters had ac 
 cused her of draping her figures heavily 
 to hide bad modelling. Yes ; she, too, was 
 alone in Paris, and almost alone in the 
 world. Her only relative was an aunt 
 who had sent her abroad, full of touching 
 faith in her abilities. She was very happy 
 in her work. But what did he think of 
 Lemaire as a master? Was it not true 
 that his strong distaste for the merely 
 218
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 beautiful was making him the apostle of 
 the grotesque? 
 
 They babbled on, the atmosphere of the 
 studios closing in around them. Emily 
 Huested s pale face grew animated, and 
 her light-blue eyes sparkled. She looked 
 very attractive to the lonely young man 
 who had found in her his first friend in 
 France. A sudden sense of intimacy grew 
 up between them; they felt as if they had 
 known each other for years. 
 
 He was mentioning to her the faults of 
 the great canvases in the spring Salon 
 when a sudden commotion in front of them 
 checked his words. A red-faced, angry girl, 
 with crisply curled black hair and wear 
 ing a cheap yellow evening - gown, was 
 pushing her w r ay towards them through 
 the crowd, unceremoniously sweeping aside 
 with her elbows the dancers who impeded 
 her progress. She stopped before Emily 
 Huested. 
 
 "Come along," she said, shortly. "I m 
 going home." 
 
 Miss Huested laughed. It seemed easy 
 to laugh now. 
 
 219
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 "You don t mean that you ve had an 
 other quarrel with Ralph?" she asked, 
 teasingly. 
 
 "Yes, I have," said the other, "and it s 
 final, too. I m going; come along." 
 
 Miss Huested rose with a little sigh. 
 Edith Clark s quarrels were always " final," 
 and endured with great bitterness until the 
 morning after their occurrence. She felt 
 strangely loath to leave the ball, but she 
 went with apparent willingness, signalling 
 an emphatic negative when the young 
 man s eloquent eyes asked the privilege 
 of escort. 
 
 The two girls summoned a cab and 
 rode in silence through the brilliantly 
 lighted streets. Miss Huested was lost in 
 a pleasant reverie. Her companion hud 
 dled miserably in her corner, the fierce 
 fire of her wrath already almost quenched 
 by a gentle and refreshing rain of tears. 
 
 "Sorry to take you away from your 
 young man," she said, at last. " Where d 
 you pick him up?" 
 
 Miss Clark was from Nevada, and her 
 conversation was not always strictly ele- 
 220
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 gant. But she was pre-eminently good- 
 natured when her anger had not been 
 roused, and she had a happy-go-lucky 
 attitude towards life that won popularity 
 in the Quartier. She had singled Emily 
 Huested out for notice because the girl 
 was alone, and her natural kindness made 
 her pity the retiring stranger. Miss Hue 
 sted did not like her, but she appreciated 
 her good qualities and was grateful for 
 her off-hand friendliness. 
 
 "He s an American," she answered. 
 "I don t know his name nor where he 
 studies ; but he is from Iowa, and he seems 
 very nice. I m rather sorry we left so 
 abruptly, for I d like to know who he is." 
 
 "Find out easily enough," snapped 
 Miss Clark, crossly. She, too, was now 
 sorry they had left so abruptly. She 
 buried her dark head in the musty corner 
 of the cab and gave herself up to gloomy 
 reflection until they reached the grimy 
 building on the Quai Voltaire in which 
 each of the girls had a small room. 
 
 Notwithstanding Miss Clark s cheery 
 assurance, it was not easy to "find out" 
 221
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 the identity of the young American. It 
 should have been, but, though that young 
 woman herself took some pains to get the 
 information moved, no doubt, by slight 
 compunctions of conscience Paris seemed 
 to have swallowed at a gulp the shy Amer 
 ican youth with the brown eyes. 
 
 "I m sorry," said the Western girl, care 
 lessly, in discussing her failure with her 
 protegee. "He would have suited you to 
 a dot that man. You two were made 
 for each other that is, for your kind of 
 companionship, which is to sit on chairs 
 and talk color and technique, and make 
 people feel like shaking you because nei 
 ther of you would ever dream that there 
 was love in the world." 
 
 Miss Clark giggled cheerfully over this 
 conception of the attitude of the happy 
 pair; she had been reconciled with her 
 Ralph in a touching scene, and there was 
 nothing but love in her little world for the 
 time being. 
 
 The other woman flushed angrily. She 
 resented the jibe; but deep in her heart lay 
 a regret, stronger than she would have 
 222
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 admitted, over the complete disappearance 
 of the young man she had liked so much. 
 She found no one else who interested her, 
 and little by little she withdrew into almost 
 complete isolation, working hard, and left 
 to herself by the students whose sympathies 
 were no longer stirred as her newness and 
 strangeness among them wore off. She 
 toiled indefatigably, but results of her 
 work were long in appearing. The masters 
 ignored her for weeks, then approached 
 her, glanced at her studies, and looked 
 worried. There was something wrong. 
 She had no sense of proportion. Her 
 work was laborious, painstaking and 
 wholly out of drawing. Students whose 
 frivolity and careless morals she despised 
 were sweeping ahead, making gratifying 
 progress, while she scarcely seemed to 
 have gone on at all. 
 
 It was discouraging, but Miss Huested 
 continued to work, cheerfully at first, 
 then bravely, then stolidly, and at the last 
 recklessly. Whatever the mood, the result 
 was always the same always bad. It 
 was at its worst when the cable came which 
 223
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 told her of her aunt s death and of her 
 own penniless condition. The woman who 
 loved her so well had forgotten to provide 
 for her, or had put off the matter from day 
 to day with the optimism of perfect health. 
 The accident that killed her killed hope 
 in the breast of her niece; but she toiled 
 away grimly, for there seemed nothing 
 else to do. It was useless to sail for home. 
 She had no home in her own land or any 
 other. There was still a little money left 
 of her aunt s last generous instalment, 
 and this she hoarded tenderly, moving 
 into a smaller room high up among the 
 eaves, and eating as little as a healthy 
 normal stomach would consent to accept. 
 Conditions might change who could tell? 
 She had heard of artists who labored for 
 years to overcome one defect, and triumph 
 ed in the end. Why might not she so 
 triumph? 
 
 Often, as the days and weeks and months 
 crawled by, she thought wistfully of the 
 man she had met on that never-to-be-for 
 gotten night of the ball. Where was he? 
 Was he successful? If he was conspicu- 
 224
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 ously so, she would, she thought, have 
 heard of him. Was he, too, struggling 
 and being downed in the struggle? She 
 told herself that he was not. There was 
 too much character, too much poise, under 
 his boyishness to make him an unresist 
 ing victim of fate. Fate would have a 
 hard fight to overthrow him. She set 
 her lips and resolved once more that it 
 should have an equally severe contest 
 with her. Then she worked harder and 
 ate less, and life cut deep lines of suffer 
 ing and privation under her eyes and 
 around her mouth. 
 
 Miss Clark, like other acquaintances, 
 had drifted away from her and even from 
 the Colarossi, taking a room with another 
 American girl who was a recent arrival. 
 Sometimes, at long intervals, the two 
 met, and on each of these occasions a little 
 twinge of compunction seized the West 
 erner, the New England woman was so 
 obviously succumbing to the strain on 
 her. Edith Clark threw her a bright smile 
 and a few pleasant words, and later found 
 it unusually difficult to banish from her 
 15 225
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 thoughts the picture of the other s tired 
 face. She decided that she must look her 
 up and see if there was anything a friend 
 could do. Then, soothed by the resolu 
 tion, she plunged again into her own in 
 terests and the matter dropped from her 
 mind. 
 
 One day the great Lemaire came to Miss 
 Huested s side, looked gravely at her can 
 vas, hesitated, moistened his lips, and 
 spoke. The words did not come easily, 
 for he liked her: so much that he felt he 
 must tell her the truth. 
 
 "Give it up/ he said, tersely. "It is 
 useless." 
 
 She stared at him with unseeing eyes. 
 All her senses seemed to have concen 
 trated into that of hearing. The voice of 
 outraged Art itself seemed beating im 
 placably against her ear - drums in the 
 master s words. 
 
 "Do you mean that there is no hope?" 
 she asked, blankly. 
 
 "I think not," he told her. He was 
 speaking in French, and softly, that the 
 others might not hear. "It is, I think, a 
 226
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 waste of time to continue; to some the 
 gift comes, to others not. Sometimes there 
 is the love for it, and the longing and 
 ambition, without the gift, and that is 
 very sad. It is so with you. You waste 
 your time at this. At something else, per 
 haps " 
 
 Miss Huested s world gave way be 
 neath her feet. She felt herself sinking 
 in chaos. 
 
 "What shall I do?" she asked, pitifully. 
 
 The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. 
 He had been unusually considerate, for 
 he admired the pluck of this American; 
 but deep in his heart lay the scorn that 
 genius feels for failure. He looked vague. 
 
 "There are perhaps occupations in your 
 own country/ he murmured, politely. 
 "You Americans are so clever at many 
 things, possibly you have a talent " 
 
 "Carefully concealed about me?" Miss 
 Huested interrupted, with a little, cheer 
 less laugh. She had pulled herself togeth 
 er, and now offered her hand to the artist 
 in one of the quick, frank impulses he ad 
 mired. 
 
 227
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 " I shall have to try to learn what and 
 where it is/ she added. "If I find it I 
 will let you know, for you have been 
 very kind to me/ Her voice softened. " I 
 shall always remember that/ she went on. 
 " You have given me every possible chance. 
 You have been patience itself. You have 
 let me stay on, filling a place here which 
 some one else might have had who would 
 do good work. I thank you for it for 
 everything." 
 
 She took off her large apron as she spoke 
 and gathered up her art materials while 
 the Frenchman went to another easel, 
 looking miserable. Miss Huested walked 
 across the threshold of the door, and out 
 into the narrow street. Her eyes rested 
 for a moment on the "Little Tin Chapel" 
 opposite; but she felt no impulse to enter 
 it. She walked on and on, with no defi 
 nite destination in her mind. 
 
 It was May, and Paris was at its gayest 
 and most beautiful. She had been there 
 a year, and she knew and loved each of 
 its changing charms and seasons. To 
 day the very air was electrical with life 
 228
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 and the joy of living. She strolled slowly 
 past Frenchmen sipping their absinthe at 
 tables outside the cafes, past little ouvri&res 
 pattering cheerfully home from their day s 
 work, past nodding, smiling merchants, 
 barelegged boys, and small girls, who 
 laughed with shrill voices over childish 
 games. At home, she reflected, one sees 
 always in one s walks the tired, overwork 
 ed men or women whose discontent dark 
 ens the fair heaven for others. Here in 
 Paris every one was happy, or seemed 
 so. There was no shadow over this sun 
 shine. Whatever lay underneath, the lips 
 and eyes of these people smiled, and it 
 was easy to believe that all this joy was 
 spontaneous and natural, tossed from one 
 to the other as if life were a game and the 
 beauty of the day a golden ball. She 
 alone, the American, was a discordant 
 element but she would not be. She drew 
 herself up, and exchanged smiles with 
 the workers and nods with the children. 
 It was her last day here. It should be a 
 pleasant one. She threw back her head 
 and faced her world pluckily. 
 229
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Her feet turned towards the Louvre and 
 the Luxembourg, and she entered them 
 both, visiting the pictures she loved and 
 standing a long time before her special 
 favorites. One of these was a little draw 
 ing in the Luxembourg a pencil-sketch 
 of the face of a dead woman. Miss Hue- 
 sted had spent hours before it in the past; 
 she sat down now in front of the case that 
 held the precious thing and gazed at it 
 steadily for a long time. All the bitter 
 tragedy of life, all the struggle, all the 
 failure, and all the triumph of death lay 
 revealed in those few pencil-strokes. The 
 woman had lived, suffered, and died and 
 the experience that came after this was 
 indicated, too, in the rapt, mysterious 
 smile that softened and sweetened the 
 bitter lines cut so deep by Fate. Miss 
 Huested drew a long breath as she looked, 
 and her own expression changed. A cer 
 tain peaceful serenity, almost triumph, 
 settled over her thin face. She walked 
 out slowly and entered the Luxembourg 
 garden, smiling at the children and the 
 nurses as she passed them, and regarding 
 230
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 with a lenient eye the public, unabashed 
 love-making of enamoured couples under 
 the trees. Usually she looked upon these 
 with the fine contempt of a reserved New 
 England soul; but to-day it seemed a 
 fitting accompaniment of the soft spring 
 atmosphere and of nature s fresh unfold 
 ing. She felt dimly that she had missed 
 something in life that some great joy 
 had passed her by; and then, with un 
 conscious sequence, she thought again 
 of the young American, him of the brown 
 eyes and boyish smile, and a little lump 
 came into her throat. The thought of 
 him had become much to her. Was it 
 that, she wondered, which had kept her 
 working and striving so long after her 
 own intelligence had written failure against 
 her hopes? She might be frank with 
 herself at last on this day at least ! Was 
 it the longing for his approval? Even 
 now she did not know. 
 
 For weeks she had been intensely ner 
 vous, her mind full of morbid thoughts, 
 haunting, persistent, hideously sugges 
 tive. To-day there was none of these. 
 231
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 She felt the delicious peace and calm of 
 the convalescent whose fight with death 
 is over. All her senses were dulled as 
 by an anaesthetic. The birds in the trees 
 seemed to sing softly, the voices of the 
 children came to her ears as from a great 
 distance, the murmurs and kisses of the 
 couple under the next tree sounded like a 
 hushed love-song. Life s symphony was 
 played for her that day with the soft pedal 
 down. She leaned her head against the 
 back of the chair she was occupying and 
 looked up at the blue sky, letting her mind 
 busy itself with the sweet trifles around her 
 until daylight faded and night began to fall 
 and early lights flashed from the street-lamps. 
 Then she rose and resumed her walk. 
 
 Where was he? She wished she knew. 
 If she could meet him now, and tell him 
 the story of the day, and of the months 
 which had led up to it, some things would 
 be different. He could help her he alone. 
 
 She found herself at a quiet spot on the 
 
 Seine a spot she had visited the first 
 
 Sunday she was in Paris, and which had 
 
 been strangely uppermost in her mind 
 
 232
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 during the past few weeks. It was a silent 
 and deserted place, fringed with neglected 
 grass and weeds, among which the water 
 sucked ominously. A man sat with his 
 back to her some distance away. There 
 was no other human being in sight. His 
 elbows were on his knees and his hands 
 held his chin. Every line of his relaxed 
 figure showed discouragement and fatigue. 
 Miss Huested hardly glanced at him; she 
 gave him no thought after an almost un 
 conscious reflection that he was at a safe 
 distance. A moment later the man heard 
 a soft splash in the river, and looked up 
 indifferently from a distant light on which 
 his eyes were fixed. Then he turned and 
 glanced behind him. The surface of the 
 water was disturbed at one point, but there 
 was nothing in sight except a wharf-rat 
 scurrying to cover. The man listened an 
 instant, heard nothing more, and with a 
 little shiver turned his attention again to 
 the far-off light that seemed to hold his 
 tired gaze. 
 
 Two days later the concierge of the build- 
 233
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 ing in which Miss Huested had her hum 
 ble room sought the latter s old-time ac 
 quaintance, Miss Clark. What she told 
 her spurred that young woman into self- 
 accusation and energetic action. It was 
 unprecedented for the New - Englander to 
 be away from home at night, and an ab 
 sence of forty-eight hours without expla 
 nation was sufficiently startling to set 
 anybody investigating. Miss Clark made 
 hurried inquiries, and was not reassured 
 by the story she heard of her friend s last 
 day at the Colarossi and the interview 
 with Lemaire. The girl s cheeks were 
 white as she went slowly out into the sun 
 shine, accompanied by the faithful Ralph, 
 of whose assistance she had hastened to 
 avail herself. 
 
 "We ve left the worst for the last," she 
 said, slowly; "but we ve got to go there. 
 I don t want to do anything that might 
 hurt her if she is alive; but if she is not 
 where we fear we shall have to report 
 the case and get help." 
 
 They reached the little, low building 
 on the bank of the Seine, and after a mo- 
 234
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 mentary hesitation entered. There is a 
 singular absence of red-tape in such a 
 visit in Paris, and no one challenged or 
 questioned them as they stepped from 
 the glory of the May sunshine across the 
 threshold and into the gloom of the Morgue. 
 A large screen confronted them; another 
 step brought them around it and showed 
 them a great glass case, filling one side 
 of the small room. Behind it were two 
 dead bodies those of a man and a woman. 
 Their eyes fastened on the latter and then 
 turned, horror filled, to each other. 
 
 Death, even the death she had chosen, 
 had treated Emily Huested mercifully. 
 She was reclining, fully dressed, against 
 a supporting frame -work, and her hat, 
 stained and draggled, hung above her 
 head. The heavy braids of her hair had 
 been loosened by the water and hung down 
 beside her, dripping grewsomely on the 
 floor. Her garments were soaked and 
 stained with mud, for she had been found 
 but a few hours before; but her face was 
 singularly placid. One of the attendants, 
 attracted perhaps by its delicacy and re- 
 235
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 finement, had washed it and closed her 
 eyes. She seemed asleep as she lay there, 
 and peacefully asleep, like a tired child. 
 
 Miss Clark leaned her head against the 
 glass that separated them and sobbed hys 
 terically. Self-reproach, violent and unrea 
 soning, added its element to the horror 
 of the moment. Her friend crushed his 
 soft hat in his hands and stood beside 
 her, helpless. There was no one else in 
 the room, not even an attendant. The 
 door leading to the street was open, and 
 through it came a long strip of sunshine, 
 the sound of cracking whips, the foot 
 steps of pedestrians, the voices of cab 
 men, the light laughter of a Frenchwoman 
 passing by. 
 
 Miss Clark turned to go, and as she did 
 so her eyes fell for the first time on the 
 other occupant of the case. She stared 
 at him for a long moment. Then she 
 caught the arm of the man beside her in 
 a grip that hurt. 
 
 " I ve had all I can stand for one day/ 
 she said, huskily. Her sobs had ceased 
 and her voice was full of awe. "See," 
 236
 
 The Story of a Failure 
 
 she added; "it is her American, the one 
 she met just once at the ball, the one she 
 liked so much, the one she has always 
 wanted to meet again. And they never 
 met till now/ 
 
 She began to cry again. 
 
 "It s too horrible to be true," she said. 
 There s something ghastly in it. It s 
 the kind of thing that doesn t happen 
 except in books and nightmares. Look 
 at them, the two of them, and think of the 
 last time we saw them together at the 
 ball, with all the lights and the music " 
 
 He tried to calm her. She drew away 
 and gazed steadily into the dead face of 
 the young American with the kind eyes. 
 Those eyes were open, and their expression 
 told that he had met grim horrors face 
 to face. Everything about him revealed 
 suffering and privation. The thin brown 
 hair on his temples had turned gray, and 
 his clothes were worn and patched. He 
 lay with his face towards his companion, 
 and one stiff hand was thrust out as if in 
 greeting at this reunion in the city where 
 both had lost life s great fight. 
 237
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Miss Clark put her handkerchief back 
 into her pocket and turned resolutely away. 
 The hideous irony of the thing penetrated 
 even her shallow soul. 
 
 They might have helped or saved each 
 other if they had met in time," she said. 
 "I wonder I wonder. But, anyway, this 
 ending is too much for my nerves." 
 
 She turned suddenly to her companion. 
 
 "Take me away from here," she said. 
 "Take me out among living things and 
 give me an absinthe 1 "
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 you wish a story of hu 
 man interest/ said Miss 
 Underbill, distinctly, "I 
 think this one would do. 
 It is unique, and has fine 
 possibilities of pathos. It might almost 
 evolve into a teary tale." 
 
 She leaned her elbow on the city editor s 
 desk as she spoke, and regarded that 
 awe-inspiring young man with a serene 
 eye. She was not easily impressed, and 
 she wholly declined to look upon him 
 with the reverential wonder which the 
 other members of his staff affected. It 
 happened, therefore, that the city editor 
 had days of but lukewarm enthusiasm 
 over Miss Underbill s work, and this was 
 one of them. 
 
 >6 241
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 "Don t see much in it," he said, tersely. 
 "Old woman, old attic, old story. We ve 
 done it too often." 
 
 Miss Underhill smiled in the slightly 
 superior manner that invariably got on 
 the city editor s nerves. 
 
 "Oh, but this is so different," she said. 
 " This old woman my discovery has 
 spent twenty-nine years in one tenement- 
 room on Forsyth Street. During those 
 years she has never left that room. She 
 is a cripple, and she sits in a chair by 
 the window, and all day long, with her 
 hands folded in her lap, she looks down 
 on the festering street and thinks. She 
 is absolutely alone. If the neighbors re 
 member to bring her something to eat 
 during the day, she has it. If they for 
 get, she doesn t. Usually, one of the 
 tenement women comes in at night and 
 puts her to bed. Sometimes they forget 
 that, and then she dozes in her big chair 
 until morning. A little Jewish society 
 pays her rent and has paid it for many 
 years, but no one else except the tenement 
 women does anything for her. She has 
 242
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 become to them and to their successors 
 during these years a kind of legacy, passed 
 from one to the other. She goes with 
 the rooms and the occupants must look 
 out for her." 
 
 The city editor looked bored. 
 
 "Can t see it yet/ he announced, 
 brusquely. "Can t see more than a few 
 paragraphs at the most." 
 
 Miss Underhill passed over the inter 
 ruption with her usual blithe unconcern. 
 
 "What I want to do," she continued, 
 cheerfully, " is to take the old woman for a 
 drive. I want to get her out of that ten 
 ement-room for the first time in twenty- 
 nine years, remember and show her the 
 world. I want her to see the Park and 
 the trees and the sky, and the river and 
 the boats on it, and the elevated trains 
 and the tall new buildings; and I want 
 to write a story telling what she thinks of 
 New York after her Rip Van Winkle sleep." 
 
 The city editor s lips relaxed in an un 
 willing smile. 
 
 "That ll do," he said, briskly. "Go 
 ahead." 
 
 243
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 Miss Underbill went ahead with charac 
 teristic energy. She had, also charac 
 teristically, made all her arrangements 
 before she consulted the city editor, in 
 serene assurance that the story would 
 "go," as she put it to herself. She even 
 remembered to mention to the old woman 
 her share in the programme. A small 
 detail like that Miss Underbill sometimes 
 forgot. 
 
 "I m going to take you for a drive/ 
 she said, cordially. "I want you to get 
 a breath of fresh air and to have a good 
 time. Then I ll make a story of it." 
 
 Old Mrs. Risser looked worried. It was 
 a vast undertaking to her this drive, 
 and not to be lightly assumed. She lis 
 tened without enthusiasm to Miss Under 
 bill s rapidly outlaid plans of nurses to 
 carry her down the stairs, quiet horses, 
 rubber-tired wheels, and kindred comforts. 
 Neither did the beauties of nature, held 
 up to her imagination, inspire her with 
 interest. Once only her faded old eyes 
 showed a gleam of satisfaction, and this 
 was when Miss Underbill dwelt on the 
 244
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 commotion the proposed drive was al 
 ready creating in the tenement. 
 
 "They ll all be at the windows to see 
 you off," she announced, and Mrs. Risser 
 listened with a satisfied quiver of her loose 
 old lips and unconsciously drew herself 
 up in her chair. 
 
 The next day Miss Underhill drove 
 down Forsyth Street with a comfortable 
 sense of satisfaction in her breast. She 
 was getting a good story and she was at 
 the same time doing a kindly act a com 
 bination not so frequent as it should be 
 in her reportorial career. She had bor 
 rowed the brougham of a wealthy friend 
 for the occasion, and the splendid horses 
 picked their way through the filthy street 
 with a suggestion of outraged daintiness 
 in their knee action. The coachman held 
 his head unusually high. He did not 
 approve of these slum excursions. Miss 
 Underhill smiled serenely at the dirty 
 waifs of humanity drifting behind and 
 running beside the carriage. The odors 
 arising from neglected ash -barrels and 
 decaying refuse offended her nostrils, but 
 245
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 did not affect her high spirits. She ran 
 lightly up the three flights of tenement 
 stairs leading to Mrs. Risser s room and 
 tapped gayly on the door. The noise of 
 moans and lamentations from within broke 
 upon her ear, mingled with another more 
 rhythmic sound. She hesitated a moment 
 and walked in. 
 
 In her accustomed chair sat Dora Risser, 
 stiff in the unusual freshness of a new 
 gingham waist. Her hands and face of 
 fered mute but eloquent testimony to the 
 efforts of a trained nurse who had scoured 
 them enthusiastically and was now ener 
 getically at work brushing into smooth 
 ness the old woman s gray hair. Big 
 tears fell unchecked on the smooth expanse 
 of gingham over the victim s breast, and 
 great sobs shook her thin figure. At in 
 tervals a moan burst from her, mingling 
 dolefully with the cheerful voices of two 
 Salvation Army girls who stood beside 
 her singing a hymn with great vigor. The 
 nurse looked harassed but undaunted. 
 Her eye brightened a little as Miss Under 
 bill entered. " She s ready," she said, tersely. 
 246
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 Perhaps it was the curt professional 
 tone, or possibly a sense of entire help 
 lessness in the hands of others, that made 
 Mrs. Risser break into another anguished 
 wail. The Salvation Army lassies, ignor 
 ing both this interruption and that of 
 Miss Underbill s appearance, fell on their 
 knees and offered up a short prayer. Then 
 one of them volunteered a kindly explana 
 tion to the reporter, who stood still, reverent 
 but puzzled. 
 
 "She thinks you and the nurse are 
 going to take her to some home for old 
 ladies," she said, "where she cannot see 
 the tenement people or have her own home. 
 She wishes to stay here. She likes her 
 home." 
 
 Miss Underbill smiled her thanks and 
 crossed to the weeping old woman. Sit 
 ting down before her, she took one of her 
 subject s unwilling hands in hers. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Risser," she said, "I want 
 you to enjoy this ride, so I m going to 
 say a few words to you before we start. 
 I give you my w r ord of honor that this 
 is to be only a drive and that I will bring 
 247
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 you back here safely in three hours at 
 the most. You shall return and stay 
 here, and your life will go on as usual. 
 I am glad you like it. I do not intend 
 to interfere in it. But I want to give you 
 one good time. Are you satisfied? 1 
 
 Mrs. Risser looked doubtful. 
 
 "You sure bring me back sure?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I surely will/ the girl answered. 
 
 Tell her so, too/ she said, turning to 
 the Salvation lassies. They bent over the 
 old woman and whispered to her quick 
 ly for a few moments. Miss Underbill 
 caught the words kind lady," "nice 
 time," and "fresh air" in occasional 
 staccato tones. Dora Risser wiped her 
 eyes, sniffed drearily, and announced her 
 willingness to go. The men Miss Under 
 bill had engaged to assist the nurse in 
 the difficult work of getting her patient 
 down-stairs entered and the descent began. 
 
 The task was a formidable one, but an 
 
 unexpected factor made it less painful 
 
 than Miss Underbill had dared to expect. 
 
 That factor was the simple vanity that 
 
 248
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 blossomed suddenly in Dora Kisser s heart. 
 On every landing was an impressed group 
 of tenement women, gazing at the scene 
 with wide-eyed awe; and their interest in 
 the episode of which she was the central 
 figure soothed the old woman to serene 
 unconcern as to her own danger or dis 
 comfort. She smiled patronizingly upon 
 her friends and nodded innumerable fare 
 wells, which they returned with the stiff 
 ness of unwonted ceremony. Miss Under 
 bill s glowing face shone radiantly from the 
 group as she directed and advised in her 
 practical, assertive manner. Once on the 
 street it was a simple matter to lift the 
 woman into the low carriage and settle 
 her comfortably among the soft pillows. 
 As she yielded to their invitation, Miss 
 Underbill was pained to observe the dark 
 cloud returning to her brow. 
 
 The horses leaped forward joyfully, 
 spurning the uncongenial soil with their 
 proud hoofs. The early afternoon sun 
 blazed hotly on the baking street and was 
 thrown back in waves of heat from the 
 grimy tenement walls. Ragged and dirty 
 249
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 children followed her triumphal progress 
 with shrieks of friendly interest, but all 
 this escaped Dora Risser. She had turned 
 her head and was looking up at the dirty 
 windows of her own little room, and as 
 she looked the tears welled forth again 
 and splashed drearily on the light wrap 
 her new friends had thrown over her old 
 shoulders. Miss Underhill observed them, 
 but wisely said nothing, trusting to the 
 charm of the new impressions and expe 
 riences awaiting her companion in the 
 next three hours. 
 
 The misery and squalor of the tenements 
 dropped behind them as the carriage rolled 
 into wider, cleaner streets. Miss Under 
 hill drew a long breath as it reached lower 
 Broadway, where the air, though heat- 
 smitten from the asphalt walks, was at 
 least free from disease - breeding odors. 
 She chatted cheerfully to the unrespon 
 sive figure at her side, pointing out the 
 tall new buildings, the black line of the 
 elevated road in the distance, and the 
 dark shadow of moving trains; but for 
 these things Dora Risser had no heart. 
 250
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 She cowered in a corner of the carriage, 
 casting furtive, frightened glances out 
 of her tear - dimmed eyes and clutching 
 the side of her seat with a feverish grip. 
 Sometimes she whimpered a little under 
 her breath. 
 
 All this, Miss Underhill reflected calm 
 ly, was but natural. The great city had 
 grown up around the old woman as she 
 slept, and not even the sound of its heart 
 throbs found their way through the four 
 thick walls that sheltered her. How could 
 she be other, at first, than nervous and a 
 little frightened? Once out of the business 
 centre, away from the noise and the roar 
 of traffic, and among quiet streets with 
 beautiful homes, she would begin to look 
 about. And when the soft green avenues 
 of the Park unrolled before her, and the 
 gorgeous panorama of the Hudson and 
 the Palisades met her view, the old woman 
 would awaken and rejoice, and on the 
 horrible walls of her beloved room would 
 hang for all time the pictures of memory 
 she brought home from this drive. Miss 
 Underhill, pre - eminently matter - of - fact 
 251
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 though she was, felt a lump in her throat 
 as this occurred to her. It was a unique 
 privilege to open such a vista to a starved 
 human soul and mind. 
 
 The sharp click of the horses hoofs as 
 they struck the asphalt paving changed 
 to a soft rhythmic beat as they turned into 
 the Park at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance. 
 A wave of coolness and freshness rolled 
 to meet them as they entered, and, to Miss 
 Underbill s suddenly excited fancy, the 
 great old trees seemed to bend and whisper 
 a welcome to her protegee as the carriage 
 rolled under their spreading branches. 
 The newspaper woman s voice was a 
 little hushed as she pointed out to the 
 old woman the cool, green vistas opening 
 at every side as they passed on. The 
 ripple of water was heard in the distance, 
 mingled with the laughter of little children. 
 Through the trees they got glimpses of 
 the lake and the swan -boats and their 
 happy freight. Tame squirrels sat by 
 the road-side and chattered at them fear 
 lessly. Over the Park brooded the silence 
 and green restfulness of an August after- 
 252
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 noon whose intense heat made humanity 
 take its outing lethargically. 
 
 Old Dora Risser gulped down a heavy 
 sob and lifted her voice in the first remark 
 of the afternoon. 
 
 "I got a geranium/ she said, "in my 
 winda." She was looking with a patroniz 
 ing eye on a bed of that flaunting flower. 
 
 Miss Underbill, encouraged by this ten 
 tative advance, showed a polite interest. 
 
 "Yes," the old woman rambled on. 
 "It s awful pretty. It s got red flowers. 
 Miss Callahan she waters it for me most 
 efery day. I hope it ain t dying now." 
 
 She wept afresh at this sad thought, 
 and Miss Underbill hurriedly called her 
 attention to a group of children playing 
 happily on the Carousal. 
 
 " We got nice little children in our 
 house," said old Dora, still harping on 
 the joys of home. " Little Josie Eckmeyer 
 iss only four yearss old, but she comess 
 to me efery night to kiss me when she 
 goes to bedt." 
 
 Her tears burst forth again, and the 
 occupants of passing carriages looked with 
 253
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 curious interest at the artless abandon of 
 her grief. When the newspaper woman 
 spoke it was a little more incisively than 
 she intended. 
 
 "You must be very uncomfortable in 
 that place/ she said. "How can you 
 bear the noise and the smells and the aw 
 ful heat of it?" 
 
 Her companion looked frightened and 
 ill-used. 
 
 "It s a very quiet place, our house," 
 she said, quickly. "We don t never haf 
 such noices like they haf across the street. 
 Of course the womans and the mans has 
 little troubles, but that iss not my business. 
 Mr. Rooney he threw Mrs. Rooney out 
 a winda last week. She was hurt awful. 
 She showed me the black marks on her 
 back, and she had a arm broken. All the 
 mans and womans has their troubles," re 
 peated Mrs. Risser, philosophically. 
 
 "But they come in and they talk to me 
 in my little room," she continued, eagerly. 
 " They tell me about all the other neighbors, 
 and they ask me what they must gif the 
 childrens when they are sick, and they 
 254
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 bring me little things what they cook. 
 They don t often forget me not often; 
 they never left me without anything for 
 more than two days. Most always they 
 come in four or five times efery day. Some 
 times/ here the old woman s voice quivered 
 in reminiscent ecstasy " sometimes one of 
 the womans brings me a glass of beer." 
 
 For some reason she began again at 
 this point to weep with great bitterness. 
 Miss Underhill moved impatiently in her 
 seat. This would be indeed "a teary 
 tale," she reflected, if she put into it half 
 the tears old Dora Risser had already 
 shed. Somehow, this "special" for The 
 Searchlight was not developing quite in 
 accordance with her wishes. She turned 
 to the cowering figure at her side. 
 
 "Well," she said, briskly, "you re go 
 ing back to all those joys very soon. 
 But just this moment you are having 
 an experience you will probably never 
 have again. Try to get the benefit of 
 it. Breathe deep and take some fresh air 
 into your lungs. Look about you, and 
 see the grass and the trees and the blue 
 255
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 sky overhead. When have you seen the 
 sky before?" 
 
 Old Dora drew herself up with a little 
 suggestion of hurt pride in the gesture. 
 
 " In my little room, my little room " 
 she repeated the words, dwelling upon 
 them lovingly "by the winda where my 
 chair iss. There I can see a big piece of 
 sky, most as big as a little carpet. It 
 is blue, and sometimes white clouds go 
 by on it. And sometimes I see black 
 clouds there, and at night I see the stars." 
 
 The reporter sat silent, baffled. This 
 old woman, who could find comfort in 
 clouds and stars against a background 
 of sky "almost as big as a little carpet," 
 sat unmoved by her side, looking with 
 eyes that saw not on the new world opened 
 before her. The carriage turned out of 
 the Park and began the journey up River 
 side Drive. The coachman let the lines 
 relax in his hands and the horses fell into 
 a slow, gentle trot. Here they were at 
 home. Their nostrils expanded as they 
 sniffed the cool breeze rising from the 
 Hudson. Below lay the river, warm ir> 
 256
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 the sunlight, but rippled by a light wind. 
 On its blue bosom were innumerable craft 
 yachts, row-boats, and the stately river 
 steamers whose passengers could be seen 
 leaning idly over the deck rails. All this 
 color gleamed against the rich background 
 of the magnificent Palisades looming pro- 
 tectingly behind. Mrs. Risser gazed upon 
 it with a listless eye. 
 
 "I got a cat at home, too," she said, 
 suddenly. "She catches mice. She 
 caught one under my bedt yesterday. 
 She catches all wot she wants. We don t 
 haf to give her nothing to eat/ 
 
 Miss Underhill preserved an eloquent 
 silence. She saw her "story" fading to 
 a dim outline of what it should have been. 
 She thought she saw, too, the cynical 
 smile on the lips of her arch enemy, the 
 city editor. The voice at her side babbled 
 on. 
 
 "Sometimes it s real cool in my room/ 
 it said. The buildings iss so high the 
 sun can t get in, and I ain t on that side, 
 anyhow. And Mrs. Eckmeyer she brings 
 me a pitcher of water in the morning, and 
 17 257
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 sometimes I wet a towel and put it on my 
 head. It s cool." 
 
 Miss Underbill continued silent. A sat 
 isfactory paragraph for the "story" had 
 just occurred to her. She rehearsed it 
 mentally. 
 
 " She looked out over the expanse of water, 
 and tears filled her dim old eyes, those eyes 
 which for thirty years had gazed upon noth 
 ing but the grimy walls of the opposite tene 
 ment and a tiny patch of blue sky which the 
 great building could not quite shut off. 
 
 "When I was a girl/ she said, softly, 
 my husband and I used to sit on the river- 
 bank and watch the boats go by. That 
 was long ago but this makes it seem yes 
 terday. Her lips quivered a little." 
 
 Miss Underhill was conscious of a sud 
 den interruption. The real Dora, not the 
 Dora of her "story," was sobbing again 
 at her side. 
 
 "Where are we going?" she whimpered. 
 " We have went so far. Are we in an 
 other city? I don t feel well. I think I 
 258
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 catch cold. I got some good medicine in 
 my house wot the Salvation girls give me. 
 It always makes me well. It cures any 
 thing wot I got." 
 
 Miss Underhill addressed the coach 
 man. 
 
 "Drive back/ she said, curtly. Then 
 she turned to old Dora with her charming 
 smile. She had recovered her good-humor 
 when the reflection occurred to her that 
 her story could tell what Dora Risser 
 should have felt during that drive. No 
 one would be the wiser, and Dora herself, 
 once back in her tenement - room, would 
 no doubt corroborate any recital in which 
 she had played a touching and admirable 
 role. 
 
 "We re going home now," said the re 
 porter, cheerfully. "We will be there in 
 three-quarters of an hour." 
 
 Mrs. Risser looked doubtful and her 
 suspicions were intensified by the fact 
 that the coachman returned by a differ 
 ent route, kindly desiring to give the 
 old woman all possible variety. He, too, 
 was more cheerful. The drive was al- 
 259
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 most over and Miss Underbill s prospective 
 tip pleasantly in the foreground of his 
 thoughts. He suddenly remembered with 
 a twinge of conscience that she was in 
 variably very generous on these occasions. 
 Mrs. Risser seized the side of the carriage 
 with a firmer grip, sat as near the edge 
 of the seat as she dared, looked at the 
 unfamiliar route with scared eyes, and 
 contributed another copious flow of tears 
 to the collection of stains on the borrowed 
 shawl. Beside her the reporter, whose 
 mind was now at rest, mentally outlined 
 telling bits of her "story." 
 
 " The carriage turned into the evil-smell 
 ing tenement street, from whose refuse-cov 
 ered cobble-stones the heat seemed to rise in 
 a perceptible haze. Old Dora Risser gave 
 one last long backward look at the world 
 she was leaving the beautiful world that 
 lay so near to and yet so hideously far from 
 that little tenement - room. Then her gaze 
 rested on the crowded streets, the half-naked 
 children playing in the gutters, the swarm 
 ing life of the tenement. A change passed 
 260
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 over her face; her features twisted for a 
 moment, but with a mighty effort she forced 
 them into calm. This was her life : she 
 must return to it, for He who put her there 
 had some good purpose in it. She seized 
 the reporter s hand and kissed it. 
 
 Good-bye, sJie said. Thank you, and 
 God bless you. You have shown me to-day 
 a glimpse of what I hope awaits me after 
 I take my next and last long drive. 
 
 That will do pretty well for an end 
 ing/ reflected Miss Under hill, comforta 
 bly, "when I ve polished it up a bit. Of 
 course I must make her an educated wom 
 an who has seen better days." 
 
 A movement beside her aroused her 
 from her pleasant reverie. The carriage 
 had reached the tenement region, and 
 was rolling swiftly through its swarming 
 streets. It was growing late and the 
 push-cart men and peddlers were coming 
 home after their day s work. Some Chi 
 nese laundrymen had left their ironing- 
 boards for a breath of air and were sitting 
 on the curb exchanging repartee in pigeon- 
 261
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 English with a little group of hoodlums. 
 A few feet away, a street organ was grind 
 ing out an ancient waltz, and several rag 
 ged little girls were dancing to the music. 
 A long gasp of delight fell on Miss Under 
 bill s ear. It came from the lips of Dora 
 Risser, who was sitting up gazing around 
 her with shining eyes. She craned her 
 neck to look at the tenements that fell 
 behind them. The carriage turned a cor 
 ner sharply and entered another street, a 
 shade filthier, more crowded, more evil- 
 smelling than the last. Two drunken 
 men lurched uncertainly along the side 
 walk. Dora Risser sent her glance wide- 
 eyed down the street until it lit and rested 
 on a scrubby tenement in one of whose 
 windows bloomed a red geranium. She 
 clutched Miss Underbill s arm with quiv 
 ering fingers and uttered a shrill cry. 
 Her face was transfigured. The listless, 
 sick little old woman had become an ec 
 static creature, hysterical with joy. 
 
 "Ach Gott!" she shrieked, "Ach Gott! 
 there s my little home. I m back again, 
 I m back." She closed her eyes and 
 262
 
 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 H 2 
 
 :>
 
 In the Case of Dora Risser 
 
 struggled for breath. " Ach Gott !" she 
 gasped. " Gott sei dank !" 
 
 The nurse and the bearers were waiting, 
 and they carried the happy old woman 
 up the dirty stairs. Her exclamations of 
 delight and her beaming face left no doubt 
 in their minds as to the success of Miss 
 Under hill s experiment. That young lady 
 herself lingered for a confidential last word 
 when the others had departed. She had 
 given the friendly Mrs. Eckmeyer money 
 for the purchase of an evening meal, 
 and the little room was full of the smell 
 of frying meat. Miss Underhill held out 
 her hand, which old Dora Risser did not 
 hasten to kiss. She put her own into it, 
 limply. 
 
 "Come now," said the girl, "say you ve 
 had a good time." 
 
 The old woman hesitated. A shiver passed 
 over her as memory brought up for an in 
 stant the terrors of the day. Then her nos 
 trils caught and drew in the mingled odor of 
 frying eggs, bacon, and hot coffee. After 
 all, it was over and she was home. Why 
 bear malice? She grinned good-naturedly. 
 263
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 "Ach, yes/ she said, handsomely. "I 
 hat a goot time. Sure!" 
 
 It was a very "teary tale" Miss Under- 
 hill turned in to the city editor. New 
 York wept over it the following morning. 
 So many letters poured into The Search 
 light office offering the old woman homes 
 of all degrees of luxury that Miss Under 
 bill was forced to write a brief supplement 
 ary article explaining that Dora Risser 
 was "permanently and happily provided 
 for" through The Searchlight s efforts. 
 
 To the writer of this simple narrative 
 she told the plain, unvarnished facts, and 
 generously added the moral lesson the 
 episode had taught her. 
 
 "I think of it," she said, "when I go 
 to all these sociological meetings and 
 hear people worrying about relieving the 
 condition of the poor. I sympathize heart 
 ily with that work. But I have learned 
 this lesson very well: that there are times 
 when what the poor want more than they 
 want anything else on earth is simply 
 to be let alone!" 
 
 264
 
 A Collaboration
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 ?HE Author leaned back com 
 fortably in his easy - chair 
 and looked at the young 
 man. He was a young man 
 himself, but a pre-eminently 
 successful one so recently successful, too, 
 that the fine flavor of his own greatness 
 was still deliciously fresh on his tongue. 
 He would have been more than human 
 had he remained wholly unspoiled by 
 the popular clamor over his short stories 
 and the remarkable sale of his first novel, 
 now in its three - hundredth edition. As 
 it was, he was very human, hence slightly 
 spoiled, but still young so young that 
 he had adopted a few mannerisms as 
 fitting accompaniments of acknowledged 
 genius. He narrowed his eyes now, for 
 267
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 instance, which he would not have done 
 last year, and looked at his caller through 
 an effective fringe of brown lashes. 
 
 "Yes/ he said, incisively, "I want a 
 secretary, but I m afraid I require a little 
 more of one than usual. I need a man 
 who can answer my letters, talk to my 
 publishers, look after my manuscripts, take 
 dictation, if I can ever learn to dictate" 
 this with modest insinuation of the 
 irksomeness of such restraint "look up 
 all sorts of things for me, and er make 
 himself generally useful. That, of course, 
 I presume you are prepared to do?" he 
 concluded, interrogatively. 
 
 The applicant for this responsible post 
 smiled slightly as he quietly replied : " Quite. 
 I ll do my best, and, of course, if I don t suit 
 you can pack me off." He hesitated a mo 
 ment. I admire your work tremendously, 
 he added, "and I shall be proud to have 
 even a secretary s small part in it." 
 
 The Author smiled back with apprecia 
 tion. The strong attraction he had felt 
 in this quiet young man at the start was 
 not weakened by his remark. 
 268
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 Then we ll call it a bargain/ he said, 
 cordially. "You ve encouraged me to tell 
 you what I consider the most important 
 of your duties. My secretary must listen 
 to my plots! I cannot write a line until 
 I have the whole thing in my head, and I 
 cannot get it properly shaped in my head 
 until I ve talked it over with some one I m 
 sure I m not boring or at least," he added, 
 quickly, " somebody whose attention I have 
 a right to expect. As I talk, my ideas shape 
 themselves, my plot develops, my charac 
 ters begin to get their cues, and voila! 
 the story is ready to write." 
 
 The eyes of the secretary took on a 
 sudden gleam of interest. They were som 
 bre eyes, and the expression of his strik 
 ing face was very serious. The brown 
 hair over his temples, too, was powdered 
 with white, and there were lines in his 
 forehead which suggested strong chapters 
 in his duodecimo volume of life. 
 
 " I think I can promise to be an attentive 
 auditor," he remarked. "The terms I men 
 tioned in my reply to your note are, I sup 
 pose, satisfactory?" 
 
 269
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 The Author was regarding him in an 
 absent-minded manner. 
 
 "Oh yes, yes/ he said, hastily. "I am 
 willing to give you what you want if you 
 can do what I want. I wish/ he con 
 tinued, slowly, "that you could begin 
 right away. I ve been wasting this morn 
 ing trying to put a half-digested thing 
 on paper, and if you could stay and let 
 me tell you the facts " 
 
 Mr. Mardenredd, who had risen with 
 the idea that the interview was over, re 
 sumed his chair and an attentive manner 
 as the first act of his secretaryship. The 
 Author, charmed by the mute eloquence 
 of this simple act, slapped him boyishly 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 "Good!" he said, buoyantly. "Take 
 that big chair near the fire and light a 
 cigar. I m willing to have my victims 
 made as comfortable as possible. One 
 thing don t interrupt me when I m speak 
 ing, please, for I may lose a point if you 
 do. But when I stop to think, if any 
 criticism occurs to you, let me have it." 
 
 He lit a fresh cigar himself and leaned 
 270
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 back for a few moments collecting his 
 thoughts. Hickory logs burned brilliantly 
 behind the brass andirons, the pure flame 
 pulsing a rich blue or green now and then 
 from the driftwood that had been flung 
 upon them. 
 
 "Here s the plot," began the Author, 
 briskly. "It s true, too. I saw some of 
 it work out, and got more of it, piecemeal, 
 from persons who knew the chief actors. 
 My trouble now is to decide whether I ll 
 use it as it is, or touch it up a bit, or per 
 haps a great deal. Of course I shall 
 change it so that the originals will not 
 be recognized in print. The characters 
 are a Madame Fleury we ll call her that; 
 her daughter we ll call her Lily; and a 
 young man well, he can be The Young 
 Man. I shall have to get taking names 
 for them, but I m going to call the girl 
 Lily anyhow. Madame Fleury was a 
 woman of the town. Some women are 
 born bad, some achieve badness, and 
 some have badness thrust upon them. 
 Madame Fleury distinctly belonged to 
 the third class. But she had it thrust 
 271
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 on her just the same, and that is why 
 I put it baldly at first. 
 
 "She was a handsome woman, com 
 paratively young, and rather attractive. 
 She owned a big house in a large Western 
 city, and it was furnished with surprising 
 ly good taste. She had books, pictures, 
 tapestries, choice china, plate, and all that 
 sort of thing. She was a fine musician 
 with a good voice. You see, she was a 
 remarkable type. In her native France, 
 in the radiant glow of youth and virtue, 
 she must have been stunning. It makes 
 it very likely that the key to her subse 
 quent career was a Russian grand -duke 
 who figured in the earliest stories of her. 
 Well, her house was a gambling one, where 
 young fellows ruined themselves at cards. 
 You see this story is not exactly mrginibus 
 puerisque." 
 
 The secretary inclined his head slight 
 ly without committing himself to any defi 
 nite view, and the Author went on: 
 
 " Madame Fleury had a daughter, who 
 had spent her girlhood in a convent and 
 knew absolutely nothing of her mother s 
 272
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 real character. The woman had been 
 wise enough to select a convent in the 
 extreme East and the child grew to 
 womanhood there. During the summers 
 her mother took her to small watering- 
 places so remote from the usual haunts 
 there was not one chance in a thousand 
 that any one would recognize her. People 
 never did, or if they did they made no sign, 
 and all went well until the girl was about 
 sixteen, when she suddenly telegraphed 
 that she was coming home, to the city 
 where her mother lived, and which she 
 herself had never been permitted to visit. 
 By the time this reaches you/ she wired, 
 I shall be in the train. That meant that 
 she would reach home in two days. 
 
 "Madame Fleury was a woman quick 
 to think and act. Nothing could stop 
 Lily now. It therefore behooved her to 
 be ready for this dutiful visit. She went 
 at once to the office of a prominent real- 
 estate man whom she knew and told him 
 of her predicament. He helped her out. 
 He rented to her for one week a fine house, 
 elegantly furnished, in the suburbs of 
 18 273
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 the city, and Madame Fleury spent the 
 next two days getting bric-a-brac, books, 
 pictures, and all that into the place to 
 give it an air of being occupied. 
 
 "You can imagine that she had her 
 hands full, but she was equal to the oc 
 casion, and when the train from New 
 York steamed into the station Madame 
 Fleury was there to greet her daughter. 
 She took the girl to the house and suddenly 
 succumbed to an attack of grip, so ex 
 hausting in its nature that she could nei 
 ther go out nor receive guests. Lily, who 
 loved her mother ardently, spent the w^eek 
 in affectionate attendance on her in the 
 sick-room, and at the end of it, as madame s 
 condition urgently required change of cli 
 mate, the two went off to a remote resort 
 and that danger was over. The episode 
 shows the length to which she would go 
 for her child. 
 
 "One year later Lily was graduated. 
 This meant a mighty problem for Madame 
 Fleury, but she had pondered it well and 
 was ready with her solution when the 
 time came. She turned her house over 
 274
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 to a manager and prepared for an absence 
 of two years. Then she went to the Eastern 
 convent and attended the graduation ex 
 ercises of her daughter saw her get 
 her diploma. Lily was a beauty by this 
 time tall and slender, and with the most 
 exquisitely pure face. She must have 
 looked like a lily as she stood in her white 
 gown among the palms and ferns banked 
 on the stage in the great exhibition hall. 
 She was the bright star of the occasion, 
 for she had the valedictory and she sang 
 and played first violin in the orchestra, 
 and did it all wonderfully well; while 
 down among the audience Madame Fleury, 
 in her rich but severe costume of black 
 silk, sat and gazed with her soul in her 
 eyes at this idol of hers this one thing 
 in her life that was clean. She adored 
 the girl my story will show that if it 
 shows nothing else; but it must show 
 other things too, and there s the rub/ 
 
 The Author paused a moment. Per 
 haps he expected a remark from his auditor, 
 but that young man remained silent, his 
 eyes fixed on the cheery fire. The Author 
 275
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 felt that he was thoroughly attentive, how 
 ever, and, he thought, interested. 
 
 "After the graduation exercises," he 
 resumed, " Madame Fleury had a brief 
 interview with the Superior and the nuns 
 with whom her daughter had lived so 
 long, and told them she intended to take 
 her child abroad for two years of travel, 
 and that they were to sail the following 
 Saturday. She regarded with sweet, ma 
 ternal sympathy Lily s parting with her 
 classmates and the nuns; she saw her 
 folded in the arms of the sisters, and she 
 herself kissed some of Lily s special friends, 
 because her instinct told her the girl would 
 be pleased by that demonstration. She 
 became also almost friendly with their 
 mothers. She was in the convent two 
 days, and in that time seemed, in a way, 
 to wash herself clean. She had flung 
 the past behind her, for a time at least; 
 she was on the edge of a life as new to 
 her as to her daughter, and it was w r ell 
 that before plunging into this unknown 
 phase of things, before stepping from 
 the shadow of a declassee into the sun- 
 276
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 shine of the respectable, she should have 
 the preparation of those days in the cool 
 silence of the cloister. Her thoughts dur 
 ing that time must have been strange 
 ones. I must work that up in the story." 
 
 The Author lit a fresh cigar. He won 
 dered whether it would do to tell the secre 
 tary that he didn t mind if he made an 
 occasional comment. But he went on. 
 
 " They sailed, and as this is not a chron 
 icle of a jeune fille s first pilgrimage abroad, 
 we ll cut that part of it out. They saw 
 things, of course, as they drifted about 
 for the greater part of two years in a 
 quiet and exceedingly conventional fashion. 
 But there was just one object in Europe 
 of which Madame Fleury was in search 
 and that was the right husband for 
 her daughter. It was he she had come 
 there expressly to find, and every man 
 they met was searched to his very soul 
 by those worldly eyes that had seen so 
 much of life and men. They met quan 
 tities of them, for Lily was charming, 
 and the pair radiated culture, breeding, 
 and wealth. Madame Fleury was playing 
 277
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 her supreme role on life s stage, and she 
 played it magnificently. I met them dur 
 ing that time, and not until years after 
 wards did I have an inkling of the truth 
 about them. When a man who was not 
 the right man seemed to interest Lily 
 and it was easy for most any man to 
 interest her, for she was full of romance 
 the Fleurys suddenly disappeared. It was 
 not done crudely, as you may imagine. 
 Some interesting expedition presented it 
 self, or a remote corner of Europe took 
 on new interest, or a standing invitation 
 was recalled. Lily suspected nothing; in 
 stead, she promptly forgot, for she was 
 young, and there were other men in the 
 new foreground. This was the situation 
 when the two, after twenty months of 
 wandering, found themselves in the island 
 of Rugen and, one day, in the presence 
 of a new young man." 
 
 The new secretary straightened him 
 self and pulled down his waistcoat. He 
 also crossed his legs. It was something. 
 He evidently recognized the entrance of 
 The Young Man. 
 
 278
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 "He was a good -enough fellow, I be 
 lieve," continued the Author, a trifle patron 
 izingly " excellent family, Oxford, Heidel 
 berg, and all the world after that. He 
 was handsome, too, I m told, and he swept 
 the girl off her feet. He fell deeply in 
 love with Lily, and the sojourn on the 
 island of Rugen was prolonged. The 
 lovers made their marvellous discoveries 
 of beauties in life hitherto unsuspected, 
 and as they called each other s attention 
 to these things Madame Fleury looked 
 on. The Young Man was wise enough 
 to cultivate her as well as her daughter. 
 But it was not necessary. Her motive 
 was too utterly unselfish. She decided 
 that he would do. He was poor, but that 
 was rather a good point. She had turned 
 the searchlight of her investigations on 
 his past, and she found no dark corners. 
 He was all right. He was the man she 
 had scoured Europe to find. 
 
 " When The Young Man asked Madame 
 
 Fleury for Lily she had a long talk with 
 
 him. She told him the whole story, not 
 
 sparing herself in the least, and at the 
 
 279
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 end she made him a proposition. She 
 asked him to hear it through before he 
 answered it. 
 
 You may marry my daughter/ she 
 said, on one condition that you and 
 she never return to America. You must 
 make your home here for the remainder 
 of your lives. The day before your mar 
 riage I will turn over to her about seventy 
 thousand dollars in stocks and bonds. 
 The day after your marriage I will sail 
 for America. For a few months I will 
 write to my daughter; but within a year 
 she will receive a cable that I am dead 
 and, so far as she shall ever know, I will 
 be dead from that time forth. But I shall 
 wish to know how it is with her, and at 
 intervals perhaps two or three times a 
 year I would like you to write me of 
 her. Do you agree, my friend? 
 
 "The Young Man agreed. He was 
 probably touched; he certainly ought to 
 have been by that magnificent, unself 
 ish devotion by the true mother looming 
 so grandly out of the wreck of the woman. 
 He agreed, and everything was done as 
 280
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 Madame Fleury had arranged. They were 
 married, she sailed for America, and the 
 husband and wife went to Spain on their 
 honeymoon. The parting from her mother 
 was the only suffering the daughter s 
 life had known, but she got over it with 
 the sublime selfishness of youth and love. 
 Her husband was with her what else 
 mattered? Madame Fleury had, natu 
 rally, not quite the same point of view. 
 I can see the chance for good work on 
 what that parting that final parting 
 meant to her. She left her daughter to 
 her honeymoon among the jasmine and 
 the nightingales, and she returned to 
 her old life! What else could she do when 
 she had converted everything she possess 
 ed into money and given it to her child? 
 She went back, a broken-hearted woman, 
 a poor woman, no longer young, to the 
 life she had learned to loathe but the 
 lovers in Spain were happy." 
 
 The secretary s cigar had gone out. 
 He leaned forward, tossed it into the cheery 
 flames, and accepted another courteously 
 offered by the Author. 
 281
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 "From this point in the tale," resumed 
 the latter, with a slight importance, " Fate 
 advances on my character like the Hel 
 lenic Nemesis. Madame Fleury found 
 when she returned to her old haunts that, 
 even in two years, she had been forgotten. 
 Her one friend had died, and others had 
 systematically robbed her right and left. 
 She struggled on, making a brave fight, 
 but life and fate and a broken heart were 
 too much for her. She developed an in 
 curable disease and died by inches, sinking 
 deeper and deeper into poverty, pain, and 
 misery. It took years to bring all this 
 about, but it came slowly and implacably, 
 and she never moaned. She had kept 
 her bargain to the letter. Eleven months 
 after her return to America she had sent 
 the promised cable announcing her death. 
 Lily had cried passionately and drooped 
 for a few weeks, but she got over it, for 
 her husband was still the lover and now 
 her one stay, with her mother dead, as 
 she thought, thousands of miles away. 
 So, when the years had brought poverty 
 and suffering to Madame Fleury, she 
 282
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 was helpless and alone; she could not 
 appeal to her only child even had she 
 wished to in her sore need. For The 
 Young Man had not kept his part of the 
 bargain as well as she had kept hers. 
 
 " After the first two years he never wrote 
 her, and at the last, added to her physical 
 suffering, she had the mental agony of 
 not knowing whether her daughter, for 
 whom she had sacrificed so much, was 
 ill or well, happy or miserable, alive or 
 dead. 
 
 "One old negro servant stayed with 
 her to the end. Long after her death, 
 when it was too late to help, I met this 
 old creature and heard from her the story 
 of those last days and grim enough 
 it was with its bleak background of tene 
 ment, and the dying woman praying to 
 the last that she might know of her child 
 before she went, that she could not leave 
 the world with Lily in it, alone or un 
 happy. They had not enough to eat 
 she and the old negress. Then Fate 
 showed its ingenuity by adding a final 
 touch to the tragedy; for one day, when 
 283
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 the negress was out for a few moments 
 (begging, she afterwards told me), the 
 pain perhaps was too great for endurance, 
 or possibly there came a moment of in 
 sanity. Anyhow, Madame Fleury closed 
 the chapter and thrust herself out of a 
 world on the other side of which, all un 
 suspecting, lived the child she loved. The 
 last thing she was ever heard to say was 
 very characteristic, a fitting finale, I 
 thought, for it was this : She whispered to 
 the old negress during the day, f l would 
 do it all over again, a hundred times, if 
 I could know for just one instant at the 
 last that she is alive and happy/ And 
 then she added, Of one thing, thank 
 God, I am sure. Wherever she is, she is 
 good my baby, my white flower, my 
 Lily. And if she is that, she cannot be 
 all unhappy. I am content/ 
 
 The Author stopped again and lit a 
 fresh cigar. His face was flushed, and 
 all his little mannerisms had dropped 
 from him, as conventionalities flit in mo 
 ments of excitement. He was in earnest 
 and deeply interested in his story. His 
 284
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 secretary had bent forward in his chair 
 and was staring at the leaping flames 
 with sombre eyes. 
 
 " That was the end of Madame Fleury," 
 resumed the Author, more quietly. " And, 
 unfortunately, it is the end of the story 
 as far as my knowledge goes. For I have 
 not the faintest idea what became of the 
 girl. She was never heard of, on this 
 side, after her marriage. I dare say she is 
 leading a peaceful existence in the sunny 
 content of some English home. But I 
 can t present her with four babies, two 
 dogs, and a tea-basket, and end the story 
 that way. It must have a fitting climax, 
 and what that is to be I can t decide. 
 Several things have suggested themselves, 
 but I don t fancy them." 
 
 "How would this appeal to you?" said 
 the secretary. He went on slowly, his 
 gaze still bent on the fire: 
 
 "You left the lovers in Spain. They 
 have an ideal honeymoon there. But 
 even during those weeks of youth and 
 love and jasmine and nightingale and 
 tinkling mandolin, The Young Man begins 
 285
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 to remark a strange restlessness in the 
 girl he has married. He does not like 
 it nor understand it, but he tries to think 
 it is the natural exuberance of the convent 
 girl, housed in a cloister all her life and 
 then suddenly brought face to face with 
 a new and fascinating world. He has 
 no doubt that she loves him, and the ex 
 pressions of her restlessness are harm 
 less enough in the beginning. He loves 
 her enough to watch her pretty closety, 
 and he thinks she will soon get used to 
 her new freedom and independence, and 
 quiet down. So he almost enjoys the 
 energy she shows in looking for excite 
 ment. 
 
 "Let him adore her, and gratify all 
 her whims, taking her from place to place 
 as her caprice may choose. Before they 
 have been married a year he learns that 
 excitement is the breath of life to her 
 that she must have new experiences, new 
 friends, new sensations. He gets alarmed 
 as he realizes that the fault is not in the 
 girl as much as in what is back of her 
 in the temperament of her mother, who 
 286
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 had only one redeeming quality, and in 
 the temperament of her unknown father, 
 who quite possibly had not one. He 
 begins to feel that he has married a victim 
 of heredity. Not all the care in her bring- 
 ing-up, not all the years in that quiet con 
 vent, have eradicated the scarlet germs 
 of her parentage. Sometimes he sees the 
 devil himself look out of the eyes he loves." 
 
 "That s good," said the Author. "Go 
 ahead." 
 
 " Picture her gradual reversion to heredi 
 tary types," continued the secretary. "At 
 first only mild bohemianism, little parties, 
 a little champagne. Later larger parties 
 and more champagne. Of course he does 
 what he can, but he sees the impotence 
 of moral suasion in the face of her native 
 trend. He discovers that she deceives 
 him and lies to him. He cannot let her 
 go to these things alone, but he sees that 
 she and her friends are openly bored by 
 his presence. If you want a few strong 
 touches of mental agony in your tale, 
 write of him tell what he goes through 
 in these awful nights and davs, these 
 287
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 hideous weeks and months and years. 
 His friends fall away from him because 
 he will not fall away from his wife. They 
 think he is willingly, viciously sharing 
 this life which he loathes. Given all 
 this, any one can see that the moment 
 comes when he could not, in self-respect, 
 have any relations with her. The mother, 
 lost through love, retained in her fall the 
 beauty of womanly tenderness and noble 
 sacrifice. The daughter has no redeeming 
 trait. He settles money on her what 
 little they had left and leaves her. Could 
 he write of these things to her mother? 
 Here is a reason for his breaking his promise. 
 "From time to time he hears of her 
 always as the centre of some new and 
 characteristically horrible bit of devilish- 
 ness. As her money goes, and the pace 
 begins to tell, let her drift from Paris to 
 Vienna, to Budapest, to Berlin, to London, 
 and back again to Paris, blazing a trail 
 of scandal as she goes. She has the one 
 decent impulse of dropping his name. 
 But he knows the assumed one she trails 
 through the filth of Europe. 
 288
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 " Back in Paris the Lily disports a year 
 at the Jardin de Paris and later in the 
 coarser whirl of the Moulin Rouge. Let 
 him see her there some night, when he is 
 taking a party of English friends through 
 it on a sight-seeing expedition. There 
 can be an English girl in the party a 
 sweet woman who has no right to be there 
 even on that innocent little tour of in 
 spection. She is on his arm, and he is 
 glad to feel her leaning on him. A man 
 may love twice, and the ruin of his first 
 may lend strength to his second love. 
 They stop to look at the dancing; one 
 doesn t want to look at it long, even if he 
 is a man and hasn t a good woman with 
 him. Suddenly something twitches his 
 other arm a hideous thing, all skin and 
 bone and paint and fever, and cheap, 
 ghastly finery. It is his wife. She smirks 
 at him like the lost soul she is. He recoils 
 so that her brazen shame feels it and she 
 drifts back into the crowd. The English 
 woman recoils from him. Shall we say 
 that she was in love with him? Perhaps 
 she was, but she got over it when she saw 
 9 280
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 the look of understanding between those 
 two that told of a past." 
 
 "Um-m," murmured the Author, doubt 
 fully. 
 
 Two weeks later, a letter comes one 
 morning, badly written, smelling of cheap 
 scent and grimy about the edges. It 
 tells him his wife is ill at a given address 
 in the Quartier, and it is signed with a 
 name he doesn t know. He goes there 
 and finds her. She is not in such straits 
 as you said her mother was. Her woman 
 friends are doing what they can for her. 
 The room is clean and she has actual 
 necessities. It may be some comfort to 
 her, however, to have him take charge 
 of her. He gets another doctor and a 
 nurse, and he rents a room across the 
 hall to be within reach. He spends most 
 of his time there, and she takes it quite 
 as a matter of course that he should. She 
 never speaks of the past, and an odd sort 
 of new life begins between them, in that 
 little room where she lies dying. He 
 reads to her a good deal, and she seems 
 to like to have him around. When other 
 290
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 men come to inquire how she is they are 
 sent away, but when women come she 
 says, Let them come in and learn some 
 thing from it if they can. They come, 
 but I doubt if they learn much. They 
 have seen it all too often before. He and 
 the doctor and nurse are the only ones 
 with her at the last, and it is just as well. 
 "Late one afternoon he is standing at 
 the window of her room looking out, when 
 the nurse calls him. He goes to the bed 
 and his wife motions to him to take her 
 hand. He sits down and holds it. He 
 knows at once that she is dying. She looks 
 up at him with an expression in her eyes 
 that he had seen sometimes in those first 
 weeks in Spain, years ago the expression 
 they took on when she had hurt him and 
 was sorry. He had never seen it since 
 then, until this afternoon. She signs to 
 him to bend over her. 
 
 You are good/ she says. I am 
 sorry I ruined your life and my own. 
 But you never understood me. No man 
 could. Only one person in the world 
 might have saved me my mother. If 
 291
 
 Tales of Destiny 
 
 she had lived, and been with me so I could 
 see her pureness and her faith in me, I 
 think I should have lived and died a good 
 woman. 
 
 "Her dying faith in Madame Fleury 
 corresponds, you see, to her mother s 
 in her. In all the horrible lessons of those 
 degrading years she had never learned 
 to suspect her mother. She died an hour 
 later." 
 
 The secretary stopped abruptly ; he seem 
 ed unconscious of the sudden change of 
 tense in his last sentence. He seemed 
 also unconscious of the presence of his 
 employer, who had drawn his note-book 
 from his pocket and w r as turning the leaves, 
 flushing darkly as he did so. As the 
 other lapsed into silence, the Author spoke 
 impulsively. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said. "It was stupid 
 of me not to have recalled your name. 
 Life writes stranger stories than fiction 
 dares. I must have hurt you, but it was 
 unconsciously, you know." He offered 
 his hand, which The Young Man grasped 
 in silence. 
 
 292
 
 A Collaboration 
 
 The Author hesitated a moment. His 
 lips were set, but there was a softer ex 
 pression in his eyes and he spoke with 
 perfect simplicity and feeling. 
 
 "Of course/ he said, "I shall not write 
 the story. But you may imagine how 
 deeply I feel your end of it when I tell you 
 I might have played your role, only that 
 Madame Fleury found me wanting!" 
 
 THE END
 
 BY LILIAN BELL 
 
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