SDUDI 
 YARNER
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Majl Kwing
 
 CxWwwv^LX
 
 SPECIAL LIMITED EDITION 
 
 THE GOLDEN HOUSE. A 
 Novel. By CHARLES DUD- 
 LEY WARMER. Author of "A Lit- 
 tle Journey in the World/' etc. 
 Illustrated by W. T. SMEDLEY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 B. W. DODGE & COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright, 1894, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 All rights reserved.
 
 
 THE GOLDEN HOUSE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IT was near midnight. The company gathered 
 in a famous city studio were under the impression, 
 diligently diffused in the world, that the end of 
 the century is a time of license if not of deca- 
 dence. The situation had its own piquancy, part- 
 ly in the surprise of some of those assembled at 
 vi finding themselves in bohemia, partly in a flutter 
 'jf of expectation of seeing something on the border- 
 ^ line of propriety. The hour, the place, the antici- 
 pation of the lifting of the veil from an Oriental 
 * and ancient art, gave them a titillating feeling of 
 V adventure, of a moral hazard bravely incurred in 
 the duty of knowing life, penetrating to its core. 
 Opportunity for this sort of fruitful experience be- 
 ing rare outside the metropolis, students of good 
 and evil had made the pilgrimage to this midnight 
 occasion from less-favored cities. Kecondite schol- 
 ars in the physical beauty of the Greeks, from 
 Boston, were there ; fair women from "Washington, 
 
 374052
 
 whose charms make the reputation of many a 
 newspaper correspondent ; spirited stars of official 
 and diplomatic life, who have moments of longing 
 to shine in some more languorous material para- 
 dise, had made a hasty flitting to be present at the 
 ceremony, sustained by a slight feeling of bravado 
 in making this exceptional descent. But the fa- 
 vored hundred spectators were mainly from the 
 city groups of late diners, who fluttered in under 
 that pleasurable glow which the red Jacqueminot 
 always gets from contiguity with the pale yellow 
 Clicquot ; theatre parties, a little jaded, and quite 
 ready for something real and stimulating; men 
 from the clubs and men from studios representa- 
 tives of society and of art graciously mingled, since 
 it is discovered that it is easier to make art fash- 
 ionable than to make fashion artistic. 
 
 The vast, dimly lighted apartment was itself 
 mysterious, a temple of luxury quite as much as of 
 art. Shadows lurked in the corners, the ribs of 
 the roof were faintly outlined ; on the sombre 
 walls gleams of color, faces of loveliness and faces 
 of pain, studies all of a mood or a passion, bits of 
 shining brass, reflections from lustred ware strug- 
 gling out of obscurity ; hangings from Fez or Tet- 
 uan, bits of embroidery, costumes in silk and in 
 velvet, still having the aroma of balls a hundred 
 years ago, the faint perfume of a scented society 
 of ladies and gallants ; a skeleton scarcely less
 
 fantastic than the draped wooden model near it ; 
 heavy rugs of Daghestan and Persia, making the 
 footfalls soundless on the floor ; a fountain tink- 
 ling in a thicket of japonicas and azaleas; the 
 stems of palmettoes, with their branches waving 
 in the obscurity overhead ; points of light here and 
 there where a shaded lamp shone on a single red 
 rose in a blue Granada vase on a toppling stand, or 
 on a mass of jonquils in a barbarous pot of Chanak- 
 Kallessi ; tacked here and there on walls and 
 hangings, colored memoranda of Capri and of the 
 Xorth Woods, the armor of knights, trophies of 
 small-arms, crossed swords of the Union and the 
 Confederacy, easels, paints, and palettes, and rows 
 of canvases leaning against the wall the studied 
 litter, in short, of a successful artist, whose sur- 
 roundings contribute to the popular conception of 
 his genius. 
 
 On the wall at one end of the apartment was 
 stretched a white canvas ; in front of it was left a 
 small cleared space, on the edge of which, in the 
 shadow, squatting on the floor, were four swarthy 
 musicians in Oriental garments, with a mandolin. 
 a guitar, a ney, and a darabooka drum. About 
 this cleared space, in a crescent, knelt or sat upon 
 the rugs a couple of rows of men in evening dress ; 
 behind them, seated in chairs, a group of ladies, 
 whose white shoulders and arms and animated 
 faces flashed out in the semi-obscurity ; and in their
 
 rear stood a crowd of spectators beautiful young 
 gentlemen with vacant faces and the elevated Ox- 
 ford shoulders, rosy youth already blase to all this 
 world can offer, and gray-headed men young again 
 in the prospect of a new sensation. So they kneel 
 or stand, worshippers before the shrine, expecting 
 the advent of the Goddess of ^Esthetic Culture. 
 
 The moment has come. There is a tap on the 
 drum, a tuning of the strings, a flash of light from 
 the rear of the room inundates the white canvas, 
 and suddenly a figure is poised in the space, her 
 shadow cast upon the glowing background. 
 
 It is the Spanish dancer ! 
 
 The apparition evokes a flutter of applause. It 
 is a superb figure, clad in a high tight bodice and 
 long skirts simply draped so as to show every mo- 
 tion of the athletic limbs. She seems, in this pose 
 and light, supernaturally tall. Through her part- 
 ed lips white teeth gleam, and she smiles. Is it a 
 smile of anticipated triumph, or of contempt ? Is it 
 the smile of the daughter of Herodias, or the invi- 
 tation of a ghazeeyeh? She pauses. Shall she sur- 
 prise, or shock, or only please ? What shall the art 
 that is older than the pyramids do for these kneel- 
 ing Christians ? The drum taps, the ney pipes, the 
 mandolin twangs, her arms are extended the casta- 
 nets clink, a foot is thrust out, the bosom heaves, 
 the .waist trembles. What shall it be the old ser- 
 pent dance of the Nile, or the posturing of decorous
 
 courtship when the olives are purple in the time of 
 the grape harvest ? Her head, wreathed with coils 
 of black hair, a red rose behind the left ear, is 
 thrown back. The eyes flash, there is a snakelike 
 movement of the limbs, the music hastens slowly 
 in unison with the quickening pulse, the body pal- 
 pitates, seems to flash invitation like the eyes, it 
 turns, it twists, the neck is thrust forward, it is 
 drawn in, while the limbs move still slowly, tenta- 
 tively ; suddenly the body from the waist up seems 
 to twist round, with the waist as a pivot, in a flash 
 of athletic vigor, the music quickens, the arms move 
 more rapidly to the click of the heated castanets, 
 the steps are more pronounced, the whole woman is 
 agitated, bounding, pulsing with physical excite- 
 ment. It is a Maenad in an access of gymnastic 
 energy. Yes, it is gymnastics ; it is not grace ; it 
 is scarcely alluring. Yet it is a physical triumph. 
 While the spectators are breathless, the fury ceases, 
 the music dies, and the Spaniard sinks into a chair, 
 panting with triumph, and inclines her dark head 
 to the clapping of hands and the bravos. The 
 kneelers rise ; the spectators break into chattering 
 groups ; the ladies look at the dancer with curious 
 eyes ; a young gentleman with the elevated Oxford 
 shoulders leans upon the arm of her chair and fans 
 her. The pose is correct ; it is the somewhat awk- 
 ward tribute of culture to physical beauty. 
 
 To be on speaking terms with the phenomenon
 
 was for the moment a distinction. The young ladies 
 wondered if it would be proper to go forward and 
 talk with her. 
 
 " Why not ?" said a wit. " The Duke of Donny- 
 castle always shakes hands with the pugilists at a 
 miU." 
 
 " It is not so bad " the speaker was a Washing- 
 ton beauty in an evening dress that she would have 
 condemned as indecorous for the dancer " it is not 
 so bad as I " 
 
 " Expected ?" asked her companion, a sedate man 
 of thirty-five, with the cynical air of a student of 
 life. 
 
 " As I feared," she added, quickly. " I have al- 
 ways had a curiosity to know what these Oriental 
 dances mean." 
 
 " Oh, nothing in particular, now. This was an 
 exhibition dance. Of course its origin, like all 
 dancing, was religious. The fault I find with it is 
 that it lacks seriousness, like the modern exhibi- 
 tion of the dancing dervishes for money." 
 
 " Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that the decay of 
 dancing is the reason our religion lacks seriousness ? 
 We are in Lent now, you know. Does this seem to 
 you a Lenten performance ?" 
 
 " Why, yes, to a degree. Anything that keeps 
 you up till three o'clock in the morning has some 
 penitential quality." 
 
 "You give me a new view, Mr. Mavick. I con-
 
 fess that I did not expect to assist at what New- 
 Englanders call an 'evening meeting.' I thought 
 Eros was the deity of the dance." 
 
 " That, Mrs. Laraon, is a vulgar error. It is an 
 ancient form of worship. Virtue and beauty are 
 the same thing the two graces." 
 
 " What a nice apothegm ! It makes religion so 
 easy and agreeable." 
 
 "As easy as gravitation." 
 
 " Dear me, Mr. Mavick, I thought this was a 
 question of levitation. You are upsetting all my 
 ideas. I shall not have the comfort of repenting 
 of this episode in Lent." 
 
 "Oh yes; you can be sorry that the dancing was 
 not more alluring." 
 
 Meantime there was heard the popping of corks. 
 Venetian glasses filled with champagne were 
 quaffed under the blessing of sparkling eyes, young 
 girls, almond-eyed for the occasion, in the costume 
 of Tokyo, handed round ices, and the hum of ac- 
 celerated conversation filled the studio. 
 
 " And your wife didn't come ?" 
 
 " Wouldn't," replied Jack Delancy, with a little 
 bow, before he raised his glass. And then added, 
 " Her taste isn't for this sort of thing." 
 
 The girl, already flushed with the wine, blushed 
 a little Jack thought he had never seen her look 
 so dazzlingly handsome as she said, "And you 
 think mine is?"
 
 "Bless me, no, I didn't mean that; that is, you 
 know " Jack didn't exactly see his way out of 
 the dilemma "Edith is a little old-fashioned; but 
 what's the harm in this, anyway ?" 
 
 " I did not say there was any," she replied, with 
 a smile at his embarrassment. " Only I think there 
 are half a dozen women in the room who could do 
 it better, with a little practice. It isn't as Oriental 
 as I thought it would be." 
 
 " I cannot say as to that. I know Edith thinks 
 I've gone into the depths of the Orient. But, on 
 the whole, I'm glad " Jack stopped on the verge 
 of speaking out of his better nature. 
 
 " Now don't be rude again. I quite understand 
 that she is not here." 
 
 The dialogue was cut short by a clapping of 
 hands. The spectators took their places again, the 
 lights were lowered, the illumination was turned 
 on the white canvas, and the dancer, warmed with 
 wine and adulation, took a bolder pose, and, as her 
 limbs began to move, sang a wild Moorish melody 
 in a shrill voice, action and words flowing together 
 into the passion of the daughter of tents in a des- 
 ert life. It was all vigorous, suggestive, more prop- 
 erly religious, Mavick would have said, and the 
 applause was vociferous. 
 
 More wine went about. There was another 
 dance, and then another, a slow languid movement, 
 half melancholy and full of sorrow, if one might
 
 say that of a movement, for unrepented sin) a 
 gypsy dance this, accompanied by the mournful 
 song of Boabdil, " The Last Sigh of the Moor." 
 And suddenly, when the feelings of the spectators 
 were melted to tender regret, a flash out of all this 
 into a joyous defiance, a wooing of pleasure with 
 smiling lips and swift feet, with the clash of cym- 
 bals and the quickened throb of the drum. And so 
 an end with the dawn of a new day. 
 
 It was not yet dawn, however, for the clocks 
 were only striking three as the assembly, in winter 
 coats and soft wraps, fluttered out to its carriages, 
 chattering and laughing, with endless good-nights 
 in the languages of France, Germany, and Spain. 
 
 The streets were as nearly deserted as they ever 
 are; here and there a lumbering market -wagon 
 from Jersey, an occasional street-car with its tink- 
 ling bell, rarer still the rush of a trembling train 
 on the elevated, the voice of a belated reveller, a 
 flitting female figure at a street corner, the roll of 
 a livery hack over the ragged pavement. But 
 mainly the noise of the town was hushed, and in 
 the sharp air the stars, far off and uncontaminated, 
 glowed with a pure lustre. 
 
 Farther up town it was quite still, and in one of 
 the noble houses in the neighborhood of the Park 
 sat Edith Delancy, married not quite a year, listen- 
 ing for the roll of wheels and the click of a night- 
 key.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 EVERYBODY liked John Corlear Delancy, and this 
 in spite of himself, for no one ever knew him to 
 make any effort to incur either love or hate. The 
 handsome boy was a favorite without lifting his 
 eyebrows, and he sauntered through the university, 
 picking his easy way along an elective course, win- 
 ning the affectionate regard of every one with whom 
 he came in contact. And this was not because he 
 lacked quality, or was merely easy-going and neg- 
 ative or effeminate, for the same thing happened 
 to him when he went shooting in the summer in 
 the Rockies. The cowboys and the severe moral- 
 ists of the plains, whose sedate business in life is 
 to get the drop on offensive persons, regarded him 
 as a brother. It isn't a bad test of personal quality, 
 this power to win the loyalty of men who have 
 few or none of the conventional virtues. These 
 non-moral enforcers of justice as they understood 
 it liked Jack exactly as his friends in the New 
 York clubs liked him and perhaps the moral 
 standard of approval of the one was as good as the 
 other. 
 
 Jack was a very good shot and a fair rider, and
 
 11 
 
 in the climate of England he might have taken 
 first-rate rank in athletics. But he had never taken 
 first-rate rank in anything, except good-fellowship. 
 He had a great many expensive tastes, which he 
 could not afford to indulge, except in imagination. 
 The luxury of a racing-stable, or a yacht, or a libra- 
 ry of scarce books bound by Paris craftsmen was 
 denied him. Those who account for failures in 
 life by a man's circumstances, and not by a lack in 
 the man himself, which is always the secret of fail- 
 ure, said that Jack was unfortunate in coming into 
 a certain income of twenty thousand a year. This 
 was just enough to paralyze effort, and not enough 
 to permit a man to expand in any direction. It is 
 true that he was related to millions and moved in 
 a millionaire atmosphere, but these millions might 
 never flow into his bank account. They were not 
 in hand to use, and they also helped to paralyze 
 effort like black clouds of an impending shower 
 that may pass around, but meantime keeps the 
 watcher in-doors. 
 
 The best thing that Jack Delancy ever did, for 
 himself, was to marry Edith Fletcher. The wed- 
 ding, which took place some eight months before 
 the advent of the Spanish dancer, was a surprise 
 to many, for the girl had even less fortune than 
 Jack, and though in and of his society entirely, 
 was supposed to have ideals. Her family, indeed, 
 was an old one on the island, and was prominent
 
 12 
 
 long before the building of the stone bridge on 
 Canal Street over the outlet of Collect Pond. Those 
 who knew Edith well detected in her that strain of 
 moral earnestness which made the old Fletchers 
 such stanch and trusty citizens. The wonder was 
 not that Jack, with his easy susceptibility to refined 
 beauty, should have been attracted to her, or have 
 responded to a true instinct of what was best for 
 him, but that Edith should have taken up with such 
 a perfect type of the aimlessness of the society 
 strata of modern life. The wonder, however, was 
 based upon a shallow conception of the nature of 
 woman. It would have been more wonderful if 
 the qualities that endeared Jack to college friends 
 and club men, to the mighty sportsmen who do not 
 hesitate, in the clubs, to devastate Canada and the 
 United States of big game, and to the border ruf- 
 fians of Dakota, should not have gone straight to 
 the tender heart of a woman of ideals. And when 
 in all history was there a woman who did not be- 
 lieve, when her heart went with respect for certain 
 manly traits, that she could inspire and lift a man 
 into a noble life ? 
 
 The silver clock in the breakfast-room was strik- 
 ing ten, and Edith was already seated at the coffee- 
 urn, when Jack appeared. She was as fresh as a 
 rose, and greeted him with a bright smile as he 
 came behind her chair and bent over for the morn- 
 ing kiss a ceremony of affection which, if omit-
 
 13 
 
 ted, would have left a cloud on the day for both 
 of them, and which Jack always declared was sim- 
 ply a necessity, or the coffee would have no flavor. 
 But when a man has picked a rose, it is always a 
 sort of climax which is followed by an awkward 
 moment, and Jack sat down with the air of a man 
 who has another day to get through with. 
 
 "Were you amused with the dancing this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " So, so," said Jack, sipping his coffee. " It \vas 
 a stunning place for it, that studio; you'd have 
 liked that. The Lamons and Mavick and a lot of 
 people from the provinces were there. The com- 
 pany was more fun than the dance, especially to a 
 fellow who has seen how good it can be and how 
 bad in its home." 
 
 "You have a chance to see the Spanish dancer 
 again, under proper auspices," said Edith, without 
 looking up. 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 " We are invited by Mrs. Brown " 
 
 i' The mother of the Bible class at St. Philip's ?" 
 
 "Yes to attend a charity performance for the 
 benefit of the Female Waifs' Refuge. She is to 
 dance." 
 
 "Who? Mrs. Brown?" 
 
 Edith paid no attention to this impertinence. 
 " They are to make an artificial evening at eleven 
 o'clock in the morning."
 
 14 
 
 " They must have got hold of Mavick's notion 
 that this dance is .religious in its origin. Do you 
 know if the exercises will open with prayer ?" 
 
 "Nonsense, Jack. You know I don't intend to 
 go. I shall send a small check." 
 
 " Well, draw it mild. But isn't this what I'm 
 accused of doing shirking my duty of personal 
 service by a contribution ?" 
 
 "Perhaps. But you didn't have any of that 
 shirking feeling last night, did you ?" 
 
 Jack laughed, and ran round to give the only 
 reply possible to such a gibe. These breakfast in- 
 terludes had not lost piquancy in all these months. 
 " I'm half a mind to go to this thing. I would, if 
 it didn't break up my day so." 
 
 " As for instance ?" 
 
 " Well, this morning I have to go up to the rid- 
 ing-school to see a horse Storm; I want to try 
 him. And then I have to go down to Twist's and 
 see a lot of Japanese drawings he's got over. Do 
 you know that the birds and other animals those 
 beggars have been drawing, which we thought 
 were caricatures, are the real thing 2 They have 
 eyes sharp enough to see things in motion flying 
 birds and moving horses which we never caught 
 till we put the camera on them. Awfully curi- 
 ous. Then I shall step into the club a minute, 
 and" 
 
 " Be in at lunch ? Bess is coming."
 
 15 
 
 " Don't wait lunch. I've a lot to do." 
 Edith followed him with her eyes, a little wist- 
 fully ; she heard the outer door close, and still sat 
 at the table, turning over the pile of notes at her 
 plate, and thinking of many things things that it 
 began to dawn upon her mind could not be done, 
 and things of immediate urgency that must be 
 done. Life did not seem quite such a simple prob- 
 lem to her as it had looked a year ago. That there 
 is nothing like experiment to clear the vision is the 
 general idea, but oftener it is experience that per- 
 plexes. Indeed, Edith was thinking that some 
 things seemed much easier to her before she had 
 tried them. 
 
 As she sat at the table with a faultless morning- 
 gown, with a bunch of English violets in her bos- 
 om, an artist could have desired no better subject. 
 Many people thought her eyes her best feature; 
 they were large brown eyes, yet not always brown, 
 green at times, liquid, but never uncertain, apt to 
 have a smile in them, yet their chief appealing 
 characteristic was trustfulness, a pure sort of stead- 
 fastness, that always conveyed the impression of 
 a womanly personal interest in the person upon 
 whom they were fixed. They were eyes that 
 haunted one like a remembered strain of music. 
 The lips were full, and the mouth was drawn in 
 such exquisite lines that it needed the clear-cut 
 and emphasized chin to give firmness to its beauty.
 
 16 
 
 The broad forehead, with arching eyebrows, gave 
 an intellectual cast to a face the special stamp of 
 which was purity. The nose, with thin open nos- 
 trils, a little too strong for beauty, together with the 
 chin, gave the impression of firmness and courage; 
 but the wonderful eyes, the inviting mouth, so 
 modified this that the total impression was that of 
 high spirit and great sweetness of character. It 
 was the sort of face from which one might expect 
 passionate love or unflinching martyrdom. Her 
 voice had a quality the memory of which lingered 
 longer even than the expression of her eyes ; it was 
 low, and, as one might say, a fruity voice, not quite 
 clear, though sweet, as if veiled in f emineity. This 
 note of royal womanhood was also in her figure, a 
 little more than medium in height, and full of nat- 
 ural grace. Somehow Edith, with all these good 
 points, had not the reputation of a belle or a beau- 
 ty perhaps for want of some artificial splendor 
 but one could not be long in her company without 
 feeling that she had great charm, without which 
 beauty becomes insipid and even commonplace, and 
 with which the plainest woman is attractive. 
 
 Edith's theory of life, if one may so dignify the 
 longings of a young girl, had been very simple, 
 and not at all such as would be selected by the 
 heroine of a romance. She had no mission, nor 
 was she afflicted by that modern form of altruism 
 which is a yearning for notoriety by conspicuous
 
 17 
 
 devotion to causes and reforms quite outside her 
 normal sphere of activity. A very sincere person, 
 with strong sympathy for humanity tempered by 
 a keen perception of the humorous side of things, 
 she had a purpose, perhaps not exactly formulated, 
 of making the most out of her own life, not in any 
 outward and shining career, but by a develop- 
 ment of herself in the most helpful and harmoni- 
 ous relations to her world. And it seemed to her, 
 though she had never philosophized it, that a mar- 
 riage such as she believed she had made was the 
 woman's way to the greatest happiness and useful- 
 ness. In this she followed the dictates of a clear 
 mind and a warm heart. If she had reasoned 
 about it, considering how brief life is, and how 
 small can be any single contribution to a better 
 social condition, she might have felt more strongly 
 the struggle against nature, and the false position 
 involved in the new idea that marriage is only a 
 kind of occupation, instead of an ordinance decreed 
 in the very constitution of the human race. "With 
 the mere instinct of f emineity she saw the falseness- 
 of the assumption that the higher life for man or 
 woman lies in separate and solitary paths through 
 the wilderness of this world. To an intelligent 
 angel, seated on the arch of the heavens, the spec- 
 tacle of the latter-day pseudo-philosophic and eco- 
 nomic dribble about the doubtful expediency of 
 having a wife, and the failure of marriage, must
 
 18 
 
 seem as ludicrous as would a convention of birds 
 or of flowers reasoning that the processes of nature 
 had continued long enough. Edith was simply a 
 natural woman, who felt rather than reasoned that 
 in a marriage such as her heart approved she should 
 make the most of her life. 
 
 But as she sat here this morning this did not 
 seem to be so simple a matter as it had appeared. 
 It began to be suspected that in order to make the 
 most of one's self it was necessary to make the 
 most of many other persons and things. The 
 stream in its own channel flowed along not with- 
 out vexations, friction and foaming and dashings 
 from bank to bank ; but it became quite another 
 and a more difficult movement when it was joined 
 to another stream, with its own currents and eddies 
 and impetuosities and sluggishness, constantly li- 
 able to be deflected if not put altogether on an- 
 other course. Edith was not putting it in this 
 form as she turned over her notes of invitation 
 and appointments and engagements, but simply 
 wondering where the time for her life was to come 
 in, and for Jack's life, which occupied a much larger 
 space than it seemed to occupy in the days before 
 it was joined to hers. Yery curious this discovery 
 of what another's life really is. Of course the 
 society life must go on, that had always gone on, 
 for what purpose no one could tell, only it was the 
 accepted way of disposing of time ; and now there
 
 19 
 
 were the dozen ways in which she was solicited to 
 show her interest in those supposed to be less fort- 
 unate in life than herself the alleviation of the 
 miseries of her own city. And with society, and 
 charity, and sympathy with the working classes, 
 and her own reading, and a little drawing and 
 painting, for which she had some talent, what be- 
 came of that comradeship with Jack, that union of 
 interests and affections, which was to make her life 
 altogether so high and sweet ? 
 
 This reverie, which did not last many minutes, 
 and was interrupted by the abrupt moving away 
 of Edith to the writing-desk in her own room, was 
 caused by a moment's vivid realization of what 
 Jack's interests in life were. Could she possibly 
 make them her own ? And if she did, what would 
 become of her own ideals ?
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IT was indeed a busy day for Jack. Great in- 
 justice would be done him if it were supposed that 
 he did not take himself and his occupations seri- 
 ously. His mind was not disturbed by trifles. He 
 knew that he had on the right sort of four-in-hand 
 neck-tie, with the appropriate pin of pear-shaped 
 pearl, and that he carried the cane of the season. 
 These things come by a sort of social instinct, are 
 in the air, as it were, and do not much tax the 
 mind. He had to hasten a little to keep his half- 
 past-eleven-o'clock appointment at Stalker's stables, 
 and when he arrived several men of his set were 
 already waiting, who were also busy men, and had 
 made a little effort to come round early and assist 
 Jack in making up his mind about the horse. 
 
 "When Mr. Stalker brought out Storm, and led 
 him around to show his action, the connoisseurs 
 took on a critical attitude, an attitude of judg- 
 ment, exhibited not less in the poise of the head 
 and the serious face than in the holding of the cane 
 and the planting of legs wide apart. And the atti- 
 tude had a refined nonchalance which professional 
 horsemen scarcely ever attain. Storm could not
 
 21 
 
 have received more critical and serious attention if 
 he had been a cooked terrapin. He could afford to 
 stand this scrutiny, and he seemed to move about 
 with the consciousness that he knew more about 
 being a horse than his judges. Storm was, in fact, 
 a splendid animal, instinct with life from his thin 
 flaring nostril to his small hoof ; black as a raven, 
 his highly groomed skin took the polish of ebony, 
 and showed the play of his powerful muscles, and, 
 one might say, almost the nervous currents that 
 thrilled his fine texture. His large, bold eyes, 
 though not wicked, flamed now and then with an 
 energy and excitement that gave ample notice that 
 he would obey no master who had not stronger 
 will and nerve than his own. It was a tribute to 
 Jack's manliness that, when he mounted him for a 
 turn in the ring, Storm seemed to recognize the 
 fine quality of both seat and hand, and appeared 
 willing to take him on probation. 
 
 " He's got good points," said Mr. Herbert Albert 
 Flick, " but I'd like a straighter back." 
 
 " I'll be hanged, though, Jack," was Mr. Mow- 
 bray Russell's comment, "if I'd ride him in the 
 Park before he's docked. Say what you like about 
 action, a horse has got to have style." 
 
 " Moves easy, falls off a little too much to suit 
 me in the quarter," suggested Mr. Pennington Doc- 
 stater, sucking the head of his cane. " How about 
 his staying quality, Stalker?"
 
 22 
 
 "That's just where he is, Mr. Docstater ; take 
 him on the road, he's a stayer for all day. Goes 
 like a bird. He'll take you along at the rate of 
 nine miles in forty -five minutes as long as you 
 want to sit there." 
 
 " Jump ?" queried little Bobby Simerton, whose 
 strong suit at the club was talking about meets 
 and hunters. 
 
 " Never refused anything I put him at," replied 
 Stalker ; " takes every fence as if it was the regular 
 thing." 
 
 Storm was in this way entirely taken to pieces, 
 praised and disparaged, in a way to give Stalker, it 
 might be inferred from his manner, a high opinion 
 of the knowledge of these young gentlemen. " It 
 takes a gentleman," in fact, Stalker said, " to judge 
 a hoss, for a good hoss is a gentleman himself." It 
 was much discussed whether Storm would do bet- 
 ter for the Park or for the country, whether it 
 would be better to put him in the field or keep him 
 for a roadster. It might, indeed, be inferred that 
 Jack had not made up his mind whether he should 
 buy a horse for use in the Park or for country rid- 
 ing. Even more than this might be inferred from 
 the long morning's work, and that was that while 
 Jack's occupation was to buy a horse, if he should 
 buy one his occupation would be gone. He was 
 known at the club to be looking for the right sort 
 of a horse, and that he knew what he wanted, and
 
 was not easily satisfied ; and as long as he occu- 
 pied this position he was an object of interest to 
 sellers and to his companions. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Stalker understood this, for when 
 the buyers had gone he remarked to the stable-boy, 
 " Mr. Delancy, he don't want to buy no hoss." 
 
 When the inspection of the horse was finished it 
 was time for lunch, and the labors of the morning 
 were felt to justify this indulgence, though each of 
 the party had other engagements, and was too busy 
 to waste the time. They went down to the Knick- 
 erbocker. 
 
 The lunch was slight, but its ordering took time 
 and consideration, as it ought, for nothing is so de- 
 structive of health and mental tone as the snatch- 
 ing of a mid-day meal at a lunch counter from a 
 bill of fare prepared by God knows whom. Mr. 
 Russell said that if it took time to buy a horse, it 
 ought to take at least equal time and care to select 
 the fodder that was to make a human being 
 wretched or happy. Indeed, a man who didn't 
 give his mind to what he ate wouldn't have any 
 mind by-and-by to give to anything. This senti- 
 ment had the assent of the table, and was illustrated 
 by varied personal experience ;- and a deep feeling 
 prevailed, a serious feeling, that in ordering and 
 eating the right sort of lunch a chief duty of a use- 
 ful day had been discharged. 
 
 It must not be imagined from this, however, that
 
 24 
 
 the conversation was about trifles. Business men 
 and operators could have learned something about 
 stocks and investments, and politicians about city 
 politics. Mademoiselle Yivienne, the new skirt 
 dancer, might have been surprised at the intimate 
 tone in which she was alluded to, but she could 
 have got some useful hints in effects, for her judges 
 were cosmopolitans who had seen the most sug- 
 gestive dancing in all parts of the world. It came 
 out incidentally that every one at table had been 
 " over " in the course of the season, not for any 
 general purpose, not as a sight-seer, but to look at 
 somebody's stables, or to attend a wedding, or a 
 sale of etchings, or to see his boot-maker, or for a 
 little shooting in Scotland, just as one might run 
 down to Bar Harbor or Tuxedo. It was only an 
 incident in a busy season, and one of the fruits of 
 it appeared to be as perfect a knowledge of the 
 comparative merits of all the ocean racers and cap- 
 tains as of the English and American stables and 
 the trainers. One not informed of the progress of 
 American life might have been surprised to see that 
 the fad is to be American, with a sort of patronage 
 of things and ways foreign, especially of things 
 British, a large continental kind of attitude, begot- 
 ten of hearing much about Western roughing it, 
 of Alaska, of horse-breeding and fruit-raising on 
 the Pacific, of the Colorado Biver Canon. As 
 for stuffs, well yes, London. As for style, you
 
 25 
 
 can't mistake a man who is dressed in New 
 York. 
 
 The wine was a white Riesling from California. 
 Docstater said his attention had been called to it 
 by Tom Dillingham at the Union, who had a ranch 
 somewhere out there. It was declared to be sound 
 and palatable ; you know what you are drinking. 
 This led to a learned discussion of the future of 
 American wines, and a patriotic impulse was given 
 to the trade by repeated orders. It was declared 
 that in American wines lay the solution of the 
 temperance question. Bobby Simerton said that 
 Burgundy was good enough for him, but Russell 
 put him down, as he saw the light yellow through 
 his glass, by the emphatic affirmation that plenty 
 of cheap American well-made wine would knock the 
 bottom out of all the sentimental temperance socie- 
 ties and shut up the saloons, dry up all those not 
 limited to light wines and beer. It was agreed 
 that the saloons would have to go. 
 
 This satisfactory conclusion was reached before 
 the coffee came on and the cigarettes, and the 
 sound quality of the Riesling was emphasized by a 
 pony of cognac. 
 
 It is fortunate when the youth of a country have 
 an ideal. No nation is truly great without a com- 
 mon ideal, capable of evoking enthusiasm and call- 
 ing out its energies. And where are we to look for 
 this if not in the youth, and especially in those to
 
 26 
 
 whom fortune and leisure give an opportunity of 
 leadership ? It is they who can inspire by their 
 example, and by their pursuits attract others to a 
 higher conception of the national life. It may 
 take the form of patriotism, as in this country, 
 pride in the great republic, jealousy of its honor 
 and credit, eagerness for its commanding position 
 among the nations, patriotism which will show it- 
 self, in all the ardor of believing youth, in the ad- 
 ministration of law, in the purity of politics, in 
 honest local government, and in a noble aspiration 
 for the glory of the country. It may take the 
 form of culture, of a desire that the republic lia- 
 ble, like all self-made nations, to worship wealth 
 should be distinguished not so much by a vulgar 
 national display as by an advance in the arts, the 
 sciences, the education that adorns life, in the noble 
 spirit of humanity, and in the nobler spirit of recog- 
 nition of a higher life, which will be content with 
 no civilization that does not tend to make the 
 country for every citizen a better place to live in 
 to-day than it was yesterday. Happy is the coun- 
 try, happy the metropolis of that country, whose 
 fortunate young men have this high conception of 
 citizenship ! 
 
 What is the ideal of their country which these 
 young men cherish? There was a moment was 
 there not for them ? in the late war for the Union, 
 when the republic was visible to them in its beauty,
 
 27 
 
 in its peril, and in a passion of devotion they were 
 eager were they not ? to follow the flag and to 
 give their brief lives to its imperishable glory. 
 Nothing is impossible to a nation with an ideal 
 like that. It was this flame that ran over Europe 
 in the struggle of France against a world in arms. 
 It was this national ideal that was incarnate in 
 Napoleon, as every great idea that moves the world 
 is sooner or later incarnated. "What was it that 
 we saw in Washington on his knees at Yalley 
 Forge, or blazing with wrath at the cowardice on 
 Monmouth? in Lincoln entering Eichmond with 
 bowed head and infinite sorrow and yearning in 
 his heart? An embodiment of a great national 
 idea and destiny. 
 
 In France this ideal burns yet like a flame, and 
 is still evoked by a name. It is the passion of 
 glory, but the desire of a nation, and Napoleon was 
 the incarnation of passion. They say that he is 
 not dead as others are dead, but that he may come 
 again and ride at the head of his legions, and strike 
 down the enemies of France ; that his bugle will 
 call the youth from every hamlet, that the roll of 
 his drum will transform France in a camp, and the 
 grenadiers will live again and ride with him, amid 
 hurrahs, and streaming tears, and shouts of " My 
 Emperor ! Oh, my Emperor 1" Is it only a legend ? 
 But the spirit is there ; not a boy but dreams of it, 
 not a girl but knots the thought in with her holi-
 
 28 
 
 day tricolor. That is to have an abiding ideal, and 
 patiently to hold it, in isolation, in defeat, even in 
 an overripe civilization. 
 
 We believe do we not? in other triumphs than 
 those of the drum and the sword. Our aspirations 
 for the republic are for a nobler example of human 
 society than the world has yet seen. Happy is the 
 country, and the metropolis of the country, whose 
 youth, gilded only by their virtues, have these aspi- 
 rations! 
 
 "When the party broke up, the street lamps were 
 beginning to twinkle here and there, and Jack dis- 
 covered to his surprise that the Twist business 
 would have to go over to another day. It was such 
 a hurrying life in New York. There was just time 
 for a cup of tea at Mrs. Trafton's. Everybody 
 dropped in there after five o'clock, when the duties 
 of the day were over, with the latest news, and to 
 catch breath before rushing into the programme of 
 the evening. 
 
 There were a dozen ladies in the drawing-room 
 when Jack entered, and his first impression was 
 that the scream of conversation would be harder to 
 talk against than a Wagner opera ; but he presently 
 got his cup of tea, and found a snug seat in the 
 chimney-corner by Miss Tavish ; indeed, they moved 
 to it together, and so got a little out of the babel. 
 Jack thought the girl looked even prettier in her 
 walking-dress than when he saw her at the studio ;
 
 29 
 
 she had style, there was no doubt about that; and 
 then, while there was no invitation in her manner, 
 one felt that she was a woman to whom one could 
 easily say things, and who was liable at any mo- 
 ment to say things interesting herself. 
 
 " Is this your first appearance since last night, 
 Mr. Delancy?" 
 
 " Oh no; I've been racing about on errands all 
 day. It is very restful to sit down by a calm per- 
 son." 
 
 "Well, I never shut my eyes till nine o'clock. I 
 kept seeing that Spanish woman whirl around and 
 contort, and do you mind my telling you? I 
 couldn't just help it, I " (leaning forward to Jack) 
 " got up and tried it before the glass. There ! Are 
 you shocked ?" 
 
 " Not so much shocked as excluded," Jack dared 
 to say. " But do you think " 
 
 " Yes, I know. There isn't anything that an 
 American girl cannot do. I've made up my mind 
 to try it. You'U see." 
 
 "Will I?" 
 
 " No, you won't. Don't flatter yourself. Only 
 girls. I don't want men around." 
 
 " Neither do I," said Jack, honestly. 
 
 Miss Tavish laughed. "You are too forward, 
 Mr. Delancy. Perhaps some time, when we have 
 learned, we will let in a few of you, to look in at the 
 door, fifty dollars a ticket, for some charity. I don't
 
 30 
 
 see why dancing isn't just as good an accomplish, 
 ment as playing the harp in a Greek dress." 
 
 " Nor do I ; I'd rather see it. Besides, you've 
 got Scripture warrant for dancing off the heads of 
 people. And then it is such a sweet way of doing 
 a charity. Dancing for the East Side is the best 
 thing I have heard yet." 
 
 " You needn't mock. You won't when you find 
 out what it costs you." 
 
 " What are you two plotting ?" asked Mrs. Traf- 
 ton, coming across to the fire-place. 
 
 " Charity," said Jack, meekly. 
 
 " Your wife was here this morning to get me to 
 go and see some of her friends in Hester Street." 
 
 " You went ?" 
 
 " Not to-day. It's awfully interesting, but I've 
 been." 
 
 "Edith seems to be devoted to that sort of 
 thing," remarked Miss Tavish. 
 
 "Yes," said Jack, slowly, "she's got the idea 
 that sympathy is better than money ; she says she 
 wants to try to understand other people's lives." 
 
 "Goodness knows, I'd like to understand my 
 own." 
 
 " And were you trying, Mr. Delancy, to persuade 
 Miss Tavish into that sort of charity ?" 
 
 " Oh dear, no," said Jack ; " I was trying to inter- 
 est the East End in something, for the benefit of 
 Miss Tavish."
 
 31 
 
 " You'll find that's one of the most expensive re- 
 marks you ever made," retorted Miss Tavish, rising 
 to go. 
 
 "I wish Lily Tavish would marry," said Mrs. 
 Trafton, watching the girl's slender figure as it 
 passed through the portiere; "she doesn't know 
 what to do with herself." 
 
 Jack shrugged his shoulders. " Yes, she'd be a 
 lovely wife for somebody"; and then he added, as 
 if reminiscently, " if he could afford it. Good-by." 
 
 " That's just a fashion of talking. I never knew 
 a time when so many people afforded to do what 
 they wanted to do. But you men are all alike. 
 Good-by." 
 
 When Jack reached home it was only a little 
 after six o'clock, and as they were not to go out to 
 dine till eight, he had a good hour to rest from the 
 fatigues of the day, and run over the evening pa- 
 pers and dip into the foreign periodicals to catch a 
 topic or two for the dinner-table. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the maid, " Mrs. Delancy came in 
 an hour ago."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 EDITH'S day had been as busy as Jack's, notwith- 
 standing she had put aside several things that de- 
 manded her attention. She denied herself the morn- 
 ing attendance on the Literature Class that was 
 raking over the eighteenth century. This week 
 Swift was to be arraigned. The last time when 
 Edith was present it was Steele. The judgment, on 
 the whole, had been favorable, and there had been 
 a little stir of tenderness among the bonnets over 
 Thackeray's comments on the Christian soldier. It 
 seemed to bring him near to them. " Poor Dick 
 Steele!" said the essayist. Edith declared after- 
 wards that the large woman who sat next to her, 
 Mrs. Jerry Hollowell, whispered to her that she al- 
 ways thought his name was Bessemer; but this 
 was, no doubt, a pleasantry. It was a beautiful es- 
 say, and so stimulating ! And then there was 
 bouillon, and time to look about at the toilets. 
 Poor Steele, it would have cheered his life to 
 know that a century after his death so many 
 beautiful women, so exquisitely dressed, would have 
 been concerning themselves about him. The func- 
 tion lasted two hours. Edith made a little calcula'
 
 33 
 
 tion. In five minutes she could have got from the 
 encyclopaedia all the facts in the essay, and while 
 her maid was doing her hair she could have read 
 five times as much of Steele as the essayist read. 
 And, somehow, she was not stimulated, for the im- 
 pression seemed to prevail that now Steele was dis- 
 posed of. And she had her doubts whether litera- 
 ture would, after all, prove to be a permanent so- 
 cial distraction. But Edith may have been too 
 severe in her judgment. There was probably not 
 a woman in the class that day who did not go away 
 with the knowledge that Steele was an author, and 
 that he lived in the eighteenth century. The hope 
 for the country is in the diffusion of knowledge. 
 
 Leaving the class to take care of Swift, Edith 
 went to the managers' meeting at the Women's 
 Hospital, where there was much to do of very prac- 
 tical work, pitiful cases of women and children suf- 
 fering through no fault of their own, and money 
 more difficult to raise than sympathy. The meeting 
 took time and thought. Dismissing her carriage, 
 and relying on elevated and surface cars, Edith 
 then took a turn on the East Side, in company with 
 a dispensary physician whose daily duty called her 
 into the worst parts of the town. She had a habit 
 of these tours before her marriage, and, though they 
 were discouragingly small in direct results, she 
 gained a knowledge of city life that was of im- 
 ri^nse service in her general charity work. Jack
 
 34 
 
 had suggested the danger of these excursions, but 
 she had told him that a woman was less liable to 
 insult in the East Side than in Fifth Avenue, espe- 
 cially at twilight, not because the East Side was a 
 nice quarter of the city, but because it was accus- 
 tomed to see women who minded their own busi- 
 ness go about unattended, and the prowlers had 
 not the habit of going there. She could even relate 
 cases of chivalrous protection of " ladies " in some 
 of the worst streets. 
 
 What Edith saw this day, open to be seen, was 
 not so much sin as ignorance of how to live, squa- 
 lor, filthy surroundings acquiesced in as the natural 
 order, wonderful patience in suffering and depriva- 
 tion, incapacity, ill-paid labor, the kindest spirit of 
 sympathy and helpfulness of the poor for each 
 other. Perhaps that which made the deepest im- 
 pression on her was the fact that such conditions of 
 living could seem natural to those in them, and that 
 they could get so much enjoyment of life in situa- 
 tions that would have been simple misery to her. 
 
 The visitors were in a foreign city. The shop 
 signs were in foreign tongues ; in some streets all 
 Hebrew. On chance news-stands were displayed 
 newspapers in Kussian, Bohemian, Arabic, Italian, 
 Hebrew, Polish, German none in English. The 
 theatre bills were in Hebrew or other unreadable 
 type. The sidewalks and the streets swarmed with 
 noisy dealers in every sort of second-hand merchan-
 
 35 
 
 dise vegetables that had seen a better day, fish in 
 shoals. It was not easy to make one's way through 
 the stands and push-carts and the noisy dickering 
 buyers and sellers, who haggled over trifles and 
 chaffed good-naturedly and were strictly intent on 
 their own affairs. No part of the town is more 
 crowded or more industrious. If youth is the hope 
 of the country, the sight was encouraging, for chil- 
 dren were in the gutters, on the house steps, at all 
 the windows. The houses seemed bursting with 
 humanity, and in nearly every room of the packed 
 tenements, whether the inmates were sick or hungry, 
 some sort of industry was carried on. In the damp 
 basements were junk -dealers, rag-pickers, goose- 
 pickers. In one noisome cellar, off an alley, among 
 those sorting rags, was an old woman of eighty- 
 two, who could reply to questions only in a jargon, 
 too proud to beg, clinging to life, earning a few 
 cents a day in this foul occupation. But life is 
 sweet even with poverty and rheumatism and 
 eighty years. Did her dull eyes, turning inward, 
 see the Carpathian Hills, a free girlhood in village 
 drudgery and village sports, then a romance of love, 
 children, hard work, discontent, emigration to a 
 New World of promise ? And now a cellar by day, 
 the occupation of cutting rags for carpets, and at 
 night a corner in a close and crowded room on a 
 flock bed not fit for a dog. And this was a wom- 
 an's life.
 
 Picturesque foreign women going about with 
 shawls over their heads and usually a bit of bright 
 color somewhere, children at their games, hawkers 
 loudly crying their stale wares, the click of sew- 
 ing-machines heard through a broken window, 
 everywhere animation, life, exchange of rough or 
 kindly banter. "Was it altogether so melancholy 
 as it might seem ? Not everybody was hopelessly 
 poor, for here were lawyers' signs and doctors' 
 signs doctors in whom the inhabitants had confi- 
 dence because they charged all they could get for 
 their services and thriving pawnbrokers' shops. 
 There were parish schools also perhaps others; 
 and off some dark alley, in a room on the ground- 
 floor, could be heard the strident noise of education 
 going on in high-voiced study and recitation. Nor 
 were amusements lacking notices of balls, dancing 
 this evening, and ten-cent shows in palaces of leger- 
 demain and deformity. 
 
 It was a relenting day in March ; patches of blue 
 sky overhead, and the sun had some quality in 
 its shining. The children and the caged birds at the 
 open windows felt it and there were notes of music 
 here and there above the traffic and the clamor. 
 Turning down a narrow alley, with a gutter in the 
 centre, attracted by festive sounds, the visitors 
 came into a small stone -paved court with a hy- 
 drant in the centre surrounded by tall tenement- 
 houses, in the windows of which were stuffed the
 
 37 
 
 garments that would no longer hold together to 
 adorn the person. Here an Italian girl and boy, 
 with a guitar and violin, were recalling la bella 
 Napoli, and a couple of pretty girls from the court 
 were footing it as merrily as if it were the grape 
 harvest. A woman opened a lower room door and 
 sharply called to one of the dancing girls to come 
 in, when Edith and the doctor appeared at the 
 bottom of the alley, but her tone changed when 
 she recognized the doctor, and she said, by way of 
 apology, that she didn't like her daughter to dance 
 before strangers. So the music and the dance 
 went on, even little dots of girls and boys shuffling 
 about in a stiff-legged fashion, with applause from 
 all the windows, and at last a largesse of pennies 
 as many as five altogether for the musicians. 
 And the sun fell lovingly upon the pretty scene. 
 
 But then there were the sweaters' dens, and the 
 private rooms where half a dozen pale-faced tailors 
 stitched and pressed fourteen and sometimes six- 
 teen hours a day, stifling rooms, smelling of the hot 
 goose and steaming cloth, rooms where they worked, 
 where the cooking was done, where they ate, and 
 late at night, when overpowered with weariness, 
 lay down to sleep. Struggle for life everywhere, 
 and perhaps no more discontent and heart-burn- 
 ing and certainly less ennui than in the palaces 
 on the avenues. 
 
 The residence of Karl Mulhaus, one of the doc-
 
 tor's patients, was typical of the homes of the bet- 
 ter class of poor. The apartment fronted on a 
 small and not too cleanly court, and was in the 
 third story. As Edith mounted the narrow and 
 dark stairways she saw the plan of the house. Four 
 apartments opened upon each landing, in which 
 was the common hydrant and sink. The Mulhaus 
 apartment consisted of a room large enough to 
 contain a bed, a cook-stove, a bureau, a rocking- 
 chair, and two other chairs, and it had two small 
 windows, which would have more freely admitted 
 the southern sun if they had been washed, and a 
 room adjoining, dark, and nearly filled by a big 
 bed. On the walls of the living room were hung 
 highly colored advertising chromos of steamships 
 and palaces of industry, and on the bureau Edith 
 noticed two illustrated newspapers of the last year, 
 a patent-medicine almanac, and a volume of Schiller. 
 The bureau also held Mr. Mulhaus's bottles of 
 medicine, a comb which needed a dentist, and a bro- 
 ken hair-brush. What gave the room, however, a 
 cheerful aspect were some pots of plants on the 
 window-ledges, and half a dozen canary-bird cages 
 hung wherever there was room for them. 
 
 None of the family happened to be at home ex- 
 cept Mr. Mulhaus, who occupied the rocking-chair, 
 and two children, a girl of four years and a boy of 
 eight, who were on the floor playing "store" with 
 some blocks of wood, a few tacks, some lumps of
 
 39 
 
 coal, some scraps of paper, and a tangle of twine. 
 In their prattle they spoke the English they had 
 learned from their brother who was in a store. 
 
 " I feel some better to-day," said Mr. Mulhaus, 
 brightening up as the visitors entered, " but the 
 cough hangs on. It's three months since this 
 weather that I haven't been out, but the birds are a 
 good deal of company." He spoke in German, and 
 with effort. He was very thin and sallow, and his 
 large feverish eyes added to the pitiful look of his 
 refined face. The doctor explained to Edith that 
 he had been getting fair wages in a type-foundry 
 until he had become too weak to go any longer to 
 the shop. 
 
 It was rather hard to have to sit there all day, 
 he explained to the doctor, but they were getting 
 along. Mrs. Mulhaus had got a job of cleaning 
 that day ; that would be fifty cents. Ally she was 
 twelve was learning to sew. That was her after- 
 noon to go to the College Settlement. Jimmy, 
 fourteen, had got a place in a store, and earned 
 two dollars a week. 
 
 " And Yicky ?" asked the doctor. 
 
 " Oh, Yicky," piped up the eight-year-old boy. 
 "Vicky's up to the 'stution" the hospital was 
 probably the institution referred to "ever so long 
 now. I seen her there, me and Jim did. Such a 
 bootifer place ! 'Kd chicken !" he added. " Sis 
 got hurt by a cart."
 
 40 
 
 Yicky was seventeen, and had been in a fancy 
 store. 
 
 " Yes," said Mulhaus, in reply to a question, " it 
 pays pretty well raising canaries, when they turn 
 out singers. I made fifteen dollars last year. I 
 hain't sold much lately. Seems 's if people stopped 
 wanting 'em such weather. I guess it '11 be better 
 in the spring." 
 
 " No doubt it will be better for the poor fellow 
 himself before spring," said the doctor as they 
 made their way down the dirty stairways. " Now 
 I'll show you one of my favorites." 
 
 They turned into a broader street, one of the 
 busy avenues, and passing under an archway be- 
 tween two tall buildings, entered a court of back 
 buildings. In the third story back lived Aunt 
 Margaret. The room was scarcely as big as a 
 ship's cabin, and its one window gave little light, 
 for it opened upon a narrow well of high brick 
 walls. In the only chair Aunt Margaret was seated 
 close to the window. In front of her was a small 
 work-table, with a kerosene lamp on it, but the 
 side of the room towards which she looked was 
 quite occupied by a narrow couch ridiculously 
 narrow, for Aunt Margaret was very stout. There 
 was a thin chest of drawers on the other side, and 
 the small coal stove that stood in the centre so 
 nearly filled the remaining space that the two visit- 
 ors were one too many.
 
 41 
 
 " Oh, come in, come in," said the old lady, cheer- 
 fully, when the door opened. "I'm glad to see 
 you." 
 
 " And how goes it ?" asked the doctor. 
 
 "First rate. I'm coming on, doctor. Work's 
 been pretty slack for two weeks now, but yester- 
 day I got work for two days. I guess it will be 
 better now." 
 
 The work was finishing pantaloons. It used to 
 be a good business before there was so much cut- 
 ting in. 
 
 " I used to get fifteen cents a pair, then ten ; 
 now they don't pay but five. Yes, the shop fur- 
 nishes the thread." 
 
 " And how many pairs can you finish in a day ?" 
 asked Edith. 
 
 " Three three pairs, to do 'em nice and they 
 are very particular if I work from six in the 
 morning till twelve at night. I could do more, but 
 my sight ain't what it used to be, and I've broken 
 my specs." 
 
 " So you earn fifteen cents a day ?" 
 
 " When I've the luck to get work, my lady. 
 Sometimes there isn't any. And things cost so 
 much. The rent is the worst." 
 
 It appeared that the rent was two dollars and a 
 half a month. That must be paid, at any rate. 
 Edith made a little calculation that on a flush aver- 
 age of ninety cents a week earned, and allowing
 
 4-2 
 
 so many cents for coal and so many cents for oil, 
 the margin for bread and tea must be small for the 
 month. She usually bought three cents' worth of 
 tea at a time. 
 
 " It is kinder close," said the old lady, with a 
 smile. " The worst is, my feet hurt me so I can't 
 stir out. But the neighbors is real kind. The lit- 
 tle boy next room goes over to the shop and fetches 
 my pantaloons and takes 'em back. I can get 
 along if it don't come slack again." 
 
 Sitting all day by that dim window, half the 
 night stitching by a kerosene lamp, lying for six 
 hours on that narrow couch! How to account for 
 this old soul's Christian resignation and cheerful- 
 ness ! " For," said the doctor, " she has seen better 
 days ; she has moved in high society ; her hus- 
 band, who died twenty years ago, was a police- 
 man. What the old lady is doing is fighting for 
 her independence. She has only one fear the 
 almshouse." 
 
 It was with such scenes as these in her eyes that 
 Edith went to her dressing-room to make her toi- 
 let for the Henderson dinner.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IT was the first time they had dined with the 
 Hendersons. It was Jack's doing. " Certainly, if 
 you wish it," Edith had said when the invitation 
 came. The unmentioned fact was that Jack had 
 taken a little flier in Oshkosh, and a hint from 
 Henderson one evening at the Union, when the 
 venture looked squally, had let him out of a heavy 
 loss into a small profit, and Jack felt grateful. 
 
 " I wonder how Henderson came to do it ?" Jack 
 was querying, as he and old Fairfax sipped their 
 five-o'clock " Manhattan." 
 
 " Oh, Henderson likes to do a good-natured thing 
 still, now and then. Do you know his wife ?" 
 
 " No. Who was she ?" 
 
 "Why, old Eschelle's daughter, Carmen; of 
 course you wouldn't know; that was ten years 
 ago. There was a good deal of talk about it at 
 the time." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Some said they'd been good friends before Mrs. 
 Henderson's death." 
 
 "Then Carmen, as you call her, wasn't the 
 first?"
 
 44 
 
 " No, but she was an easy second. She's a social 
 climber ; bound to get there from the start." 
 
 " Is she pretty ?" 
 
 " Devilish. She's a little thing. I saw her once 
 at Homburg, on the promenade with her mother. 
 The kind of sweet blonde, I said to myself, that 
 would mix a man up in a duel before he knew 
 where he was." 
 
 " She must be interesting." 
 
 " She was always clever, and she knows enough 
 to play a straight game and when to propitiate. 
 I'll bet a five she tells Henderson whom to be good 
 to when the chance offers." 
 
 " Then her influence on him is good ?" 
 
 " My dear sir, she gets what she wants, and Hen- 
 derson is going to the . . . well, look at the lines 
 in his face. I've known Henderson since he came 
 fresh into the Street. He'd rarely knife a friend 
 when his first wife was living. Now, when you 
 see the old frank smile on his face, it's put on." 
 
 It was half-past eight when Mr. Henderson with 
 Mrs. Delancy on his arm led the way to the din- 
 ing-room. The procession was closed by Mrs. Hen- 
 derson and Mr. Delancy. The Van Dams were 
 there, and Mrs. Chesney and the Chesney girls, and 
 Miss Tavish, who sat on Jack's right, but the rest 
 of the guests were unknown to Jack, except by 
 name. There was a strong dash of the Street in 
 the mixture, and although the Street was tabooed
 
 45 
 
 in the talk, there was such an emanation of aggres- 
 sive prosperity at the table that Jack said after- 
 wards that he felt as if he had been at a meeting 
 of the board. 
 
 If Jack had known the house ten years ago, he 
 would have noticed certain subtle changes in it, 
 rather in the atmosphere than in many alterations. 
 The newness and the glitter of cost had worn off. 
 It might still be called a palace, but the city had 
 now a dozen handsomer houses, and Carmen's idea, 
 as she expressed it, was to make this more like a 
 home. She had made it like herself. There were 
 pictures on the walls that would not have hung 
 there in the late Mrs. Henderson's time ; and the 
 prevailing air was that of refined sensuousness. 
 Life, she said, was her idea, life in its utmost ex- 
 pression, untrammelled, and yes, a little Greek. 
 Freedom was perhaps the word, and yet her latest 
 notion was simplicity. The dinner was simple. 
 Her dress was exceedingly simple, save that it had 
 in it somewhere a touch of audacity, revealing in 
 a flash of invitation the hidden nature of the wom- 
 an. She knew herself better than any one knew 
 her, except Henderson, and even he was forced to 
 laugh when she travestied Browning in saying that 
 she had one soul-side to face the world with, one 
 to show the man she loved, and she declared he 
 was downright coarse when on going out of the 
 door he muttered, " But it needn't be the seamy
 
 side." The reported remark of some one who had 
 seen her at church that she looked like a nun made 
 her smile, but she broke into a silvery laugh when 
 she heard Yan Dam's comment on it, " Yes, a devil 
 of a nun." 
 
 The library was as cozy as ever, but did not 
 appear to be used much as a library. Henderson, 
 indeed, had no time to add to his collection or en- 
 joy it. Most of the books strewn on the tables 
 were French novels or such American tales as had 
 the cachet of social riskiness. But Carmen liked 
 the room above all others. She enjoyed her ciga- 
 rette there, and had a fancy for pouring her five- 
 o'clock tea in its shelter. Books which had all 
 sorts of things in them gave somehow an uncon- 
 ventional atmosphere to the place, and one could 
 say things there that one couldn't say in a draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 Henderson himself, it must be confessed, had 
 grown stout in the ten years, and puffy under the 
 eyes. There were lines of irritation in his face and 
 lines of weariness. He had not kept the freshness 
 of youth so well as Carmen, perhaps because of his 
 New England conscience. To his guest he was 
 courteous, seemed to be making an effort to be so, 
 and listened with well-assumed interest to the story 
 of her day's pilgrimage. At length he said, with 
 a smile, "Life seems to interest you, Mrs. De- 
 lancy."
 
 47 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Edith, looking up brightly ; 
 " doesn't it you ?" 
 
 " Why, yes ; not life exactly, but things, doing 
 things conflict." 
 
 " Yes, I can understand that. There is so much 
 to be done for everybody." 
 
 Henderson looked amused. "You know in the 
 city the gospel is that everybody is to be done." 
 
 "Well," said Edith, not to be diverted, "but, Mr. 
 Henderson, what is it all for this conflict ? Per- 
 haps, however, you are fighting the devil?" 
 
 " Yes, that's it ; the devil is usually the other 
 fellow. But, Mrs. Delancy," added Henderson, 
 with an accent of seriousness, " I dont know what 
 it's all for. I doubt if there is much in it." 
 
 " And yet the world credits you with finding a 
 great deal in it." 
 
 " The world is generally wrong. Do you under- 
 stand poker, Mrs. Delancy ? No ! Of course you 
 do not. But the interest of the game isn't so much 
 in the cards as in the men." 
 
 " I thought it was the stakes." 
 
 " Perhaps so. But you want to win for the sake 
 of winning. If I gambled it would be a question 
 of nerve. I suppose that which we all enjoy is the 
 exercise of skill in winning." 
 
 " And not for the sake of doing anything just 
 winning? Don't you get tired of that?" asked 
 Edith, quite simply.
 
 48 
 
 There was something in Edith's sincerity, in her 
 fresh enthusiasm about life, that appeared to strike 
 a reminiscent note in Henderson. Perhaps he re- 
 membered another face as sweet as hers, and ideals, 
 faint and long ago, that were once mixed with his 
 ideas of success. At any rate, it was with an ac- 
 cent of increased deference, and with a look she 
 had not seen in his face before, that he said : 
 
 " People get tired of everything. I'm not sure 
 but it would interest me to see for a minute how 
 the world looks through your eyes." And then he 
 added, in a different tone, " As to your East Side, 
 Mrs. Henderson tried that some years ago." 
 
 " Wasn't she interested ?" 
 
 "Oh, very much. For a time. But she said 
 there was too much of it." And Edith could detect 
 no tone of sarcasm in the remark. 
 
 Down at the other end of the table matters were 
 going very smoothly. Jack was charmed with his 
 hostess. That clever woman had felt her way 
 along from the heresy trial, through Tuxedo and 
 the Independent Theatre and the Horse Show, 
 until they were launched in a perfectly free con- 
 versation, and Carmen knew that she hadn't to 
 look out for thin ice. 
 
 "Were you thinking of going on to the Conven- 
 tional Club to-night, Mr. Delancy ?" she was saying. 
 
 "I don't belong," said Jack. "Mrs. Delancy 
 said she didn't care for it."
 
 "Oh, I don't care for it, for myself," replied 
 Carmen. 
 
 " I do," struck in Miss Tavish. It's awfully 
 nice." 
 
 " Yes, it does seem to fill a want. Why, what 
 do you do with your evenings, Mr. Delancy ?" 
 
 " "Well, here's one of them." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but I mean between twelve o'clock 
 and bedtime." 
 
 " Oh," said Jack, laughing out loud, " I go to bed 
 sometimes." 
 
 " Yes, there's always that. But you want some 
 place to go to after the theatres and the dinners ; 
 after the other places are shut up you want to go 
 somewhere and be amused." 
 
 " Yes," said Jack, falling in, " it is a fact that 
 there are not many places of amusement for the 
 rich ; I understand. After the theatres you want 
 to be amused. This Conventional Club is " 
 
 " I tell you what it is. It's a sort of Midnight 
 Mission for the rich. They never have had any- 
 thing of the kind in the city." 
 
 " And it's very nice," said Miss Tavish, demure- 
 ly. " The performers are selected. You can see 
 things there that you want to see at other places 
 to which you can't go. And everybody you know 
 is there." 
 
 " Oh, I see," said Jack. " It's what the Inde- 
 pendent Theatre is trying to do, and what all the
 
 theatrical people say needs *to be done, to elevate 
 the character of the audiences, and then the man- 
 agers can give better plays." 
 
 " That's just it. We want to elevate the stage," 
 Carmen explained. 
 
 " But," continued Jack, " it seems to me that 
 now the audience is select and elevated, it wants to 
 see the same sort of things it liked to see before it 
 was elevated." 
 
 " You may laugh, Mr. Delancy," replied Carmen, 
 throwing an earnest simplicity into her eyes, " but 
 why shouldn't women know what is going on as 
 well as men?" 
 
 "And why," Miss Tavish asked, " will the ser- 
 pentine dances and the London topical songs do 
 any more harm to women than to men ?" 
 
 " And besides, Mr. Delancy," Carmen said, chim- 
 ing in, " isn't it just as proper that women should 
 see women dance and throw somersaults on the 
 stage as that men should see them ? And then, you 
 know, women are such a restraining influence." 
 
 " I hadn't thought of that," said Jack. " I thought 
 the Conventional was for the benefit of the audi- 
 ence, not for the salvation of the performers." 
 
 "It's both. It's life. Don't you think women 
 ought to know life ? How are they to take their 
 place in the world unless they know life as men 
 know it?" 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know whose place they are to
 
 51 
 
 take, the serpentine dancer's or mine," said Jack, 
 as if he were studying a problem. "How does 
 your experiment get on, Miss Tavish ?" 
 
 Carmen looked up quickly. " Oh, I haven't any 
 experiment," said Miss Tavish, shaking her head, 
 " It's just Mr. Delancy's nonsense." 
 
 " I wish I had an experiment. There is so little 
 for women to do. I wish I knew what was right." 
 And Carmen looked mournfully demure, as if life, 
 after all, were a serious thing with her. 
 
 " Whatever Mrs. Henderson does is sure to be 
 right," said Jack, gallantly. 
 
 Carmen shot at him a quick sympathetic glance, 
 tempered by a grateful smile. " There are so many 
 points of view." 
 
 Jack felt the force of the remark as he did the 
 revealing glance. And he had a s.vift vision of 
 Miss Tavish leading him a serpentine dance, and of 
 Carmen sweetly beckoning him to a pleasant point 
 of view. After all it doesn't much matter. Every- 
 thing is in the point of view. 
 
 After dinner and cigars and cigarettes in the 
 libra^, the talk dragged a little in duets. The 
 dinner had been charming, the house was lovely, 
 the company was most agreeable. All said that. 
 It had been so somewhere else the night before 
 that, and would be the next night. And the ennui 
 of it all! No one expressed it, but Henderson 
 could not help looking it, and Carmen saw it. That
 
 charming hostess had been devoting herself to 
 Edith since dinner. She was so full of sympathy 
 with the East-Side work, asked a hundred questions 
 about it, and declared that she must take it up 
 again. She would order a cage of canaries from 
 that poor German for her kitchen. It was such a 
 beautiful idea. But Edith did not believe in her 
 one bit. She told Jack afterwards that " Mrs. 
 Henderson cares no more for the poor of Xew 
 York than she does for " 
 
 " Henderson ?" suggested Jack. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know anything about that. Hen- 
 derson has only one idea to get the better of ev- 
 erybody, and be the money king of Kew Tork. 
 But I should not wonder if he had once a soft spot 
 in his heart. He is better than she is." 
 
 It was still early, lacked half an hour of mid- 
 night, and the night was before them. Some one 
 proposed the Conventional. " Yes," said Carmen ; 
 " all come to our box." The Yan Dams would go, 
 Miss Tavish, the Chesneys ; the suggestion was a 
 relief to everybody. Only Mr. Henderson pleaded 
 important papers that must have his attention that 
 night. Edith said that she was too tired, but that 
 her desertion must not break up the party. 
 
 " Then you will excuse me also," said Jack, a 
 little shade of disappointment in his face. 
 
 " No, no," said Edith, quickly ; " you can drop 
 me on the way. Go, by all means, Jack."
 
 53 
 
 " Do you really want me to go, dear ?" said Jack, 
 aside. 
 
 " Why of course ; I want you to be happy." 
 
 And Jack recalled the loving look that accom- 
 panied these words, later on, as he sat in the Hen- 
 derson box at the Conventional, between Carmen 
 and Miss Tavish, and saw, through the slight haze 
 of smoke, beyond the orchestra, the praiseworthy 
 efforts of the Montana Kicker, who had just re- 
 turned with the imprimatur of Paris, to relieve the 
 ennui of the modern world. 
 
 The complex affair we call the world requires a 
 great variety of people to keep it going. At one 
 o'clock in the morning Carmen and our friend Mr. 
 Delancy and Miss Tavish were doing their part. 
 Edith lay awake listening for Jack's return. And 
 in an alley off Kivington Street a young girl, pretty 
 once, unknown to fortune but not to fame, was 
 about to render the last service she could to the 
 world by leaving it. 
 
 The impartial historian scarcely knows how to 
 distribute his pathos. By the electric light (and 
 that is the modern light) gayety is almost as pa- 
 thetic as suffering. Before the Montana girl hit 
 upon the happy device that gave her notoriety, her 
 feet, whose every twinkle now was worth a gold 
 eagle, had trod a thorny path. There was a fort- 
 une now in the whirl of her illusory robes, but any 
 day such are the whims of fashion she might be
 
 54 
 
 wandering again, sick at heart, about the great 
 city, knocking at the side doors of variety sho\vs 
 for any engagement that would give her a pit- 
 tance of a few dollars a week. How long had 
 Carmen waited on the social outskirts ; and now 
 she had come into her kingdom, was she anything 
 but a tinsel queen? Even Henderson, the great 
 Henderson, did the friends of his youth respect 
 him ? had he public esteem ? Carmen used to cut 
 out the newspaper paragraphs that extolled Hen- 
 derson's domestic virtue and his generosity to his 
 family, and show them to her lord, with a queer 
 smile on her face. Miss Tavish, in the nervous 
 consciousness of fleeting years, was she not still 
 waiting, dashing here and there like a bird in a 
 net for the sort of freedom, audacious as she was, 
 that seemed denied her? She was still beautiful, 
 everybody said, and she was sought and flat- 
 tered, because she was always merry and good- 
 natured. Why should Van Dam, speaking of 
 women, say that there were horses that had 
 been set up, and checked up and trained, that 
 held their heads in an aristocratic fashion, moved 
 elegantly, and showed style, long after the spirit 
 had gone out of them? And Jack himself, hap- 
 pily married, with a comfortable income, why 
 was life getting flat to him? What sort of ca- 
 reer was it that needed the aid of Carmen and 
 the serpentine dancer? And why not, since it
 
 55 
 
 is absolutely necessary that the world should be 
 amused ? 
 
 We are in no other world when we enter the 
 mean tenement in the alley off Rivington Street. 
 Here also is the life of the town. The room is 
 small, but it contains a cook -stove, a chest of 
 drawers, a small table, a couple of chairs, and two 
 narrow beds. On the top of the chest are a look- 
 ing-glass, some toilet articles, and bottles of medi- 
 cine. The cracked walls are bare and not clean. 
 In one of the beds are two children, sleeping 
 soundly, and on the foot of it is a middle-aged wom- 
 an, in a soiled woollen gown with a thin figured 
 shawl drawn about her shoulders, a dirty cap half 
 concealing her frowzy hair; she looks tired and 
 worn and sleepy. On the other bed lies a girl of 
 twenty years, a woman in experience. The kero- 
 sene lamp on the stand at the head of the bed casts 
 a spectral light on her flushed face, and the thin 
 arms that are restlessly thrown outside the cover. 
 By the bedside sits the doctor, patient, silent, and 
 watchful. The doctor puts her hand caressingly 
 on that of the girl. It is hot and dry. The girl 
 opens her eyes with a startled look, and says, 
 feebly, 
 
 " Do you think he will come ?" 
 " Yes, dear, presently. He never fails." 
 The girl closed her eyes again, and there was 
 silence. The dim rays of the lamp, falling upon
 
 56 
 
 the doctor, revealed the figure of a woman of less 
 than medium size, perhaps of the age of thirty or 
 more, a plain little body, you would have said, who 
 paid the slightest possible attention to her dress, 
 and when she went about the city was not to be 
 distinguished from a working- woman. Her friends, 
 indeed, said that she had not the least care for her 
 personal appearance, and unless she was watched, 
 she was sure to go out in her shabbiest gown and 
 most battered hat. She wore to-night a brown 
 ulster and a nondescript black bonnet drawn close 
 down on her head and tied with black strings. In 
 her lap lay her leathern bag, which she usually car- 
 ried under her arm, that contained medicines, lint, 
 bandages, smelling-salts, a vial of ammonia, and so 
 on ; to her patients it was a sort of conjurer's bag, 
 out of which she could produce anything that an 
 emergency called for. 
 
 Dr. Leigh was not in the least nervous or excited. 
 Indeed, an artist would not have painted her as a 
 rapt angelic visitant to this abode of poverty. This 
 contact with poverty and coming death was quite 
 in her ordinary experience. It would never have 
 occurred to her that she was doing anything un- 
 usual, any more than it would have occurred to the 
 objects of her ministrations to overwhelm her with 
 thanks. They trusted her, that was all. They 
 met her always with a pleasant recognition. She 
 belonged perhaps to their world. Perhaps they
 
 would have said that " Dr. Leigh don't handsome 
 much," but their idea was that her face was good. 
 That was what anybody would have said who saw 
 her to-night, " She has such a good face" ; the face 
 of a woman who knew the world, and perhaps was 
 not very sanguine about it, had few illusions and 
 few antipathies, but accepted it, and tried in her 
 humble way to alleviate its hardships, without any 
 consciousness of having a mission or making a sac- 
 rifice. 
 
 Dr. Leigh Miss Euth Leigh was Edith's friend. 
 She had not come from the country with an ex- 
 alted notion of being a worker among the poor 
 about whom so much was written ; she had not 
 even descended from some high circle in the city 
 into this world, moved by a restless enthusiasm for 
 humanity. She was a woman of the people, to 
 adopt a popular phrase. From her childhood she 
 had known them, their wants, their sympathies, 
 their discouragements; and in her heart though 
 you would not discover this till you had known 
 her long and well there was a burning sympathy 
 with them, a ympathy born in her, and not as- 
 sumed for the sake of having a career. It was this 
 that had impelled her to get a medical education, 
 which she obtained by hard labor and self-denial. 
 To her this was not a means of livelihood, but 
 simply that she might be of service to those all 
 about her who needed help more than she did.
 
 58 
 
 She didn't believe in charity, this stout-hearted, 
 clear-headed little woman ; she meant to make 
 everybody pay for her medical services who could 
 pay ; but somehow her practice was not lucrative, 
 and the little salary she got as a dispensary doctor 
 melted away with scarcely any perceptible im- 
 provement in her own wardrobe. Why, she need- 
 ed nothing, going about as she did. 
 
 She sat now waiting for the end ; and the good 
 face, so full of sympathy for the living, had no 
 hope in it. Just another human being had come 
 to the end of her path the end literally. It was 
 so every day. Somebody came to the end, and 
 there was nothing beyond. Only it was the end, 
 and that was peace. One o'clock half -past one. 
 The door opened softly. The old woman rose from 
 the foot of the bed with a start and a low " Herr ! 
 griiss Gott." It was Father Damon. The girl 
 opened her eyes with a frightened look at first, and 
 then an eager appeal. Dr. Leigh rose to make 
 room for him at the bedside. They bowed as he 
 came forward, and their eyes met. She shook her 
 head. In her eyes was no expectation, no hope. 
 In his was the glow of faith. But the eyes of the 
 girl rested upon his face with a rapt expression. It 
 was as if an angel had entered the room. 
 
 Father Damon was a young man, not yet past 
 thirty, slender, erect. He had removed as he came 
 in his broad-brimmed soft hat. The hair was close-
 
 59 
 
 cut, but not tonsured. He wore a brown cassock, 
 falling in straight lines, and confined at the waist 
 with a white cord. From his neck depended from 
 a gold chain a large gold cross. His face was 
 smooth-shaven, thin, intellectual, or rather spirit- 
 ual ; the nose long, the mouth straight, the e} r es 
 deep gray, sometimes dreamy and puzzling, again 
 glowing with an inner fervor. A face of long vig- 
 ils and the schooled calmness of repressed energy. 
 You would say a fanatic of God, with a dash of 
 self-consciousness. Dr. Leigh knew him well. They 
 met often on their diverse errands, and she liked, 
 when she could, to go to vespers in the little mis- 
 sion chapel of St. Anselm, where he ministered. It 
 was not the confessional that attracted her, that 
 was sure ; perhaps not altogether the service, though 
 that was soothing in certain moods ; but it was the 
 noble personality of Father Damon. He was de- 
 voted to the people as she was, he understood them ; 
 and for the moment their passion of humanity as- 
 sumed the same aspect, though she knew that what 
 he saw, or thought he saw, lay beyond her agnostic 
 vision. 
 
 Father Damon was an Englishman, a member of 
 a London Anglican order, who had taken the three 
 vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, who had 
 been for some years in New York, and had finally 
 come to live on the East Side, where his work was. 
 In a way he had identified himself with the peo-
 
 60 
 
 pie ; he attended their clubs ; he was a Christian 
 socialist ; he spoke on the inequalities of taxation ; 
 the strikers were pretty sure of his sympathy ; he 
 argued the injustice of the present ownership of 
 land. Some said that he had joined a lodge of the 
 Knights of Labor. Perhaps it was these things, 
 quite as much as his singleness of purpose and his 
 spiritual fervor, that drew Dr. Leigh to him with a 
 feeling that verged on devotion. The ladies up- 
 town, at whose tables Father Damon was an infre- 
 quent guest, were as fully in sympathy with this 
 handsome and aristocratic young priest, and 
 thought it beautiful that he should devote himself 
 to the poor and the sinful ; but they did not see 
 why he should adopt their views. 
 
 It was at the mission that Father Damon had 
 first seen the girl. She had ventured in not long 
 ago at twilight, with her cough and her pale face, 
 in a silk gown and flower-garden of a hat, and 
 crept into one of the confessional boxes, and told 
 him her story. 
 
 " Do you think, father," said the girl, looking up 
 wistfully, " that I can can be forgiven ?" 
 
 Father Damon looked down sadly, pitifully. 
 " Yes, my daughter, if you repent. It is all with 
 our Father. He never refuses." 
 
 He knelt down, with his cross in his hand, and 
 in a low voice repeated the prayer for the dying. 
 As the sweet, thrilling voice went on in supphca-
 
 61 
 
 tion the girl's eyes closed again, and a sweet smile 
 played about her mouth ; it was the innocent smile 
 of the little girl long ago, when she might have 
 awakened in the morning and heard the singing of 
 birds at her window. 
 
 When Father Damon arose she seemed to be 
 sleeping. They all stood in silence for &, moment. 
 
 " You will remain ?" he asked the doctor. 
 
 " Yes," she said, with the faintest wan smile on 
 her face. " It is I, you know, who have care of 
 the body." 
 
 At the door he turned and said, quite low, 
 " Peace be to this house !"
 
 CHAPTER Vi 
 
 FATHER DAMON came dangerously near to being 
 popular. The austerity of his life and his known 
 self - chastening vigils contributed to this effect. 
 His severely formal, simple ecclesiastical dress, 
 coarse in material but perfect in its saintly lines, 
 separated him from the world in which he moved 
 so unostentatiously and humbly, and marked him 
 as one who went about doing good. His life was 
 that of self-absorption and hardship, mortification 
 of the body, denial of the solicitation of the senses, 
 struggling of the spirit for more holiness of pur- 
 pose a life of supplication for the perishing souls 
 about him. And yet he was so informed with the 
 modern spirit that he was not content, as a zealot 
 formerly might have been, to snatch souls out of 
 the evil that is in the world, but he strove to lessen 
 the evil. He was a reformer. It was probably 
 this feature of his activity, and not his spiritual 
 mission, that attracted to him the little group of 
 positivists on the East Side, the demagogues of the 
 labor lodges, the practical workers of the working- 
 girls' clubs, and the humanitarian agnostics like 
 Dr. Leigh, who were literally giving their lives
 
 63 
 
 without the least expectation of reward. Even the 
 refined ethical-culture groups had no sneer for Fa- 
 ther Damon. 
 
 The little chapel of St. Anselm was well known. 
 It was always open. It was plain, but its plainness 
 was not the barrenness of a non-conformist chapel. 
 There were two confessionals ; a great bronze lamp 
 attached to one of the pillars scarcely dispelled the 
 obscurity, but cast an unnatural light upon the gi- 
 gantic crucifix that hung from a beam in front of 
 the chancel. There were half a dozen rows of 
 backless benches in the centre of the chapel. The 
 bronze lamp, and the candles always burning upon 
 the altar, rather accented than dissipated the heavy 
 shadows in the vaulted roof. At no hour was it 
 empty, but at morning prayer and at vespers the 
 benches were apt to be filled, and groups of peni- 
 tents OP spectators were kneeling or standing on 
 the floor. At vespers there were sure to be car- 
 riages in front of the door, and among the kneeling 
 figures were ladies who brought into these simple 
 services for the poor something of the refinement 
 of grace as it is in the higher circles. Indeed, at 
 the hour set apart for confession, there were in the 
 boxes saints from up-town as well as sinners from 
 the slums. Sometimes the sinners were from up- 
 town and the saints from the slums. 
 
 "When the organ sounded, and through a low 
 door in the chancel the priest entered, preceded by
 
 64 
 
 a couple of acolytes, and advanced swiftly to the 
 reading-desk, there was an awed hush in the con- 
 gregation. One would not dare to say that there 
 was a sentimental feeling for the pale face and 
 rapt expression of the devotee. It was more than 
 that. He had just come from some scene of suffer- 
 ing, from the bed of one dying ; he was weary with 
 watching. He "was faint with lonely vigils ; he 
 was visibly carrying the load of the poor and the 
 despised. Even Ruth Leigh, who had dropped in 
 for half an hour in one of her daily rounds even 
 Ruth Leigh, who had in her stanch, practical mind 
 a contempt for forms and rituals, and no faith in 
 anything that she could not touch, and who at 
 times was indignant at the efforts wasted over the 
 future of souls concerning w r hich no one knew any- 
 thing, when there were so many bodies, which had 
 inherited disease and poverty and shame, going to 
 worldly wreck before so-called Christian eyes even 
 she could scarcely keep herself from adoring this 
 self-sacrificing spirit. The woes of humanity grieved 
 him as they grieved her, and she used to say she 
 did not care what he believed so long as he gave 
 his life for the needy. 
 
 It was when he advanced to the altar -rail to 
 speak that the man best appeared. His voice, 
 which was usually low and full of melody, could 
 be something terrible when it rose in denunciation 
 of sin. Those who had travelled said that he had
 
 65 
 
 the manner of a preaching friar the simple lan- 
 guage, so refined and yet so homely and direct, the 
 real, the inspired word, the occasional hastening 
 torrent of words. When he had occasion to ad- 
 dress one of the societies of ladies for the promo- 
 tion of something among the poor, his style and 
 manner were simplicity itself. One might have 
 said there was a shade of contempt in his familiar 
 and not seldom slightly humorous remarks upon 
 society and its aims and aspirations, about which 
 he spoke plainly and vigorously. And this was 
 what the ladies liked. Especially when he referred 
 to the pitifulness of class distinctions, in the light 
 of the example of our Lord, in our short pilgrimage 
 in this world. This unveiling and denunciation 
 made them somehow feel nearer to their work, and, 
 indeed, while they sat there, co-workers with this 
 apostle of righteousness. 
 
 Perhaps there was something in the priestly 
 dress that affected not only the congregation in 
 the chapel, but all the neighborhood in which Fa- 
 ther Damon lived. There was in the long robe, 
 with its feminine lines, an assurance to the women 
 that he was set apart and not as others were ; and, 
 on the other hand, the semi-feminine suggestion of 
 the straight-falling garment may have had for the 
 men a sort of appeal for defence and even protec- 
 tion. It is certain, at any rate, that Father Damon 
 had the confidence of high and low, rich and poor. 
 
 5
 
 The forsaken sought him out, the hungry went to 
 him, the dying sent for him, the criminal knocked 
 at the door of his little room, even the rich repro- 
 bate would have opened his bad heart to him sooner 
 than to any one else. It is evident, therefore, that 
 Father Damon was dangerously near to being pop- 
 ular. 
 
 Human vanity will feed on anything within its 
 reach, and there has been discovered yet no situa- 
 tion that will not minister to its growth. Suffering 
 perhaps it prefers, and contumely and persecution. 
 Are not opposition, despiteful anger, slander even, 
 rejection of men, stripes even, if such there could be 
 in these days, manna to the devout soul consciously 
 set apart for a mission ? But success, obsequious- 
 ness, applause, the love of women, the concurrent 
 good opinion of all humanitarians, are these not 
 almost as dangerous as persecution ? Father Da- 
 mon, though exalted in his calling, and filled with 
 a burning zeal, was a sincere man, and even his ec- 
 centricities of saintly conduct expressed to his mind 
 only the high purpose of self-sacrifice. Yet he 
 saw, he could not but see, the spiritual danger in 
 this rising tide of adulation. He fought against its 
 influence, he prayed against it, he tried to humiliate 
 himself, and his very humiliations increased the 
 adulation. He was perplexed, almost ashamed, 
 and examined himself to see how it was that he 
 himself seemed to be thwarting his own work.
 
 67 
 
 Sometimes he withdrew from it for a week togeth- 
 er, and buried himself in a retreat in the upper part 
 of the island. Alas ! did ever a man escape him- 
 self in a retreat ? It made him calm for the mo- 
 ment. But why was it, he asked himself, that he 
 had so many followers, his religion so few ? Why 
 was it, he said, that all the humanitarians, the re- 
 formers, the guilds, the ethical groups, the agnostics, 
 the male and female knights, sustained him, and 
 only a few of the poor and friendless knocked, by 
 his solicitation, at the supernatural door of life? 
 How was it that a woman whom he encountered 
 so often, a very angel of mercy, could do the things 
 he was doing, tramping about in the misery and 
 squalor of the great city day and night, her path 
 umlluminated by a ray from the future life? 
 
 Perhaps he had been remiss in his duty. Per- 
 haps he was letting a vague philanthropy take the 
 place of a personal solicitude for individual souls. 
 The elevation of the race! What had the land 
 question to do with the salvation of man ? Suppose 
 everybody on the East Side should become as in- 
 dustrious, as self-denying, as unselfish as Ruth Leigh, 
 and yet without belief, without hope ! He had ac- 
 cepted the humanitarian situation with her, and 
 never had spoken to her of the eternal life. What 
 unfaithfulness to his mission and to her! It should 
 be so no longer. 
 
 It was after one of his weeks of retreat, at the
 
 close of vesper service, that Dr. Leigh came to him. 
 He had been saying in his little talk that poverty 
 is no excuse for irreligion, and that all aid in the 
 hardship of this world was vain and worthless un- 
 less the sinner laid hold on eternal life. Dr. Leigh, 
 who was laboring with a serious practical problem, 
 heard this coldly, and with a certain contempt for 
 what seemed to her a vague sort of consolation. 
 
 " Well," he said, when she came to him in the 
 vestry, with a drop from the rather austere manner 
 in which he had spoken, " what can I do for you ?" 
 
 " For me, nothing, Father Damon. I thought 
 perhaps you would go round with me to see a pret- 
 ty bad case. It is in your parish." 
 
 " Ah, did they send for me ? Do they want spir- 
 itual help?" 
 
 " First the natural, then the spiritual," she re- 
 plied, with a slight tone of sarcasm in her voice. 
 " That's just like a priest," she was thinking. " I 
 do not know what to do, and something must be 
 done." 
 
 " Did you report to the Associated Charities 2" 
 
 " Yes. But there's a hitch somewhere. The ma- 
 chine doesn't take hold. The man says he doesn't 
 want any charity, any association, treating him like 
 a pauper. He's off peddling ; but trade is bad, and 
 he's been away a week. I'm afraid he drinks a 
 little." 
 
 "Well?"
 
 " The mother is sick in bed. I found her trying 
 to do some fine stitching, but she was too weak to 
 hold up the muslin. There are five young children. 
 The family never has had help before." 
 
 Father Damon put on his hat, and they went out 
 together, and for some time picked their way along 
 the muddy streets in silence. 
 
 At length he asked, in a softened voice, " Is the 
 mother a Christian ?" 
 
 " I didn't ask," she replied, shortly. " I found 
 her crying because the children were hungry." 
 
 Father Damon, still under the impression of his 
 neglect of duty, did not heed her warning tone, 
 but persisted, " You have so many opportunities, 
 Dr. Leigh, in your visits of speaking a word." 
 
 "About what?" she asked, refusing to under- 
 derstand, and hardened at the slightest sign of 
 what she called cant. 
 
 " About the necessity of repentance and prepa- 
 ration for another life," he answered, softly but 
 firmly. " You surely do not think human beings 
 are created just for this miserable little experience 
 here?" 
 
 " I don't know. I have too much to do with the 
 want and suffering I see to raise anxieties about a 
 world of which no one can possibly know any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Pardon me," he persisted, " have you no sense 
 of incompleteness in this life, in your own life?
 
 no inward consciousness of an undying person- 
 ality?" 
 
 The doctor was angry for a moment at this intru- 
 sion. It had seemed natural enough for Father 
 Damon to address his exhortations to the poor and 
 sinful of his mission. She admired his spirit, she 
 had a certain sympathy with him ; for who could 
 say that ministering to minds diseased might not 
 have a physical influence to lift these people into a 
 more decent and prosperous way of living ? She 
 had thought of herself as working with him to a 
 common end. But for him now to turn upon her, 
 absolutely ignoring the solid, rational, and scien- 
 tific ground on which he knew, or should know, 
 she stood, and to speak to her as one of the " lost," 
 startled her, and filled her with indignation. She 
 had on her lips a sarcastic reply to the effect that, 
 even if she had a soul, she had not taken up her 
 work in the city as a means of saving it; but she 
 was not given to sarcasm, and before she spoke she 
 looked at her companion, and saw in the eyes a look 
 of such genuine humble feeling, contradicting the 
 otherwise austere expression of his face, that her 
 momentary bitterness passed away. 
 
 " I think, Father Damon," she said, gently, " we 
 had better not talk of that. I don't have much 
 time for theorizing, you know, nor much inclina- 
 tion," she added. 
 
 The priest saw that for the present he could
 
 71 
 
 make no progress, and after a little silence the 
 conversation went back to the family they \vere 
 about to visit. 
 
 They found the woman better at least, more 
 cheerful. Father Damon noticed that there were 
 medicines upon the stand, and that there were the 
 remains of a meal which the children had been 
 eating. He turned to the doctor. "I see that 
 you have been providing for them." 
 
 " Oh, the eldest boy had already been out and 
 begged a piece of bread when I came. Of course 
 they had to have something more at once. But it 
 is very little that I can do." 
 
 He sat down by the bed, and talked with the 
 mother, getting her story, while the doctor tidied 
 up the room a bit, and then, taking the youngest 
 child in her lap and drawing the others about her, 
 began to tell a story in a low voice. Presently she 
 was aware that the priest was on his knees and say- 
 ing a prayer. She stopped in her story, and looked 
 out through the dirty window into the chill and 
 dark area. 
 
 " What is he doing ?" whispered one of the chil- 
 dren. 
 
 " I don't know," she said, and a sort of chill came 
 over her heart. It all seemed a mockery, in these 
 surroundings. 
 
 When he rose he said to the woman, "We will see 
 that you do not want till your husband comes back."
 
 72 
 
 " And I will look in to-morrow," said the doctor. 
 
 When they were in the street. Father Damon 
 thanked her for calling his attention to the case, 
 thanked her a little formally, and said that he 
 would make inquiries and have it properly attend- 
 ed to. And then he asked : " Is your work ended 
 for the day ? You must be tired." 
 
 "Oh no; I have several visits to make. I'm 
 not tired. I rather think it is good for me, being 
 out-of-doors so much." She thanked him, and said 
 good-by. 
 
 For a moment he stood and watched the plain, 
 resolute little woman threading her way through 
 the crowded and unclean street, and then slowly 
 walked away to his apartment, filled with sadness 
 and perplexity. 
 
 The apartment which he occupied was not far 
 from the mission chapel, and it was the one clean 
 spot among the ill-kept tenements ; but as to com- 
 fort, it was not much better than the cell of an 
 anchorite. Of this, however, he was not thinking 
 as he stretched himself out on his pallet to rest a 
 little from the exhausting labors of the day. Prob- 
 ably it did not occur to him that his self-imposed 
 privations lessened his strength for his work. 
 
 He was thinking of Kuth Leigh. "What a rare 
 soul! And yet apparently she did not think or 
 care whether she had a soul. What could be the 
 spring of her incessant devotion? If ever woman
 
 73 
 
 went about doing good in an unselfish spirit it 
 was she. Yet she confessed her work hopeless. 
 She had no faith, no belief in immortality, no ex- 
 pectation of any reward, nothing to offer to any- 
 body beyond this poor life. Was this the enthusi- 
 asm of humanity, of which he heard so much ? 
 But she did not seem to have any illusions, or to be 
 burned up by enthusiasm. She just kept on. Ah, 
 he thought, what a woman she would be if she were 
 touched by the fire of faith ! 
 
 Meantime, Euth Leigh went on her round. 
 One day was like another, except that every day 
 the kaleidoscope of misery showed new combina- 
 tions, new phases of suffering and incompetence, 
 and there was always a fresh interest in that. For 
 years now this had been her life, in the chill of 
 winter and the heat of summer, without rest or 
 vacation. The amusements, the social duties, the 
 allurements of dress and society, that so much 
 occupied the thoughts of other women, did not 
 seem to come into her life. For books she had 
 little time, except the books of her specialty. The 
 most exciting novels were pale compared with her 
 daily experiences of real life. Almost her only 
 recreation was a meeting of the working-girls, a 
 session of her labor lodge, or an assembly at the 
 Cooper Union, where some fiery orator, perhaps a 
 priest, or a clever agitator, a working-man glib of 
 speech, who had a mass of statistics at the end of
 
 74 
 
 his tongue, who read and discussed, in some private 
 club of zealots of humanity, metaphysics, psychol- 
 ogy, and was familiar with the whole literature of 
 labor and socialism, awoke the enthusiasm of the 
 discontented or the unemployed, and where men 
 and women, in clear but homely speech, told their 
 individual experiences of wrong and injustice. 
 There was evidence in all these demonstrations 
 and organizations that the world was moving, and 
 that the old order must change. 
 
 Years and years the little woman had gone on 
 with her work, and she frankly confessed to Edith, 
 one day when they were together going her rounds, 
 that she could see no result from it all. The prob- 
 lem of poverty and helplessness and incapacity 
 seemed to her more hopeless than when she be- 
 gan. There might be a little enlightenment here 
 and there, but there was certainly not less misery. 
 The state of things was worse than she thought at 
 first ; but one thing cheered her : the people were 
 better than she thought. They might be dull and 
 suspicious in the mass, but she found so much pa- 
 tience, unselfishness, so many people of good hearts 
 and warm affections. 
 
 " They are the people," she said, i{ I should choose 
 for friends. They are natural, unsophisticated. 
 And do you know," she went on, " that what most 
 surprises me is the number of reading, thoughtful 
 people among those who do manual labor. I doubt
 
 75 
 
 if on your side of town the best books, the real fun- 
 damentai and abstruse books, are so read and dis 
 cussed, or the philosophy of life is so seriously con 
 sidered, as in certain little circles of what you call 
 the working-classes." 
 
 " Isn't it all very revolutionary ?" asked Edith. 
 
 "Perhaps," replied the doctor, dryly. "But 
 they have no more fads than other people. Their 
 theories seem to them not only practical, but they 
 try to apply them to actual legislation; at any 
 rate, they discriminate in vagaries. You would 
 have been amused the other night in a small circle 
 at the lamentations over a member he was a car- 
 driver who was the authoritative expositor of 
 Schopenhauer, because he had gone off into The- 
 osophy. It showed such weakness." 
 
 " I have heard that the members of that circle 
 were Nihilists." 
 
 " The club has not that name, but probably the 
 members would not care to repudiate the title, or 
 deny that they were Nihilists theoretically that 
 is, if Nihilism means an absolute social and political 
 overturning in order that something better may be 
 built up. And, indeed, if you see what a hopeless 
 tangle our present situation is, where else can the 
 mind logically go?" 
 
 " It is pitiful enough," Edith admitted. But all 
 this movement you speak of seems to me a vague 
 agitation."
 
 76 
 
 " I don't think," the doctor said, after a moment, 
 "that you appreciate the intellectual force that is 
 in it all, or allow for the fermenting power in the 
 great discontented mass of these radical theories on 
 the problem of life." 
 
 This was a specimen of the sort of talk that 
 Edith and the doctor often drifted into in their 
 mission work. As Ruth Leigh tramped along late 
 this afternoon in the slush of the streets, from one 
 house of sickness and poverty to another, a sense of 
 her puny efforts in this great mass of suffering and 
 injustice came over her anew. Her indignation rose 
 against the state of things. And Father Damon, 
 who was trying to save souls, was he accomplishing 
 anything more than she ? Why had he been so curt 
 with her when she went to him for help this after- 
 noon? Was he just a narrow-minded, bigoted 
 priest? A few nights before she had heard him 
 speak on the single tax at a labor meeting. She re- 
 called his eloquence, his profound sympathy with 
 the cause of the people, the thrilling, pathetic 
 voice, the illumination of his countenance, the au- 
 thority, the consecration in his attitude and dress; 
 and he was transfigured to her then, as he was now 
 in her thought, into an apostle of humanity. Alas ! 
 she thought, what a leader he would be if he would 
 break loose from his superstitious traditions I
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE acquaintance between the house of Hender- 
 son and the house of Delancy was not permitted to 
 languish. Jack had his reasons for it, which may 
 have been financial, and Carmen had her reasons, 
 which were probably purely social. What was the 
 good of money if it did not bring social position ? 
 and what, on the other hand, was the good of so- 
 cial position if you could not use it to get money ? 
 
 In his recent association with the newly rich, 
 Jack's twenty thousand a year began to seem 
 small. In fact, in the lowering of the rate of inter- 
 est and the shrinkage of securities, it was no longer 
 twenty thousand a year. This would have been a 
 matter of little consequence in the old order. His 
 lot was not cast among the poor ; most of his rela- 
 tions had solid fortunes, and many of them were 
 millionaires, or what was equivalent to that, before 
 the term was invented. But they made little dis- 
 play ; none at all merely for the purpose of exhibi- 
 tion, or to gain or keep social place. In this atmos- 
 phere in which he was born Jack floated along 
 without effort, with no demand upon him to keep 
 up with a rising standard of living. Even impecu-
 
 78 
 
 niosity, though inconvenient, would not have made 
 him lose caste. 
 
 All this was changing now. Since the introduc- 
 tion of a new element even the conservative old 
 millions had begun to feel the stir of uneasiness, 
 and to launch out into extravagance in rivalry with 
 the new millions. Even with his relations Jack 
 began to feel that he was poor. It did not spur him 
 to do anything, to follow the example, for instance, 
 of the young fellows from the country, who were 
 throwing themselves into Wall Street with the sin- 
 gle purpose of becoming suddenly rich, but it made 
 him uneasy. And when he was with the Hender- 
 sons, or Miss Tavish, whose father, though not 
 newly rich, was one of the most aggressive of spec- 
 ulators, and saw how easily every luxurious desire 
 glided into fulfilment, he felt for the first time in 
 his life the motion of envy. It seemed then that 
 only unlimited money could make the world attrac- 
 tive. Why, even to keep up with the unthinking 
 whims of Miss Tavish would bankrupt him in six 
 months. That little spread at "Wherry's for the 
 theatre party the other night, though he made light 
 of it to Edith, was almost the price he couldn't af- 
 ford to pay for Storm. He had a grim thought 
 that midwinter flowers made dining as expensive 
 as dying. Carmen, whom nothing escaped, compli- 
 mented him on his taste, quite aware that he 
 couldn't afford it, and, apropos, told him of a lady
 
 79 
 
 in Chicago who, hearing that the fashion had 
 changed, wrote on her dinner cards, " No flowers."' 
 It was only a matter of course for these people to 
 build a new country-house in any spot that fashion 
 for the moment indicated, to equip their yachts for 
 a Mediterranean voyage or for loitering down the 
 Southern coast, to give a ball that was the talk of 
 the town, to make up a special train of luxurious 
 private cars for Mexico or California. Even at the 
 clubs the talk was about these things and the op- 
 portunities for getting them. 
 
 There was a rumor about town that Henderson 
 was a good deal extended. It alarmed a hundred 
 people, not on Henderson's account, but their own. 
 When one of them consulted Uncle Jerry, that vet- 
 eran smiled. 
 
 "Oh, I guess Henderson's all right. But I 
 wouldn't wonder if it meant a squeeze. Of course 
 if he's extended, it's an excuse for settling up, and 
 the shorts will squeal. I've seen Henderson extend- 
 ed a good many times," and the old man laughed. 
 " Don't you worry about him." 
 
 This opinion, when reported, did not seem to quiet 
 Jack's fears, who saw his own little venture at the 
 mercy of a sweeping Street game. It occurred to 
 him that he possibly might get a little light on the 
 matter by dropping in that afternoon and taking a 
 quiet cup of tea with Mrs. Henderson. 
 
 He found her in the library. Out-doors winter
 
 was slouching into spring with a cold drizzle, with 
 a coating of ice on the pavements animating 
 weather for the medical profession. Within, there 
 was the glow of warmth and color that Carmen 
 liked to create for herself. In an entrancing tea- 
 gown, she sat by a hickory fire, with a fresh maga- 
 zine in one hand and a big paper-cutter in the other. 
 She rose at Jack's entrance, and, extending her hand, 
 greeted him with a most cordial smile. It was so 
 good of him ! She was so lonesome ! He could him- 
 self see that the lonesomeness was dissipated, as she 
 seated him in a comfortable chair by the fire, and 
 then stood a moment looking at him, as if studying 
 his comfort. She was such a domestic woman ! 
 
 "You look tired, monsieur," she said, as she 
 passed behind his chair and rested the tip of her 
 forefinger for a second on his head. " I shall make 
 you a cup of tea at once." 
 
 " Not tired, but bothered," said Jack, stretching 
 out his legs. 
 
 " I know," she replied ; " it's a bothering world." 
 She was still behind him, and spoke low, but with 
 sympathy. " I remember, it's only one lump." He 
 could feel her presence, so womanly and friendly. 
 " I don't care what people say," he was thinking, 
 " she's a good-hearted little thing, and understands 
 men." He felt that he could tell her anything, al- 
 most anything that he could tell a man. She was 
 sympathetic and not squeamish.
 
 " There," she said, handing him the tea and look- 
 ing down on him. 
 
 The cup was dainty, the fragrance of the tea de- 
 licious, the woman exquisite. 
 
 " I'm better already," said Jack, with a laugh. 
 
 She made a cup for herself, handed him the cig- 
 arettes, lit one for herself, and sat on a low stool 
 not far from him. 
 
 " Kow what is it ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing a little business worry. Have 
 you heard any Street rumor ?" 
 
 " Eumor ?" she repeated, with a little start. And 
 then, leaning forward, " Do you mean that about 
 Mr. Henderson in the morning papers ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Carmen, relieved, gave a liquid little laugh, and 
 then said, with a change to earnestness : " I'm go- 
 ing to trust you, my friend. Henderson put it in 
 himself ! He told me so this morning when I asked 
 him about it. This is just between ourselves." 
 
 Jack said " Of course," but he did not look re- 
 lieved. The clever creature divined the situation 
 without another word, for there was no turn in 
 the Street that she was not familiar with. But 
 there was no apparent recognition of it, except in 
 her sympathetic tone, when she said : " Well, the 
 world is full of annoyances. I'm bothered myself 
 and such a little thing." 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 6
 
 " Oh nothing, not even a rumor. You cannot 
 do anything about it. I don't know why I should 
 tell you. But I will." And she paused a moment, 
 looking down in an innocent perplexity. "It's 
 just this: I am on the Foundlings' Board with 
 Mrs. Schuyler Blunt, and I don't know her, and 
 you can't think how awkward it is having to meet 
 her every week in that stiff kind of way." She 
 did not go on to confide to Jack how she had in- 
 trigued to get on the board, and how Mrs. Schuy- 
 ler Blunt, in the most well-bred manner, had prac- 
 tically ignored her. 
 
 " She's an old friend of mine." 
 " Indeed ! She's a charming woman." 
 " Yes. We were great cronies when she was 
 Sadie Mack. She isn't a genius, but she is good- 
 hearted. I suppose she is on all the charity boards 
 in the city. She patronizes everything," Jack con- 
 tinued, with a smile. 
 
 " I'm sure she is," said Carmen, thinking that 
 however good-hearted she might be she was very 
 "snubby." "And it makes it all the more awk- 
 ward, for I am interested in so many things my- 
 self." 
 
 " I can arrange all that," Jack said, in an off- 
 hand way. Carmen's look of gratitude could hardly 
 be distinguished from affection. " That's easy 
 enough. We are just as good friends as ever, 
 though I fancy she doesn't altogether approve of
 
 me lately. It's rather nice for a fellow, Mrs. Hen- 
 derson, to hare a lot of women keeping him 
 straight, isn't it?" asked Jack, in the tone of a 
 bad boy. 
 
 " Yes. Between us all we will make a model of 
 you. I am so glad now that I told you." 
 
 Jack protested that it was nothing. Why 
 shouldn't friends help each other? Why not, in- 
 deed, said Carmen, and the talk went on a good 
 deal about friendship, and the possibility of it be- 
 tween a man and a woman. This sort of talk is 
 considered serious and even deep, not to say phil- 
 osophic. Carmen was a great philosopher in it. 
 She didn't know, but she believed, it seemed nat- 
 ural, that every woman should have one man 
 friend. Jack rose to go. 
 
 " So soon ?" And it did seem pathetically soon. 
 She gave him her hand, and then by an impulse 
 she put her left hand over his, and looked up to 
 him in quite a business way. 
 
 " Mr. Delancy, don't you be troubled about that 
 rumor we were speaking of. It will be all right. 
 Trust me." 
 
 He understood perfectly, and expressed both his 
 understanding and his gratitude by bending over 
 and kissing the little hand that lay in his. 
 
 When he had gone, Carmen sat a long time by 
 the fire reflecting. It would be sweet to humiliate 
 the Delancy and Schuyler Blunt set, as Henderson.
 
 84 
 
 could. But what would she gain by that? It 
 would be sweeter still to put them under obliga- 
 tions, and profit by that. She had endured a good 
 many social rebuffs in her day, this tolerant little 
 woman, and the sting of their memory could only 
 be removed when the people who had ignored her 
 had to seek social favors she could give. If Hen- 
 derson only cared as much for such things as she 
 did ! But he was at times actually brutal about it. 
 He seemed to have only one passion. She herself 
 liked money, but only for what it would bring. 
 Henderson was like an old Pharaoh, who was 
 bound to build the biggest pyramid ever built to 
 his memory ; he hated to waste a block. But what 
 was the good of that when one had passed beyond 
 the reach of envy ? 
 
 Revolving these deep things in her mind, she 
 went to her dressing-room and made an elaborate 
 toilet for dinner. Yet it was elaborately simple. 
 That sort needed more study than the other. She 
 would like to be the Carmen of ten years ago in 
 Henderson's eyes. 
 
 Her lord came home late, and did not dress for 
 dinner. It was often so, and the omission was 
 usually not allowed to pass by Carmen without 
 notice, to which Henderson was sure to growl that 
 he didn't care to be always on dress parade. To- 
 night Carmen was all graciousness and warmth. 
 Henderson did not seem to notice it. He ate his
 
 85 
 
 dinner abstractedly, and responded only in mono- 
 syllables to her sweet attempts at conversation. 
 The fact was that the day had been a perplexing 
 one ; he was engaged in one of his big fights, a 
 scheme that aroused all his pugnacity and taxed 
 all his resources. He would win of course; he 
 would smash everybody, but he would win. When 
 he was in this mood Carmen felt that she was like 
 a daisy in the path of a cyclone. In the first year 
 of their marriage he used to consult her about all 
 his schemes, and value her keen understanding. 
 She wondered why he did not now. Did he dis- 
 trust even her, as he did everybody else ? To-night 
 she asked no questions. She was unruffled by his 
 short responses to her conversational attempts ; by 
 her subtle, wifely manner she simply put herself 
 on his side, whatever the side was. 
 
 In the library she brought him his cigar, and 
 lighted it. She saw that his coffee was just as 
 he liked it. As she moved about, making things 
 homelike, Henderson noticed that she was more 
 Carmenish than he had seen her in a long time. 
 The sweet ways and the simple toilet must be by 
 intention. And he knew her so well. He began 
 to be amused and softened. At length he said, in 
 his ordinary tone, " Well, what is it ?" 
 
 " What is what, dear ?" 
 
 " What do you want ?" 
 
 Carmen looked perplexed and sweetly surprised.
 
 There is nothing so pitiful about habitual hypoc- 
 risy as that it never deceives anybody. It was not 
 the less painful now that Carmen knew that Hen- 
 derson knew her to the least fibre of her self-seek- 
 ing soul, and that she felt that there were currents 
 in his life that she could not calculate. A man 
 is so much more difficult to understand than a 
 woman, she reflected. And yet he is so suscepti- 
 ble that he can be managed even when he knows he 
 is being managed. Carmen was not disconcerted 
 for a moment. She replied, with her old candor : 
 
 " What an idea ! You give me everything I want 
 before I know what it is." 
 
 " And before I know it either," he responded, 
 with a grim smile. " Well, what is the news to- 
 day?" 
 
 "Just the same old round. The Foundlings' 
 Board, for one thing." 
 
 " Are you interested in foundlings 2" 
 
 " Not much," said Carmen, frankly. " I'm inter- 
 ested in those that find them. I told you how 
 hateful that Mrs. Schuyler Blunt is." 
 
 " Why don't you cut her ? Why don't you make 
 it uncomfortable for her ?" 
 
 " I can't find out," she said, with a laugh, drop- 
 ping into the language of the Street, "anything 
 she is short in, or I would." 
 
 " And you want me to get a twist on old Blunt ?" 
 and Henderson roared with laughter at the idea.
 
 87 
 
 "No, indeed. Dear, you are just a goose, so- 
 cially. It is nothing to you, but you don't under- 
 stand what we women have to go through. You 
 don't know how hard it is that woman !" 
 
 "What has she done?" 
 
 " Nothing. That's just it. What do you say in 
 the Street freeze ? Well, she is trying to freeze 
 me out." 
 
 Henderson laughed again. " Oh, I'll back you 
 against the field." 
 
 " I don't want to be backed," said Carmen ; " I 
 want some sympathy." 
 
 "Well, what is your idea?" 
 
 " I was going to tell you. Mr. Delancy dropped 
 in this afternoon for a cup of tea " 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " Yes, and he knows Mrs. Schuyler Blunt well ; 
 they are old friends, and he is going to arrange it." 
 
 " Arrange what ?" 
 
 " Why, smooth everything out, don't you know. 
 But, Rodney, I do want you to do something for 
 me ; not for me exactly, but about this. Won't 
 you look out for Mr. Delancy in this deal?" 
 
 " Seems to me you are a good deal interested in 
 Jack Delancy," said Henderson, in a sneering tone. 
 The remark was a mistake, for it gave Carmen the 
 advantage, and he did not believe it was just. He 
 knew that Carmen was as passionless as a diamond, 
 whatever even she might pretend for a purpose.
 
 " Aren't you ashamed !" she cried, with indigna- 
 tion, and her eyes flared for an instant and then 
 filled with tears. " And I try so hard." 
 
 " But I can't look out for all the lame ducks." 
 
 " He isn't a duck," said Carmen, using her hand- 
 kerchief ; " I'd hate him for a duck. It's just to 
 help me, when you know, when you know and it 
 is so hard," and the tears came again. 
 
 Did Henderson believe? After all, what did it 
 matter ? Perhaps, after all, the woman had a right 
 to her game, a's he had to his. 
 
 " Oh, well," he said, " don't take on about it. 
 I'll fix it. I'll make a memorandum this minute. 
 Only don't you bother me in the future with too 
 many private kites." 
 
 Carmen dried her eyes. She did not look tri- 
 umphant ; she just looked sweet and grateful, like a 
 person who had been helped. She went over and 
 kissed her lord on the forehead, and sat on the arm 
 of his chair, not too long, and then patted him on 
 the shoulder, and said he was a good fellow, and 
 she was a little bother, and so went away like a 
 dutiful little wife. 
 
 And Henderson sat looking into the fire and 
 musing, with the feeling that he had been at the 
 theatre, and that the comedy had been beautifully 
 played. 
 
 His part of the play was carried out next day 
 in good faith. One of the secrets of Henderson's
 
 success was that he always did what he said he 
 would do. This attracted men to him personally, and 
 besides he found, as Bismarck did, that it was more 
 serviceable to him than lying, for the crafty world 
 usually banks upon insincerity and indirectness. 
 But while he kept his word he also kept his schemes 
 to himself, and executed them with a single re- 
 gard to his own interest and a Napoleonic selfish- 
 ness. He did not lie to enemy or friend, but he 
 did not spare either when either was in his way. 
 He knew how to appeal to the self - interest of his 
 fellows, and in time those who had most to do with 
 him trusted him least when he seemed most gener- 
 ous in his offers. 
 
 When, the next day, his secretary reported to 
 him briefly that Delancy was greatly elated with 
 the turn things had taken for him, and was going 
 in again, Henderson smiled sardonically, and said, 
 " It was the worst thing I could have done for 
 him." 
 
 Jack, who did not understand the irony of his 
 temporary rescue, and had little experience of com- 
 mercial integrity, so called, was intent on fulfilling 
 his part of the understanding with Carmen. This 
 could best be effected by a return dinner to the 
 Hendersons. The subject was broached at break- 
 fast in an off-hand manner to Edith. 
 
 It was not an agreeable subject to Edith, that 
 was evident ; but it was not easy for her to raise
 
 90 
 
 objections to the dinner. She had gone to the 
 Hendersons to please Jack, in her policy of yield- 
 ing in order to influence him ; but having accepted 
 the hospitality, she could not object to returning it. 
 The trouble was in making the list. 
 
 " I do not know," said Edith, " who are the 
 Hendersons' friends." 
 
 "Oh, that doesn't matter. Ask our friends. 
 If we are going to do a thing to please them, no 
 use in doing it half - way, so as to offend them, by 
 drawing social lines against them." 
 
 " Well, suggest." 
 
 " There's Mavick ; he'll be over from Washing- 
 ton next week." 
 
 " That's good ; and, oh, I'll ask Father Damon." 
 
 " Yes ; he'll give a kind of flavor to it. I shouldn't 
 wonder if he would like to meet such a man as 
 Henderson." 
 
 "And then the Yan Dams and Miss Tavish; they 
 were at Henderson's, and would help to make it 
 easy." 
 
 " Yes ; well, let's see. The Schuyler Blunts ?" 
 
 " Oh, they wouldn't do at all. They wouldn't 
 come. She wouldn't think of going to the Hen- 
 dersons." 
 
 " But she would come to us. I don't think she 
 would mind once in a way." 
 
 " But why do you want them ?" 
 
 " I don't want them particularly ; but it would
 
 91 
 
 no doubt please the Hendersons more than any 
 other thing we could do and, well, I don't want 
 to offend Henderson just now. It's a little thing, 
 anyway. What's the use of all this social non- 
 sense? We are not responsible for either the Hen- 
 dersons or the Blunts being in the world. No harm 
 done if they don't come. You invite them, and 
 I'll take the responsibility." 
 
 So it was settled, against Edith's instinct of pro- 
 priety, and the dinner was made up by the addi- 
 tion of the elder Miss Chesney. And Jack did 
 persuade Mrs. Blunt to accept. In fact, she had a 
 little curiosity to see the man whose name was in 
 the newspapers more prominently than that of the 
 President. 
 
 It was a bright thought to secure Mr. Mavick. 
 Mr. Thomas Mavick was socially one of the most 
 desirable young men of the day. Matrimonially 
 he was not a prize, for he was without fortune and 
 without powerful connections. He had a position 
 in the State Department. Originally he came from 
 somewhere in the West, it was said, but he had 
 early obtained one or two minor diplomatic places; 
 he had lived a good deal abroad ; he had travelled 
 a little a good deal, it would seem, from his oc- 
 casional Oriental allusions. He threw over his 
 past a slight mystery, not too much ; and he always 
 took himself seriously. His salary was sufficient 
 to set up a bachelor very comfortably who always
 
 92 
 
 dined out ; he dressed in the severity of the fash- 
 ion ; he belonged only to the best clubs, where he 
 unbent more than anywhere else ; he was credited 
 with knowing a good deal more than he would tell. 
 It was believed, in fact, that he had a great deal 
 of influence. The President had been known to 
 send for him on delicate personal business with re- 
 gard to appointments, and there were certain tick- 
 lish diplomatic transactions that he was known to 
 have managed most cleverly. His "friends could 
 see his hand in state papers. This he disclaimed, 
 but he never denied that he knew the inside of 
 whatever was going on in Washington. Even those 
 who thought him a snob said he was clever. He 
 had perfectly the diplomatic manner, and the re- 
 serve of one charged with grave secrets. What- 
 ever he disclosed was always in confidence, so that 
 he had the reputation of being as discreet as he 
 was knowing. With women he was of course a 
 favorite, for he knew how to be confidential with- 
 out disclosing anything, and the hints he dropped 
 about persons in power simply showed that he was 
 secretly manoeuvring important affairs, and could 
 make the most interesting revelations if he chose. 
 His smile and the shake of his head at the club 
 when talk was personal conveyed a world of mean- 
 ing. Tom Mavick was, in short, a most accom- 
 plished fellow. It was evident that he carried on 
 the State Department, and the wonder to many
 
 was that he was not in a position to do it openly. 
 His social prestige was as mysterious as his diplo- 
 matic, but it was now unquestioned, and he might be 
 considered as one of the first of a class who are to 
 reconcile social and political life in this country.
 
 CHAPTER Vlli 
 
 LOOKING back upon this dinner of the Delancys, 
 the student of human affairs can see how Provi- 
 dence uses small means for the accomplishment of 
 its purposes. Of all our social contrivances, the 
 formal dinner is probably the cause of more anx- 
 iety in the arrangement, of more weariness in the 
 performance, and usually of less satisfaction in the 
 retrospect than any other social function. How- 
 ever carefully the guests are selected, it lacks the 
 spontaneity that gives intellectual zest to the chance 
 dining together of friends. This Delancy party 
 was made up for reasons which are well under- 
 stood, and it seemed to have been admirably well 
 selected ; and yet the moment it assembled it was 
 evident that it could not be very brilliant or very 
 enjoyable. Doubtless you, madam, would have ar- 
 ranged it differently, and not made it up of such 
 incongruous elements. 
 
 As a matter of fact, scarcely one of those pres- 
 ent would not have had more enjoyment some- 
 where else. Father Damon, whose theory was that 
 the rich needed saving quite as much as the poor, 
 would nevertheless have been in better spirits sit-
 
 95 
 
 ting down to a collation with the working-women 
 in Clinton Place. It was a good occasion for the 
 cynical observation of Mr. Mavick, but it was not 
 a company that he could take in hand and impress 
 with his mysterious influence in public affairs. 
 Henderson was not in the mood, and would have 
 had much more ease over a chop and a bottle of 
 half-and-half with Uncle Jerry. Carmen, socially 
 triumphant, would have been much more in her 
 element at a petit souper of a not too fastidious 
 four. Mrs. Schuyler Blunt was in the unaccus- 
 tomed position of having to maintain a not too 
 familiar and not too distant line of deportment. 
 Edith and Jack felt the responsibility of having 
 put an incongruous company on thin conventional 
 ice. It was only the easy-going Miss Tavish and 
 two or three others who carried along their own 
 animal spirits and love of amusement who enjoyed 
 the chance of a possible contretemps. 
 
 And yet the dinner was providentially arranged. 
 If these people had not met socially, this history 
 would have been different from what it must be. 
 The lives of several of them were appreciably mod- 
 ified by this meeting. It is too much to say that 
 Father Damon's notion of the means by which 
 such men as Henderson succeed was changed, but 
 personal contact with the man may have modified 
 his utterances about him, and he may have turned 
 his mind to the uses to which his wealth might be
 
 applied rather than to the means by which he ob- 
 tained it. Carmen's ingenuous interest in his work 
 may have encouraged the hope that at least a por- 
 tion of this fortune might be rescued to charita- 
 ble uses. For Carmen, dining with Mrs. Schuyler 
 Blunt was a distinct gain, and indirectly opened 
 many other hitherto exclusive doors. That lady 
 may not have changed her opinion about Carmen, 
 but she was good-natured and infected by the in- 
 coming social tolerance ; and as to Henderson, she 
 declared that he was an exceedingly well-bred man, 
 and she did not believe half the stories about him. 
 Henderson himself at once appreciated the talents 
 of Mavick, gauged him perfectly, and saw what 
 services he might be capable of rendering at Wash- 
 ington. Mr. Mavick appreciated the advantage of 
 a connection with such a capitalist, and of having 
 open to him another luxurious house in New York. 
 At the dinner-table Carmen and Mr. Mavick had 
 not exchanged a dozen remarks before these clever 
 people felt that they were congenial spirits. It 
 was in the smoking - room that Henderson and 
 Mavick fell into an interesting conversation, which 
 resulted in an invitation for Mavick to drop in at 
 Henderson's office in the morning. The dinner had 
 not been a brilliant one. Henderson found it not 
 easy to select topics equally interesting to Mrs. 
 Delancy and Mrs. Blunt, and finally fell into geo- 
 graphical information to the latter about Mexico
 
 97 
 
 and Honduras. For Edith, the sole relief of the 
 evening was an exchange of sympathy with Father 
 Damon, and she was too much preoccupied to en- 
 joy that. As for Carmen, placed between Jack 
 and Mr. Mavick, and conscious that the eyes of 
 Mrs. Blunt were on her, she was taking a subdued 
 role, which Jack found much less attractive than 
 her common mood. But this was not her only 
 self-sacrifice of the evening. She went without 
 her usual cigarette. 
 
 To Edith the dinner was a revelation of new dif- 
 ficulties in the life she proposed for herself, though 
 they were rather felt than distinctly reasoned about. 
 The social atmosphere was distasteful ; its elements 
 were out of harmony with her ideals. Not that 
 this society was new to her, but that she saw it in 
 a new light. Before her marriage all these things 
 had been indifferent to this high-spirited girl. 
 They were merely incidents of the social state into 
 which she was born, and she pursued her way 
 among them, having a tolerably clear conception 
 of what her own life should be, with little recog- 
 nition of their tendencies. Were only her own 
 life concerned, they would still be indifferent to 
 her. But something had happened. That which 
 is counted the best thing in life had come to her, 
 that best thing which is the touchstone of charac- 
 ter as it is of all conditions, and which so often 
 introduces inextricable complications. She had 
 
 7
 
 98 
 
 fallen in love with Jack Delancy and married 
 him. 
 
 The first effect of this was to awake and enlarge 
 what philosophers would call her enthusiasm of 
 humanity. The second effect was to show her 
 and this was what this little dinner emphasized 
 that she had put limitations upon herself and taken 
 on unthought-of responsibilities. To put this sort 
 of life one side, or make it secondary to her own 
 idea of a useful and happy life, would have been 
 easy but for one thing she loved Jack. This 
 philosophic reasoning about it does her injustice. 
 It did not occur to her that she could go her way 
 and let him go his way. Nor must it be supposed 
 that the problem seemed as grave to her as it real- 
 ly was the danger of frittering away her own 
 higher nature in faithfulness to one of the noblest 
 impulses of that nature. Yet this is the way that 
 so many trials of life come, and it is the greatest 
 test of character. She felt as many women do 
 feel that if she retained her husband's love all 
 would be well, and the danger involved to herself 
 probably did not cross her mind. 
 
 But what did cross her mind was that these as- 
 sociations meant only evil for Jack, and that to be 
 absorbed in the sort of life that seemed to please 
 him was for her to drift away from all her ideals. 
 
 A confused notion of all this was in her thoughts 
 when she talked with Father Damon, while the
 
 99 
 
 gentlemen were in the smoking -room. She asked 
 him about his mission. 
 
 "The interest continues," he replied ; " but your 
 East Side, Mrs. Delancy, is a puzzling place." 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
 " Perhaps you'll laugh if I say there is too much 
 intelligence." 
 
 Edith did laugh, and then said: "Then you'd 
 better move your mission over to this side. Here 
 is a field of good, unadulterated worldliness. But 
 what, exactly, do you mean ?" 
 
 " Well, the attempt of science to solve the prob- 
 lem of sin and wretchedness. What can you ex- 
 pect when the people are socialists and their lead- 
 ers agnostics ?" 
 
 " But I thought you were something of a social- 
 ist yourself !" 
 
 " So I am," he said, frankly, " when I see the 
 present injustice, the iniquitous laws and combina- 
 tions that leave these people so little chance. They 
 are ignorant, and expect the impossible ; but they 
 are right in many things, and I go with them. But 
 my motive is not theirs. I hope not. There is no 
 hope except in a spiritual life. Materialism down 
 at the bottom of society is no better than mate- 
 rialism at the top. Do you know," he went on, 
 with increased warmth, "that pessimism is rath- 
 er the rule over that side, and that many of 
 those who labor most among the poor have the
 
 100 
 
 least hope of ever making things substantially 
 better P 
 
 " But such unselfish people as Dr. Leigh do a 
 great deal of good," Edith suggested. 
 
 " Yes," he said, reflecting "yes, I have no doubt. 
 I don't understand it. She is not hopeful. She sees 
 nothing beyond. I don't know what keeps her up." 
 
 " Love of humanity, perhaps." 
 
 " I wish the phrase had never been invented. 
 Religion of humanity ! The work is to save the 
 souls of those people." 
 
 " But," said Edith, with a flush of earnestness 
 " but, Father Damon, isn't human love the greatest 
 power to save P 
 
 The priest looked at the girl. His face softened, 
 and he said, more gently, " I don't know. Of the 
 soul, yes. But human love is so apt to stand in the 
 way of the higher life." 
 
 In her soul Edith resented this as an ascetic and 
 priestly view ; but she knew his devotion to that 
 humanity which he in vain tried to eliminate from 
 his austere life, and she turned the talk lightly by 
 saying, "Ah, that is your theory. But I am com- 
 ing over soon, and shall expect you and Dr. Leigh 
 to take me about." 
 
 The next morning Mr. Mavick's card gave him 
 instant admission to the inner office of Mr. Hen- 
 derson, the approach to whom was more carefully 
 guarded than that to the President of the United
 
 101 
 
 States. This was not merely necessary to save him 
 from the importunities of cranks who might carry 
 concealed dynamite arguments, but as well to pro- 
 tect him from hundreds of business men with 
 whom he was indirectly dealing, and with whom 
 he wished to evade explanations. He thoroughly 
 understood the advantages of delay. He also un- 
 derstood the value of the mystery that attends- 
 inaccessibility. Even Mr. Havick himself was im- 
 pressed by the show of ceremony, by the army of 
 clerks, and by the signs of complete organization. 
 He knew that the visitor was specially favored who 
 penetrated these precincts so fa* as to get an inter- 
 view, usually fruitless, with Henderson's confiden- 
 tial man. This confidential man was a very' grave 
 and confidence-begetting person, who dealt out du- 
 bious hints and promises, and did not at all mind 
 when Henderson found it necessary to repudiate 
 as unauthorized anything that had been apparently 
 said in his name. To be sure, this gave a general 
 impression that Henderson was an inscrutable man 
 to deal with, but at the same time it was confessed 
 that his spoken word could be depended on. Any- 
 thing written might, it is true, lead to litigation, 
 and this gave rise to a saying in the Street that 
 Henderson's word was better than his bond. 
 
 Henderson was not a politician, but he was a 
 friend of politicians. It was said that he contrib- 
 uted about equally to both sides in a political cam-
 
 paign, and that this showed patriotism more than 
 partisanship. It was for his interest to have friends 
 on both sides in Congress, and friends in the Cabi- 
 net, and it was even hinted that he was concerned 
 to have men whose economic and financial theories 
 accorded with his own on the Supreme Bench. He 
 had unlimited confidence in the power of money. 
 His visitor of the morning was not unlike him in 
 many respects. He also was not a politician. He 
 would have described himself as a governmental 
 man, and had a theory of running the government 
 with as little popular interference as possible. He 
 regarded himself as belonging to the governing 
 class. 
 
 Between these two men, who each had his own 
 interests in view, there was naturally an apparent 
 putting aside of reserve. 
 
 "I was very glad to make your acquaintance, 
 Mr. Mavick," said Henderson, cordially. " I have 
 known of you for a long time." 
 
 " Yes ? I've been in the employ of the govern- 
 ment for some time." 
 
 " And I suppose it pays pretty well," said Hen- 
 derson, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, extravagantly," Mavick rejoined, in the 
 same spirit. " You just about get your board and 
 clothes out of government. Your washing is an- 
 other thing. You are expected, you know, to have 
 your washing done where you vote."
 
 103 
 
 Well, it's a sure thing." 
 
 "Yes, till you are turned out. You know the 
 theory at Washington is that virtue is its own re- 
 ward. Tom Fakeltree says it's enough." 
 
 " I wonder how he knows ?" 
 
 " Observation, probably. Tom startled a dinner- 
 table the other day with the remark that when a 
 man once gives himself up to the full enjoyment of 
 a virtuous life, it seems strange to him that more 
 people do not follow his example." 
 
 " The trouble with the virtue of Washington is 
 that it always wants to interfere with other peo- 
 ple's business. Fellows like Tom are always hunt- 
 ing up mares' nests in order to be paid for breaking 
 them up." 
 
 " I can't say about Tom," rejoined Mavick. " I 
 suppose it is necessary to live." 
 
 " I suppose so. And that goes along with an- 
 other proposition that the successful have no 
 rights which the unsuccessful are bound to respect. 
 As soon as a man gets ahead," Henderson contin- 
 ued, with a tone of bitterness, " the whole pack are 
 trying to pull him down. A capitalist is a public 
 nemy. Why, look at that Hodge bill ! Strikes 
 directly at the ability of the railways to develop 
 the country. Have you seen it ?" 
 
 " Yes," Mavick admitted ; " the drawer of it was 
 good enough to consult me on its constitutionality. 
 It's a mighty queer bill."
 
 104 
 
 " It can't get through the Senate," said Hender- 
 son ; " but it's a bother. Such schemes are coming 
 up all the time, and they unsettle business. These 
 fellows need watching." 
 
 " And managing," added Mavick. 
 
 "Exactly. I can't be in Washington all the 
 time. And I need to know what is going on every 
 twenty-four hours from the inside. I can't rely on 
 politicians or lobbyists." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Mavick, in his easiest manner, 
 "that's easy enough. You want a disinterested 
 friend." 
 
 Henderson nodded, but did not even smile, and 
 the talk went on about other measures, and confi- 
 dentially about certain men in Washington, until, 
 after twenty minutes' conversation, the two men 
 came to a perfect understanding. When Mavick 
 arose to go they shook hands even more cordially 
 than at first, and Henderson said, 
 
 " Well, I expect to hear from you, and remem- 
 ber that our house will always be your home in the 
 city."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IT seemed very fortunate to Jack Delancy that 
 he should have such a clever woman as Carmen for 
 his confidante, a man so powerful as Henderson as 
 his backer, and a person so omniscient as Mavick 
 for his friend. No combination could be more de- 
 sirable for a young man who proposed to himself 
 a career of getting money by adroit management 
 and spending it in pure and simple self-indulgence. 
 There are plenty of men who have taken advantage 
 of like conditions to climb from one position to 
 another, and have then kicked down the ladders 
 behind them as fast as they attained a new footing. 
 It was Jack's fault that he was not one of these. 
 You could scarcely dignify his character by saying 
 that he had an aim, except to saunter through life 
 with as little personal inconvenience as possible. His 
 selfishness was boneless. It was not by any means 
 negative, for no part of his amiable nature was bet- 
 ter developed than regard for his own care and 
 comfort ; but it was not strong enough to give him 
 Henderson's capacity for hard work and even self- 
 denial, nor Mavick's cool, persevering skill in mak- 
 ing a way for himself in the world.
 
 106 
 
 Why was not Edith his confidante ? His respect 
 for her was undoubted ; his love for her was un- 
 questioned; his trust in her was absolute. And 
 yet with either Carmen or Miss Tavish he fell into 
 confidential revelations of himself which instinct- 
 ively he did not make to Edith. The explanation 
 of this is on the surface, and it is the ke} r to half 
 the unhappiness in domestic life. He felt that 
 Edith was not in sympathy with the associations 
 and the life he was leading. The pitiful and hope- 
 less part of it is that if she had been in sympathy 
 with them, Jack would have gone on in his frivo- 
 lous career at an accelerated pace. It was not ab- 
 sence of love, it was not unfaithfulness, that made 
 Jack enjoy the hours he spent with Carmen, or 
 with the pleasing and not too fastidious Miss Tav- 
 ish, with a zest that was wanting to his hours at 
 home. If he had been upon a sinking steamboat 
 with the three women, and could have saved only 
 one of them, he would not have had a moment's 
 hesitation in rescuing Edith and letting the other 
 two sink out of his life. The character is not un- 
 usual, nor the situation uncommon. What is a 
 woman to do ? Her very virtues are enemies of her 
 peace ; if she appears as a constant check and moni- 
 tor, she repels ; if she weakly acquiesces, the stream 
 will flow over both of them. The dilemma seems 
 hopeless. 
 
 It would be a mistake to suppose that either
 
 107 
 
 Edith or Jack put their relations in any such defi- 
 nite shape as this. He was unthinking. She was 
 too high-spirited, too confident of her position, to 
 be assailed by such fears. And it must be said, 
 since she was a woman, that she had the conscious- 
 ness of power which goes along with the possession 
 of loveliness and keen wit. Those who knew her 
 best knew that under her serenity was a gay tem- 
 perament, inherited from the original settlers of 
 Manhattan, an abounding enjoyment of life, and 
 capacity for passion. It was early discovered in 
 her childhood that little Edith had a will of her 
 own. 
 
 Lent was oyer. It was the time of the twitter- 
 ing of sparrows, of the opening of windows, of 
 putting in order the little sentimental spots called 
 " squares," where the poor children get their idea 
 of forests, and the rich renew their faint recollec- 
 tions of innocence and country life ; when the 
 hawkers go about the streets, and the hand-organs 
 celebrate the return of spring and the possibility 
 of love. Even the idle felt that it was a time for 
 relaxation and quiet. 
 
 " Have you answered Miss Tavish's invitation ?" 
 asked Jack one morning at the breakfast-table. 
 
 " Not yet. I shall decline to-day for myself." 
 
 "Why? It's for charity." 
 
 " Well, my charity extends to Miss Tavish. I 
 don't want to see her dance."
 
 108 
 
 " That leaves me in a nice hole. I said I'd go." 
 
 " And why not ? You go to a good many places 
 you don't take me the clubs, brokers' offices, 
 Stalker's, the Conventional, and " 
 
 " Oh, go on. Why do you object to my going 
 to see this dance ?" 
 
 "My dear Jack," said Edith, "I haven't ob- 
 jected the least in the world ;" and her animated 
 face sparkled with a smile, which seemed to irritate 
 Jack more than a frown would have done. 
 
 " I don't see why you set yourself up. I'll bet 
 Miss Tavish will raise more money for the Baxter 
 Street Guild, yes, and do more good, than you and 
 the priest and that woman doctor slopping about 
 on the East Side in six months." 
 
 " Yery likely," replied Edith, still with the same 
 good-humored smile. " But, Jack, it's delightful to 
 see your philanthropic spirit stirred up in this way. 
 You ought to be encouraged. Why don't you join 
 Miss Tavish in this charity ? I have no doubt that 
 if it was advertised that Miss Tavish and Mr. Jack 
 Delancy would dance for the benefit of an East 
 Side guild in the biggest hall in the city, there 
 wouldn't be standing room." 
 
 " Oh, bosh !" said Jack, getting up from his chair 
 and striding about the room, with more irritation 
 than he had ever shown to Edith before. " I 
 wouldn't be a prude." 
 
 Edith's eyes flashed and her face flushed, but her
 
 109 
 
 smile came back in a moment, and she was serene 
 again. " Come here, Jack. Now, old fellow, look 
 me straight in the eyes, and tell me if you would 
 like to have me dance the serpentine dance before 
 a drawing-room full of gossiping women, with, as 
 you say, just a few men peeping in at the doors." 
 
 Jq,ck did look, and the serene eyes, yet dancing 
 with amusement at the incongruous picture, seemed 
 to take a warmer glow of love and pleading. 
 
 " Oh, hang it ! that's different," and he stooped 
 and gave her an awkward kiss. 
 
 " I'm glad you know it's different," she said, with 
 a laugh that had not a trace of mockery in it ; " and 
 since you do, you'd better go along and do your 
 charity, and I'll stay at home, and try to be dif- 
 ferent when you come back." 
 
 And Jack went, with a little feelmg of sheepish- 
 ness that he would not have acknowledged at the 
 time, and he found himself in a company where he 
 was entirely at his ease. He admired the dancing 
 of the blithe, graceful girl, he applauded her as the 
 rest did with hand-clapping and bravas, and said it 
 was -ravishing. It all suited him perfectly. And 
 somehow, in the midst of it all, in the sensuous 
 abandon of this electric-light eccentricity at mid- 
 day, he had a fleeting vision of something very dif- 
 ferent, of a womanhood of another sort, and a flush 
 came to his face for a moment as he imagined Edith 
 in a skirt dance under the gaze of this sensation-
 
 110 
 
 loving society. But this was only for a moment. 
 When he congratulated Miss Tavish his admiration 
 was entirely sincere ; and the girl, excited with her 
 physical triumph, seemed to him as one emanci- 
 pated out of acquired prudishness into the Greek 
 enjoyment of life. Miss Tavish, who would not for 
 the world have violated one of the social conven- 
 tions of her set, longed, as many women do, for the 
 sort of freedom and the sort of applause which be- 
 longs to women who succeed upon the stage. Not 
 that she would have forfeited her position by danc- 
 ing at a theatre for money ; but, within limits, she 
 craved the excitement, the abandon, the admiration, 
 that her grace and passion could win. This was 
 not at all the ambition which led the Egyptian 
 queen Hatshepsu to assume the dress of a man, but 
 rather that more famous aspiration which led the 
 daughter of Herodias, in a pleasure-loving court, to 
 imitate and excel the professional dancing-girls. If 
 in this inclination of the women of the day, which 
 is not new, but has characterized all societies to 
 which wealth has brought idleness, there was a 
 note of demoralization, it did not seem so to Jack, 
 who found the world day by day more pleasing and 
 more complaisant. 
 
 As the months went by everything prospered 
 with him on his drifting voyage. Of all voyages 
 that is the easiest to make which has no port in 
 view, that depends upon the varying winds, if the
 
 Ill 
 
 winds happen to be soft and the chance harbors 
 agreeable. Jack was envied, thanks to Henderson. 
 He was lucky in whatever he touched. Without 
 any change in his idle habits, and with no more at- 
 tention to business than formerly, money came to 
 him so freely that he not only had a complacent 
 notion that he was a favorite of fortune, but the 
 idea of his own importance in the financial world 
 increased enormously, much to the amusement of 
 Havick, when he was occasionally in the city, to 
 whom he talked somewhat largely of his opera- 
 tions, and who knew that he had no more compre- 
 hension of the sweep of Henderson's schemes than 
 a baby has of the stock exchange when he claps his 
 hands with delight at the click of the ticker. 
 
 His prosperity was visible. It showed in the in- 
 crease of his accounts at the Union, in his indiffer- 
 ence to limits in the game of poker, in a handsome 
 pair of horses which he insisted on Edith's accept- 
 ing for her own use, in an increased scale of living 
 at home, in the hundred ways that a man of fashion 
 can squander money in a luxurious city. If he did 
 not haunt the second-hand book-shops or the stalls 
 of dealers in engravings, or bring^ home as much 
 bric-a-brac as he once had done, it was because his 
 mind was otherwise engaged ; his tailor's bills were 
 longer, and there were more expensive lunches at 
 the clubs, at which there was a great deal of sage 
 talk about stocks and combinations, and much wis-
 
 112 
 
 dom exhibited in regard to wines ; and then there 
 were the little suppers at Wherry's after the the- 
 atres, which a bird could have eaten and a fish have 
 drunken, and only a spendthrift have paid for. 
 
 " It is absurd," Edith had said one night after 
 their return. " It makes us ridiculous in the eyes 
 of anybody but fools." And Jack had flared up 
 about it, and declared that he knew what he could 
 afford, and she had retorted that as for her she 
 would not countenance it. And Jack had at- 
 tempted to pass it off lightly, at last, by saying, 
 " Very well then, dear, if you won't back me, I 
 shall have to rely upon my bankers." At any rate, 
 neither Carmen nor Miss Tavish took him to task. 
 They complimented him on his taste, and Carmen 
 made him feel that she appreciated his indepen- 
 dence and his courage in living the life that suited 
 him. She knew, indeed, how much he made in his 
 speculations, how much he lost at cards ; she knew 
 through him the gossip of the clubs, and venturing 
 herself not too far at sea, liked to watch the under- 
 tow of fashionable life. And she liked Jack, and 
 was not incapable of throwing him a rope when 
 the hour came that he was likely to be swept away 
 by that undertow. 
 
 It was remarked at the Union, and by the men 
 in the Street who knew him, that Jack was getting 
 rapid. But no one thought the less of him for his 
 p ace that is, no one appeared to, for this sort of
 
 113 
 
 estimate of a man is only tested by his misfortunes, 
 when the day comes that he must seek financial 
 backing. In these days he was generally in an ex- 
 pansive mood, and his free hand and good-humor 
 increased his popularity. There were those who 
 said that there were millions of family money back 
 of Jack, and that he had recently come in for some- 
 thing handsome. 
 
 But this story did not deceive Major Fairfax, 
 whose business it was to know to a dot the stand- 
 ing of everybody in society, in which he was a sort 
 of oracle and privileged favorite. No one could 
 tell exactly how the Major lived ; no one knew the 
 rigid economy that he practised ; no one had ever 
 seen his small dingy chamber in a cheap lodging, 
 house. The name of Fairfax was as good as a let- 
 ter of introduction in the metropolis, and the Major 
 had lived on it for years, on that and a carefully 
 nursed little income an habitue of the club, and a 
 methodical cultivator of the 'art of dining out. A 
 most agreeable man, and perhaps the wisest man in 
 his generation in those things about which it would 
 be as well not to know anything. 
 
 Seated one afternoon in his favorite corner for 
 street observation, by the open window, with the 
 evening paper in his hand, in the attitude of one 
 expecting the usual five o'clock cocktail, he hailed 
 Jack, who was just coining down-stairs from a pro- 
 tracted lunch.
 
 114 
 
 " I say, Delancy, what's this I hear?" 
 
 " About what ?" said Jack, sauntering along to a 
 seat opposite the Major, and touching a bell on the 
 little table as he sat down. Jack's face was flushed, 
 but he talked with unusual slowness and distinct- 
 ness. " What have you heard, Major ?" 
 
 " That you have bought Benham's yacht." 
 
 " No, I haven't ; but I was turning the thing over 
 in my mind," Jack replied, with the air of a man 
 declining an appointment in the Cabinet. " He of- 
 fers it cheap." 
 
 " My dear boy, there is no such thing as a cheap 
 yacht, any more than there is a cheap elephant." 
 
 "It's better to buy than build," Jack insisted. 
 " A man's got to have some recreation." 
 
 " Kecreation ! Why don't you charter a Fifth 
 Avenue stage and take your friends on a voyage to 
 the Battery? That '11 make 'em sick enough." It 
 was a misery of the Major's life that, in order to 
 keep in with necessary friends, he had to accept in- 
 vitations for cruises on yachts, and pretend he liked 
 it. Though he had the gout, he vowed he would 
 rather walk to Newport than go round Point Ju- 
 dith in one of those tipping tubs. He had tried it, 
 and, as he said afterwards, "The devil of it was 
 that Mrs. Henderson and Miss Tavish sympathized 
 with me. Gad I it takes away a person's manhood, 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 The Major sipped his bitters, and then added :
 
 115 
 
 " Or I'll tell you what ; if you must do something, 
 start a newspaper the drama, society, and letters, 
 that sort of thing, with pictures. I heard Miss 
 Tavish say she wished she had a newspaper." 
 
 " But," said Jack, with gravity, " I'm not buying 
 a yacht for Miss Tavish." 
 
 " I didn't suppose you were. Devilish fine girl, 
 though. I don't care who you buy it for if you 
 don't buy it for yourself. "Why don't you buy it 
 for Henderson ? He can afford it." 
 
 " I'd like to know what you mean, Major Fair- 
 fax !" cried Jack. " What business" 
 
 " There !" exclaimed the Major, sinking back in 
 his chair, with a softened expression in his society- 
 beaten face. " It's no use of nonsense, Jack. I'm 
 an average old sinner, and I'm not old enough yet 
 to like a milksop. But I've known you since you 
 were so high, and I knew your father ; he used to 
 stay weeks on my plantation when we were both 
 younger. And your mother that was a woman ! 
 
 did me a kindness once when I was in a d d 
 
 tight place, and I never forgot it. See here, Jack, 
 if I had money enough I'd buy a yacht and put 
 Carmen and Miss Tavish on it, and send them off 
 on the longest voyage there is." 
 
 " Who's been talking?" exclaimed Jack, touched 
 a little, but very much offended. 
 
 The town, Jack. Don't mind the talk. People 
 always talk. I suppose people talk about me. At
 
 116 
 
 your age I should have been angry too at a hint 
 even from an old friend. But I've learned. It 
 doesn't pay. I don't get angry any more. Now 
 there's Henderson " 
 
 " What have you got against Henderson 1" 
 
 " Nothing. He is a very good fellow, for that 
 sort of man. But, Lord ! Henderson is a big ma- 
 chine. You might as well try to stand in with a 
 combination of gang-saws, or to make friends with 
 the Department of the Interior. Look at the men 
 who have gone in with Henderson from time to time. 
 The ground is strewn with them. He's got no 
 more feeling in business than a reaper-and-binder." 
 
 " I don't know what Henderson's got to do with 
 my having a yacht." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Jack ; it's none of my busi- 
 ness. Only I do not put my investments " Jack 
 smiled faintly, as if the conversation were taking a 
 humorous turn "at the mercy of Henderson's 
 schemes. If I did, I wouldn't try to run a yacht at 
 the same time. I should be afraid that some day 
 when I got to sea I should find myself out of coal. 
 You know, my boy, that the good book says you 
 cannot serve two masters." 
 
 "Nobody ever accused you of that, Major," re- 
 torted Jack, with a laugh. " But what two have 
 you in mind ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean anything personal. I just 
 use names as typical. Say Henderson and Car-
 
 117 
 
 men." And the Major leaned back and tapped his 
 fingers together, as if he were putting a general 
 proposition. 
 
 Jack flushed, and then thought a moment it 
 would be ridiculous to get angry with old Fairfax 
 and then said : " Major, if I were you, I wouldn't 
 have anything to do with either of them. You'll 
 spoil your digestion." 
 
 " Umph !" the Major grunted, as he rose from 
 his chair. " This is an age of impudence. There's 
 no more respect for gray hair than if it were dyed. 
 I cannot waste any more time on you. I've got an 
 early dinner. Devilish uphill work trying to en- 
 courage people who dine at seven. But, my boy, 
 think on these things, as the saint says." 
 
 And the old fellow limped away. There was 
 one good thing about the Major. He stood up in 
 church every Sunday and read his prayers, like a 
 faithful old sinner as he was. 
 
 Jack, sobered by the talk, walked home in a very 
 irritated mood, blaming everybody except himself. 
 For old Fairfax's opinion he didn't care, but evi- 
 dently the old fellow represented a lot of gossip. 
 He wished people would mind their own business. 
 His irritation was a little appeased by Edith's gay 
 and loving greeting; but she, who knew every 
 shade of his face, saw it. 
 
 " Have you had a worrying day ?" 
 
 "No; not specially. I've had an hour of old
 
 118 
 
 Fairfax, who hasn't any business of his own to at- 
 tend to." 
 
 " Oh, nobody minds the Major," Edith said, as 
 she gave him a shake and another kiss ; but a 
 sharp pang went through her heart, for she 
 guessed what had happened, since she had had a 
 visit that afternoon from another plain-speaking 
 person. 
 
 They were staying late in town. Edith, who did 
 not care to travel far, was going presently to a 
 little cottage by the sea, and Mrs. Schuyler Blunt 
 had looked in for a moment to say good-bye before 
 she went up to her Lenox house. 
 
 " It is only an old farm-house made over," Mrs. 
 Blunt was saying ; " hardly smart enough to ask 
 anybody to, but we hope to have you and Jack 
 there some time." 
 
 "That would be very nice. I hear Lenox is 
 more beautiful than ever." 
 
 " Yes, it is, and about as difficult to get into as 
 the kingdom of heaven. It's being spoiled for mod- 
 erate people. The Hendersons and the Yan Dams 
 and that sort are in a race to see who shall build 
 houses with the biggest rooms, and give the most 
 expensive entertainments. It's all show. The old 
 flavor has gone." 
 
 " But they cannot spoil the scenery." 
 
 " My child, they are the scenery. You can't see 
 anything else. It doesn't bother me, but some of my
 
 119 
 
 old neighbors are just ruining themselves trying to 
 keep the pace. I do think the Americans are the 
 biggest fools on earth." 
 
 " Father Damon says the trouble is we haven't 
 any middle class for a balance." 
 
 " Yes, that's the English of it. But it's a pity 
 that fashion has got hold of the country, and is 
 turning our summers into a worry and a burden. 
 I thought years ago when we went to Lenox that 
 it was a good thing the country was getting to be 
 the fashion ; but now it's fashionable, and before we 
 know it every desirable spot will be what they call 
 syndicated. Miss Tavish says she is coming to visit 
 the Hendersons there." 
 
 " I thought she went to Bar Harbor." 
 
 " But she is coming down for part of the season. 
 These people don't stay anywhere. Just long 
 enough in one place to upset everything with their 
 extravagance. That's the reason I didn't ask you 
 and Jack up this summer." 
 
 " Thank you, we couldn't go, you know," said 
 Edith, simply, and then, with curiosity in her eyes, 
 asked ; " but I don't quite understand what's the 
 reason." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Blunt, as if nerving herself up 
 to say what must be said, " I thought perhaps you 
 wouldn't like to be where they are." 
 
 " I don't know why I should or why I should 
 not," Edith replied.
 
 120 
 
 "Nor have Jack with them," continued Mrs. 
 Blunt, stoutly. 
 
 "What do you mean, Mrs. Blunt?" cried Edith, 
 her brown eyes flaming. 
 
 " Don't turn on me, Edith dear. I oughtn't to 
 have said anything. But I thought it was my 
 duty. Of course it is only talk." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " That Jack is always with one or the other of 
 those women." 
 
 " It is false !" cried Edith, starting up, with tears 
 now in her eyes ; " it's a cruel lie if it means any- 
 thing wrong in Jack. So am I with those women ; 
 so are you. It's a shame. If you hear any one 
 say such things, you can tell them for me that I 
 despise them." 
 
 " I said it was a shame, all such talk. I said it 
 was nonsense. But, dear, as a friend, oughtn't I to 
 tell you?" And the kind-hearted gossip put her 
 arm round Edith, and kept saying that she perfect- 
 ly understood it, and that nobody really meant 
 anything. But Edith was crying now, with a heart 
 both hurt and indignant. 
 
 " It's a most hateful world, I know," Mrs. Blunt 
 answered ; " but it's the best we have, and it's no 
 use to fret about it." 
 
 When the visitor had gone, Edith sat a long 
 time in misery. It was the first real shock of her 
 married life. And in her heart she prayed. For
 
 121 
 
 Jack? Oh no. The dear girl prayed for herself, 
 that suspicions might not enter her heart. She 
 could not endure that the world should talk thus 
 of him. That was all. And when she had thought 
 it all over and grown calm, she went to her desk 
 and wrote a note to Carmen. It asked Mrs. Hen- 
 derson, as they were so soon to leave town, to do 
 her the favor to come round informally and lunch 
 with her the next day, and afterwards perhaps a 
 little drive in the Park.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 JACK was grateful for Edith's intervention. He 
 comprehended that she had stepped forward as a 
 shield to him in the gossip about Carmen. He 
 showed his appreciation in certain loverlike atten- 
 tions and in a gayety of manner, but it was not in 
 his nature to feel the sacrifice she had made or its 
 full magnanimity ; he was relieved, and in a man- 
 ner absolved. Another sort of woman might have 
 made him very uncomfortable. Instead of being 
 rebuked he had a new sense of freedom. 
 
 "Not one woman in a thousand would have done 
 it," was the comment of Major Fairfax when he 
 heard of the drive in the Park. " Gad ! most of 
 'em would have cut Carmen dead and put Jack in 
 Coventry, and then there would have been the 
 devil to pay. It takes quality, though ; she's such 
 a woman as Jack's mother. If there were not one 
 of them now and then society would deliquesce." 
 And the Major knew, for his principal experience 
 had been with a deliquescent society. 
 
 Whether Carmen admired Mrs. Delancy or 
 thought her weak it is impossible to say, but she 
 understood the advances made and responded to
 
 123 
 
 them, for they fell in perfectly with her social 
 plans. She even had the face to eulogize Mrs. 
 Delancy to Jack, her breadth of view, her lack of 
 prejudice, and she had even dared to say, " My dear 
 friend, she is too good for us," and Jack had not 
 protested, but with a laugh had accepted the im- 
 plication of his position on a lower moral level. 
 Perhaps he did not see exactly what it meant, this 
 being on confidential terms about his wife with 
 another woman ; all he cared for at the moment 
 was that the comradeship of Miss Tavish and Car- 
 men was agreeable to him. They were no restraint 
 upon him. So long as they remained in town the 
 exchange of civilities was kept up. Carmen and 
 Miss Tavish were often at his house, and there was 
 something reassuring to Jack in the openness with 
 which affairs went on. 
 
 Early in June, Edith went down to their rented 
 cottage on the south Long Island shore. In her 
 delicate health the doctor had recommended the 
 sea-side, and this locality as quiet and restful, and 
 not too far from the whirl of the city. The place 
 had a charm of its own, the charm, namely, of a 
 wide sky, illimitable, flashing, changing sea, rolling 
 in from the far tropical South with its message of 
 romance to the barren Northern shore, and the 
 pure sand dunes, the product of the whippings of 
 tempests and wild weather. The cottage was in 
 fact an old farm - house, not an impertinent, gay,
 
 124 
 
 painted piece of architecture set on the sand like a 
 tent for a month, but a solid, ugly, fascinating hab- 
 itation, with barns and out-houses, and shrubs, and 
 an old garden a place with a salty air friendly 
 to delicate spring blossoms and summer fruits and 
 foliage. If it was a farm-house, the sea was an 
 important part of the farm, and the low -ceiled 
 rooms suggested cabins ; it required little imagina- 
 tion to fancy that an East - Indian ship had some 
 time come ashore and settled in the sand, that it 
 had been remodelled and roofed over, and its sides 
 pierced with casement windows, over which roses 
 had climbed in order to bind the wanderer to the 
 soil. It had been painted by the sun and the wind 
 and the salt air, so that its color depended upon 
 the day, and it was sometimes dull and almost 
 black, or blue -black, under a lowering sky, and 
 again a golden brown, especially at sunset, and 
 Edith, feeling its character rather than its appear- 
 ance to ordinary eyes, had named it the Golden 
 House. Nature is such a beautiful painter of wood. 
 With Edith went one of her Baltimore cousins, 
 a young kindergarten teacher of fine intelligence 
 and sympathetic manner, who brought to her work 
 a long tradition of gentle breeding and gayety and 
 simplicity qualities which all children are sure to 
 recognize. What a hopeful thing it is, by-the-way, 
 in the world, that all conditions of people know a 
 lady at sight! Jack found the place delightful.
 
 125 
 
 He liked its quaintness, the primitiveness of the 
 farmer-fisherman neighbors, he liked the sea. And 
 then he could run up to the city any morning and 
 back at night. He spent the summer with Edith 
 at the Golden House. This was his theory. When 
 he went to town in the morning he expected to re- 
 turn at night. But often he telegraphed in the 
 afternoon that he was detained by business ; he had 
 to see Henderson, or Mavick was over from Wash- 
 ington. Occasionally, but not often, he missed the 
 train. He had too keen a sense of the ridiculous 
 to miss the train often. When he was detained 
 over for two or three days, or the better part of the 
 week, he wrote Edith dashing, hurried letters, speak- 
 ing of ever so many places he had been to and ever 
 so many people he had seen yes, Carmen and Miss 
 Tavish and everybody who was in town, and he 
 did not say too much about the hot city and its 
 discomforts. 
 
 Henderson's affairs kept him in town, Miss Tav- 
 ish still postponed Bar Harbor, and Carmen will- 
 ingly remained. She knew the comfort of a big 
 New York house when the season is over, when no 
 social duties are required, and one is at leisure to 
 lounge about in cool costumes, to read or dream, to 
 open the windows at night for the salt breeze from 
 the bay, to take little excursions by boat or rail, to 
 dine alfresco in the garden of some semi-foreign 
 hotel, to taste the unconventional pleasures of the
 
 126 
 
 town, as if one were in some foreign city. She used 
 to say that New York in matting and hollands was 
 almost as nice as Buda-Pesth. These were really 
 summer nights, operatic sorts of nights, with music 
 floating in the air, gay groups in the streets, a stage 
 imitation of nature in the squares with the thick 
 foliage and the heavy shadows cast on the asphalt 
 by the electric lights, the brilliant shops, the non- 
 sense of the summer theatres, where no one ex- 
 pected anything, and no one was disappointed, the 
 general air of enjoyment, and the suggestion of in- 
 trigue. Sometimes, when Mavick was over, a party 
 was made up for the East Side, to see the foreign 
 costumes, the picturesque street markets, the dime 
 museums, and the serious, tragical theatres of the 
 people. The East Side was left pretty much to 
 itself, now that the winter philanthropists had gone 
 away, and was enjoying its summer nights and its 
 irresponsible poverty. 
 
 They even looked in at Father Damon's chapel, 
 the dimly lighted fragrant refuge from the world 
 and from sin. Why not? They were interested 
 in the morals of the region. Had not Miss Tavish 
 danced for one of the guilds ; and had not Carmen 
 given Father Damon a handsome check in support 
 of his mission? It was so satisfactory to go into 
 such a place and see the penitents kneeling here 
 and there, the little group of very plainly dressed 
 sinners attracted by Father Damon's spiritual face
 
 127 
 
 and unselfish enthusiasm. Carmen said she felt 
 like kneeling at one of the little boxes and confess- 
 ing the sins of her neighbors. And then the four 
 Carmen, Miss Tavish, Mavick, and Jack had a 
 little supper at Wherry's, which they enjoyed all the 
 more for the good action of visiting the East Side 
 a little supper which lasted very late, and was 
 more and more enjoyed as it went on, and was, in 
 fact, so gay that when the ladies were set down at 
 their houses, Jack insisted on dragging Mavick off 
 to the Beefsteak Club and having something manly 
 to drink ; and while they drank he analyzed the 
 comparative attractions of Carmen and Miss Tav- 
 ish ; he liked that kind of women, no nonsense in 
 them ; and presently he wandered a little and lost 
 the cue of his analysis, and, seizing Mavick by the 
 arm, and regarding him earnestly, in a burst of con- 
 fidence declared that, notwithstanding all appear- 
 ances, Edith was the dearest girl in the world. 
 
 It was at this supper that the famous society 
 was formed, which the newspapers ridiculed, and 
 which deceived so many excellent people in New 
 York because it seemed to be in harmony with the 
 philanthropic endeavor of the time, but which was 
 only an expression of the Mephistophelian spirit of 
 Carmen the Society for Supplying Two Suspend- 
 ers to Those who have only One. 
 
 By the end of June there was no more doubt 
 about the heat of the town than about its odors.
 
 128 
 
 The fashionable residence part was dismantled and 
 deserted. At least miles and miles of houses seemed 
 to be closed. Few carriages were seen in this quar- 
 ter, the throngs of fashion had disappeared, com- 
 paratively few women were about, and those that 
 appeared in the Sunday promenade were evidently 
 sight-seers and idlers from other quarters ; the 
 throng of devotees was gone from the churches, 
 and indeed in many of them services were sus- 
 pended till a more convenient season. The hotels, 
 to be sure, were full of travellers, and the club- 
 houses had more habitues than usual, and were 
 more needed by the members whose families had 
 gone into the country. 
 
 Notwithstanding the silence and vacation aspect 
 of up -town, the public conveyances were still 
 thronged, and a census would have shown no such 
 diminution of population as seemed. Indeed, 
 while nobody was in town, except accidentally, the 
 greater portion of it presented a more animated ap- 
 pearance than usual, especially at night, on account 
 of the open windows, the groups on door-steps and 
 curb-stones, and the restless throng in the streets 
 buyers and sellers and idlers. To most this out- 
 door life was a great enjoyment, and to them the 
 unclean streets with the odors and exhalations of 
 decay were homelike and congenial. Nor did they 
 seem surprised that a new country should so com- 
 pletely reproduce the evil smells and nastiness of
 
 129 
 
 the old civilizations. It was all familiar and pictu- 
 resque. Work still went on in the crowded tene- 
 ment-houses, and sickness simply changed its char- 
 acter, death showing an increased friendliness to, 
 young children. Some impression was of course 
 made by the agents of various charities, the guilds 
 and settlements bravely strove at their posts, some 
 of the churches kept their flags flying on the bor- 
 ders of the industrial districts, the Good Samaritans 
 of the Fresh-air Fund were active, the public dis- 
 pensaries did a thriving business, and the little band 
 of self - sacrificing doctors, most of them women, 
 went their rounds among the poor, the sick, and 
 the friendless. 
 
 Among them Ruth Leigh was one who never 
 took a vacation. There was no time for it. The 
 greater the heat, the more noisome the town, the 
 more people became ill from decaying food and 
 bad air and bad habits, the more people were hun- 
 gry from improvidence or lack of work, the more 
 were her daily visits a necessity ; and though she 
 was weary of her monotonous work, and heart-sick 
 at its small result in such a mass, there never came 
 a day when she could quit it. She made no repu- 
 tation in her profession by this course ; perhaps she 
 awoke little gratitude from those she served, and 
 certainly had not so much of their confidence as 
 the quacks who imposed upon them and took their 
 money ; and she was not heartened much by hope
 
 130 
 
 of anything better in this world or any other ; and 
 as for pay, if there was enough of that to clothe 
 her decently, she apparently did not spend it on 
 herself. 
 
 It was, in short, wholly inexplicable that this lit- 
 tle woman should simply go about doing good, 
 without any ulterior purpose whatever, not even 
 notoriety. Did she love these people? She did 
 not ever say anything about that. In the Knights 
 of Labor circle, and in the little clubs for the study 
 of social questions, which she could only get leisure 
 to attend infrequently, she was not at all demon- 
 strative about any religion of humanity. Perhaps 
 she simply felt that she was a part of these people, 
 and that whether they rejected her or received her, 
 there was nothing for her to do but to give herself 
 to them. She would probably have been surprised 
 if Father Damon had told her that she was in this 
 following a great example, and there might have 
 been a tang of agnostic bitterness in her reply. 
 "When she thought of it the condition seemed to 
 her hopeless, and the attitude of what was called 
 civilization towards it so remorseless and indifferent, 
 and that of Christianity so pharisaical. If she ever 
 lost her temper, it was when she let her mind run 
 in this nihilistic channel, in bitterness against the 
 whole social organization, and the total outcome of 
 civilization so far as the mass of humanity is con- 
 cerned.
 
 131 
 
 One day Father Damon climbed up to the top 
 of a wretched tenement in Baxter Street in search 
 of a German girl, an impulsive and pretty girl of 
 fifteen, whom he had missed for several days at 
 the chapel services. He had been in the room be- 
 fore. It was not one of the worst, for though 
 small and containing a cook-stove, a large bed, and 
 a chest of drawers, there was an attempt to make 
 it tidy. In a dark closet opening out from it was 
 another large bed. As he knocked and opened 
 the door, he saw that Gretchen was not at home. 
 Her father sat in a rocking-chair by an open win- 
 dow, on the sill of which stood a pot of carnations,, 
 the Easter gift of St. George's, a wax-faced, hollow- 
 eyed man of gentle manners, who looked round 
 wearily at the priest. The mother was washing 
 clothes in a tub in one corner ; in another corner 
 was a half -finished garment from a slop-shop. The 
 woman alternated the needle at night and the tub 
 in the daytime. Seated on the bed, with a thin, 
 sick child in her arms, was Dr.. Leigh. As she 
 looked up a perfectly radiant smile illuminated her 
 usually plain face, an unworldly expression of such 
 purity and happiness that she seemed actually 
 beautiful to the priest, who stopped, hesitating, 
 upon the threshold. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't be afraid to come in, Father 
 Damon," she cried out ; " it isn't contagious only 
 a rash."
 
 Father Damon, who would as readily have walked 
 through a pestilence as in a flower-garden, only 
 smiled at this banter, and replied, after speaking 
 to the sick man, and returning in German the 
 greeting of the woman who had turned from the 
 tub, " I've no doubt you are disappointed that it 
 isn't contagious !" And then, to the mother : 
 "Where is Gretchen? She doesn't come to the 
 chapel." 
 
 "Nein," replied the woman, in a mixture of 
 German and English, "it don't come any more 
 in dot place ; it be in a shtore now ; it be good 
 girl." 
 
 " What, all day ?" 
 
 " Yaas, by six o'clock, and abends so spate. Not 
 much it get, but my man can't earn nothing any 
 more." And the woman, as she looked at him, 
 wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. 
 
 "But, on Sunday?" Father Damon asked, still 
 further. 
 
 " Veil, it be so tired, and goed up by de Park 
 with Dick Loosing and dem oder girls." 
 
 " Don't you think it better, Father Damon," Dr. 
 Leigh interposed, "that Gretchen should have fresh 
 air and some recreation on Sunday ?" 
 
 " Und such bootiful tings by de Museum," added 
 the mother. 
 
 " Perhaps," said he, with something like a frown 
 on his face, and then changed the subject to the
 
 133 
 
 sick child He did not care to argue the matter 
 when Dr. Leigh was present, but he resolved to 
 come again and explain to the mother that her 
 daughter needed some restraining power other than 
 her own impulse, and that without religious guid- 
 ance she was pretty certain to drift into frivolous 
 and vulgar if not positively bad ways. The father 
 was a free-thinker ; but Father Damon thought he 
 had some hold on the mother, who was of the 
 Lutheran communion, but had followed her hus- 
 band so far as to become indifferent to anything 
 but their daily struggle for life. Yet she had a 
 mother's instinct about the danger to her daughter, 
 and had been pleased to have her go to Father 
 Damon's chapel. 
 
 And, besides, he could not bring himself in that 
 presence to seem to rebuke Ruth Leigh. Was she 
 not practically doing what his Lord did going 
 about healing the sick, sympathizing with the poor 
 and the discouraged, taking upon herself the bur- 
 den of the disconsolate, literally, without thought 
 of self, sharing, as it were, the misery and sin of 
 this awful city ? And to-day, for the first time, he 
 seemed to have seen the woman in her or was it 
 the saint ? and he recalled that wonderful illumi- 
 nation of her plain face that made her actually 
 beautiful as she looked up from the little waif of 
 humanity she held in her arms. It had startled 
 him, and struck a new chord in his heart, and
 
 134 
 
 planted a new pang there that she had no belief 
 in a future life. 
 
 It did not occur to him that the sudden joy in 
 her face might have been evoked by seeing him, 
 for it was a long time since she had seen him. 
 Nor did he think that the pang at his heart had 
 another cause than religious anxiety. Ah, priest 
 and worldly saint, how subtle and enduring are 
 the primal instincts of human nature ! 
 
 " Yes," he said, as they walked away, in reply to 
 her inquiry as to his absence, " I have been in re- 
 treat a couple of weeks." 
 
 " I suppose," she said, softly, " you needed the 
 rest, though," and she looked at him professionally; 
 " if you will allow me to say it, it seems to me that 
 you have not rested enough." 
 
 " I needed strength " and it was the priest that 
 spoke " in meditation and prayer to draw upon 
 resources not my own." 
 
 "And in fasting, too, I dare say," she added, with 
 a little smile. 
 
 " And why not ?" he asked. 
 
 " Pardon me," she said ; " I don't pretend to know 
 what you need. I need to eat, though Heaven 
 knows it's hard enough to keep up an appetite 
 down here. But it is physical endurance you need 
 for the work here. Do you think fasting strength- 
 ens you to go through your work night and day ?" 
 
 " I know I couldn't do it on my own strength."
 
 135 
 
 And Dr. Leigh recalled times when she had seen 
 him officiating in the chapel apparently sustained 
 by nothing but zeal and pure spirit, and wondered 
 that he did not faint and fall. And faint and fall 
 he did, she was sure, when the service was over. 
 
 " Well, it may be necessary to you, but not as an 
 example to these people. I see enough involuntary 
 fasting." 
 
 " We look at these people from different points 
 of view, I fear." And after a moment he said : 
 " But, doctor, I wanted to ask you about Gretchen. 
 You see her ?" 
 
 " Occasionally. She works too many hours, but 
 she seems to be getting on very well, and brings 
 her mother all she earns." 
 
 "Do you think she is able to stand alone?" 
 
 Dr. Leigh winced a little at this searching ques- 
 tion, for no one knew better than she the vulgariz- 
 ing influence of street life and chance associations 
 upon a young girl, and the temptations. She was 
 even forced to admit the value in the way of re- 
 straint, as a sort of police force, of the church and 
 priestly influence, especially upon girls at the sus- 
 ceptible age. But she knew that Father Damon 
 meant something more than this, and so she an- 
 swered : 
 
 " But people have got to stand alone. She might 
 as well begin." 
 
 " But she is so young."
 
 136 
 
 " Yes, I know. She is in the way of temptation, 
 but so long as she works industriously, and loves 
 her mother, and feels the obligation, which the 
 poor very easily feel, of doing her share for the 
 family, she is not in so much moral danger as other 
 girls of her age who lead idle and self-indulgent 
 lives. The working-girls of the city learn to pro- 
 tect themselves." 
 
 " And you think this is enough, without any sort 
 of religion that this East Side can go on without 
 any spiritual life 2" 
 
 Ruth Leigh made a gesture of impatience. In 
 view of the actual struggle for existence she saw 
 around her. this talk seemed like cant. And she 
 said : " I don't know that anything can go on. 
 Let me ask you a question, Father Damon. Do 
 you think there is any more spirituality, any more 
 of the essentials of what you call Christianity, in 
 the society of the other side than there is on the 
 East Side ?" 
 
 " It is a deep question, this of spirituality," re- 
 plied Father Damon, who was in the depths of his 
 proselyting action a democrat and in sympathy 
 with the people, and rated quite at its full value 
 the conventional fashion in religion. " I shouldn't 
 like to judge, but there is a great body of Christian 
 men and women in this city who are doing noble 
 work." 
 
 " Yes," replied the little doctor, bitterly, "trying to
 
 137 
 
 save themselves. How many are trying to save others 
 others except the distant and foreign sinners?" 
 
 " You surely cannot ignore," replied the father, 
 still speaking mildly, " the immense amount of 
 charitable work done by the churches !" 
 
 " Yes, I know ; charity, charity, the condescen- 
 sion of the rich to the poor. What we want are 
 understanding, fellowship, and we get alms! If 
 there is so much spirituality as you say, and Chris- 
 tianity is what you say it is to-day, how happens 
 it that this side is left in filth and misery and 
 physical wretchedness ? You know what it is, and 
 you know the luxury elsewhere. And you think 
 to bridge over the chasm between classes with 
 flowers, in pots, yes, and Bible-readers and fashion- 
 able visitors and little aid societies little pallia- 
 tives for an awful state of things. Why, look at 
 it ! Last winter the city authorities hauled off the 
 snow and the refuse from the fashionable avenues, 
 and dumped it down in the already blockaded and 
 filthy side streets, and left us to struggle with the 
 increased pneumonia and diphtheria, and general 
 unsanitary conditions. And you wonder that the 
 little nihilist groups and labor organizations and 
 associations of agnostics, as you call them, meeting 
 to study political economy and philosophy, say that 
 the existing state of things has got to be overturned 
 violently, if those who have the power and the 
 money continue indifferent."
 
 138 
 
 " I do not wonder," replied Father Damon, sadly. 
 " The world is evil, and I should be as despairing 
 as you are if I did not know there was another life 
 and another world. I couldn't bear it. Nobody 
 could." 
 
 " And all you've got to offer, then, to this mass 
 of wretchedness, poverty, ignorance, at close quar- 
 ters with hunger and disease, is to grin and bear it, 
 in hope of a reward somewhere else !" 
 
 " I think you don't quite " 
 
 The doctor looked up and saw a look of pain on 
 the priest's face. 
 
 " Oh," she hastened to say, almost as impetuous- 
 ly as she had spoken before, " I don't mean you 
 I don't mean you. I know what you do. Pardon 
 me for speaking so. I get so discouraged some- 
 times." They stood still a moment, looking up 
 and down the hot, crowded, odorful street they 
 were in, with its flaunting rags of poverty and in- 
 efficiency. " I see so little result of what I can do, 
 and there is so little help." 
 
 " I know," said the father, as they moved along. 
 " I don't see how you can bear it alone." 
 
 This touched a sore spot, and aroused Kuth 
 Leigh's combativeness. It seemed to her to ap- 
 proach the verge of cant again. But she knew 
 the father's absolute sincerity ; she felt she had al- 
 ready said too much ; and she only murmured, as if 
 to herself, " If we could only know." And then,
 
 after a moment, she asked, "Do you, Father Da- 
 mon, see any sign of anything better here ?" 
 
 " Yes, to-day." And he spoke very slowly and 
 hesitatingly. " If you will excuse the personality 
 of it. When I entered that room to-day, and saw 
 you with that sick child in your arms, and com- 
 prehended what it all meant, I had a great wave 
 of hope, and I knew, just then, that there is coming 
 virtue enough in the world to redeem it." 
 
 Kuth was confounded. Her heart seemed to 
 stand still, and then the hot blood flowed into her 
 face in a crimson flood. " Ah," escaped from her 
 lips, and she walked on more swiftly, not daring to 
 look up. This from him ! This recognition from 
 the ascetic father ! If one of her dispensary com- 
 rades had said it, would she have been so moved ? 
 
 And afterwards, when she had parted from him, 
 and gone to her little room, the hot flush again 
 came to her neck and brow, and she saw his pale, 
 spiritual face, and could hear the unwonted tender- 
 ness of his voice. Yes, Father Damon had said it 
 of her.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE question has been very much discussed 
 whether the devil, in temperate latitudes, is busier 
 in the summer or in the winter. When Congress 
 and the various State legislatures are in session, and 
 the stock and grain exchanges are most active, and 
 society is gayest, and the churches and benevolent 
 and reformatory associations are most aggressive 
 at this season, which is the cool season, he seems to 
 be most animated and powerful. 
 
 But is not this because he is then most opposed ? 
 The stream may not flow any faster because it is 
 dammed, but it exhibits at the obstructed points 
 greater appearance of agitation. Many people are 
 under the impression that when they stop fighting 
 there is a general truce. There is reason to believe 
 that the archenemy is pleased with this impression, 
 that he likes a truce, and that it is his best oppor- 
 tunity, just as the weeds in the garden, after a 
 tempest, welcome the sun and the placidity of the 
 elements. It is well known that in summer virtue 
 suffers from inertia, and that it is difficult to as- 
 semble the members of any vigilant organization, 
 especially in cities, where the flag of the enemy is
 
 never lowered. But wherever the devil is there is 
 always a quorum present for business. It is not 
 his plan to seek an open fight, and many observers 
 say that he gains more ground in summer than in 
 any other season, and this notwithstanding people 
 are more apt to lose their tempers, and even become 
 profane, in the aggravations of what is known as 
 spring than at any other time. The subject cannot 
 be pursued here, but there is ground for supposing 
 that the devil prefers a country where the tem- 
 perature is high and pretty uniform, 
 
 At any rate, it is true that the development of 
 character is not arrested by any geniality or lan- 
 guor of nature. By midsummer the Hendersons 
 were settled in Lenox, where the Blunts had long 
 been, and Miss Tavish and her party of friends 
 were at Bar Harbor. Henderson was compelled 
 to be in the city most of the time, and Jack De- 
 lancy fancied that business required his presence 
 there also ; but he had bought a yacht, and contem- 
 plated a voyage, with several of the club men, up 
 the Maine coast. " No, I thank you," Major Fair- 
 fax had said ; " I know an easier way to get to Bar 
 Harbor." 
 
 Jack was irritable and restless, to be sure, in the 
 absence of the sort of female society he had become 
 accustomed to; but there were many compensations 
 in his free-and-easy bachelor life, in his pretence of 
 business, which consisted in watching the ticker,
 
 142 
 
 as it is called, in an occasional interview with Hen- 
 derson, and in the floating summer amusements of 
 the relaxed city. There was nothing unusual in 
 this life except that he needed a little more stimu- 
 lation, but this was not strange in the summer, and 
 that he devoted more time to poker but every- 
 body knows that a person comes out about even in 
 the game of poker if he keeps at it long enough 
 there was nothing unusual in this, only it was giv 
 ing Jack a distaste for the quiet and it seemed to 
 him the restraint of the Golden House down by 
 the sea. And he was more irritable there than 
 elsewhere. It is so difficult to estimate an interior 
 deterioration of this sort, for Jack was just as pop- 
 ular with his comrades as ever, and apparently more 
 prosperous. 
 
 It is true that Jack had had other ideas when he 
 was courting Edith Fletcher, and at moments, at 
 any rate, different aspirations from any he had 
 now. "With her at that time there had been nobler 
 aspirations about life. But now she was his wife. 
 That was settled. And not only that, but she 
 was the best woman he knew ; and if she were not 
 his wife, he would spare no effort to win her. He 
 felt sure of that. He did not put it to himself in 
 the way an Oriental would do, "That is finished"; 
 but it was an act done a good act and here was 
 his world again, with a hundred interests, and there 
 were people besides Edith to be thought of, other
 
 143 
 
 women and men, and affairs. Because a man was 
 married, was he to be shut up to one little narrow 
 career, that of husband ? Probably it did not occur 
 to him that women take a different view of this in 
 the singleness of their purpose and faith. Edith, 
 for instance, knew or guessed that Jack had no 
 purpose in life that was twenty -four hours old ; but 
 she had faith and no amount of observation de- 
 stroys this faith in women that marriage would 
 inspire him with energy and ambition to take a 
 man's place in the world. 
 
 With most men marriage is un fait accompli* 
 Jack had been lucky, but there was, no doubt, 
 truth in an observation of Mavick's. One night 
 as they sat at the club Jack had asked him a lead- 
 ing question, apropos of Henderson's successful 
 career : " Mavick, why don't you get married ?" 
 
 " I have never," he replied, with his usual cynical 
 deliberation, " been obliged to. The fact is, mar- 
 riage is a curb-bit. Some horses show off better 
 with it, and some are enraged and kick over the 
 traces. I cannot decide which I would be." 
 
 " That's true enough," said Jack, " from a bache- 
 lor's point of view of independence, but it's really 
 a question of matching." 
 
 " The most difficult thing. in the world in horses. 
 Just about impossible in temperament and move- 
 ment, let alone looks. Most men are lucky if they 
 get, like Henderson, a running mate."
 
 144 
 
 " I see," said Jack, who knew something about 
 the Henderson household, " your idea of a pair is 
 that they should go single." 
 
 Mavick laughed, and said something about the 
 ideas of women changing so much lately that no- 
 body could tell what the relation of marriage would 
 become, and Jack, who began to feel that he was 
 disloyal, changed the subject. To do him justice, 
 he would have been ashamed for Edith to hear this 
 sort of flippant and shallow talk, which wouldn't 
 have been at all out of place with Carmen or Miss 
 Tavish. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you, Mavick, as a friend, do 
 you think Henderson is square ?" 
 
 " How square ?" 
 
 "Well, safe?" 
 
 " Nobody is safe. Henderson is as safe as any- 
 body. You can rely on what he says. But there's 
 a good deal he doesn't say. Anything wrong ?" 
 
 " Not that I know. I've been pretty lucky. But 
 the fact is, I've gone in rather deep." 
 
 " Well, it's a game. Henderson plays it, as ever- 
 body does, for himself. I like Henderson. He 
 plays to win, and generally does. But, you know, 
 if one man wins, somebody else has got to lose in 
 this kind of industry." 
 
 "But Henderson looks out for his friends?" 
 
 "Yes when it doesn't cost too much. Timesf 
 may come when a man has to look out for him
 
 145 
 
 self. "Wealth isn't made out of nothing. There 
 must be streams into the reservoir. These great ac- 
 cumulations of one you can see that must be 
 made up of countless other men's small savings. 
 There's Uncle Jerry. lie operates a good deal 
 with Henderson, and they'd incline to help each 
 other out. But Uncle Jerry says he's got a small 
 pond of his own, and he's careful not to connect it 
 with Henderson's reservoir." 
 
 " What do you think of Missouri ?" 
 
 " What do I think of the Milky Way ? It doesn't 
 much matter to me what becomes of Missouri, un- 
 less Henderson should happen to get smashed in 
 it, and that isn't what he is there for. But when 
 you look at the combinations, and the dropping-off 
 of roads that have been -drained, and the scaling 
 down in refunding, and the rearranging, and the 
 strikes, how much chance do you think the small- 
 fry stand? I don't doubt that Henderson will 
 make a big thing out of it, and there will be lots 
 of howling by those who were not so smart, and 
 the newspapers will say that Henderson was too- 
 strong for them. What we respect nowadays are 
 adroitness and strength. 
 
 " It's an exciting game," Mavick continued, after 
 a moment's pause. " Let me know if you get un- 
 easy. But I'll tell you what it is, Jack ; if I had a 
 comfortable income, I wouldn't risk it in any spec- 
 ulation. There is a good deal that is interesting 
 10
 
 146 
 
 going on in this world, and I like to be in it ; but 
 the best plan for a man who has anything is, as 
 Uncle Jerry says, to sail close and salt down." 
 
 The fact was that Mavick's connection with 
 Henderson was an appreciable addition to his in- 
 come, and it was not a bad thing for Hender- 
 son. Mavick's reputation for knowing the inside 
 of everything and being close - mouthed actually 
 brought him confidences ; that which at first was 
 a clever assumption became a reality, and his rep- 
 utation was so established for being behind the 
 scenes that he was not believed when he honestly 
 professed ignorance of anything. His modest dis- 
 claimer merely increased the impression that he 
 was deep. Henderson himself had something of 
 the Bismarck trait of brutal, contemptuous frank- 
 ness. Mavick was never brutal and never con- 
 temptuous, but he had a cynical sort of frankness, 
 which is a good deal more eif ectual in a business way 
 than the oily, plausible manner which on 'Change, 
 as well as in politics, is distrusted as hypocrisy. 
 Now Uncle Jerry Hollo well was neither oily nor 
 frank ; he was long - headed and cautious, and had 
 a reputation for shrewdness and just enough of 
 plasticity of conscience to remove him out of the 
 list of the impracticable and over-scrupulous. This 
 reputation that business men and politicians ac- 
 quire would be a very curious study. The world 
 is very complacent, and apparently worships sue-
 
 147 
 
 cess and votes for smartness, but it would surprise 
 some of our most successful men to know what 
 a real respect there is in the community, after all, 
 for downright integrity. 
 
 Even Jack, who fell into the current notion of 
 his generation of young men that the Henderson 
 sort of morality was best adapted to quick success, 
 evinced a consciousness of want of nobility in the 
 course he was pursuing by not making Edith his 
 confidante. He would have said, of course, that 
 she knew nothing about business, but what he 
 meant was that she had a very clear conception of 
 what was honest. All the evidences of his prosper- 
 ity, shown in his greater freedom of living, were 
 sore trials to her. She belonged to that old class 
 of New-Yorkers who made trade honorable, like 
 the merchants of Holland and Venice, and she 
 knew also that Jack's little fortune had come out 
 of honest toil and strict business integrity. Could 
 there be any happiness in life in any other course? 
 
 It seemed cruel to put such a problem as this 
 upon a young woman hardly yet out of girlhood, in 
 the first flush of a new life, which she had dreamed 
 should be so noble and high and so happy, in the 
 period which is consecrated by the sweetest and 
 loveliest visions and hopes that ever come into a 
 woman's life. 
 
 As the summer wore on to its maximum of heat 
 and discomfort in the city, Edith, who never for-
 
 148 
 
 got to measure the hardships of others by her own 
 more fortunate circumstances, urged Dr. Leigh to 
 come away from her labors and rest a few days by 
 the sea. The reply was a refusal, but there was 
 no complaint in the brief business-like note. One 
 might have supposed that it was the harvest - time 
 of the doctor, if he had not known that she gath- 
 ered nothing for herself. There had never been so 
 much sickness, she wrote, and such an opportunity 
 for her. She was learning a great deal, especially 
 about some disputed contagious diseases. She 
 would like to see Mrs. Delancy, and she wouldn't 
 mind a breath of air that was more easily to be an- 
 alyzed than that she existed in, but nothing could 
 induce her to give up her cases. All that ap- 
 peared in her letter was her interest in her profes- 
 sion. 
 
 Father Damon, who had been persuaded by 
 Edith's urgency to go down with Jack for a few 
 days to the Golden House, seemed uncommonly 
 interested in the reasons of Dr. Leigh's refusal to 
 come. 
 
 " I never saw her," he said, " so cheerful. The 
 more sickness there is, the more radiant she is. I 
 don't mean," he added, laughing, " in apparel. 
 Apparently she never thinks of herself, and posi- 
 tively she seems to take no time to eat or sleep. I 
 encounter her everywhere. I doubt if she ever 
 sits down, except when she drops in at the mission
 
 149 
 
 chapel now and then, and sits quite unmoved on a 
 bench by the door during vespers." 
 
 " Then she does go there ?" said Edith. 
 
 "That is a queer thing. She would promptly 
 repudiate any religious interest. But I tell her 
 she is a bit of a humbug. When I speak about 
 her philanthropic zeal, she says her interest is 
 purely scientific." 
 
 " Anyway, I believe," Jack put in, " that women 
 doctors are less mercenary than men. I dare say 
 they will get over that when the novelty of com- 
 ing into the profession has worn off." 
 
 " That is possible," said Father Damon ; " but 
 that which drives women into professions now is 
 the desire to do something rather than the desire 
 to make something. Besides, it is seldom, in their 
 minds, a finality ; marriage is always a possibility." 
 
 " Yes," replied Edith, " and the probability of 
 having to support a husband and family ; then 
 they may be as mercenary as men are." 
 
 " Still, the enthusiasm of women," Father Da- 
 mon insisted, " in hospital and out - door practice, 
 the singleness of their devotion to it, is in contrast 
 to that of the young men -doctors. And I notice 
 another thing in the city : they take more interest 
 in philanthropic movements, in the condition of 
 the poor, in the labor questions ; they dive eager- 
 ly into philosophic speculations, and they are more 
 aggressively agnostics. And they are not afraid
 
 150 
 
 of any social theories. I have one friend, a skilful 
 practitioner they tell me, a linguist, and a metaphy- 
 sician, a most agreeable and accomplished woman, 
 who is in theory an extreme nihilist, and looks to 
 see the present social and political order upset." 
 
 " I don't see," Jack remarked, " what women es- 
 pecially are to gain by such a revolution." 
 
 "Perhaps independence, Jack," replied Edith. 
 " You should hear my club of working-girls, who 
 read and think much on these topics, talk of these 
 things." 
 
 " Yes," said Father Damon, " you toss these top- 
 ics about, and discuss them in the magazines, and 
 fancy you are interested in socialistic movements. 
 But you have no idea how real and vital they are, 
 and how the dumb discontent of the working classes 
 is being formulated into ideas. It is time we tried 
 to understand each other." 
 
 Not all the talk was of this sort at the Golden 
 House. There were three worlds here that of 
 Jack, to which Edith belonged by birth and tradi- 
 tion and habit ; that of which we have spoken, to 
 which she belonged by profound sympathy ; and 
 that of Father Damon, to which she belonged by 
 undefined aspiration. In him was the spiritual 
 element asserting itself in a mediaeval form, in a 
 struggle to mortify and deny the flesh and yet 
 take part in modern life. Imagine a celibate and 
 ascetic of the fifteenth century, who knew that
 
 151 
 
 Paradise must be gained through poverty and pri- 
 vation and suffering, interesting himself in the 
 tenement-house question, in labor leagues, and the 
 single tax ! 
 
 Yet, hour after hour, in those idle summer days, 
 when nature was in a mood that suggested grace 
 and peace, when the waves lapsed along the shore 
 and the cicada sang in the hedge, did Father Da- 
 mon unfold to Edith his ideas of the spiritualiza- 
 tion of modern life through a conviction of its pet- 
 tiness and transitoriness. How much more content 
 there would be if the poor could only believe that 
 it matters little what happens here if the heart is 
 only pure and fixed on the endless life. 
 
 " Oh, Father Damon," replied Edith, with a grave 
 .smile, " I think your mission ought to be to the 
 rich." 
 
 "Yes," he replied, for he also knew his world, 
 " if I wanted to make my ideas fashionable, but I 
 want to make them operative. By-and-by," he 
 added, also with a smile, " we will organize some 
 fishermen and carpenters and tailors on a mission 
 to the rich." 
 
 Father Damon's visit was necessarily short, for 
 his work called him back to town, and perhaps his 
 conscience smote him a little for indulging in this 
 sort of retreat. By the middle of August Jack's 
 yacht was ready, and he went with Mavick and the 
 Van Dams and some other men of the club on a
 
 cruise up the coast. Edith was left alone with her 
 Baltimore friend. 
 
 And yet not alone. As she lay in her hammock 
 in those dreamy days a new world opened to her. 
 It was not described in the chance romance she 
 took up, nor in the volume of poems she some- 
 times held in her hand, with a finger inserted in 
 the leaves. Of this world she felt herself the centre 
 and the creator, and as she mused upon its mys- 
 teries, life took a new, strange meaning to her. It 
 was apt to be a little hazy off there in the watery 
 horizon, and out of the mist would glide occasion- 
 ally a boat, and the sun would silver its sails, and 
 it would dip and toss for half an hour in the blue, 
 laughing sea, and then disappear through the mys- 
 terious curtain. Whence did it come ? AVhither had 
 it gone ? Was life like that ? Was she on the 
 shore of such a sea, and was this new world into 
 which she was drifting only a dream? By her 
 smile, by the momentary illumination that her 
 sweet thoughts made in her lovely, hopeful face, 
 you knew that it was not. Who can guess the 
 thoughts of a woman at such a time? Are the 
 trees glad in the spring, when the sap leaps in their 
 trunks, and the buds begin to swell, and the leaves 
 unfold in soft response to the creative impulse? 
 The miracle is never old nor commonplace to them, 
 nor to any of the human family. The anticipation 
 of life is eternal. The singing of the birds, the
 
 153 
 
 blowing of the south wind, the sparkle of the 
 waves, all found a response in Edith's heart, which 
 leaped with joy. And yet there was a touch of 
 melancholy in it all, the horizon was so vast, and 
 the mist of uncertainty lay along it. Literature, 
 society, charities, all that she had read and expe- 
 rienced and thought, was nothing to this, this great 
 unknown anxiety and bliss, this saddest and sweet- 
 est of all human experiences. She prayed that she 
 might be worthy of this great distinction, this re- 
 sponsibility and blessing. 
 And Jack, dear Jack, would he love her more ?
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ALTHOUGH Father Damon had been absent from 
 his charge only ten days, it was time for him to 
 return. If he had not a large personal following, 
 he had a wide influence. If comparatively few 
 found their way to his chapel, he found his way to 
 many homes ; his figure was a familiar one in the 
 streets, and his absence was felt by hundreds who 
 had no personal relations with him, but who had 
 become accustomed to seeing him go about on his 
 errands of encouragement, and probably had never 
 realized how much the daily sight of him had 
 touched them. The priestly dress, which may once 
 have provoked a sneer at his effeminacy, had now 
 a suggestion of refinement, of unselfish devotion, 
 of consecration to the service of the unfortunate, 
 his spiritual face appealed to their better natures, 
 and the visible heroism that carried his frail figure 
 through labors that would have worn out the stout- 
 est physique stirred in the hearts of the rudest 
 some comprehension of the reality of the spirit. 
 
 It may not have occurred to them that he was 
 of finer clay than they perhaps he was not but 
 his presence was in their minds a subtle connection
 
 155 
 
 and not a condescending one, rather a confession 
 of brotherhood, with another world and another 
 view of life. They may not have known that their 
 hearts were stirred because he had the gift of sym- 
 pathy. And was it an unmanly trait that he 
 evoked in men that sentiment of chivalry which is 
 never wanting in the roughest community for a 
 pure woman ? Wherever Father Damon went there 
 was respect for his purity and his unselfishness, 
 even among those who would have been shame- 
 faced if surprised in any exhibition of softness. 
 
 And many loved him, and many depended on 
 him. Perhaps those who most depended on him 
 were the least worthy, and those who loved him 
 most were least inclined to sacrifice their own rea- 
 sonable view of life to his own sublimated spiritual 
 conception. It was the spirit of the man they 
 loved, and not the creed of the priest. The little 
 chapel in its subdued lights and shadows, with con- 
 fessionals and crosses and candles and incense, was 
 as restful a refuge as ever to the tired and the de- 
 pendent ; but wanting his inspiring face and voice, 
 it was not the same thing, and the attendance al- 
 ways fell away when he was absent. There was 
 needed there more than elsewhere the living pres- 
 ence. 
 
 He was missed, and the little world that missed 
 him was astray. The first day of his return his 
 heart was smitten by the thinness of the congrega-
 
 156 
 
 tion. Had he, then, accomplished nothing ; had 
 he made no impression, established in his shifting 
 flock no habit of continuance in well - doing that 
 could survive even his temporary withdrawal \ The 
 fault must be his. He had not sufficiently humili- 
 ated and consecrated himself, and put under all 
 strength of the flesh and trust in worldly instru- 
 mentalities. There must be more prayer, more 
 vigils, more fasting, before the power would come 
 back to him to draw these wandering minds to the 
 light. And so in the heat of this exhausting Au- 
 gust, at the time when his body most needed re- 
 enforcement for the toil he required of it, he was 
 more rigid in his spiritual tyranny and contempt 
 of it. 
 
 Euth Leigh was not dependent upon Father Da- 
 mon, but she also learned how long ten days could 
 be without a sight of him. "When she looked into 
 his chapel occasionally she realized, as never be- 
 fore, how much in the air his ceremonies and his 
 creed were. There was nothing there for her ex- 
 cept his memory. And she knew when she stepped 
 in there, for her cool, reasoning mind was honest, 
 that it was the thought of him that drew her to 
 the place, and that going there was a sentimental 
 indulgence. What she would have said was that 
 she admired, loved Father Damon on account of 
 his love for humanity. It was a common saying 
 of all the professional women in her set, and of the
 
 working-girls, that they loved Father Damon. It 
 is a comfort to women to be able to give their af- 
 fection freely where conventionalities and circum- 
 stances make the return of it in degree unlikely. 
 
 At the close of a debilitating day Dr. Leigh found 
 herself in the neighborhood of the mission chapel. 
 She was tired and needed to rest somewhere. She 
 knew that Father Damon had returned, but she 
 had not seen him, and a double motive drew her 
 steps. The attendance was larger than it had been 
 recently, and she found a stool in a dark corner, 
 and listened, with a weary sort of consciousness of 
 the prayers and the singing, but not without a 
 deeper feeling of peace in the tones of a voice 
 every inflection of which she knew so well. It 
 seemed to her that the reading cost him an effort, 
 and there was a note of pathos in the voice that 
 thrilled her. Presently he advanced towards the 
 altar rail he was accustomed to do this with his 
 little flock and placing one hand on the lectern, 
 began to speak. 
 
 At first, and this was not usual, he spoke about 
 himself in a strain of sincere humility, taking 
 blame upon himself for his inability to do effect- 
 ively the great service his Master had set him to 
 do. He meant to have given himself more entirely 
 to the dear people among whom he labored ; he 
 hoped to show himself more worthy of the trust 
 they had given him ; he was grateful for the sue-
 
 158 
 
 cess of his mission, but no one knew so well as he 
 how far short it came of being what he ought to 
 have made it. He knew indeed how weak he was, 
 and he asked the aid of their sympathy and en- 
 couragement. It seemed to be with difficulty that 
 he said this, and to Kuth's sympathetic ear there 
 was an evidence of physical exhaustion in his 
 tone. There was in it, also, for her, a confession 
 of failure, the cry of the preacher, in sorrow and 
 entreaty, that says, " I have called so long, and ye 
 would not listen." 
 
 As he went on, still with an effort and feebly, 
 there came over the little group a feeling of awe 
 and wonderment, and the silence was profound. 
 Still steadying himself by the reading-desk, he 
 went on to speak of other things, of those of his 
 followers who listened, of the great mass swirling 
 about them in the streets who did not listen and 
 did not care ; of the little life that now is so full of 
 pain and hardship and disappointment, of good in- 
 tentions frustrated, of hopes that deceive, and of 
 fair prospects that turn to ashes, of good lives that 
 go wrong, of sweet natures turned to bitterness in 
 the unaided struggle. His voice grew stronger 
 and clearer, as his body responded to the kindling 
 theme in his soul. He stepped away from the desk 
 nearer the rail, the bowed head was raised. "What 
 does it matter ?" he said. " It is only for a little 
 while, my children." Those who heard him that
 
 day say that his face shone like that of an angel, 
 and that his voice was like a victorious clarion, so 
 clear, so sweet, so inspiring, as he spoke of the life 
 that is to come, and the fair certainty of that City 
 where he with them all wished to be. 
 
 As he closed, some were kneeling, many were 
 crying; all, profoundly moved, watched him as, 
 with the benediction and the sign of the cross, he 
 turned and walked swiftly to the door of the sac- 
 risty. It opened, and then Ruth Leigh heard a 
 cry, " Father Damon ! Father Damon !" and there 
 was a rush into the chancel. Hastening through 
 the throng, which promptly made way for the 
 doctor, she found Father Damon lying across the 
 threshold, as he had fallen, colorless and uncon- 
 scious. She at once took command of the situa- 
 tion. The body was lifted to the plain couch in 
 the room, a hasty examination was made of pulse 
 and heart, a vial of brandy was produced from her 
 satchel, and messengers were despatched for things 
 needed, and especially for beef-tea. 
 
 " Is he dead, Dr. Leigh ? Is he any better, doc- 
 tor ? What is the matter, doctor ?" 
 
 " Want of nourishment," replied Dr. Leigh, sav- 
 agely. 
 
 The room was cleared of all except a couple of 
 stout lads and a friendly German woman whom, 
 the doctor knew. The news of the father's sudden 
 illness had spread rapidly, with the report that he
 
 160 
 
 bad fallen dead while standing at the altar ; and 
 the church was thronged, and the street rapidly 
 blocked up with a hushed crowd, eager for news 
 and eager to give aid. So great was the press that 
 the police had to interfere, and push back the 
 throng from the door. It was useless to attempt 
 to disperse it with the assurance that Father Damon 
 was better; it patiently waited to see for itself. 
 The sympathy of the neighborhood was most im- 
 pressive, and perhaps the thing that the public 
 best remembers about this incident is the pathetic 
 solicitude of the people among whom Father Damon 
 labored at the rumor of his illness, a matter which 
 was greatly elaborated by the reporters from the 
 city journals and the purveyors of telegraphic news 
 for the country. 
 
 With the application of restoratives the patient 
 revived. When he opened his eyes he saw figures 
 in the room as in a dream, and his mind struggled 
 to remember where he was and what had hap- 
 pened ; but one thing was not a dream : Dr. Leigh 
 stood by his bedside, with her left hand on his 
 brow and the right grasping his own right hand, 
 as if to pull him back to life. He saw her face, 
 and then he lost it again in sheer weariness at the 
 effort. After a few moments, in a recurring wave 
 of strength, he looked up again, still bewildered, 
 and said, faintly, 
 
 "Where am I?"
 
 161 
 
 " With friends," said the doctor. " You were a 
 little faint, that is all ; you will be all right pres- 
 ently." 
 
 She quickly prepared some nourishment, which 
 was what he most needed, and fed him from time 
 to time, as he was able to receive it. Gradually he 
 could feel a little vigor coming into his frame ; and 
 regaining control of himself, he was able to hear 
 what had happened. Yery gently the doctor 
 told him, making light of his temporary weak- 
 ness. 
 
 "The fact is, Father Damon," she said, "you've 
 got a disease common in this neighborhood hun- 
 ger." 
 
 The father smiled, but did not reply. It might 
 be so. For the time he felt his dependence, and 
 he did not argue the point. This dependence upon 
 a woman a sort of Sister of Charity, was she not? 
 was not altogether unpleasant. When he at- 
 tempted to rise, but found that he was too weak, 
 and she said "Not yet," he submitted, with the 
 feeling that to be commanded with such gentle- 
 ness was a sort of luxury. 
 
 But in an hour's time he declared that he was 
 almost himself again, and it was decided that he 
 was well enough to be removed to his own apart- 
 ments in the neighborhood. A carriage was sent 
 for, and the transfer was made, and made through 
 a crowd in the streets, which stood silent and un- 
 11
 
 162 
 
 covered as his carriage passed through it. Dr. 
 Leigh remained with him for an hour longer, and 
 then left him in charge of a young gentleman 
 from the Neighborhood Guild, who gladly volun- 
 teered to watch for the night. 
 
 Ruth walked slowly home, weary now that the 
 excitement was over, and revolving many things in 
 her mind, as is the custom of women. She heard 
 again that voice, she saw again that inspired face ; 
 but the impression most indelible with her was the 
 prostrate form, the pallid countenance, the help- 
 lessness of this man whose will had before been 
 strong enough to compel the obedience of his de- 
 spised body. She had admired his strength; but it 
 was his weakness that drew upon her woman's 
 heart, and evolved a tenderness dangerous to her 
 peace of mind. Yet it was the doctor and not the 
 woman that replied to the inquiries at the dispen- 
 sary. 
 
 " Yes, it was fasting and overwork. Men are so 
 stupid ; they think they can defy all the laws of 
 nature, especially priests." And she determined to 
 be quite plain with him next day. 
 
 And Father Damon, lying weary in his bed, be- 
 fore he fell asleep, saw the faces in the dim chapel 
 turned to him in strained eagerness the moment 
 before he lost consciousness; but the most vivid 
 image was that of a woman bending over him, 
 with eyes of tenderness and pity, and the smile
 
 163 
 
 with which she greeted his awakening. He could 
 feel yet her hand upon his brow. 
 
 When Dr. Leigh called next day, on her morning 
 rounds, she found a brother of the celibate order, 
 Father Monies, in charge. He was sitting by the 
 window reading, and when the doctor came up the 
 steps he told her in a low voice to enter without 
 knocking. Father Damon was better, much better ; 
 but he had advised him not to leave his bed, and 
 the patient had been dozing all the morning. The 
 doctor asked if he had eaten anything, and how 
 much. The apartment was small and scantily fur- 
 nished a sort of anchorite cell. Through the 
 drawn doors of the next room the bed was in 
 sight. As they were talking in low voices there 
 came from this room a cheerful 
 
 " Good-morning, doctor." 
 
 " I hope you ate a good breakfast," she said, as 
 she arose and went to his bedside. 
 
 " I suppose you mean better than usual," he re- 
 plied, with a faint attempt at a smile. " Xo doubt 
 you and Father Monies are satisfied, now you've 
 got me laid up." 
 
 "That depends upon your intentions." 
 
 " Oh, I intend to get up to-morrow." 
 
 " If you do, without other change in your inten- 
 tions, I am going to report you to the Organized 
 Charity as a person who has no visible means of 
 support."
 
 164 
 
 She had brought a bunch of violets, and as they 
 talked she had filled a glass with water and put 
 them on a stand by the head of the bed. Then 
 oh, quite professionally she smoothed out his pil- 
 lows and straightened the bedclothes, and, talking 
 all the time, and as if quite unconscious of what 
 she was doing, moved about the room, putting 
 things to rights, and saying, in answer to his pro- 
 test, that perhaps she should lose her reputation as 
 a physician in his eyes by appearing to be a pro- 
 fessional nurse. 
 
 There was a timid knock at the door, and a for- 
 lorn little figure, clad in a rumpled calico, with an 
 old shawl over her head, half concealing an eager 
 and pretty face, stood in the doorway, and hesitat- 
 ingly came in. 
 
 " Meine Mutter sent me to see how Father Da- 
 mon is," she explained ; " she could not come, be- 
 cause she washes." 
 
 She had a bunch of flowers in her hand, and en- 
 couraged by the greeting of the invalid, she came 
 to the bedside and placed them in his outstretched 
 hand a faded blossom of scarlet geranium, a 
 bachelor's-button, and a sprig of parsley, probably 
 begged of a street dealer as she came along. " Some 
 blooms," she said. 
 
 "Bless you, my dear," said Father Damon ; "they 
 are very pretty." 
 
 " Dey smells nice," the child exclaimed, her eyes
 
 165 
 
 dancing with pleasure at the reception of her gift 
 She stood staring at him, and then, her eye catch, 
 ing the violets, she added, " Dose is pooty, too." 
 
 " If you can stay half an hour or so, I should 
 like to step round to the chapel," Father Monies 
 said to the doctor in the front room, taking up 
 his hat. 
 
 The doctor could stay. The little girl had moved, 
 a chair up to the bedside, and sat quite silent, her 
 grimy little hand grasped in the father's. Ruth, 
 saying that she hoped the father wouldn't mind, 
 began to put in order the front room, which the 
 incidents of the night had somewhat disturbed. 
 Father Damon, holding fast by that little hand to 
 the world of poverty to which he had devoted his 
 life, could not refrain from watching her, as she 
 moved about with the quick, noiseless way that a 
 woman has when she is putting things to rights. 
 This was indeed a novel invasion of his life. He 
 was still too weak to reason about it much. How 
 good she was, how womanly ! And what a sense 
 of peace and repose she brought into his apart- 
 ment ! The presence of Brother Monies was peace- 
 ful also, but hers was somehow different. His eyes 
 had not cared to follow the brother about the room. 
 He knew that she was unselfish, but he had not 
 noticed before that her ways were so graceful. 
 As she turned her face towards him from time to 
 time he thought its expression beautiful. Ruth
 
 166 
 
 Leigh would have smiled grimly if any one had 
 called her beautiful, but then she did not know 
 how she looked sometimes when her feelings were 
 touched. It is said that the lamp of love can il- 
 lumine into beauty any features of clay through 
 which it shines. As he gazed, letting himself drift 
 as in a dream, suddenly a thought shot through 
 his mind that made him close his eyes, and such a 
 severe priestly look came upon his face that the 
 little girl, who had never taken her eyes off him, 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " It is worse ?" 
 
 " No, my dear," he replied, with a reassuring 
 smile ; " at least, I hope not." 
 
 But when the doctor, finishing her work, drew a 
 chair into the doorway, and sat by the foot of his 
 bed, the stern look still remained on his pale face. 
 And the doctor, she also was the doctor again, as 
 matter of fact as in any professional visit. 
 
 " You are very kind," he said. 
 
 There was a shade of impatience on her face as 
 she replied, "But you must be a little land to 
 yourself." 
 
 " It doesn't matter." 
 
 " But it does matter. You defeat the very work 
 you want to do. I'm going to report you to youF 
 order." And then she added, more lightly, " Don't 
 you know it is wrong to commit suicide ?" 
 
 " You don't understand," he replied. " There is
 
 167 
 
 more than one kind of suicide ; you don't believe 
 in the suicide of the soul. Ah me !" And a shade 
 of pain passed over his face. 
 
 She was quick to see this. " I beg your pardon, 
 Father Damon. It is none of my business, but 
 we are all so anxious to have you speedily well 
 again." 
 
 Just then Father Monies returned, and the doc- 
 tor rose to go. She took the little girl by the 
 hand and said, " Come, I was just going round to 
 see your father. Good-bye. I shall look in again 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Thank you thank you a thousand times. But 
 you have so much to do that you must not bother 
 about me." 
 
 Whether he said this to quiet his own con- 
 science, secretly hoping that he might see her 
 again on the morrow, perhaps he himself could not 
 have decided. 
 
 Late the next afternoon, after an unusually 
 weary round of visits, made in the extreme heat 
 and in a sort of hopeless faithfulness, Dr. Leigh 
 reached the tenement in which Father Damon 
 lodged. In all the miserable scenes of the day it 
 had been in her mind, giving to her work a pleas- 
 ure that she did not openly acknowledge even to 
 herself, that she should see him. 
 
 The curtains were down, and there was no re- 
 sponse to her knock, except from a door in the
 
 168 
 
 passage opposite. A woman opened the door 
 wide enough to show her head and to make it 
 evident that she was not sufficiently dressed to 
 come out, and said that Father Damon had gone. 
 He was very much better, and his friend had taken 
 him up-town. Dr. Leigh thanked her, and said 
 she was very glad. 
 
 She was so glad that, as she walked away, scarce- 
 ly heeding her steps or conscious of the chaffing, 
 chattering crowd, all interest in her work and in 
 that quarter of the city seemed dead.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IT is well that there is pleasure somewhere in 
 the world. It is possible for those who have a 
 fresh-air fund of their own to steam away in a 
 yacht, out of the midsummer ennui and the weary 
 gayety of the land. It is a costly pleasure, and 
 probably all the more enjoyed on that account, 
 for if everybody had a yacht there would be no 
 more feeling of distinction in sailing one than in 
 going to any of the second-rate resorts on the 
 coast. There is, to be sure, some ennui in yacht- 
 ing on a rainy coast, and it might be dull but for 
 the sensation created by arrivals at watering-places 
 and the telegraphic reports of these sensations. 
 
 If there was any dulness on the Delancy yacht 
 means were taken to dispel it. While still in the 
 Sound a society was formed for the suppression of 
 total abstinence, and so successful was this that 
 Point Judith was passed, in a rain and a high and 
 chopping sea, with a kind of hilarious enjoyment 
 of the commotion, which is one of the things de- 
 sired at sea. When the party came round to New- 
 port it declared that it had had a lovely voyage, 
 and inquiry brought out the great general princi-
 
 pie, applicable to most coast navigation for pleas- 
 ure, that the enjoyable way to pass Point Judith 
 is not to know you are passing Point Judith. 
 
 Except when you land, and even after you have 
 got your sea-legs on, there is a certain monotony in 
 yachting, unless the weather is very bad, and unless 
 there are women aboard. A party of lively women 
 make even the sea fresh and entertaining. Other- 
 wise, the game of poker is much what it is on land, 
 and the constant consulting of charts and reckon- 
 ing of speed evince the general desire to get some- 
 where that is, to arrive at a harbor. In the recol- 
 lections of this voyage, even in Jack's recollections 
 of it after he had paid the bills, it seemed that it 
 had been simply glorious, free from care, generally 
 a physical-setting-up performance, and a lark of 
 enormous magnitude. And everybody envied the 
 fortunate sailors. 
 
 Mavick actually did enjoy it, for he had that 
 brooding sort of nature, that self-satisfied atti- 
 tude, that is able to appropriate to its own uses 
 whatever comes. And being an unemotional and 
 very tolerable sailor, he was able to be as cyn- 
 ical at sea as on land, and as much of an oracle, 
 in his wholly unobtrusive way. The perfect per- 
 sonal poise of Mavick, which gave him an air of 
 patronizing the ocean, and his lightly held scep- 
 tical view of life, made his company as full of fla- 
 vor on ship as it was on shore. He didn't know
 
 171 
 
 anything more about the weather than the Weath- 
 er Bureau knows, yet the helmsman of the yacht 
 used to consult him about the appearances of the 
 sky and a change of wind with a confidence in his 
 opinion that he gave to no one else on board. 
 And Mavick never forfeited this respect by being 
 too positive. It was so with everything ; he evi- 
 dently knew a great deal more than he cared to 
 tell. It is pleasing to notice how much credit 
 such men as Mavick obtain in the world by cir- 
 cumspect reticence and a knowing manner. Jack, 
 blundering along in his free-hearted, emotional 
 way, and never concealing his opinion, was really 
 right twice where Mavick was right once, but he 
 never had the least credit for wisdom. 
 
 It was late in August that the Delancy yacht 
 steamed into the splendid Bar Harbor, making its 
 way slowly through one of the rare fogs which 
 are sometimes seen by people who do not own real 
 estate there. Even before they could see an island 
 those on board felt the combination of mountain 
 and sea air that makes this favored place at once a 
 tonic and a sedative to the fashionable world. 
 
 The party were expected at Bar Harbor. It had 
 been announced that the yacht was on its way, 
 and some of the projected gayeties were awaiting 
 its coming, for the society re-enforcement of the 
 half-dozen men on board was not to be despised. 
 The news went speedily round that Captain De>
 
 172 
 
 lancy's flag was flying at the anchorage off the 
 landing. 
 
 Among the first to welcome them as they landed 
 and strolled up to the hotel was Major Fairfax. 
 
 " Oh yes," he said ; " we are all here that is, all 
 who know where they ought to be at the right 
 moment." 
 
 To the new-comers the scene was animated. The 
 exotic shops sparkled with cheap specialties ; lan- 
 daus, pony-phaetons, and elaborate buckboards 
 dashed through the streets ; aquatic and lawn-ten- 
 nis costumes abounded. If there was not much 
 rowing and lawn-tennis, there was a great 'deal of 
 becoming morning dressing for these sports, and in 
 all the rather aimless idleness there was an air of 
 determined enjoyment. Even here it was evident 
 that there was a surplus of women. These lovers 
 of nature, in the summer season, who had retired 
 to this wild place to be free from the importunities 
 of society, betrayed, Mavick thought, the common 
 instinct of curiosity over the new arrival, and he 
 was glad to take it as an evidence that they loved 
 not nature less but man more. Jack tripped up 
 this ungallant speech by remarking that if Mavick 
 was in this mood he did not know why he came 
 ashore. And Yan Dam said that sooner or later 
 all men went ashore. This thin sort of talk was 
 perhaps pardonable after the weariness of a sea 
 voyage, but the Major promptly said it wouldn't
 
 173 
 
 do. And the Major seemed to be in charge of the 
 place. 
 
 " No epigrams are permitted. We are here to 
 enjoy ourselves. I'm ordered to bring the whole 
 crew of you to tea at the Tavish cottage." 
 
 " Anybody else there ?" asked Jack, carelessly. 
 
 " Well, it's the most curious coincidence, but 
 Mrs. Henderson arrived last night ; Henderson has 
 gone to Missouri." 
 
 " Yes, he wrote me to look out for his wife on 
 this coast," said Mavick. 
 
 " You kept mighty still about it," said Jack. 
 
 " So did you," retorted Mavick. 
 
 " It is very curious," the Major explained, " how 
 fashionable intelligence runs along this coast, ap- 
 parently independent of the telegraph ; everybody 
 knows where everybody else is." 
 
 The Tavish cottage was a summer palace of the 
 present fashion, but there was one good thing about 
 it : it had no tower, nor any make-believe balconies 
 hung on the outside like bird - cages. The rooms 
 were spacious, and had big fireplaces, and ample 
 piazzas all round, so that the sun could be courted 
 or the wind be avoided at all hours of the day. It 
 was, in short, not a house for retirement and pri- 
 vacy, but for entertainment. It was furnished lux- 
 uriously but gayly, and with its rugs and portieres 
 and divans it reminded Mavick of an Oriental mar- 
 quee. Miss Tavish called it her tepee, an evolution
 
 174 
 
 of the aboriginal dwelling. She liked to entertain, 
 and she never appeared to better advantage than 
 when her house was full, and something was go- 
 ing on continually lively breakfasts and dinners, 
 dances, theatricals, or the usual flowing in and out 
 of callers and guests, chattering groups, and flirta- 
 tious couples. It was her idea of repose from the 
 winter's gayety, and in it she sustained the role of 
 the non-fatigueable society girl. It is a perform- 
 ance that many working-girls regard with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 There was quite a flutter in the cottage, as there 
 always is when those who know each other well 
 meet under new circumstances after a short separa- 
 tion. 
 
 " We are very glad to see you," Miss Tavish said, 
 cordially ; " we have been awfully dull." 
 
 " That is complimentary to me," said the Major. 
 
 "You can judge the depths we have been in 
 when even the Major couldn't pull us out," she re- 
 torted. "Without him we should have simply 
 died." 
 
 "And it would have been the liveliest obsequies 
 I ever attended." 
 
 Carmen was not effusive in her greeting ; she left 
 that role to Miss Tavish, taking for herself that of 
 confidential friend. She was almost retiring in her 
 manner, but she made Jack feel that she had a 
 strong personal interest in his welfare, and she
 
 175 
 
 asked a hundred questions about the voyage and 
 about town and about Edith. 
 
 " I'm going to chaperon you up here," she said, 
 "for Miss Tavish will lead you into all sorts of 
 wild adventures." 
 
 There was that in the manner of the demure lit- 
 tle woman when she made this proposal that con- 
 vinced Jack that under her care he would be per- 
 fectly safe from Miss Tavish. 
 
 After cigarettes were lighted she contrived to 
 draw Mavick away to the piazza. She was very 
 anxious to know what Henderson's latest moves 
 were. Mavick was very communicative, and told 
 her nothing that he knew she did not already 
 know. And she was clever enough to see, without 
 any apparent distrust, that whatever she got from 
 him must be in what he did not say. As to Jack's 
 speculations, she made little more progress. Jack 
 gave every sign of being prosperous ; he entertained 
 royally on his yacht. 
 
 Mavick himself was puzzled to know whether 
 Carmen really cared for Jack, or whether she was 
 only interested as in a game, one of the things that 
 amused her life to play, to see how far he would 
 go, and to watch his ascension or his tumble. Mav- 
 ick would have been surprised if he had known 
 that as a result of this wholly agreeable and con- 
 fidential talk, Carmen wrote that night in a letter 
 to her husband :
 
 176 
 
 "Your friend Mavick is here. What a very 
 clever man he is ! If I were you I would keep an 
 eye on him." 
 
 A dozen plans were started at the tea for reliev- 
 ing the tedium of the daily drives and the regula- 
 tion teas and receptions. For one thing, weather 
 permitting, they would all breakfast at twelve on 
 the yacht, and then sail about the harbor, and come 
 home in the sunset. 
 
 The day was indeed charming, so stimulating as 
 to raise the value of real estate, and incite every- 
 body to go off in search of adventure, in wagons, in 
 "walking parties, in boats. There is no happiness 
 like the anticipation of pleasure begot by such a 
 morning. Those who live there said it was regular 
 Bar Harbor Aveather. 
 
 Captain Delancy was on deck to receive his 
 guests, who came out in small boats, chattering and 
 fluttering and " ship-ahoying," as gay in spirits as 
 in apparel. Anything but high spirits and non- 
 sense would be unpardonable on such a morning. 
 Breakfast was served on deck, under an awning, 
 in sight of the mountains, the green islands, the 
 fringe of breaking sea in the distant opening, the 
 shimmer and sparkle of the harbor, the white 
 sails of pleasure-boats, the painted canoes, the 
 schooners and coal -boats and steamers swinging 
 at anchor just enough to make all the scene 
 alive.
 
 177 
 
 " This is my idea," said the Major, " of going to 
 sea in a yacht ; it would be perfect if we were tied 
 up at the dock." 
 
 " I move that we throw the Major overboard," 
 cried Miss Tavish. 
 
 " No," Jack exclaimed ; " it is against the law to 
 throw anything into the harbor." 
 
 " Oh, I expected Miss Tavish would throw me 
 overboard when Mavick appeared." 
 
 Mavick raised his glass and proposed the health 
 of Miss Tavish. 
 
 "With all my heart," the Major said; "my life 
 is passed in returning good for evil." 
 
 " I never knew before," and Miss Tavish bowed 
 her acknowledgments, " the secret of the Major's 
 attractions." 
 
 " Yes," said Carmen, sweetly, " he is all things to 
 all women." 
 
 " You don't appear to have a friend here, Major," 
 Mavick suggested. 
 
 " No ; my friends are all foul - weather friends ; 
 come a bright day, they are all off like butterflies. 
 That comes of being constant." 
 
 " That's no distinction," Carmen exclaimed ; " all 
 men are that till they get what they want." 
 
 " Alas ! that women also in three days here be- 
 come cynical ! It was not so when I was young. 
 Here's to the ever young," and he bowed to Carmen 
 and Miss Tavish. 
 12
 
 178 
 
 " He's been with Ponce de Leon !" cried Miss 
 Tavish. 
 
 "He's the dearest man living, except a few," 
 echoed Carmen. " The Major's health." 
 
 The yellow wine sparkled in the glasses like the 
 sparkling sea, the wind blew softly from the south, 
 the sails in the bay darkened and flashed, and the 
 breakfast, it seemed to go along of itself, and ere- 
 long the convives were eating ambrosia and sipping 
 nectar. Yan Dam told a shark story. Mavick 
 demonstrated its innate improbability. The Major 
 sang a song a song of the forties, with a touch of 
 sentiment. Jack, whose cheerful voice was a little 
 of the cider-cellar order, and who never sang when 
 he was sad, struck up the latest vaudeville ditty, 
 and Carmen and Miss Tavish joined in the chorus. 
 
 " I like the sea," the Major declared. They all 
 liked it. The breakfast lasted a long time, and 
 when they rose from the table Jack said that pres- 
 ently they would take a course round the harbor. 
 The Major remarked that that would suit him. He 
 appeared to-be ready to go round the world. 
 
 "While they were preparing to start, Carmen and 
 Jack strolled away to the bow, where she perched 
 herself, holding on by the rigging. He thought he 
 had never seen her look so pretty as at that mo- 
 ment, in her trim nautical costume, sitting up there, 
 swinging her feet like a girl, and regarding him 
 with half-mocking, half-admiring eyes.
 
 179 
 
 "What were they saying ? Heaven only knows. 
 What nonsense do people so situated usually talk. 
 Perhaps she was warning him against Miss Tavish. 
 Perhaps she was protesting that Julia Tavish was 
 a very, very old friend. To an observer this ad- 
 mirable woman seemed to be on the defensive her 
 most alluring attitude. It was not, one could hear, 
 exactly a sober talk ; there was laughter and rail- 
 lery and earnestness mingled. It might be said 
 that they were good comrades. Carmen professed 
 to like good comradeship and no nonsense. But 
 she liked to be confidential. 
 
 Till late in the afternoon they cruised about 
 among the islands, getting diiferent points of view 
 of the coast, and especially different points of view 
 of each other, in the freedom of talk and repartee 
 permitted on an excursion. Before sunset they 
 were out in the open, and could feel the long ocean 
 swell. The wind had risen a little, and there was 
 a low band of clouds in the south. The skipper 
 told Mr. Delancy that it would be much fresher 
 with the sinking of the sun, but Jack replied that 
 it wouldn't amount to anything ; the glass was all 
 right. 
 
 ' ' Now the great winds shoreward blow ; 
 Now the salt tides seaward flow; 
 Now the wild white horses play, 
 Champ and chafe and toss in the spray." 
 
 Miss Tavish was in the wheel-house, and had
 
 180 
 
 taken the wheel. This clever girl knew her right 
 hand from her left, instantly, without having to 
 stop and think and look at her rings, and she knew 
 what port and starboard meant, as orders, and ex- 
 actly how to meet a wave with a turn of the 
 wheel. 
 
 " I say, Captain Delancy," she cried out, " the 
 steamer is about due. Let's go down and meet her, 
 and race in." 
 
 " All right," replied Jack. " We can run round 
 her three times and then beat her in." 
 
 The steamer's smoke was seen at that instant, 
 and the yacht was headed for it. The wind was a 
 little fresher, but the tight little craft took the 
 waves like a duck, and all on board enjoyed the 
 excitement of the change, except the Major, who 
 said he didn't mind, but he didn't believe the 
 steamer needed any escort. 
 
 By the time the steamer was reached the sun was 
 going down in a band of clouds. There was no 
 gale, but the wind increased in occasional puffs of 
 spite, and the waves were getting up. The skipper 
 took the wheel to turn the yacht in a circle to 
 her homeward course. As this operation created 
 strange motions, and did not interest the Major, he 
 said he would go below and reflect. 
 
 In turning, the yacht came round on the seaward 
 side of the steamer, but far behind. But the little 
 craft speedily showed her breeding and overhauled
 
 181 
 
 her big rival, and began to forge ahead. The little 
 group on the yacht waved their hankerchiefs as if 
 in good -by, and the passengers on the steamer 
 cheered. As the wind was every moment increas- 
 ing, the skipper sheered away to allow plenty of 
 sea-room between the boats. The race appeared 
 to be over. 
 
 " It's a pity," said Miss Tavish. 
 
 " Let's go round her," said Jack ; " eh, skipper ?" 
 
 " If you like, sir," responded the skipper. " She 
 can do it." 
 
 The yacht was well ahead, but the change in the 
 direction brought the vessels nearer together. But 
 there was no danger. The speed they were going 
 would easily bring her round away ahead of the 
 steamer. 
 
 But just then something happened. The yacht 
 would not answer to her helm. The wheel flew 
 around without resistance. The wind, hauled now 
 into the east, struck her with violence and drove 
 her sideways. The little thing was like a chip on 
 the sea. The rudder-chain had broken. The yacht 
 seemed to fly towards the long, hulking steamer. 
 The danger was seen there, and her helm was put 
 hard down, and her nose began to turn towards the 
 shore. But it was too late. It seemed all over in 
 an instant. The yacht dashed bow on to the side 
 of the steamer, quivered an instant, and then 
 dropped away. At the same moment the steamer
 
 182 
 
 slowed down and began to turn to assist the 
 wounded. 
 
 The skipper of the yacht and a couple of hands 
 rushed below. A part of the bow had been carried 
 away and a small hole made just above the water- 
 line, through which the water spurted whenever 
 she encountered a large wave. It was enough to 
 waterlog her and sink her in such a sea. The two 
 seamen grasped whatever bedding was in reach 
 below, rammed it into the opening, and held it 
 there. The skipper ran on deck, and by the aid of 
 the men hauled out a couple of sails and dropped 
 them over the bow. These would aid in keeping 
 out the water. They could float now, but where 
 were they going? " Going ashore," said Mavick, 
 grimly. And so they were. 
 
 ""Was there a panic on board?" it was asked 
 afterwards. "Not exactly. Among well-bred peo- 
 ple a panic is never good form. But there were 
 white faces and trembling knees and anxious looks. 
 The steamer was coming towards them, and all 
 eyes were fixed on that rather than on the rocks 
 of the still distant shore. 
 
 The most striking incident of the moment it 
 seemed so to some of those who looked back upon 
 it was a singular test of character, or rather of 
 woman's divination of character. Carmen instinc- 
 tively flew to Jack and grasped and held his arm. 
 She knew, without stopping to reason about it,
 
 183 
 
 that he would unhesitatingly imperil his life to 
 save that of any woman. Whatever judgment is 
 passed upon Jack, this should not be forgotten. 
 And Miss Tavish; to whom did she fly in this 
 peril ? To the gallant Major ? No. To the cool 
 and imperturbable Mavick, who was as strong and 
 sinewy as he was cool? Ko. She ran without 
 hesitation to Yan Dam, and clung to him, recog- 
 nizing instinctively, with the woman's feeling, the 
 same quality that Jack had. There are such men, 
 who may have no great gifts, but who will always 
 fight rather than run under fire, and who will al- 
 ways protect a woman. 
 
 Mavick saw all this, and understood it perfectly, 
 and didn't object to it at the time but he did not 
 forget it. 
 
 The task of rescue was not easy in that sea and 
 wind, but it was dexterously done. The steamer 
 approached and kept at a certain distance on the 
 windward side. A boat was lowered, and a line 
 was brought to the yacht, which was soon in tow 
 with a stout cable hitched to the steamer's anchor 
 windlass. It was all done with much less excite- 
 ment than appeared from, the telegraphed accounts, 
 and while the party were being towed home the 
 peril seemed to have been exaggerated, and the af- 
 fair to look like an ordinary sea incident. But the 
 skipper said that it was one escape in a hundred. 
 
 The captain of the steamer raised his hat grave-
 
 184 
 
 ly in reply to the little cheer from the yacht, when 
 Carmen and Miss Tavish fluttered their handker- 
 chiefs towards him. The only chaff from the 
 steamer was roared out by a fat Boston man, who 
 made a funnel of his hands and shouted, " The race 
 is not always to the swift." 
 
 As soon as Jack stepped ashore he telegraphed 
 to Edith that the yacht had had an accident in the 
 harbor, but that no one was hurt. When he reached 
 the hotel he found a letter from Edith of such a 
 tenor that he sent another despatch, saying that 
 she might expect him at once, leaving the yacht 
 behind. There was a buzz of excitement in the 
 town, and there were a hundred rumors, which the 
 sight of the yacht and its passengers landed in 
 safety scarcely sufficed to allay. 
 
 When Jack called at the Tavish cottage to say 
 good-by, both the ladies were too upset to see 
 him. He took a night train, and as he was whirled 
 away in the darkness the events of the preceding 
 forty-eight hours seemed like a dream. Even the 
 voyage up the coast was a little unreal an insub- 
 stantial episode in life. And the summer city by 
 the sea, with its gayety and gossip and Jbusy idle- 
 ness, sank out of sight like a phantom. He drew 
 his cap over his eyes, and was impatient that the 
 rattling train did not go faster, for Edith, waiting 
 there in the Golden House, seemed to stretch out 
 her arms for him to come. Still behind him rose
 
 185 
 
 a picture of that bacchanalian breakfast the Ma- 
 jor and Carmen and Mavick and Miss Tavish 
 dancing a reel on the sloping deck, then the rising 
 wind, the reckless daring of the race, and a vision 
 of sudden death. He shuddered for the first time 
 in a quick realization of how nearly it came to 
 being all over with life and its pleasures.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 EDITH had made no appeal to Jack to come home. 
 His going, therefore, had the merit in his eyes of 
 being a voluntary response to the promptings of 
 his better nature. Perhaps but for the accident at 
 Mount Desert he might have felt that his summer 
 pleasure was needlessly interfered with, but the 
 little shock of that was a real, if still temporary, 
 moral turning-point for him. For the moment his 
 inclination seemed to run with his duty, and he had 
 his reward in Edith's happiness at his coming, the 
 loving hunger in her eyes, the sweet trust that ani- 
 mated her face, the delightful appropriation of him 
 that could scarcely brook a moment's absence from 
 her sight. There could not be a stronger appeal to 
 his manhood and his fidelity. 
 
 " Yes, Jack dear, it was a little lonesome." She 
 was swinging in her hammock on the veranda in 
 sight of the sea, and Jack sat by her with his cigar. 
 "I don't mind telling you now that there were 
 times when I longed for you dreadfully, but I was 
 glad, all the same, that you were enjoying yourself, 
 for it is tiresome down here for a man with nothing 
 to do but to wait."
 
 187 
 
 " You dear thing !" said Jack, with his hand on 
 her head, smoothing her glossy hair and pushing it 
 back from her forehead, to make her look more in- 
 tellectual a thing that she hated. " Yes, dear, I 
 was a brute to go off at all." 
 
 " But you wanted to come back ?" And there 
 was a wistful look in her eyes. 
 
 "Indeed I did," he answered, fervently, as he 
 leaned over the hammock to kiss the sweet eyes 
 into content ; and he was quite honest in the ex- 
 pression of a desire that was nearly forty-eight 
 hours old, and by a singular mental reaction seemed 
 to have been always present with him. 
 
 " It was so good of you to telegraph me before I 
 could see the newspaper." 
 
 " Of course I knew the account would be greatly 
 exaggerated ;" and he made light of the whole affair, 
 knowing that the facts would still be capable of 
 shocking her, giving a comic picture of the Ma- 
 jor's seafaring qualities, and Carmen's and Miss 
 Tavish's chaff of the gallant old beau. 
 
 Even with this light sketching of the event she 
 could not avoid a retrospective pang of apprehen- 
 sion, and the tightened grasp of his hand was as if she 
 were holding him fast from that and all other peril. 
 The days went by in content, on the whole, shad- 
 ed a little by anxiety and made grave by a new in- 
 terest. It could not well be but that the prospect 
 of the near future, with its increase of responsibili-
 
 188 
 
 ty, should create a little uneasiness in Jack's mind 
 as to his own career. Of this future they talked 
 much, and in Jack's attitude towards her Edith 
 saw, for the first time since her marriage, a lever of 
 suggestion, and it came naturally in the contempla- 
 tion of their future life that she should encourage 
 his discontent at having no occupation. Facing, in 
 this waiting-time of quiet, certain responsibilities, 
 it was impressed upon him that the collecting of 
 bric-a-brac was scarcely an occupation, and that 
 idling in clubs and studios and dangling about at 
 the beck of society women was scarcely a career 
 that could save him from ultimate ennui. To be 
 sure, he had plenty of comrades, young fellows of 
 fortune, who never intended to do anything except 
 to use it for their personal satisfaction ; but they 
 did not seem to be of much account except in the 
 little circle that they ornamented. Speaking of one 
 of them one day, Father Damon had said that it 
 seemed a pity a fellow of such family and capacity 
 and fortune should go to the devil merely for the 
 lack of an object in life. In this closer communion 
 with Edith, whose ideas he began to comprehend, 
 Jack dimly apprehended this view, and for the mo- 
 ment impulsively accepted it. 
 
 "I'm half sorry," he said one day, "that I didn't 
 go in for a profession. But it is late now. Law, 
 medicine, engineering, architecture, would take 
 years of study."
 
 189 
 
 " There was Armstrong," Edith suggested, " who 
 studied law after he was married." 
 
 " But it looks sort of silly for a fellow who has a 
 wife to go to school, unless," said Jack, with a laugh, 
 " he goes to school to his wife. Then there's poli- 
 tics. You wouldn't like to see me in that." 
 
 "I rather think, Jack" she spoke musingly 
 " if I were a man I should go into politics." 
 
 " You would have nice company !" 
 
 " But it's the noblest career government, legis- 
 lation, trying to do something to make the world 
 better. Jack, I don't see how the men of New 
 York can stand it to be governed by the very worst 
 elements." 
 
 " My dear, you have no idea what practical poli- 
 tics is." 
 
 "I've an idea what I'd make it. What is the 
 good of young men of leisure if they don't do any- 
 thing for the country ? Too fine to do what Ham- 
 ilton did and Jay did ! I wish you could have heard 
 my father talk about it. Abdicate their birth- 
 right for a four-in-hand !" 
 
 " Or a yacht," suggested Jack. 
 
 " Well, I don't see why a man cannot own a 
 yacht and still care something about the decent 
 management of his city." 
 
 " There's Mavick in politics." 
 
 " Not exactly. Mavick is in office for what he 
 can make. 'No, I will not say that. No doubt he
 
 190 
 
 is a good civil servant, and we can't expect every- 
 body to be unselfish. At any rate, he is intelligent. 
 Do you remember what Mr. Morgan said last win- 
 ter ?" And Edith lifted herself up on her elbow, as 
 if to add the weight of her attitude to her words, as 
 Jack was still smiling at her earnestness. 
 
 " No ; you said he was a delightful sort of pessi- 
 mist." 
 
 " Mr. Morgan said that the trouble with the gov- 
 erning and legislation now in the United States is 
 that everybody is superficially educated, and that 
 the people are putting their superficial knowledge 
 into laws, and that we are going to have a nice 
 time with all these wild theories and crudities on 
 the statute-book. And then educated people say 
 that politics is so corrupt and absurd that they can- 
 not have anything to do with it." 
 
 " And how far do you think we could get, my 
 dear, in the crusade you propose ?" 
 
 "I don't know that you would get anywhere. 
 Yet I should think the young men of New York 
 could organize its intelligence and do something. 
 But you think I'm nothing but a woman." And 
 Edith sank back, as if abandoning the field. 
 
 " I had thought that ; but it is hard to tell, these 
 days. Never mind, when we go back to town I'll 
 stir round ; you'll see." 
 
 This was an unusual sort of talk. Jack had never 
 heard Edith break out in this direction before, and
 
 191 
 
 he wondered if many women were beginning to 
 think of men in this way, as cowardly about their 
 public duties. Not many in his set, he was sure. 
 If Edith had urged him to go into Neighborhood 
 Guild work, he could have understood that. Women 
 and ethical cranks were interested in that. And 
 women were getting queerer every day, beginning, 
 as Mavick said, to take notice. However, it was 
 odd, when you thought over it, that the city should 
 be ruled by the slums. 
 
 It was easy to talk about these things ; in fact, 
 Jack talked a great deal about them in the clubs, 
 and occasionally with a knot of men after dinner 
 in a knowing, pessimistic sort of way. Sometimes 
 the discussions were very animated and even noisy 
 between these young citizens. It seemed, some- 
 times, about midnight, that something might be 
 done ; but the resolution vanished next morning 
 when another day, to be lived through, confronted 
 them. They illustrated the great philosophic ob- 
 servation that it is practically impossible for an idle 
 man who has nothing to do to begin anything to- 
 day. 
 
 To do Jack justice, this enforced detention in the 
 country he did not find dull exactly. To be sure it 
 was vacation-time, and his whole life was a vaca- 
 tion, and summer was rather more difficult to dis- 
 pose of than winter, for one had to make more of 
 an effort to amuse himself. But Edith was never
 
 192 
 
 more charming than in this new dependence, and 
 all his love and loyalty were evoked in caring for 
 her. This was occupation enough, even if he had 
 been the busiest man in the world to watch over 
 her, to read to her, to anticipate her fancies, to live 
 with her in that dream of the future which made 
 life seem almost ideal. There came a time when he 
 looked back upon this month at the Golden House 
 as the happiest in his life. 
 
 The talk about an occupation was not again re- 
 ferred to. Edith seemed entirely happy to have 
 Jack with her, more entirely her own than he had 
 ever been, and to have him just as he was. And yet 
 he knew, by a sure instinct, that she saw him as 
 she thought he would be, with some aim and pur- 
 pose in life. And he made many good resolutions. 
 
 That which was nearest him attracted him most, 
 and very feeble now were the allurements of the 
 life and the company he had just left. Not that 
 he would break with it exactly ; it was not neces- 
 sary to do that ; but he would find something to 
 do, something worth a man's doing, or, at any rate, 
 some occupation that should tax his time and his 
 energies. That, he knew, would make Edith hap- 
 py, and to make her happy seemed now very much 
 like a worthy object in life. She was so magnani- 
 mous, so unsuspicious, so full of all nobility. He 
 knew she would stand by him whatever happened. 
 Down here her attitude to life was no longer a
 
 rebuke to him nor a restraint upon him. Every- 
 thing seemed natural and wholesome. Perhaps his 
 vanity was touched, for there must be something in 
 him if such a woman could love him. And prob- 
 ably there was, though he himself had never yet 
 had a chance to find it out. Brought up in the ex- 
 pectation of a fortune, bred to idleness as others 
 are to industry, his highest ambition having been 
 to amuse himself creditably and to take life easily, 
 what was to hinder his being one of the multitude 
 of "good-for-nothings" in our modern life? If 
 there had been war, he had spirit enough to carry 
 him into it, and it would have surprised no one to 
 hear that Jack had joined an exploring expedition 
 to the North Pole or the highlands of Central Asia. 
 Something uncommon he might do if opportunity 
 offered. 
 
 About his operations with Henderson he had 
 never told Edith, and he did not tell her now. 
 Perhaps she divined it, and he rather wondered 
 that she had never asked him about his increased 
 expenditures, his yacht, and all that. He used to 
 look at her steadily at times, as if he were trying 
 to read the secrets of her heart. 
 
 " "What are you looking at, Jack ?" 
 
 "To see if I can find out how much you know, 
 you look so wise." 
 
 " Do I ? I was just thinking about you. I sup- 
 pose that made me look so." 
 
 13
 
 194 
 
 " No ; about life and the world generally." 
 " Mighty little, Jack, except well, I study you." 
 " Do you ? Then you'll presently lose your 
 mind." 
 
 Jack and most men have little idea that they are 
 windows through which their wives see the world ; 
 and how much more of the world they know in 
 that way than men usually suspect or wives ever 
 teU! 
 
 He did not tell her about Henderson, but he al- 
 most resolved that when his present venture was 
 over he would let stocks alone as speculations, and 
 go into something that he could talk about to his 
 wife as he talked about stocks to Carmen. 
 
 From the stranded mariners at Bar Harbor Cap- 
 tain Jack had many and facetious letters. They 
 wanted to know if his idea was that they should 
 stick by the yacht until he got leisure to resume 
 the voyage, or if he expected them to walk home. 
 He had already given orders to the skipper to 
 patch it up and bring it to New York if possible, 
 and he advised his correspondents to stay by the 
 yacht as long as there was anything in the larder, 
 but if they were impatient, he offered them trans- 
 portation on any vessel that would take able- 
 bodied seamen. He must be excused from com- 
 manding, because he had been assigned to shore 
 duty. Carmen and Miss Tavish wrote that it was 
 unfair to leave them to sustain all the popularity
 
 195 
 
 and notoriety of the shipwreck, and that he owed 
 it to the public to publish a statement, in reply to 
 the insinuations of the newspapers, in regard to the 
 sea-worthiness of the yacht and the object of this 
 voyage. Jack replied that the only object of the 
 voyage was to relieve the tedium of Bar Harbor, 
 and, having accomplished this, he would present the 
 vessel to Miss Tavish if she would navigate it back 
 to the city. 
 
 The golden autumn days by the sea were little 
 disturbed by these echoes of another life, which 
 seemed at the moment to be a very shallow one. 
 Yet the time was not without its undertone of anxie- 
 ties, of grave perils that seemed to sanctify it and 
 heighten its pleasures of hope. Jack saw and com- 
 prehended for the first time in his life the real 
 nature of a pure woman, the depths of tenderness 
 and self-abnegation, the heroism and calm trust 
 and the nobility of an unworldly life. No wonder 
 that he stood a little in awe of it, and days when 
 he wandered down on the beach, with only the 
 waves for company, or sat smoking in the arbor, 
 with an unread book in his hand, his own career 
 seemed petty and empty. Such moods, however, 
 are not uncommon in any life, and are not of 
 necessity fruitful. It need not be supposed that 
 Jack took it too seriously, on the one hand, or, on 
 the other, that a vision of such a woman's soul is 
 ever without influence.
 
 196 
 
 By the end of October they returned to town, 
 Jack, and Edith with a new and delicate attractive- 
 ness, and young Fletcher Delancy the most won- 
 derful and important personage probably who came 
 to town that season. It seemed to Edith that his 
 advent would be universally remarked, and Jack 
 felt relieved when the boy was safely housed out 
 of the public gaze. Yes, to Edith's inexpressible 
 joy it was a boy, and while Jack gallantly said 
 that a girl would have suited him just as well, he 
 was conscious of an increased pride when he an- 
 nounced the sex to his friends. This undervalua- 
 tion of women at the start is one of the mysteries 
 of life. And until women themselves change their 
 point of view, it is to be feared that legislation will 
 not accomplish all that many of them wish. 
 
 " So it is a boy. I congratulate you," was the 
 exclamation of Major Fairfax the first time Jack 
 went down to the Union. 
 
 " I'm glad, Major, to have your approval." 
 
 " Oh, it's what is expected, that's all. For my 
 part, I prefer girls. The announcement of boys is 
 more expensive." 
 
 Jack understood, and it turned out in all the 
 clubs that he had hit upon the most expensive sex 
 in the view of responding to congratulations. 
 
 " It used to seem to me," said the Major, " that I 
 must have a male heir to my estates. But, some- 
 how, as the years go on, I feel more like being an
 
 197 
 
 heir myself. If I had married and had a boy, he 
 would have crowded me out by this time ; whereas, 
 if it had been a girl, I should no doubt have been 
 staying at her place in Lenox this summer instead 
 of being shipwrecked on that desert island. There 
 is nothing, my dear boy, like a girl well invested." 
 
 " You speak with the feelings of a father." 
 
 "I speak, sir, from observation. I look at so- 
 ciety as it is, not as it would be if we had primo- 
 geniture and a landed aristocracy. A daughter 
 under our arrangements is more likely to be a com- 
 fort to her parent in his declining years than a 
 son." 
 
 " But you seem, Major, to have preferred a single 
 life?" 
 
 " Circumstances thank you, just a drop more 
 we are the creatures of circumstances. It is a long 
 story. There were misrepresentation and misun- 
 derstanding. It is true, sir, that at that tune my 
 property was encumbered, but it was not unpro- 
 ductive. She died long ago. I have reason to 
 believe that her married life was not happy. I 
 was hot-blooded in those days, and my honor was 
 touched, but I never blamed her. She was, at 
 twenty, the most beautiful woman in Virginia. I 
 have never seen her equal." 
 
 This was more than the Major had ever revealed 
 about his private life before. He had created an 
 illusion about himself which society accepted, and
 
 in which he lived in apparent enjoyment of metro- 
 politan existence. This was due to a sanguine 
 temperament and a large imagination. And he 
 had one quality that made him a favorite a hearty 
 enjoyment of the prosperity of others. With re- 
 gard to himself, his imagination was creative, and 
 Jack could not now tell whether this " most beau- 
 tiful woman of Virginia" was not evoked by the 
 third glass, about which the Major remarked, as he 
 emptied it, that only this extraordinary occasion 
 could justify such an indulgence at this time of 
 day. 
 
 The courtly old gentleman had inquired about 
 madam indeed, the second glass had been dedi- 
 cated to "mother and child" and he exhibited a 
 friendly and almost paternal interest, as he always 
 did, in Jack. 
 
 " By-the-way," he said, after a silence, " is Hen- 
 derson in town ?" 
 
 " I haven't heard. Why 2" 
 
 " There's been a good deal of uneasiness in the 
 Street as to what he is doing. I hope you haven't 
 got anything depending on him." 
 
 " I've got something in his stocks, if that is what 
 you mean ; but I don't mind telling you I have 
 made something." 
 
 " Well, it's none of my business, only the Hen- 
 derson stocks have gone off a little, as you know." 
 
 Jack knew, and he asked the Major a little ner-
 
 199 
 
 vonsly if he knew anything further. The Major 
 knew nothing except Street rumors. Jack was 
 uneasy, for the Major was a sort of weather - cock, 
 and before he left the club he wrote to Mavick. 
 
 He carried home with him a certain disquiet, to 
 which he had been for months a stranger. Even 
 the sight of Edith, who met him with a happy 
 face, and dragged him away at once to see how 
 lovely the baby looked asleep, could not remove 
 this. It seemed strange that such a little thing 
 should make a change, introduce an alien element 
 into this domestic peace. Jack was like some 
 other men who lose heart not when they are doing 
 a doubtful thing, but when they have to face the 
 consequences cases of misplaced conscience. The 
 peace and content that he had left in the house in 
 the morning seemed to have gone out of it when 
 he returned at night. 
 
 Next day came a reassuring letter from Mavick. 
 Henderson was going on as usual. It was only a 
 little bear movement, which wouldn't amount to 
 anything. Still, day after day, the bears kept 
 clawing down, and Jack watched the stock-list 
 with increasing eagerness. He couldn't decide to 
 sacrifice anything as long as he had a margin of 
 profit. 
 
 In this state of mind it was impossible to con- 
 sider any of the plans he had talked over with 
 Edith before the baby was born. Inquiries he did
 
 200 
 
 make about some sort of position or regular occu- 
 pation, and these he reported to Edith; but his 
 heart was not in it. 
 
 As the days went by there was a little improve- 
 ment in his stocks, and his spirits rose. But this 
 mood was no more favorable than the other for 
 beginning a new life, nor did there seem to be, as 
 he went along, any need of it. He had an appear- 
 ance of being busy every day ; he rose late and 
 went late to bed. It was the old life. Stocks 
 down, there was a necessity of bracing up with 
 whomever he met at any of the three or four clubs 
 in which he lounged in the afternoon ; and stocks 
 up, there was reason for celebrating that fact in 
 the same way. 
 
 It was odd how soon he became accustomed to 
 consider himself and to be regarded as the father 
 of a family. That, also, like his marriage, seemed 
 something done, and in a manner behind him. 
 There was a commonplaceness about the situation. 
 To Edith it was a great event. To Jack it was a 
 mile-stone in life. He was proud of the boy ; he 
 was proud of Edith. " I tell you, fellows," he 
 would say at the club, " it's a great thing," and so 
 on, in a burst of confidence, and he was quite sin- 
 cere in this. But he preferred to be at the club 
 and say these things rather than pass the same 
 hours with his adorable family. He liked to think 
 what he would do for that family what luxuries
 
 he could procure for them, how they should travel 
 and see the world. There wasn't a better father 
 anywhere than Jack at this period. And why 
 shouldn't a man of family amuse himself? Be- 
 cause he was happy in his family he needn't change 
 all the habits of his life. 
 
 Presently he intended to look about him for 
 something to do that would satisfy Edith and fill 
 up his time ; but meantime he drifted on, alter- 
 nately anxious and elated, until the season opened. 
 The Blunts and the Yan Dams and the Chesneys 
 and the Tavishes and Mrs. Henderson had called, 
 invitations had poured in, subscriptions were asked, 
 studies and gayeties were projected, and the real 
 business of life was under way.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 To the nurse of the Delancy boy and to his 
 mother he was by no means an old story or merely 
 an incident of the year. He was an increasing 
 wonder new every morning, and exciting every 
 evening. He was the centre of a world of solic- 
 itude and adoration. It would be scarcely too 
 much to say that his coining into the world prom- 
 ised a new era, and his traits, his likes and dislikes, 
 set a new standard in his court. If he had appre- 
 hended his position his vanity would have out- 
 grown his curiosity about the world, but he dis- 
 played no more consciousness of his royalty than 
 a kicking Infanta of Spain. This was greatly to 
 his credit in the opinion of the nurse, who devoted 
 herself to the baby with that enthusiasm of women 
 for infants which fortunately never fails, and won 
 the heart of Edith by her worship. And how 
 much they found to say about this marvel ! To 
 hear from the nurse, over and over again, what 
 the baby had done and had not done, in a given 
 hour, was to Edith like a fresh chapter out of an 
 exciting romance. 
 
 And the boy's biographer is inclined to think
 
 203 
 
 that he had rare powers of discrimination, for one 
 day when Carmen had called and begged to be per- 
 mitted to go up into the nursery, and had asked to 
 take him in her arms just for a moment, notwith- 
 standing her soft dress and her caressing manner, 
 Fletcher had made a wry face and set up a howl. 
 " How much he looks like his father " (he didn't 
 look like anything), Carmen said, handing him over 
 to the nurse. What she thought was that in man- 
 ner and disposition he was totally unlike Jack 
 Delancy. 
 
 When they came down-stairs, Mrs. Schuyler 
 Blunt was in the drawing-room. 
 
 " I've had such a privilege, Mrs. Blunt, seeing 
 the baby !" cried Carmen, in her sweetest manner. 
 
 " It must have been," that lady rejoined, stiffly. 
 
 Carmen, who hated to be seen through, of all 
 things, did not know whether to resent this or not. 
 But Edith hastened to the rescue of her guest. 
 
 " I think it's a privilege." 
 
 " And you know, Mrs. Blunt," said Carmen, re- 
 covering herself and smiling, " that I must have 
 some excitement this dull season." 
 
 " I see," said Mrs. Blunt, with no relaxation of 
 her manner ; " we are all grateful to Mrs. De- 
 lancy." 
 
 " Mrs. Henderson does herself injustice," Edith 
 again interposed. " I can assure you she has a 
 great talent for domesticity."
 
 204 
 
 Carmen did not much fancy this apology for her, 
 but she rejoined : " Yes, indeed. I'm going to cul- 
 tivate it." 
 
 " How is this privileged person ?" Mrs. Blunt 
 asked. 
 
 " You shall see," said Edith. " I am glad you 
 came, for I wanted very much to consult you. I 
 was going to send for you." 
 
 " "Well, here I am. But I didn't come about the 
 baby. I wanted to consult you. We miss you, 
 dear, every day." And then Mrs. Blunt began to 
 speak about some social and charitable arrange- 
 ments, but stopped suddenly. " I'll see the baby 
 first. Good-morning, Mrs. Henderson." And she 
 left the room. 
 
 Carmen felt as much left out socially as about 
 the baby, and she also rose to go. 
 
 " Don't go," said Edith. " What kind of a sum- 
 mer have you had ?" 
 
 " Oh, very good. Some shipwrecks." 
 
 " And Mr. Henderson ? Is he weU ?" 
 
 " Perfectly. He is away now. Husbands, you 
 know, haven't so much talent for domesticity as 
 we have." 
 
 " That depends," Edith replied, simply, but with 
 that spirit and air of breeding before which Car- 
 men always inwardly felt defeat " that depends 
 very much upon ourselves." 
 
 Naturally, with this absorption in the baby,
 
 205 
 
 Edith was slow to resume her old interests. Of 
 course she knew of the illness of Father Damon, 
 and the nurse, who was from the training-school 
 in which Dr. Leigh was an instructor, and had 
 been selected for this important distinction by the 
 doctor, told her from time to time of affairs on 
 the East Side. Over there the season had opened 
 quite as usual ; indeed, it was always open ; worl* 
 must go on every day, because every day food 
 must be obtained and rent-money earned, and the 
 change from summer to winter was only a climatio 
 increase of hardships. Even an epidemic scare 
 does not essentially vary the daily monotony, which 
 is accepted with a dogged fatality. 
 
 There had been no vacation for Euth Leigh, and 
 she jokingly said, when at length she got a half- 
 hour for a visit to Edith, that she would hardly 
 know what to do with one if she had it. 
 
 " We have got through very well," she added. 
 "We always dread the summer, and we always 
 dread the winter. Science has not yet decided 
 which is the more fatal, decayed vegetables or un- 
 ventilated rooms. City residence gives both a fair 
 chance at the poor." 
 
 " Are not the people learning anything ?" Edith 
 asked. 
 
 " Not much, except to bear it, I am sorry to say. 
 Even Father Damon " 
 
 " Is he at work again ? Do you see him often ?"
 
 206 
 
 " Yes, occasionally," 
 
 " I should so like to see him. But I interrupted 
 you." 
 
 " Well, Father Damon has come to see that noth- 
 ing can be done without organization. The masses" 
 and there was an accent of bitterness in her use 
 of the phrase " must organize and fight for any- 
 thing they want." 
 
 " Does Father Damon join in this ?" 
 
 " Oh, he has always been a member of the Labor 
 League. Now he has been at work with the Epis- 
 copal churches of the city, and got them to agree, 
 when they want workmen for any purpose, to em- 
 ploy only union men." 
 
 " Isn't that," Edith exclaimed, " a surrender of 
 individual rights and a great injustice to men not 
 in the unions ?" 
 
 " You would see it differently if you were in the 
 struggle. If the working-men do not stand by 
 each other, where are they to look for help? 
 What have the Christians of this city done ?" and 
 the little doctor got up and began to pace the 
 room. " Charities ? Yes, little condescending char- 
 ities. And look at the East Side ! Is its condition 
 any better 1 I tell you, Mrs. Delancy, I don't be- 
 lieve in charities in any charities." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Edith, with a smile cal- 
 culated to mollify this vehemence, "that you are 
 a standing refutation of your own theory."
 
 207 
 
 " Me ? No, indeed. I'm paid by the dispensary. 
 And I make my patients pay when they are 
 able." 
 
 " So I have heard," Edith retorted. " Your bills 
 must be a terror to the neighborhood." 
 
 " You may laugh. But I'm establishing a repu- 
 tation over there as a working - woman, and if I 
 have any influence, or do any little good, it's owing 
 to that fact. Do you think they care anything 
 about Father Damon's gospel ?" 
 
 " I should be sorry to think they did not," Edith 
 said, gravely. 
 
 " Well, very little they care. They like the man 
 because they think he shares their feelings, and 
 does not sympathize with them because they are 
 different from him. That is the only kind of gos- 
 pel that is good for anything over there." 
 
 " I don't think Father Damon would agree with 
 you in that." 
 
 " Of course he would not. He's as medieval as 
 any monk. But then he is not blind. He sees 
 that it is never anything but personal influence 
 that counts. Poor fellow," and the doctor's voice 
 softened, "he'll kill himself with his ascetic no- 
 tions. He is trying to take up the burden of this 
 life while struggling under the terror of another." 
 
 " But he must be doing a great deal of good." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. Nothing seems to do much 
 good. But his presence is a great comfort. That
 
 208 
 
 is something. And I'm glad he is going about now 
 rousing opposition to what is, rather than all the 
 time preaching submission to the lot of this life for 
 the sake of a reward somewhere else. That's a 
 gospel for the rich." 
 
 Edith was accustomed to hear Kuth Leigh talk in 
 this bitter strain when this subject was introduced, 
 and she contrived to turn the conversation upon 
 what she called practical work, and then to ask 
 some particulars of Father Damon's sudden illness. 
 
 " He did rest," the doctor said, " for a little, in 
 his way. But he will not spare himself, and he 
 cannot stand it. I wish you could induce him to 
 come here often to do anything for diversion. He 
 looks so worn." 
 
 There was in the appeal to Edith a note of per- 
 sonal interest which her quick heart did not fail to 
 notice. And the thought came to her with a pain- 
 ful apprehension. Poor thing ! Poor Father Da- 
 mon ! Does not each of them have to encounter 
 misery enough without this? Doesn't life spare 
 anybody ? 
 
 She told her apprehension to Jack when he came 
 home. 
 
 Jack gave a long whistle. "That is a dead- 
 lock !" 
 
 " His vows, and her absolute materialism ! Both 
 of them would go to the stake for what they be- 
 lieve, or don't believe. It troubles me very much."
 
 "But," said Jack, "it's interesting. It's what 
 they call a situation. There. I didn't mean to 
 make light of it. I don't believe there is anything 
 in it. But it would be comical, right here in New 
 York." 
 
 " It would be tragical." 
 
 " Comedy usually is. I suppose it's the human 
 nature in it. That is so difficult to get rid of. But I 
 thought the missionary business was safe. Though, 
 do you know, Edith, I should think better of both 
 of them for having some human feeling. By-the- 
 way, did Dr. Leigh say anything about Hender- 
 son ?" 
 
 " No. What ?" 
 
 " He has given Father Damon ten thousand dol- 
 lars. It's in strict secrecy, but Father Damon said 
 I might tell you. He said it was providential." 
 
 " I thought Mr. Henderson was wholly unscru- 
 pulous and cold as ice." 
 
 " Yes, he's got a reputation for freeze-outs. If 
 the Street knew this it would say it was insurance- 
 money. And he is so cynical that he wouldn't 
 care what the Street said." 
 
 " Do you think it came about through Mrs. Hen- 
 derson?" 
 
 " I don't think so. She was speaking of Father 
 Damon this morning in the Loan Exhibition. I 
 don't believe she knows anything about it. Hen* 
 derson is a good deal shut up in himself. They
 
 210 
 
 say at the Union that years ago he used to do a 
 good many generous things that he is a great 
 deal harder than he used to be." 
 
 This talk was before dinner. She did not ask 
 anything now about Carmen, though she knew 
 that Jack had fallen into his old habit of seeing 
 much of her. He was less and less at home, except 
 at dinner-time, and he was often restless, and, she 
 saw, often annoyed. When he was at home he 
 tried to make up for his absence by extra tenderness 
 and consideration for Edith and the boy. And 
 this effort, and its evidence of a double if not di- 
 vided life, wounded her more than the neglect. 
 One night, when he came home late, he had been 
 so demonstrative about the baby that Edith had 
 sent the nurse out of the room until she could coax 
 Jack to go into his own apartment. His fits of 
 alternate good -humor and depression she tried to 
 attribute to his business, to which he occasionally 
 alluded without confiding in her. 
 
 The next morning Father Damon came in about 
 luncheon-time. He apologized for not coming be- 
 fore since her return, but he had been a little upset, 
 and his work was more and more interesting. His 
 eyes were bright and his manner had quite the 
 usual calrn^ but he looked pale and thinner, and so 
 exhausted that Edith ran immediately for a glass 
 of wine, and began to upbraid him for not taking 
 better care of himself.
 
 211 
 
 " I take too much care of myself. "We all do. 
 The only thing I've got to give is myself." 
 
 " But you will not last," 
 
 " That is of little moment ; long or short, a man 
 can only give himself. Our Lord was not here 
 very long." And then Father Damon smiled, and 
 said : " My dear friend, I'm really doing very well. 
 Of course I get tired. Then I come up again. And 
 every now and then I get a lift. Did Jack tell you 
 about Henderson ?" 
 
 " Yes. Wasn't it strange ?" 
 
 " I never was more surprised. He sent for me to 
 come to his office. Without any circumlocution, 
 he asked me how I was getting on, and, before I 
 could answer, he said, in the driest business way, 
 that he had been thinking over a little plan, and 
 perhaps I could help him. He had a little money 
 he wanted to invest 
 
 " ' In our mission chapel ?' I asked. 
 
 " ' No,' he said, without moving a muscle. ' Not 
 that. I don't know much about chapels, Father 
 Damon. But I've been hearing what you are do- 
 ing, and it occurred to me that you must come 
 across a good many cases not in the regular chari- 
 ties that you could help judiciously, get them over 
 hard spots, without encouraging dependence. I'm 
 going to put ten thousand dollars into your hands, 
 if you'll be bothered with it, to use at your dis- 
 cretion.'
 
 212 
 
 " I was taken aback, and I suppose I showed it, 
 and I said that was a great deal of money to in- 
 trust to one man. 
 
 " Henderson showed a little impatience. It de* 
 pended upon the man. That was his lookout. The 
 money would be deposited, he said, in bank to my 
 order, and he asked me for my signature that he 
 could send with the deposit. 
 
 " Of course I thanked him warmly, and said I 
 hoped I could do some good with it. He did not 
 seem to pay much attention to what I was saying. 
 He was looking out of the window to the bare 
 trees in the court back of his office, and his hands 
 were moving the papers on his table aimlessly 
 about. 
 
 " ' I shall know,' he said, * when you have drawn 
 this out. I've got a fancy for keeping a little fund 
 of this sort there.' And then he added, still not 
 looking at me, but at the dead branches, ' You 
 might call it the Margaret Fund.' " 
 
 "That was the name of his first wife!" Edith 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, I remember. I said I would, and began to 
 thank him again as I rose from my chair. He was 
 still looking away, and saying, as if to himself, ' I 
 think she would like that.' And then he turned, 
 and, in his usual abrupt office manner, said : ' Good- 
 morning, good-morning. I am very much obliged 
 to you.' "
 
 213 
 
 " "Wasn't it all very strange !" Edith spoke, after 
 a moment. " I didn't suppose he cared. Do you 
 think it was just sentiment ?" 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder. Men like Henderson do 
 queer things. In the hearts of such hardened men 
 there are sometimes roots of sentiment that you 
 wouldn't suspect. But I don't know. The Lord 
 somehow looks out for his poor." 
 
 Notwithstanding this windfall of charity, Father 
 Damon seemed somewhat depressed. "I wish," 
 he sa"id, after a pause, " he had given it to the mis- 
 sion. ATe are so poor, and modern philanthropy 
 all runs in other directions. The relief of tempo- 
 rary suffering has taken the place of the care of 
 souls." 
 
 "But Dr. Leigh said that you were interesting 
 the churches in the labor unions." 
 
 "Yes. It is an effort to do something. The 
 church must put herself into sympathetic relations 
 with these people, or she will accomplish nothing. 
 To get them into the church we must take up their 
 burdens. But it is a long way round. It is not 
 the old method of applying the gospel to men's 
 sins." 
 
 "And yet," Edith insisted, "you must admit 
 that such people as Dr. Leigh are doing a good 
 work." 
 
 Father Damon did not reply immediately. Pres- 
 ently he asked : " Do you think, Mrs. Delancj^, that
 
 214 
 
 Dr. Leigh has any sympathy with the higher life, 
 with spiritual things ? I wish I could think so." 
 " With the higher life of humanity, certainly." 
 " Ah, that is too vague. I sometimes feel that 
 she and those like her are the worst opponents to 
 our work. They substitute humanitarianism for 
 the gospel." 
 
 " Yet I know of no one who works more than 
 Ruth Leigh in the self-sacrificing spirit of the 
 Master." 
 
 " "Whom she denies !" The quick reply came 
 with a flush in his pale face, and he instantly arose 
 and walked away to the window and stood for 
 some moments in silence. When he turned there 
 was another expression in his eyes and a note of 
 tenderness in his voice that contradicted the se- 
 verity of the priest. It was the man that spoke. 
 " Yes, she is the best woman I ever knew. God 
 help me ! I fear I am not fit for my work." 
 
 This outburst of Father Damon to her, so unlike 
 his calm and trained manner, surprised Edith, al- 
 though she had already some suspicion of his state 
 of mind. But it would not have surprised her if 
 she had known more of men, the necessity of the 
 repressed and tortured soul for sympathy, and that 
 it is more surely to be found in the heart of a pure 
 woman than elsewhere. 
 
 But there was nothing that she could say, as she 
 took his hand to bid him good-by, except the com-
 
 215 
 
 monplace that Dr. Leigh had expressed anxiety 
 that he was overworking, and that for the sake 
 of his work he must be more prudent. Yet her 
 eyes expressed the sympathy she did not put in 
 words. 
 
 Father Damon understood this, and he went 
 away profoundly grateful for her forbearance of 
 verbal expression as much as for her sympathy. 
 But he did not suspect that she needed sympathy 
 quite as much as he did, and consequently he did 
 not guess the extent of her self-control. It would 
 have been an immense relief to have opened her 
 heart to him and to whom could she more safely 
 do this than to a priest set apart from all human 
 entanglements ? and to have asked his advice. But 
 Edith's peculiar strength or was it the highest 
 womanly instinct? lay in her discernment of the 
 truth that in one relation of life no confidences are 
 possible outside of that relation except to its injury, 
 and that to ask interference is pretty sure to seal 
 its failure. As its highest joys cannot be partici- 
 pated in, so its estrangements cannot be healed by 
 any influence outside of its sacred compact. To 
 give confidence outside is to destroy the mutual 
 confidence upon which the relation rests, and though 
 interference may patch up livable compromises, the 
 bloom of love and the joy of life are not in them. 
 Edith knew that if she could not win her own bat- 
 tle, no human aid could win it for her.
 
 216 
 
 And it was all the more difficult because it was 
 vague and indefinite, as the greater part of domes- 
 tic tragedies are. For the most part life goes on 
 with external smoothness, and the public always 
 professes surprise when some accident, a suit at law, 
 a sudden death, a contested will, a slip from appar- 
 ent integrity, or family greed or feminine revenge, 
 turns the light of publicity upon a household, to 
 find how hollow the life has been ; in the light of 
 forgotten letters, revealing check - books, servants' 
 gossip, and long-established habits of aversion or 
 forbearance, how much sordidness and meanness ! 
 
 Was not everything going on as usual in the 
 Delancy house and in the little world of which it 
 was a part? If there had been any open neglect 
 or jealousy, any quarrel or rupture, or any scene, 
 these could be described. These would have an in- 
 terest to the biographer and perhaps to the public. 
 But at this period there was nothing of this sort 
 to tell. There were no scenes. There were no 
 protests or remonstrances or accusations, nor to the 
 world was there any change in the daily life of 
 these two. 
 
 It was more pitiful even than that. Here was a 
 woman who had set her heart in all the passionate 
 love of a pure ideal, and day by day she felt that 
 the world, the frivolous world, with its low and 
 selfish aims, was too strong for her, and that the 
 stream was wrecking her life because it was bear-
 
 217 
 
 ing Jack away from her. What could one woman 
 do against the accepted demoralizations of her so- 
 cial life ? To go with them, not to care, to accept 
 Jack's idle, good - natured, easy philosophy of life 
 and conduct, would not that have insured a peace- 
 ful life? Why shouldn't she conform and float, 
 and not mind ? 
 
 To be sure, a wise woman, who has been blessed 
 or cursed with a long experience of life, would have 
 known that such a course could not forever, or for 
 long, secure happiness, and that a man's love ulti- 
 mately must rest upon a profound respect for his 
 wife and a belief in her nobility. Perhaps Edith 
 did not reason in this way. Probably it was her 
 instinct for what was pure and true showing, in- 
 deed, the quality of her love that guided her. 
 
 To Jack's friends he was much the same as usual. 
 He simply went on in his ante -marriage ways. 
 Perhaps he drank a little more, perhaps he was a 
 little more reckless at cards, and it was certain that 
 his taste for amusing himself in second-hand book- 
 shops and antiquity collections had weakened. 
 His talked-of project for some regular occupation 
 seemed to have been postponed, although he said 
 to himself that it was only postponed until his 
 speculations, which kept him in a perpetual fever, 
 should put him in a position to command a busi- 
 
 Meantime he did not neglect social life that is,
 
 218 
 
 the easy, tolerant company which lived as he liked 
 to live. There was at first some pretence of declin- 
 ing invitations which Edith could not accept, but 
 he soon fell into the habit of a man whose family 
 has temporarily gone abroad, with the privileges 
 of a married man, without the responsibilities of a 
 bachelor. Edith could see that he took great credit 
 to himself for any evenings he spent at home, and 
 perhaps he had a sort of support in the idea that 
 he was sacrificing himself to his family. Major 
 Fairfax, whom Edith distrusted as a misleader of 
 youth, did not venture to interfere with Jack again, 
 but he said to himself that it was a blank shame 
 that with such a wife he should go dangling about 
 with women like Carmen and Miss Tavish, not that 
 the Major himself had any objection to their soci- 
 ety, but, hang it all, that was no reason why Jack 
 should be a fool. 
 
 In midwinter Jack went to Washington on busi- 
 ness. It was necessary to see Mavick, and Mr. 
 Henderson, who was also there. To spend a few 
 weeks at the capital, in preparation for Lent, has 
 become a part of the programme of fashion. There 
 can be met people like-minded from all parts of 
 the Union, and there is gayety, and the entertain- 
 ment to be had in new acquaintances, without in- 
 curring any of the responsibilities of social contin- 
 uance. They meet there on neutral ground. Half 
 Jack's set had gone over or were going. Young
 
 219 
 
 Van Dam would go with him. It will be only for 
 a few days, Jack had said, gayly, when he bade 
 Edith good-by, and she must be careful not to let 
 the boy forget him. 
 
 It was quite by accident, apparently, that in the 
 same train were the Chesneys, Miss Tavish, and 
 Carmen going over to join her husband. This gave 
 the business expedition the air of an excursion. 
 And indeed at the hotel where they stayed this Xew 
 York contingent made something of an impression, 
 promising an addition to the gayety of the season, 
 and contributing to the importance of the house as 
 a centre of fashion. Henderson's least movements 
 were alwa\ r s chronicled and speculated on, and for 
 years he had been one of the stock subjects, out of 
 which even the dullest interviewers, who watch 
 the hotel registers in all parts of the country, felt 
 sure that they could make an acceptable paragraph. 
 The arrival of his wife, therefore, was a newspaper 
 event. 
 
 They said in Washington at the time that Mrs. 
 Henderson was one of the most fascinating of 
 women, amiable, desirous to please, approachable, 
 and devoted to the interests of her husband. If 
 some of the women, residents in established so- 
 ciety, were a little shy of her, if some, indeed, 
 thought her dangerous women are always think- 
 ing this of each other, and surely they ought to 
 know nothing of this appeared in the reports.
 
 220 
 
 The men liked her. She had so much vivacity, 
 such esprit, she understood men so well, and the 
 world, and could make allowances, and was always 
 an entertaining companion. More than one Sen- 
 ator paid marked court to her, more than one brill- 
 iant young fellow of the House thought himself 
 fortunate if he sat next her at dinner, and even 
 cabinet officers waited on her at supper. It could 
 not be doubted that a smile and a confidential or 
 a witty remark from Mrs. Henderson brightened 
 many an evening. "Wherever she went her charm- 
 ing toilets were fully described, and the public 
 knew as well as her jewellers the number and cost 
 of her diamonds, her necklaces, her tiaras. But 
 this was for the world and for state occasions. At 
 home she liked simplicity. And this was what im- 
 pressed the reporters when, in the -line of their 
 public duty, they were admitted to her presence. 
 "With them she was very affable, and she made 
 them feel that they could almost be classed with 
 her friends, and that they were her guardians 
 against the vulgar publicity, which she disliked 
 and shrank from. 
 
 There went abroad, therefore, an impression of 
 her amiability, her fabulous wealth in jewels and 
 apparel, her graciousness and her cleverness and 
 her domesticity. Her manners seemed to the re- 
 porters those of a " lady," and of this both her wit 
 and freedom from prudishness and her courteous
 
 221 
 
 treatment of them convinced them. And the best 
 of all this was that while it was said that Hender- 
 son was one of the boldest and shrewdest of oper- 
 ators, and a man to be feared in the Street, he was 
 in his family relations one of the most generous 
 and kind-hearted of men. 
 
 Henderson himself had not much time for the 
 frivolities of the season, and he evaded all but the 
 more conspicuous social occasions, at which Car- 
 men, sometimes with a little temper, insisted that 
 he should accompany her. "You would come 
 here," he once said, "when you knew I was im- 
 mersed in most perplexing business." 
 
 " And now I am here," she had replied, in a tone 
 equally wanting in softness, " you have got to make 
 the best of me." 
 
 "Was Jack happy in the whirl he was in ? Some 
 days exceedingly so. Some days he sulked, and 
 some days he threw himself with recklessness born 
 of artificial stimulants into the always gay and rat- 
 tling moods of Miss Tavish. Somehow he could 
 get no nearer to Henderson or to Mavick than when 
 he was in New York. Not that he could accuse 
 Mavick of trying to conceal anything; Mavick 
 bore to him always the open, " all right " attitude, 
 but there were things that he did not understand. 
 
 And then Carmen? Was she a little less de- 
 pendent on him, in this wide horizon, than in New 
 York? And had he noticed a little disposition to
 
 patronize on two or three occasions ? It was ab- 
 surd. He laughed at himself for such an idea. 
 ' Old Eschelle's daughter patronize him ! And yet 
 there was something. She was very confidential 
 with Mavick. They seemed to have a great deal 
 in common. It so happened that even in the little 
 expeditions of sight-seeing these two were thrown 
 much together, and at times when the former rela- 
 tions of Jack and Carmen should have made them 
 comrades. They had a good deal to say to each 
 other, and momentarily evidently serious things, 
 and at receptions Jack had interrupted their glances 
 of intelligence. But what stuff this was ! He jeal- 
 ous of the attentions of his friend to another man's 
 wife ! If she was a coquette, what did it matter 
 to him? Certainly he was not jealous. But he 
 was irritated. 
 
 One day after a round of receptions, in which 
 Jack had been specially disgruntled, and when he 
 was alone in the drawing-room of the hotel with 
 Carmen, his manner was so positively rude to her 
 that she could not but notice it. There was this 
 trait of boyishness in Jack, and it was one of the 
 weaknesses that made him loved, that he always 
 cried out when he was hurt. 
 
 Did Carmen resent this ? Did she upbraid him 
 for his manner ? Did she apologize, as if she had 
 done anything to provoke it? She sank down 
 wearily in a chair and said :
 
 " I'm so tired. I wish I were back in New 
 Tork." 
 
 " You don't act like it," Jack replied, gruffly. 
 
 "No. You don't understand. And now you 
 want to make me more miserable. See here, Mr. 
 Delancy," and she started up in her seat and turned 
 to him, " you are a man of honor. Would you ad- 
 vise me to make an enemy of Mr. Mavick, know- 
 ing all that he does know about Mr. Henderson's 
 affairs." 
 
 " I don't see what that has got to do with it," 
 said Jack, wavering. " Lately your manner " 
 
 " Nonsense !" cried Carmen, springing up and ap- 
 proaching Jack with a smile of animation and 
 trust, and laying her hand on his shoulder. " We 
 are old, old friends. And I have just confided to 
 you what I wouldn't to any other living being. 
 There !" And looking around at the door, she 
 tapped him lightly on the cheek and ran out of 
 the room. 
 
 Whatever you might say of Carmen, she had 
 this quality of a wise person, that she never cut 
 herself loose from one situation until she was en- 
 tirely sure of a better position. 
 
 For one reason or another Jack's absence was 
 prolonged. He wrote often, he made bright com- 
 ments on the characters and peculiarities of the 
 capital, and he said that he was tired to death of 
 the everlasting whirl and scuffle. People plunged
 
 224 
 
 in the social whirlpool always say they are weary 
 of it, and they complain bitterly of its exactions 
 and its tax on their time and strength. Edith 
 judged, especially from the complaints, that her 
 husband was enjoying himself. She felt also that 
 his letters were in a sense perfunctory, and gave 
 her only the surface of his life. She sought in 
 vain in them for those evidences of spontaneous 
 love, of delight in writing to her of all persons in 
 the world, the eagerness of the lover that she re- 
 called in letters written in other days. However 
 affectionate in expression, these were duty letters. 
 Edith was not alone. She had no lack of friends, 
 who came and went in the common round of so- 
 cial exchange, and for many of them she had a 
 sincere affection. And there were plenty of rela- 
 tives on the father's and on the mother's side. But 
 for the most part they were old-fashioned, home- 
 keeping New-Yorkers, who wefe sufficient to them- 
 selves, and cared little for the set into which 
 Edith's marriage had more definitely placed her. 
 In any real trouble she would not have lacked 
 support. She was deemed fortunate in her mar- 
 riage, and in her apparent serene prosperity it was 
 believed that she was happy. If she had had 
 mother or sister or brother, it is doubtful if she 
 would have made either a confidant of her anxi- 
 eties, but high-spirited and self-reliant as she was, 
 there were days when she longed with intolerable
 
 225 
 
 heartache for the silent sympathy of a mother's 
 presence. 
 
 It is singular how lonely a woman of this nature 
 can be in a gay and friendly world. She had her 
 interests, to be sure. As she regained her strength 
 she took up her social duties, and she tried to re- 
 sume her studies, her music, her reading, and she 
 occupied herself more and more with the charities 
 and the fortunes of her friends who were giving their 
 lives to altruistic work. But there was a sense of 
 unreality in all this. The real thing was the soul 
 within, the longing, loving woman whose heart 
 was heavy and unsatisfied. Jack was so lovable, 
 he had in his nature so much nobility, if the world 
 did not kill it, her life might be so sweet, and so 
 completely fulfil her girlish dreams. All these 
 schemes of a helpful, altruistic life had been in her 
 dream, but how empty it was without the mutual 
 confidence, the repose in the one human love for 
 which she cared. 
 
 Though she was not alone, she had no confidant. 
 She could have none. What was there to confide ? 
 There was nothing to be done. There was no 
 flagrant wrong or open injustice. Some women 
 in like circumstances become bitter and cynical. 
 Others take their revenge in a career reckless, but 
 within social conventions, going their own way in 
 a sort of matrimonial truce. These are not notice- 
 able tragedies. They are things borne with a dumb 
 
 15
 
 ache of the heart. There are lives into which the 
 show of spring comes, but without the song of 
 birds or the scent of flowers. They are endured 
 bravely, with a heroism for which the world does 
 not often give them credit. Heaven only knows 
 how many noble women noble in this if in noth- 
 ing else carry through life this burden of an un- 
 satisfied heart, mocked by the outward convention 
 of love. 
 
 But Edith had one confidant the boy. And 
 he was perfectly safe ; he would reveal nothing. 
 There were times when he seemed to understand, 
 and whether he did or not she poured out her heart 
 to him. Often in the twilight she sat by him in 
 this silent communion. If he were asleep and he 
 was not troubled with insomnia he was still com- 
 pany. And when he was awake, his efforts to 
 communicate the dawning ideas of the queer world 
 into which he had come were a never-failing de- 
 light. He wanted so many more things than he 
 could ask for, which it was his mother's pleasure 
 to divine ; later on he would ask for so many 
 things he could not get. The nurse said that he 
 had uncommon strength of will. 
 
 These were happy hours, imagining what the 
 boy would be, planning what she would make 
 his life, hours enjoyed as a traveller enjoys 
 way -side flowers, snatched before an approach- 
 ing storm. It is a pity, the nurse would say, that
 
 227 
 
 his father cannot see him now. And at the 
 thought Edith could only see the child through 
 tears, and a great weight rested on her heart in all 
 this happiness.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WHEN Father Damon parted from Edith he 
 seemed to himself strengthened in his spirit. His 
 momentary outburst had shown him where he 
 stood the strength of his fearful temptation. To 
 see it was to be able to conquer it. He would hu- 
 miliate himself ; he would scourge himself ; he 
 would fast and pray ; he would throw himself more 
 unreservedly into the service of his Master. He 
 had been too compromising with sin and sinners, 
 and with his own weakness and sin, the worst of 
 all. 
 
 The priest walked swiftly through the wintry 
 streets, welcoming as a sort of penance the biting 
 frost which burned his face and penetrated his gar- 
 ments. He little heeded the passers in the streets, 
 those who hurried or those who loitered, only, if 
 he met or passed a woman or a group of girls, he 
 instinctively drew himself away and walked more 
 rapidly. He strode on uncompromisingly, and his 
 clean-shaved face was set in rigid lines. Those who 
 saw him pass would have said that there went an 
 ascetic bent on judgment. Many who did know 
 him, and who ordinarily would have saluted him,
 
 sure of a friendly greeting, were repelled by his 
 stern face and determined air, and made no sign. 
 The father had something on his mind. 
 
 As he turned into Bivington Street there ap- 
 proached him from the opposite direction a girl, 
 walking slowly and undecidedly. When he came 
 near her she looked up, with an appealing recogni- 
 tion. In a flash of the quick passing he thought 
 he knew her a girl who had attended his mission 
 and whom he had not seen for several months 
 but he made no sign and passed on. 
 
 " Father Damon !" 
 
 He turned about short at the sound of the weak, 
 pleading voice, but with no relaxation of his severe, 
 introverted mood. " Well 2" 
 
 It was the girl he remembered. She wore a dress 
 of silk that had once been fine, and over it an am- 
 ple cloak that had quite lost its freshness, and a 
 hat still gay with cheap flowers. Her face, which 
 had a sweet and almost innocent expression, was 
 drawn and anxious. The eyes were those of a 
 troubled and hunted animal. 
 
 " I thought," she said, hesitatingly, " you didn't 
 know me." 
 
 " Yes, I know you. Why haven't you been at 
 the mission lately ?" 
 
 " I couldn't come. I " 
 
 " I'm afraid you have fallen into bad ways." 
 
 She did not answer immediately. She looked
 
 away, and, still avoiding his gaze, said, timidly : " I 
 thought I would tell you, Father Damon, that I'm 
 that I'm in trouble. I don't know what to do." 
 
 "Have you repented of your sin?" asked he, 
 with a little softening of his tone. " Did you want 
 to come to me for help ?" 
 
 " He's deserted me," said the girl, looking down, 
 absorbed in her own misery, and not heeding his 
 question. 
 
 " Ah, so that is what you are sorry for ?" The 
 severe, reproving tone had come back to his voice. 
 
 "And they don't want me in the shop any 
 more." 
 
 The priest hesitated. Was he always to preach 
 against sin, to strive to extirpate it, and yet always 
 to make it easy for the sinner? This girl must 
 realize her guilt before he could do her any good. 
 " Are you sorry for what you have done ?" 
 
 " Yes, I'm sorry," she replied. Wasn't to be in 
 deep trouble to be sorry ? And then she looked 
 up, and continued with the thought in her mind, 
 " I didn't know who else to go to." 
 
 " Well, my child, if you are sorry, and want to 
 lead a different life, come to me at the mission and 
 I will try to help you." 
 
 The priest, with a not unkindly good-by, passed 
 on. The girl stood a moment irresolute, and then 
 went on her way heavily and despondent. What 
 good would it do her to go to the mission now ?
 
 231 
 
 Three days later Dr. Leigh was waiting at the 
 mission chapel to speak with the rector after the 
 vesper service. He came out pale and weary, and 
 the doctor hesitated to make known her errand 
 when she saw how exhausted he was. 
 
 " Did you wish me for anything ?" he asked, 
 after the rather forced greeting. 
 
 " If you feel able. There is a girl at the Woman's 
 Hospital who wants to see you." 
 
 " Who is it ?" 
 
 " It is the girl you saw on the street the other 
 afternoon ; she said she had spoken to you." 
 
 " She promised to come to the mission." 
 
 " She couldn't. I met the poor thing the same 
 afternoon. She looked so aimless and forlorn that, 
 though I did not remember her .at first, I thought 
 she might be ill, and spoke to her, and asked her 
 what was the matter. At first she said nothing 
 except that she was out of work and felt miser- 
 able ; but the next moment she broke down com- 
 pletely, and said she hadn't a friend in the world." 
 
 " Poor thing !" said the priest, with a pang of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 " There was nothing to do but to take her to the 
 hospital, and there she has been." 
 
 "Is she very ill?" 
 
 " She may live, the house surgeon says. But she 
 was very weak for such a trial." 
 
 Little more was said as they walked along, and
 
 232 
 
 when they reached the hospital, Father Damon was 
 shown without delay into the ward where the sick 
 girl lay. Dr. Leigh turned back from the door, and 
 the nurse took him to the bedside. She lay quite 
 still in her cot, wan and feeble, with every sign of 
 having encountered a supreme peril. 
 
 She turned her head on the low pillow as Father 
 Damon spoke, saying he was very glad he could 
 come to her, and hoped she was feeling better. 
 
 " I knew you would come," she said, feebly. 
 " The nurse says I'm better. But I wanted to tell 
 you : And she stopped. 
 
 " Yes, I know," he said. " The Lord is very 
 good. He will forgive all your sins now, if you 
 repent and trust Him." 
 
 " I hope " she began. " I'm so weak. If I 
 don't live I want him to know." 
 
 " Want whom to know ?" asked the father, bend- 
 ing over her. 
 
 She signed for him to come closer, and then 
 whispered a name. 
 
 " Only if I never see him again, if you see him, 
 you will tell him that I was always true to him. 
 He said such hard words. I was always true." 
 
 " I promise," said the father, much moved. " But 
 now, my child, you ought to think of yourself, of 
 your" 
 
 " He is dead. Didn't they tell you ? There is 
 nothing any more."
 
 233 
 
 The nurse approached with a warning gesture 
 that the interview was too prolonged. 
 
 Father Damon knelt for a moment by the bed- 
 side, uttering a hardly articulate prayer. The 
 girl's eyes were closed. When he rose she opened 
 them with a look of gratitude, and with the sign of 
 blessing he turned away. 
 
 He intended to hasten from the house. He 
 wanted to be alone. His trouble seemed to him 
 greater than that of the suffering girl. What had 
 he done? What was he in thought better than 
 she? Was this intruding human element always 
 to cross the purpose of his spiritual life ? 
 
 As he was passing through the wide hallway 
 the door of the reception-room was open, and he 
 saw Dr. Leigh seated at the table, with a piece of 
 work in her hands. She looked up, and stopped 
 him with an unspoken inquiry in her face. It was 
 only civil to pause a moment and tell her about the 
 patient, and as he stepped within the room she rose. 
 
 " You should rest a moment, Father Damon. I 
 know what these scenes are." 
 
 Yielding weakly, as he knew, he took the offered 
 chair. But he raised his hand in refusal of the 
 glass of wine which she had ready for him on the 
 table, and offered before he could speak. 
 
 " But you must," she said, with a smile. " It is 
 the doctor's prescription." 
 
 She did not look like a doctor. She had laid
 
 234 
 
 aside the dusty walking-dress, the business-jacket, 
 the ugly little hat of felt, the battered reticule. In 
 her simple house costume she was the woman, 
 homelike, sympathetic, gentle, with the everlast- 
 ing appeal of the strong feminine nature. It was 
 not a temptress who stood before him, but a help- 
 ful woman, in whose kind eyes how beautiful they 
 were in this moment of sympathy there was trust 
 and rest and peace. 
 
 " So," she said, when he had taken the much- 
 needed draught ; " in the hospital you must obey 
 the rules, one of which is to let no one sink in ex- 
 haustion." 
 
 She had taken her seat now, and resumed her 
 work. Father Damon was looking at her, seeing 
 the woman, perhaps, as he never had seen her be- 
 fore, a certain charm in her quiet figure and modest 
 self-possession, while the thought of her life, of her 
 labors, as he had seen her now for months and 
 months of entire sacrifice of self, surged through 
 his brain in a whirl of emotion that seemed sweep- 
 ing him away. But when he spoke it was of the 
 girl, and as if to himself. 
 
 " I was sorry to let her go that day. Friendless, 
 I should have known. I did know. I should have 
 felt. You" 
 
 " No," she said, gently, interrupting him ; " that 
 was my business. You should not accuse yourself. 
 It was a physician's business."
 
 235 
 
 "Yes, a physician the great Physician. The 
 Master never let the sin hinder his compassion for 
 the sinner." 
 
 To this she could make no reply. Presently she 
 looked up and said : " But I am sure your visit was 
 a great comfort to the poor girl ! She was very 
 eager to see you." 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 His air was still abstracted. He was hardly 
 thinking of the girl, after all, but of himself, of the 
 woman who sat before him. It seemed to him 
 that he would have given the world to escape to 
 fly from her, to fly from himself. Some invisible 
 force held him a strong, new, and yet not new, 
 emotion, a power that seemed to clutch his very 
 life. He could not think clearly about it. In all 
 his discipline, in his consecration, in his vows of 
 separation from the world, there seemed to have 
 been no shield prepared for this. The human as- 
 serted itself, and came in, overwhelming his guards 
 and his barriers like a strong flood in the spring- 
 time of the year, breaking down all artificial con- 
 trivances. " They reckon ill who leave me out," 
 is the everlasting cry of the human heart, the great 
 passion of life, incarnate in the first man and the 
 first woman. 
 
 "With a supreme effort of his iron will is the 
 "Will, after all, stronger than Love? Father Damon 
 arose. He stretched out his hand to say farewell.
 
 She also stood, and she felt the hand tremble that 
 held hers. 
 
 " God bless you !" he said. " You are so good." 
 
 He was going. He took her other hand, and 
 was looking down upon her face. She looked up, 
 and their eyes met. It was for an instant, a flash, 
 glance for glance, as swift as the stab of daggers. 
 
 All the power of heaven and earth could not 
 recall that glance nor undo its revelations. The 
 man and the woman stood face to face revealed. 
 
 He bent down towards her face. Affrighted by 
 his passion, scarcely able to stand in her sudden 
 emotion, she started back. The action, the instant 
 of time, recalled him to himself. He dropped her 
 hands, and was gone. And the woman, her knees 
 refusing any longer to support her, sank into a 
 chair, helpless, and saw him go, and knew in that 
 moment the height of a woman's joy, the depth of 
 a woman's despair. 
 
 It had come to her! Steeled by her science, 
 shielded by her philanthropy, schooled in indiffer- 
 ence to love, it had come to her ! And 'it was 
 hopeless. Hopeless? It was absurd. Her life 
 was determined. In no event could it be in har- 
 mony with his opinions, with his religion, which 
 was dearer to him than life. There was a great 
 gulf between them which she could not pass unless 
 she ceased to be herself. And he? A severe priest! 
 Vowed and consecrated against human passion !
 
 237 
 
 What a government of the world if there were 
 any government that could permit such a thing ! 
 It was terrible. 
 
 And yet she was loved ! That sang in her heart 
 with all the pain, with all the despair. And with 
 it all was a great pity for him, alone, gone into the 
 wilderness, as it would seem to him, to struggle 
 with his fierce temptation. 
 
 It had come on darker as she sat there. The 
 lamps were lighted, and she was reminded of some 
 visits she must make. She went, mechanically, to 
 her room to prepare for going. The old jacket, 
 which she took up, did look rather rusty. She went 
 to the press it was not much of a wardrobe and 
 put on the one that was reserved for holidays. And 
 the hat ? Her friends had often joked her about 
 the hat, but now for the first time she seemed to 
 see it as it might appear to others. As she held it 
 in her hand, and then put it on before the mirror, 
 she smiled a little, faintly, at its appearance. And 
 then she laid it aside for her better hat. She never 
 had been so long in dressing before. And in the 
 evening, too, when it could make no difference ! 
 It might, after all, be a little more cheerful for her 
 forlorn patients. Perhaps she was not conscious 
 that she was making selections, that she was pay- 
 ing a little more attention to her toilet than usual. 
 Perhaps it was only the woman who was conscious 
 that she was loved.
 
 It would be difficult to say what emotion was 
 uppermost in the mind of Father Damon as he left 
 the house mortification, contempt of himself, or 
 horror. But there was a sense of escape, of physi- 
 cal escape, and the imperative need of it, that 
 quickened his steps almost into a run. In the in- 
 creasing dark, at this hour, in this quarter of the 
 town, there were comparatively few whose obser- 
 vation of him would recall him to himself. He 
 thought only of escape, and of escape from that 
 quarter of the city that was the witness of his la- 
 bors and his failure. For the moment to get away 
 from this was the one necessity, and without rea- 
 soning in the matter, only feeling, he was hurry- 
 ing, stumbling in his haste, northward. Before he 
 went to the hospital he had been tired, physically 
 weary. He was scarcely conscious of it now ; in- 
 deed, his body, his hated body, seemed lighter, and 
 the dominant spirit now awakened to contempt of 
 it had a certain pleasure in testing it, in drawing 
 upon its vitality, to the point of exhaustion if pos- 
 sible. It should be seen which was master. 
 
 His rapid pace presently brought him into one 
 of the great avenues leading to Harlem. That 
 was the direction he wished to go. That was 
 where he knew, without making any decision, he 
 must go, to the haven of the house of his order, on 
 the heights beyond Harlem. A train was just 
 clattering along on the elevated road above him.
 
 239 
 
 He could see the faces at the windows, the black 
 masses crowding the platforms. It went pounding 
 by as if it were freight from another world. He 
 was in haste, but haste to escape from himself. 
 That way, bearing him along with other people, 
 and in the moving world, was to bring him in 
 touch with humanity again, and so with what was 
 most hateful in himself. He must be alone. But 
 there was a deeper psychological reason than that 
 for walking, instead of availing himself of the 
 swiftest method of escape. He was not fleeing 
 from justice or pursuit. When the mind is in tort- 
 ure and the spirit is torn, the instinctive effort is 
 to bodily activity, to force physical exertion, as if 
 there must be compensation for the mental strain 
 in the weariness of nature. The priest obeyed this 
 instinct, as if it were possible to walk away from 
 himself, and went on, at first with almost no sense 
 of weariness. 
 
 And the shame ! He could not bear to be ob- 
 served. It seemed to him that every one would 
 see in his face that he was a recreant priest, per- 
 jured and forsworn. And so great had been his 
 spiritual pride ! So removed he had deemed him- 
 self from the weakness of humanity ! And he had 
 yielded at the first temptation, and the commonest 
 of all temptations ! Thank God, he had not quite 
 yielded. He had fled. And yet, how would it 
 have been if Ruth Leigh had not had a moment of
 
 240 
 
 reserve, of prudent repulsion ! He groaned in an- 
 guish. The sin was in the intention. It was no 
 merit of his that he had not with a kiss of passion 
 broken his word to his Lord and lost his soul. 
 
 It was remorse that was driving him along the 
 avenue; no room for any other thought yet, or 
 feeling. Perhaps it is true in these days that the 
 old-fashioned torture known as remorse is rarely 
 experienced except under the name of detection. 
 But it was a reality with this highly sensitive nat- 
 ure, with this conscience educated to the finest 
 edge of feeling. The world need never know his 
 moment's weakness ; Ruth Leigh he could trust as 
 he would have trusted his own sister to guard his 
 honor that was all over never, he was sure, 
 would she even by a look recall the past ; but he 
 knew how he had fallen, and the awful measure of 
 his lapse from loyalty to his Master. And how 
 could he ever again stand before erring, sinful men 
 and women and speak about "that purity which he 
 had violated? Could repentance, confession, peni- 
 tence, wipe away this stain ? 
 
 As he went on, his mind in a whirl of humilia- 
 tion, self-accusation, and contempt, at length he 
 began to be conscious of physical weariness. Ex- 
 cept the biscuit and the glass of wine at the hospi- 
 tal, he had taken nothing since his light luncheon. 
 When he came to the Harlem Bridge he was com- 
 pelled to rest. Leaning against one of the timbers
 
 241 
 
 and half seated, with the softened roar of the city 
 in his ears, the lights gleaming on the heights, the 
 river flowing dark and silent, he began to be con- 
 scious of his situation. Yes, he was very tired. 
 It seemed difficult to go on without help of some 
 sort. At length he crossed the bridge. Lights 
 were gleaming from the saloons along the street. 
 He paused in front of one, irresolute. Food he 
 could not taste, but something he must have to 
 carry him on. But no, that would not do ; he 
 could not enter that in his priest's garb. He 
 dragged himself along until he came to a drug- 
 shop, the* modern saloon of the respectably virtu- 
 ous. That he entered, and sat down on a stool by 
 the soda-water counter. The expectant clerk stared 
 at him while waiting the order, his hand tenta- 
 tively seeking one of the faucets of refreshment. 
 
 " I feel a little feverish," said the father. " You 
 may give me five grains of quinine in whiskey." 
 
 " That '11 put you all right," said the boy as he 
 handed him the mixture. " It's all the go now." 
 
 It seemed to revive him, and he went out and 
 walked on towards the heights. Somehow, seeing 
 this boy, coming back to common life, perhaps the 
 strong and unaccustomed stimulant, gave a new 
 shade to his thoughts. He was safe. Presently 
 he would be at the Ketreat. He would rest, and 
 then gird up his loins and face life again. The 
 mood lasted for some time. And when the sense 
 
 16
 
 242 
 
 of physical weariness came back, that seemed to 
 dull the acuteness of his spiritual torment. It was 
 late when he reached the house and rang the night- 
 bell. No one of the brothers was up except Father 
 Monies, and it was he who came to the door. 
 
 " You ! So late ! Is anything the matter ?" 
 
 " I needed to come," the father said, simply, and 
 he grasped the door-post, steadying himself as he 
 came in. 
 
 " You look like a ghost." 
 
 " Yes. I'm tired. I walked." 
 
 " Walked ? From Kivington Street 2" 
 
 "Nearly. I felt like it." 
 
 " It's most imprudent. You dined first ?" 
 
 " I wasn't hungry." 
 
 " But you must have something at once." And 
 Father Monies hurried away, heated some bouillon 
 by a spirit-lamp, and brought it, with bread, and 
 set it before his unexpected guest. 
 
 " There, eat that, and get to bed as soon as you 
 can. It was great nonsense." 
 
 And Father Damon obeyed. Indeed, he was too 
 exhausted to talk.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FATHER DAMON slept the sleep of exhaustion. In 
 this for a time the mind joined in the lethargy of 
 the body. But presently, as the vital currents 
 were aroused, the mind began to play its fantastic 
 tricks. He was a seminary student, he was or- 
 dained, he was taking his vows before the bishop, 
 he was a robust and consecrated priest performing 
 his first service, shining, it seemed to him, before 
 the congregation in the purity of his separation 
 from the world. How strong he felt. And then 
 came perplexities, difficulties, interests, and conflict- 
 ing passions in life that he had not suspected, good 
 that looked like evil, and evil that had an alloy of 
 virtue, and the way was confused. And then there 
 was a vision of a sort of sister of charity working 
 with him in the evil and the good, drawing near to 
 him, and yet repelling him with a cold, scientific 
 scepticism that chilled him like blasphemy ; but so 
 patient was she, so unconscious of self, that grad- 
 ually he lost this feeling of repulsion and saw only 
 the woman, that wonderful creation, tender, pitiful 
 comrade, the other self. And then there was dark- 
 ness and blindness, and he stood once more before
 
 244 
 
 bis congregation, speaking words that sounded hol- 
 low, hearing responses that mocked him, stared at 
 by accusing eyes that knew him for a hypocrite. 
 And he rushed away and left them, hearing their 
 laughter as he went, and so into the street plainly 
 it was Rivington Street and faces that he knew 
 had a smile and a sneer, and he heard comments as 
 he passed: "Hulloa, Father Damon, come in and 
 have a drink." " I say, Father Damon, I seen her 
 going round into Grand Street." 
 
 When Father Monies looked in, just before day- 
 light, Father Damon was still sleeping, but tossing 
 restlessly and muttering incoherently ; and he did 
 not arouse him for the early devotions. 
 
 It was very late when he awoke, and opened his 
 eyes to a confused sense of some great calamity. 
 Father Monies was standing by the bedside with a 
 cup of coffee. 
 
 " You have had a good sleep. Now take this, and 
 then you may get up. The breakfast will wait for 
 you." 
 
 Father Damon started up. " Why didn't you call 
 me ? I am late for the mission." 
 
 " Oh, Bendes has gone down long ago. You 
 must take it easy ; rest to-day. You'll be all right. 
 You haven't a bit of fever." 
 
 " But," still declining the coffee, " before I break 
 my fast, I have something to say to you. I 
 
 " Get some strength first. Besides, I have an
 
 345 
 
 engagement. I cannot wait. Pull yourself to- 
 gether ; I may not be back before evening." 
 
 So it was fated that he should be left still with 
 himself. After his coffee he dressed slowly, as if it 
 were not he, but some one else going through this 
 familiar duty, as if it were scarcely worth while to 
 do anything any more. And then, before attempt- 
 ing his breakfast, he went into the little oratory, 
 and remained long in the attitude of prayer, trying 
 to realize what he was and what he had done. He 
 prayed for himself, for help, for humility, and he 
 prayed for her ; he had been used of late to pray 
 for her guidance, now he prayed that she might be 
 sustained. 
 
 When he came forth it was in a calmer frame of 
 mind. It was all clear now. When Father Monies 
 returned he would confess, and take his penance, 
 and resolutely resume his life. He understood life 
 better now. Perhaps this blow was needed for his 
 spiritual pride. 
 
 It was a mild winter day, bright, and with a 
 touch of summer, such as sometimes gets shuffled 
 into our winter calendar. The book that he took 
 up did not interest him ; he was in no mood for the 
 quiet meditation that it usually suggested to him, 
 and he put it down and strolled out, directing his 
 steps farther up the height, and away from the 
 suburban stir. As he went on there was something 
 consonant with his feelings in the bare wintry land-
 
 246 
 
 scape, and when he passed the ridge and walked 
 along the top of the river slope, he saw, as it 
 seemed to him he had not seen it before, that lovely 
 reach of river, the opposite wooded heights, the 
 noble pass above, the peacefulness and invitation 
 of nature. Had he a new sense to see all this ? 
 There was a softness in the distant outline, villas 
 peeped out here and there, carriages were passing 
 in the road below, there was a cheerful life in the 
 stream there was a harmony in the aspect of nat- 
 ure and humanity from this height. Was not the 
 world beautiful? and human emotion, affection, 
 love, were they alien to the Divine intention ? 
 
 She loved beauty ; she was fond of flowers ; often 
 she had spoken to him of her childish delight in 
 her little excursions, rarely made, into the country. 
 He could see her now standing just there and feast- 
 ing her eyes on this noble panorama, and he could 
 see her face all aglow, as she might turn to him 
 and say, " Isn't it beautiful, Father Damon ?" And 
 she was down in those reeking streets, climbing 
 about in the foul tenement-houses, taking a sick 
 child in her arms, speaking a word of cheer a 
 good physician going about doing good ! 
 
 And it might have been ! Why was it that this 
 peace of nature should bring up her image, and that 
 they should seem in harmony ? Was not the love 
 of beauty and of goodness the same thing? Did 
 God require in His service the atrophy of the affec-
 
 247 
 
 tions? As long as he was in the world was it 
 right that he should isolate himself from any of its 
 sympathies and trials ? "Why was it not a higher 
 life to enter into the common lot, and suffer, if 
 need be, in the struggle to purify and ennoble all ? 
 He remembered the days he had once passed in the 
 Trappist monastery of Gethsemane. The perfect 
 peace of mind of the monks was purchased at the 
 expense of the extirpation of every want, all will, 
 every human interest. "Were these men anything 
 but specimens in a Museum of Failures ? And yet, 
 for the time being, it had seemed attractive to him, 
 this simple vegetable existence, whose only object 
 was preparation for death by the extinction of all 
 passion and desire. No, these were not soldiers of 
 the Lord, but the faint-hearted, who had slunk into 
 the hospital. 
 
 All this afternoon he was drifting in thought, 
 arraigning his past life, excusing it, condemning it, 
 and trying to forecast its future. "Was this a trial 
 of his constancy and faith, or had he made a mis- 
 take, entered upon a slavish career, from which he 
 ought to extricate himself at any cost of the world's 
 opinion ? But presently he was aware that in all 
 these debates with himself her image appeared. 
 He was trying to fit his life to the thought of her. 
 And when this became clearer in his tortured mind, 
 the woman appeared as a temptation. It was not, 
 then, the love of beauty, not even the love of hu-
 
 248 
 
 inanity, and very far from being the service of his 
 Master, that he was discussing, but only his desire 
 for one person. It was that, then, that made him, 
 for that fatal instant, forget his vow, and yield to 
 the impulse of human passion. The thought of 
 that moment stung him with confusion and shame. 
 There had been moments in this afternoon wander- 
 ing when it had seemed possible for him to ask for 
 release, and to take up a human, sympathetic life 
 with her, in mutual consecration in the service of 
 the Lord's poor. Yes, and by love to lead her into 
 a higher conception of the Divine love. But this 
 breaking a solemn vow at the dictated of passion 
 was a mortal sin there was no other name for it 
 a sin demanding repentance and expiation. 
 
 As he at last turned homeward, facing the great 
 city and his life there, this became more clear to him. 
 He walked rapidly. The lines of his face became 
 set in a hard judgment of himself. He thought no 
 more of escaping from himself, but of subduing 
 himself, stamping out the appeals of his lower nat- 
 ure. It was in this mood that he returned. 
 
 Father Monies was awaiting him, and welcomed 
 him with that look of affection, of more than 
 brotherly love, which the good man had for the 
 younger priest. 
 
 " I hope your walk has done you good." 
 
 " Perhaps," Father Damon replied, without any 
 leniency in his face ; " but that does not matter. I
 
 249 
 
 must tell you what I could not last night. Can 
 you hear me ?" 
 
 They went together into the oratory. Father 
 Damon did not spare himself. He kept nothing 
 back that could heighten the enormity of his of- 
 fence. 
 
 And Father Monies did not attempt to lessen 
 the impression upon himself of the seriousness of 
 the scandal. He was shocked. He was exceed- 
 ingly grave, but he was even more pitiful. His ex- 
 perience of life had been longer than that of the 
 penitent. He better knew its temptations. His 
 own peace had only been won by long crucifixion 
 of the natural desires. 
 
 "I have nothing to say as to your own disci- 
 pline. That you know. But there is one thing. 
 You must face this temptation, and subdue it." 
 
 " You mean that I must go back to my labor in 
 the city ?" 
 
 " Yes. You can rest here a few days if you feel 
 too weak physically." 
 
 " ~No ; I am well enough." He hesitated. " I 
 thought perhaps some other field, for a time ?" 
 
 " There is no other field for you. It is not for 
 the moment the question of where you can do 
 most good. You are to reinstate yourself. You 
 are a soldier of the Lord Jesus, and you are to go 
 where the battle is most dangerous." 
 
 That was the substance of it all. There was
 
 250 
 
 much affectionate counsel and loving sympathy 
 mingled with all the inflexible orders of obedience, 
 but the sin must be faced and extirpated in pres- 
 ence of the enemy. 
 
 On the morrow Father Damon went back to his 
 solitary rooms, to his chapel, to the round of visi- 
 tations, to his work with the poor, the sinful, the 
 hopeless. He did not seek her ; he tried not to 
 seem to avoid her, or to seem to shun the streets 
 where he was most likely to meet her, and the 
 neighborhoods she frequented. Perhaps he did 
 avoid them a little, and he despised himself for 
 doing it. Almost involuntarily he looked to the 
 bench by the chapel door which she occasionally 
 occupied at vespers. She was never there, and he 
 condemned himself for thinking that she might be ; 
 but yet wherever he walked there was always the 
 expectation that he might encounter her. As the 
 days went by and she did not appear, his expecta- 
 tion became a kind of torture. Was she ill, per- 
 haps ? It could not be that she had deserted her 
 work. 
 
 And then he began to examine himself with a 
 morbid introspection. Ilad the hope that he 
 should see her occasionally influenced him at all 
 in his obedience to Father Monies ? Had he, in 
 fact, a longing to be in the streets where she had 
 walked, among the scenes that had witnessed her 
 beautiful devotion? Had his willingness to take
 
 up this work again been because it brought him 
 nearer to her in spirit ? 
 
 No, she could not be ill. He heard her spoken 
 of, here and there, in his calls and ministrations 
 to the sick and dying. Evidently she was going 
 about her work as usual. Perhaps she was avoid- 
 ing him. Or perhaps she did not care, after all, 
 and had lost her respect for him when he discovered 
 to her his weakness. And he had put himself on 
 a plane so high above her. 
 
 There was no conscious wavering in his purpose. 
 But from much dwelling upon the thought, from 
 much effort rather to put it away, his desire only 
 to see her grew stronger day by day. He had no 
 fear. He longed to test himself. He was sure 
 that he would be impassive, and be all the stronger 
 for the test. He was more devoted than ever in 
 his work. He was more severe with himself, 
 more charitable to others, and he could not doubt 
 that he was gaining a hold yes, a real hold 
 upon the lives of many about him. The attend- 
 ance was better at the chapel; more of the pen- 
 itent and forlorn came to him for help. And 
 how alone he was ! My God, never even to see 
 her! 
 
 In fact, Ruth Leigh was avoiding him. It was 
 partly from a womanly reserve called into ex- 
 pression in this form for the first time and partly 
 from a wish to spare him pain. She had been un-
 
 252 
 
 der no illusion from the first about the hopelessness 
 of the attachment. She comprehended his charac- 
 ter so thoroughly that she knew that for him any 
 fall from his ideal would mean his ruin. He was 
 one of the rare spirits of faith astray in a sceptical 
 age. For a time she had studied curiously his ef- 
 forts to adapt himself to his surroundings. One of 
 these was joining a Knights of Labor lodge. An- 
 other was his approach to the ethical-culture move- 
 ment of some of the leaders in the Neighborhood 
 Guild. Another was his interest in the philan- 
 thropic work of agnostics like herself. She could 
 see that he, burning with zeal to save the souls of 
 men, and believing that there was no hope for the 
 world except in the renunciation of the world, in- 
 stinctively shrank from these contacts, which, nev- 
 ertheless, he sought in the spirit of a Jesuit mis- 
 sionary to a barbarous tribe. 
 
 It was possible for such a man to be for a time 
 overmastered by human passion ; it was possible 
 even that he might reason himself temporarily into 
 conduct that this natural passion seemed to justify; 
 yet she never doubted that there would follow an 
 awakening from that state of mind as from a hor- 
 rible delusion. It was simply because Ruth Leigh 
 was guided by the exercise of reason, and had built 
 up her scheme of life upon facts that she believed 
 she could demonstrate, that she saw so clearly their 
 relations, and felt that the faith, which was to her
 
 253 
 
 only a vagary of the material brain, was to him an 
 integral part of his life. 
 
 Love, to be sure, was as unexpected in her 
 scheme of life as it was in his ; but there was on 
 her part no reason why she should not yield to it. 
 There was every reason in her nature and in her 
 theory why she should, for, bounded as her vision 
 of life was by this existence, love was the highest 
 conceivable good in life. It had been with a great 
 shout of joy that the consciousness had come to 
 her that she loved and was loved. Though she 
 might never see him again, this supreme experi- 
 ence for man or woman, this unsealing of the sa- 
 cred fountain of life, would be for her an enduring 
 sweetness in her lonely and laborious pilgrimage. 
 How strong love is they best know to whom it is 
 offered and denied. 
 
 And why, so far as she was concerned, should 
 she deny it ? An ordinary woman probably would 
 not. Love is reason enough. Why should artifi- 
 cial conventions defeat it? Why should she sacri- 
 lice herself, if he were willing to brave the opinion 
 of the world for her sake ? Was it any new thing 
 for good men to do this? But Kuth Leigh was 
 not an ordinary woman. Perhaps if her intellect 
 had not been so long dominant over her heart it 
 would have been different. But the habit of be- 
 ing guided by reason was second nature. She knew 
 that not only his vow, but the habit of life en-
 
 254 
 
 gendered by the vow, was an insuperable barrier. 
 And besides, and this was the touchstone of her 
 conception of life and duty, she felt that if he were 
 to break his vow, though she might love him, her 
 respect for him would be impaired. 
 
 It was a singular phenomenon very much re- 
 marked at the time that the women who did not 
 in the least share Father Damon's spiritual faith, 
 and would have called themselves in contradis- 
 tinction materialists, were those who admired him 
 most, were in a way his followers, loved to attend 
 his services, were inspired by his personality, and 
 drawn to him in a loving loyalty. The attraction 
 to these very women was his unworldliness, his 
 separateness, his devotion to an ideal which in 
 their reason seemed a delusion. And no women 
 would have been more sensitive than they to his 
 fall from his spiritual pinnacle. 
 
 It was easy with a little contrivance to avoid 
 meeting him. She did not go to the chapel or in 
 its neighborhood when he was likely to be going 
 to or from service. She let others send for him 
 when in her calls his ministration was required, 
 and she was careful not to linger where he was 
 likely to come. A little change in the time of her 
 rounds was made without neglecting her work, for 
 that she would not do, and she trusted that if ac- 
 cident threw him in her way, circumstances would 
 make it natural and not embarrassing. And yet
 
 255 
 
 his image was never long absent from her thoughts ; 
 she wondered if he were dejected, if he were ill, if 
 he were lonely, and mostly there was for him a 
 great pity in her heart, a pity born, alas ! of her 
 own sense of loneliness. 
 
 How much she was repressing her own emotions 
 she knew one evening when she returned from her 
 visits and found a letter in his handwriting. The 
 sight of it was a momentary rapture, and then the 
 expectation of what it might contain gave her a 
 feeling of faintness. The letter was long. Its 
 coming needs a word of explanation. 
 
 Father Damon had begun to use the Margaret 
 Fund. He found that its judicious use was more 
 perplexing than he had supposed. He needed ad- 
 vice, the advice of those who had more knowledge 
 than he had of the merits of relief cases. And 
 then there might be many sufferers whom he in 
 his limited field neglected. It occurred to him that 
 Dr. Leigh would be a most helpful co - almoner. 
 ]STo sooner did this idea come to him than he was 
 spurred to put it into effect. This common labor 
 would be a sort of bond between them, a bond of 
 charity purified from all personal alloy. He went 
 at once to Mr. Henderson's office and told him his 
 difficulties, and about Dr. Leigh's work, and the 
 opportunities she would have. "Would it not be 
 possible for Dr. Leigh to draw from the fund on 
 her own checks independent of him? Mr. Hen-
 
 256 
 
 derson thought not. Dr. Leigh was no doubt a 
 good woman, but he didn't know much about 
 woman visitors and that sort ; their sympathies 
 were apt to run away with them, and he should 
 prefer at present to have the fund wholly under 
 Father Damon's control. Some time, he intimated, 
 he might make more lasting provisions with trus- 
 tees. It would be better for Father Damon to give 
 Dr. Leigh money as he saw she needed it. 
 
 The letter recited this at length ; it had a check 
 endorsed, and the writer asked the doctor to be 
 his almoner. He dwelt very much upon the relief 
 this would be to him, and the opportunity it would 
 give her in many emergencies, and the absolute 
 confidence he had in her discretion, as well as in 
 her quick sympathy with the suffering about them. 
 And also it would be a great satisfaction to him 
 to feel that he was associated with her in such a 
 work. 
 
 In its length, in its tone of kindliness, of personal 
 confidence, especially in its length, it was evident 
 that the writing of it had been a pleasure, if not a 
 relief, to the sender. Ruth read it and reread it. 
 It was as if Father Damon were there speaking to 
 her. She could hear the tones of his voice. And 
 the glance of love that last overmastering appeal 
 and cry thrilled through her soul. 
 
 But in the letter there was no love ; to any third 
 person it would have read like an ordinary friendly
 
 257 
 
 philanthropic request. And her reply, accepting 
 gratefully his trust, was almost formal, only the 
 writer felt that she was writing out of her 
 heart.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE Koman poet Martial reckons among the ele- 
 ments of a happy life " an income left, not earned 
 by toil," and also " a wife discreet, yet blythe and 
 bright." Felicity in the possession of these, the 
 epigrammatist might have added, depends upon 
 content in the one and full appreciation of the 
 other. 
 
 Jack Delancy returned from Washington more 
 discontented than when he went. His speculation 
 hung fire in a most tantalizing way ; more than 
 that, it had absorbed nearly all the "income not 
 earned by toil," which was at the hazard of opera- 
 tions he could neither control nor comprehend. 
 And besides, this little fortune had come to seem 
 contemptibly inadequate. In his associations of 
 the past year his spendthrift habits had increased, 
 and he had been humiliated by his inability to keep 
 pace with the prodigality of those with jvhom he 
 was most intimate. Miss Tavish was an heiress in 
 her own right, who never seemed-to give a thought 
 to the cost of anything she desired ; the Hender- 
 sons, for any whim, drew upon a reservoir of un- 
 known capacity ; and even Mavick began to talk
 
 as if he owned a flock of geese that laid golden 
 eggs. 
 
 To be sure, it was pleasant coming home into an 
 atmosphere of sincerity, of worship was it not? 
 It was very flattering to his self-esteem. The 
 master had come ! The house was in commotion. 
 Edith flew to meet him, hugged him, shook him, 
 criticised his appearance, rallied him for a recre- 
 ant father. How well she looked buoyant, full 
 of vivacity, running over with joy, asking a dozen 
 questions before he could answer one, testifying 
 her delight, her affection, in a hundred ways. And 
 the boy ! He was so eager to see his papa. He 
 could converse now that is, in his way. And that 
 prodigy, when Jack was dragged into his presence, 
 and also fell down with Edith and worshipped him 
 in his crib, did actually smile, and appear to know 
 that this man belonged to him, was a part of his 
 worldly possessions. 
 
 " Do you know," said Edith, looking at the boy 
 critically, " I think of making Fletcher a present, 
 if you approve." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " He'll want some place to go to in the summer. 
 I want to buy that old place where he was born 
 and give it to him. Don't you think it would be 
 a good investment ?" 
 
 " Yes, permanent," replied Jack, laughing at such 
 a mite of a real-estate owner.
 
 260 
 
 " I know he would like it. And you don't ob- 
 ject?" 
 
 " Not in the least. It's next to an ancestral feel- 
 ing to be the father of a land-owner." 
 
 They were standing close to the crib, his arm 
 resting lightly across her shoulders. He drew her 
 closer to him, and kissed her tenderly. " The little 
 chap has a golden-hearted mother. I don't know 
 why he should not have a Golden House." 
 
 Her eyes filled with sudden tears. She could 
 not speak. But both arms were clasped round his 
 neck now. She was too happy for words. And 
 the baby, looking on with large eyes, seemed to 
 find nothing unusual in the proceeding. He was 
 used to a great deal of this sort of nonsense him- 
 self. 
 
 It was a happy evening. In truth, after the first 
 surprise, Jack was pleased with this contemplated 
 purchase. It was something removed beyond 
 temptation. Edith's property was secure to her, 
 and it was his honorable purpose never to draw it 
 into his risks. But he knew her generosity, and 
 he could not answer for himself if she should offer 
 it, as he was sure she would do, to save him from 
 ruin. 
 
 There was all the news to tell, the harmless gos- 
 sip of daily life, which Edith had a rare faculty of 
 making dramatically entertaining, with her insight 
 and her feeling for comedy. There had been a rau-
 
 261 
 
 sical at the Blunts' oh, strictly amateur and 
 Edith ran to the piano and imitated the singers 
 and took off the players, until Jack declared that 
 it beat the Conventional Club out of sight. And 
 she had been to a parlor mind-cure lecture, and to 
 a Theosophic conversation, and to a Reading Club 
 for the Cultivation of a Feeling for Nature through 
 Poetry. It was all immensely solemn and earnest. 
 And Jack wondered that the managers did not get 
 hold of these things and put them on the stage. 
 Nothing could draw like them. Not burlesques, 
 though, said Edith ; not in the least. If only these 
 circles would perform in public as they did in pri- 
 vate, how they would draw ! 
 
 And then Father Damon had been to consult her 
 about his fund. He had been ill, and would not 
 stay, and seemed more severe and ascetic than ever. 
 She was sure something was wrong. For Dr. Leigh, 
 whom she had sought out several times, was re- 
 served, and did not voluntarily speak of Father 
 Damon ; she had heard that he was throwing him- 
 self with more than his usual fervor into his work. 
 There was plenty to talk about. The purchase of 
 the farm by the sea had better not be delayed; 
 Jack might have to go down and see the owner. 
 Yes, he would make it his first business in the 
 morning. Perhaps it would be best to get some 
 Long-Islander to buy it for them. 
 
 By the time it was ten o'clock, Jack said he
 
 thought he would step down to the Union a mo- 
 ment. Edith's countenance fell. There might be 
 letters, he explained, and he had a little matter of 
 business ; he wouldn't be late. 
 
 It was very agreeable, home was, and Edith was 
 charming. He could distinctly feel that she was 
 charming. But Jack was restless. He felt the 
 need of talking with somebody about what was 
 on his mind. If only with Major Fairfax. He 
 would not consult the Major, but the latter was in 
 the way of picking up all sorts of gossip, both so- 
 cial and Street gossip. 
 
 And the Major was willing to unpack his budget. 
 It was not very reassuring, what he had to tell ; in 
 fact, it was somewhat depressing, the general tight- 
 ness and the panicky uncertainty, until, after a 
 couple of glasses of Scotch, the financial world be- 
 gan to open a little and seem more hopeful. 
 
 " The Hendersons are going to build," Jack said 
 at length, after a remark of the Major's about that 
 famous operator. 
 
 " Build ? What for ? They've got a palace." 
 
 " Carmen says it's for an object-lesson. To show 
 New York millionaires how to adorn their city." 
 
 " It's like that little schemer. What does Hen- 
 derson say ?" 
 
 " He appears to be willing. I can't get the hang 
 of Henderson. He doesn't seem to care what his 
 wife does. He's a cynical cuss. The other night,
 
 263 
 
 at dinner, in Washington, when the thing was 
 talked over, he said : ' My dear, I don't know why 
 you shouldn't do that as well as anything. Let's 
 build a house of gold, as Xero did ; we are in the 
 Eoman age.' Carmen looked dubious for a mo- 
 ment, but she said, ' You know, Rodney, that you 
 always used to say that some time you would show 
 New York what a house ought to be in this cli- 
 mate.' 'Well, go on,' and he laughed. 'I sup- 
 pose lightning will not strike that sooner than 
 anything else.' " 
 
 " Seems to me," said the Major, reflectively, 
 reaching out his hand for the brown mug, " the 
 way he gives that woman her head, and doesn't 
 care what she does, he must have a contempt for 
 her." 
 
 " I wish somebody had that sort of contempt for 
 me," said Jack, filling up his glass also. 
 
 " But, I teU you," he continued, " Mrs. Hender- 
 son has caught on to the new notions. Her idea 
 is the union of all the arts. She has already got 
 the refusal of a square 'way up-town, on the rise 
 opposite the Park, and has been consulting archi- 
 tects about it. It is to be surrounded with the 
 building, with a garden in the interior, a tropical 
 garden, under glass in the winter. The fagades 
 are to be gorgeous and monumental. Artists and 
 sculptors are to decorate it, inside and out. Why 
 shouldn't there be color on the exterior, gold and
 
 painting, like the Fugger palaces in Augsburg, only 
 on a great scale ? The artists don't see any reason 
 why there should not. It will make the city brill- 
 iant, that sort of thing, in place of our monotonous 
 stone lanes. And it's using her wealth for the 
 public benefit the architects and artists all say 
 that. Gad, I don't know but the little woman is 
 beginning to regard herself as a public benefactor." 
 
 "She is that or nothing," echoed the Major, 
 warmly. 
 
 " And do you know," continued Jack, confiden- 
 tially, " I think she's got the right idea. If I 
 have any luck of course I sha'n't do that but if 
 I have any luck, I mean to build a house that's got 
 some life in it color, old boy something unique 
 and stunning." 
 
 " So you will," cried the Major, enthusiastically, 
 and, raising his glass, "Here's to the house that 
 Jack built !" 
 
 It was later than he thought it would be when 
 he went home, but Jack was attended all the way 
 by a vision of a Golden House all gold wouldn't 
 be too good, and he will build it, damme, for Edith 
 and the boy. 
 
 The next morning not even the foundations of 
 this structure were visible. The master of the 
 house came down to a late breakfast, out of sorts 
 with life, almost surly. Not even Edith's bright 
 face and fresh toilet and radiant welcome appealed
 
 to Mm. No one would have thought from her ap- 
 pearance that she had waited for him last night 
 hour after hour, and had at last gone to bed with 
 a heavy heart, and not to sleep to toss, and listen, 
 and suffer a thousand tortures of suspense. How 
 many tragedies of this sort are there nightly in the 
 metropolis, none the less tragic because they are 
 subjects of jest in the comic papers and on tho 
 stage ! What would be the condition of social lifo 
 if women ceased to be anxious in this regard, and 
 let loose the reins in an easy - going indifference ? 
 What, in fact, is the condition in those households 
 where the wives do not care ? One can even per- 
 ceive a tender sort of loyalty to women in the 
 ejaculation of that battered old veteran, the Major, 
 " Thank God, there's nobody sitting up for me !" 
 
 Jack was not consciously rude. He even asked 
 about the baby. And he sipped his coffee and 
 glanced over the morning journal, and he referred 
 to the conversation of the night before, and said 
 that he would look after the purchase at once. If 
 Edith had put on an aspect of injury, and had in- 
 timated that she had hoped that his first evening 
 at home might have been devoted to her and the 
 boy, there might have been a scene, for Jack 
 needed only an occasion to vent his discontent. 
 And for the chronicler of social life a scene is so 
 much easier to deal with, an outburst of temper 
 and sharp language, of accusation and recrimina-
 
 266 
 
 tion, than the well-bred commonplace of an unde- 
 fined estrangement. 
 
 And yet estrangement is almost too strong a 
 word to use in Jack's case. He would have been 
 the first to resent it. But the truth was that Edith, 
 in the life he was leading, was a rebuke to him ; 
 her very purity and unworldliness were out of ac- 
 cord with his associations, with his ventures, with 
 his dissipations in that smart and glittering circle 
 where he was more welcome the more he lowered 
 his moral standards. Could he help it if after the 
 first hours of his return he felt the restraint of his 
 home, and that the life seemed a little flat ? Al- 
 most unconsciously to himself, his interests and his 
 inclinations were elsewhere. 
 
 Edith, with the divination of a woman, felt this. 
 Last night her love alone seemed strong enough to 
 hold him, to bring him back to the purposes and 
 the aspirations that only last summer had appeared 
 to transform him. Now he was slipping away 
 again. How pitiful it is, this contest of a woman, 
 who has only her own love, her own virtue, with 
 the world and its allurements and seductions, for 
 the possession of her husband's heart ! How pow- 
 erless she is against these subtle invitations, these 
 unknown and all - encompassing temptations! At 
 times the whole drift of life, of the easy morality 
 of the time, is against her. The current is so 
 strong that no wonder she is often swept away in
 
 267 
 
 it. And what could an impartial observer of things 
 as they are say otherwise than that John Delancy 
 was leading the common life of his kind and his 
 time, and that Edith was only bringing trouble on 
 herself by being out of sympathy with it ? 
 
 He might not be in at luncheon, he said, when 
 he was prepared to go down -town. He seldom 
 was. He called at his broker's. Still suspense. 
 He wrote to the Long Island farmer. At the 
 Union he found a scented note from Carmen. 
 They had all returned from the capital. How re- 
 joiced she was to be at home ! And she was dying 
 to see him; no, not dying, but very much living; 
 and it was very important. She should expect him 
 at the usual hour. And could he guess what gown 
 she would wear ? 
 
 And Jack went. What hold had this woman on 
 him? Undoubtedly she had fascinations, but he 
 knew knew well enough by this time that her 
 friendship was based wholly on calculation. And 
 yet what a sympathetic comrade she could be ! 
 How freely he could talk with her ; there was no 
 subject she did not adapt herself to. No doubt it 
 was this adaptability that made her such a favor- 
 ite. She did not demand too much virtue or re- 
 quire too much conventionality. The hours he was 
 with her he was wholly at his ease. She made 
 him satisfied with himself, and she didn't disturb 
 his conscience.
 
 "I think," said Jack he was holding both her 
 hands with a swinging motion when she came 
 forward to -greet him, and looking at her critically 
 " I think I like you better in New York than in 
 Washington." 
 
 " That is because you see more of me here." 
 
 " Oh, I saw you enough in Washington." 
 
 " But that was my public manner. I have to live 
 up to Mr. Henderson's reputation." 
 
 " And here you only have to live up to mine ?" 
 
 " I can live for my friends," she replied, with an 
 air of candor, giving a very perceptible pressure 
 with her little hands. " Isn't that enough ?" 
 
 Jack kissed each little hand before he let it drop, 
 and looked as if he believed. 
 
 " And how does the house get on ?" 
 
 " Famously. The lot is bought. Mr. Van Brunt 
 was here all the morning. It's going to be some- 
 thing Oriental, mediaeval, nineteenth-century, gor- 
 geous, and domestic. Yan Brunt says he wants it 
 to represent me.'' 
 
 " How 3" inquired Jack ; " all the four facades 
 different ?" 
 
 " With an interior unity all the styles brought 
 to express an individual taste, don't you know. A 
 different house from the four sides of approach, 
 and inside, home that's the idea." 
 
 "It appears to me," said Jack, still bantering, 
 " that it will look like an apartment-house."
 
 "That is just what it will not that is, outside 
 unity, and inside a menagerie. This won't look 
 gregarious. It is to have not more than three 
 stories, perhaps only two. And then exterior color, 
 decoration, statuary." 
 
 "And gold?" 
 
 "Not too much not to give it a cheap gilded 
 look. Oh, I asked him about Nero's house. As I 
 remember it, that was mostly caverns. Mr. Van 
 Brunt laughed, and said they were not going to 
 excavate this house. The Koman notion was bar- 
 barous grandeur. But in point of beauty and lux- 
 ury, this would be as much superior to Nero's 
 house as the electric light is to a Roman lamp." 
 
 " Not classic, then ?" 
 
 " Why, all that's good in classic form, with the 
 modern spirit. You ought to hear Mr. Yan Brunt 
 talk. This country has never yet expressed itself 
 in domestic inhabitation." 
 
 " It's going to cost ! What does Mr. Henderson 
 
 " I think he rather likes it. He told Mr. Van 
 Brunt to consult me and go ahead with his plans. 
 But he talks queerly. He said he thought he 
 would have money enough at least for the founda- 
 tion. Do you think, Jack," asked Carmen, with a 
 sudden change of manner, "that Mr. Henderson is 
 really the richest man in the United States ?" 
 
 " Some people say so. Really, I don't know how
 
 270 
 
 any one can tell. If he let go his hand from his af- 
 fairs, I don't know what a panic would do." 
 
 Carmen looked thoughtful. "He said to me 
 once that he wasn't afraid of the Street any more. 
 I told him this morning that I didn't want to begin 
 this if it was going to incommode him." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He was just going out. He looked at me a 
 moment with that speculative sort of look no, it 
 isn't cynical, as you say ; I know it so well and 
 then said : ' Oh, go ahead. I guess it will be all 
 right. If anything happens, you can turn it into 
 a boarding-house. It will be an excellent sanita- 
 rium.' That was all. Anyway, it's something to do. 
 Come, let's go and see the place." And she started 
 up and touched the bell for the carriage. It was 
 more than something to do. In those days before 
 her marriage, when her mother was living, and 
 when they wandered about Europe, dangerously 
 near to the reputation of adventuresses, the girl 
 had her dream of chateaus and castles and splen- 
 dor. Her change did not come in Europe, but, as 
 she would have said, Providence is good to those 
 who wait. 
 
 The next day Jack went to Long Island, and the 
 farm was bought, and the deed brought to Edith, 
 who, with much formality, presented it to the boy, 
 and that young gentleman showed his appreciation 
 of it by trying to eat it. It would have seemed a
 
 271 
 
 pretty incident to Jack, if he had not been absorbed 
 in more important things. 
 
 But he was very much absorbed, and apparently 
 more idle than ever. As the days went on, and the 
 weeks, he was less and less at home, and in a worse 
 humor that is, at home. Carmen did not find 
 him ill-humored, nor was there any change towards 
 the fellows at the Union, except that it was noticed 
 that he had his cross days. There was nothing spe- 
 cially to distinguish him from a dozen others, wha 
 led the same life of vacuity, of mild dissipation, of 
 enforced pleasure. A wager now and then on an 
 " event " ; a fictitious interest in elections ; lively 
 partisanship in society scandals. Not much else. 
 The theatres were stale, and only endurable on ac- 
 count of the little suppers afterwards ; and really 
 there wasn't much in life except the women who- 
 made it agreeable. 
 
 Major Fairfax was not a model ; there had not 
 much survived out of his checkered chances and 
 experiences, except a certain instinct of being a 
 gentleman, sir ; the close of his life was not exactly 
 a desirable goal; but even the Major shook his 
 head over Jack.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE one fact in which men universally agree is 
 that we come into the world alone and we go out of 
 the world alone ; and although we travel in com- 
 pany, make our pilgrimage to Canterbury or to 
 Yanity Fair in a great show of fellowship, and of 
 bearing one another's burdens, we carry our deepest 
 troubles alone. When we think of it, it is an awful 
 lonesomeness in this animated and moving crowd. 
 Each one either must or will carry his own bur- 
 den, which he commonly cannot, or by pride or 
 shame will not, ask help in carrying. 
 
 Henderson drew more and more apart from con- 
 fidences, and was alone in building up the colossal 
 structure of his wealth. Father Damon was carry- 
 ing his renewed temptation alone, after all his 
 brave confession and attempt at renunciation. 
 Euth Leigh plodded along alone, with her secret 
 which was the joy and the despair of her life the 
 opening of a gate into the paradise which she 
 could never enter. Jack Delancy, the confiding, 
 open-hearted good fellow, had come to a stage in 
 his journey where he also was alone. Not even, to 
 Carmen could he confess the extent of his embar-
 
 273 
 
 rassments, nor even in her company, nor in the 
 distraction of his increasingly dissipated life, could 
 he forget them. Not only had his investments 
 been all transferred to his speculations, but his 
 home had been mortgaged, and he did not dare 
 tell Edith of the lowering cloud that hung over it; 
 and that his sole dependence was the confidence of 
 the Street, which any rumor might shatter, in that 
 one of Henderson's schemes to which he had com- 
 mitted himself. Edith, the one person who could 
 have comforted him, was the last person to whom 
 he could have told this, for -he had the most ele- 
 mentary, and the common, conception of what mar- 
 riage is. 
 
 But Edith's lot was the most pitiful of all. She 
 was not only alone, but compelled to inaction. 
 She saw the fair fabric of her life dissolving, and 
 neither by cries nor tears, by appeals nor protest,, 
 by show of anger nor by show of suffering, could 
 she hinder the dissolution. Strong in herself and 
 full of courage, day by day and week by week she 
 felt her poweiiessness. Heaven knows what it cost 
 her what it costs all women in like circumstances 
 to be always cheerful, never to show distrust. 
 If her love were not enough, if her attractions were 
 not enough, there was no human help to which she 
 could appeal. 
 
 And what, pray, was there to appeal? There 
 was no visible neglect, no sufficient alienation for 
 
 18
 
 274 
 
 gossip to take hold of. If there was a little talk 
 about Jack's intimacy elsewhere, was there any- 
 thing uncommon in that? Affairs went on as usual. 
 Was it reasonable to suppose that society should no- 
 tice that one woman's heart was full of foreboding, 
 heavy with a sense of loss and defeat, and with the 
 ruin of two lives ? Could simple misery like this 
 rise to the dignity of tragedy in a world that has its 
 share of tragedies, shocking and violent, but is on 
 the whole going on decorously and prosperously ? 
 
 The season Avore on. It was the latter part of 
 May. Jack had taken Edith and the boy down to 
 the Long Island house, and had returned to the 
 city and was living at his club, feverishly waiting 
 for some change in his affairs. It was a sufficient 
 explanation of his anxiety that money was " tight," 
 that failures were daily announced, and that there 
 was a general fear of worse times. It was fort- 
 unate for Jack and other speculators that they 
 could attribute their ill-luck to the general financial 
 condition. There were reasons enough for this 
 condition. Some attributed it to want of confi- 
 dence, others to the tariff, others to the action of 
 this or that political party, others to over-produc- 
 tion, others to silver, others to the action of English 
 capitalists in withdrawing their investments. It 
 could all be accounted for without referring to the 
 fact that most of the individual sufferers, like Jack, 
 owed more than they could pay.
 
 275 
 
 Henderson was much of the time absent at the 
 West and at the South. His every move was 
 watched, his least sayings were reported as signifi- 
 cant, and the Street was hopeful or depressed as 
 he seemed to be cheerful or unusually taciturn. 
 Uncle Jerry was the calmest man in town, and his 
 observation that Henderson knew what he was 
 about was reassuring. His serenity was well 
 founded. The fact was that he had been pulling 
 in and lowering canvas for months. Or, as he put 
 it, he hadn't much hay out. " It's never a good 
 plan," said Uncle Jerry, " to put off raking up till 
 the shower begins." 
 
 It seems absurd to speak of the East Side in con- 
 nection with the financial situation. But that was 
 where the pinch was felt, and felt first. Work was 
 slack, and that meant actual hunger for many 
 families. The monetary solidarity of the town is 
 remarkable. No one flies a kite in Wall Street 
 that somebody in Eivington Street does not in 
 consequence have to go without his dinner. As 
 Dr. Leigh went her daily rounds she encountered 
 painful evidence of the financial disturbance. In- 
 creased number of cases for the doctor followed 
 want of sufficient food and the eating of cheap, 
 unwholesome food. She was often obliged to draw 
 upon the Margaret Fund, and to invoke the aid of 
 Father Damon when the responsibility was too 
 great for her. And Father Damon found that his
 
 276 
 
 ministry was daily diverted from the cure of souls 
 to the care of bodies. Among all those who came 
 to the mission as a place of refuge and rest, and to 
 whom the priest sought to offer the consolations of 
 religion and of his personal sympathy, there were 
 few who did not have a tale of suffering to tell 
 thafr wrung his heart. Some of them were actually 
 ill, or had at home a sick husband or a sick daughter. 
 And such cases had to be reported to Dr. Leigh. 
 
 It became necessary, therefore, that these two, 
 who had shunned each other for months, should 
 meet as often as they had done formerly. This 
 was very hard for both, for it meant only the 
 renewal of heart-break, regret, and despair. And 
 yet it had been almost worse when they did not 
 see each other. They met ; they talked of nothing 
 but their work ; they tried to forget themselves in 
 their devotion to humanity. But the human heart 
 will not be thus disposed of. It was impossible 
 that some show of personal interest, some tender- 
 ness, should not appear. They were walking tow- 
 ards Fourth Avenue one evening the priest could 
 not resist the impulse to accompany her a little 
 way towards her home after a day of unusual 
 labor and anxiety. 
 
 " You are working too hard," he said, gently ; 
 <k you look fatigued." 
 
 "Oh no," she replied, looking up cheerfully; 
 " I'm a regular machine. I get run down, and
 
 277 
 
 then I wind up. I get tired, and then I get rested. 
 It isn't the work," she added, after a moment, " if 
 only I could see any good of it. It seems so hope- 
 less." 
 
 " From your point of view, my dear doctor," he 
 answered, but without any shade of reproof in his 
 tone. "But no good deed is lost. There is noth- 
 ing else in the world nothing for me." The close 
 of the sentence seemed wholly accidental, and he 
 stopped speaking as if he could not trust himself to 
 go on. 
 
 Ruth Leigh looked up quickly. " But, Father 
 Damon, it is you who ought to be rebuked for 
 overwork. You are undertaking too much. You 
 ought to go off for a vacation, and go at once." 
 
 The father looked paler and thinner than usual, 
 but his mouth was set in firm lines, and he said : 
 " It cannot be. My duty is here. And "he turned, 
 and looked her full in the face " I cannot go." 
 
 I^o need to explain that simple word. No need 
 to interpret the swift glance that their eyes ex- 
 changed the eager, the pitiful glance. They 
 both knew. It was not the work. It was not the 
 suffering of the world. It was the pain in their 
 own hearts, and the awful chasm that his holy 
 vows had put between them. They stood so only 
 an instant. He was trembling in the effort to mas- 
 ter himself, and in a second she felt the hot blood 
 rising to her face. Her woman's wit was the first
 
 278 
 
 to break the hopeless situation. She turned, and 
 hailed a passing car. " I cannot walk any farther. 
 Good-night." And she was gone. 
 
 The priest stood as if a sudden blow had struck 
 him, following the retreating car till it was out of 
 sight, and then turned homeward, dazed, and with 
 feeble steps. What was this that had come to him 
 to so shake his life ? What devil was tempting him 
 to break his vows and forsake his faith ? Should he 
 fly from the city and from his work, or should he 
 face what seemed to him, in the light of his conse- 
 cration, a monstrous temptation, and try to conquer 
 himself 2 He began to doubt his power to do this. 
 He had always believed that it was easy to conquer 
 nature. And now a little brown woman had 
 taught him that he reckons ill who leaves out the 
 strongest human passion. And yet suppose he 
 should break his solemn vows and throw away his 
 ideal, and marry Kuth Leigh, would he ever be 
 happy ? Here was a medieval survival confronted 
 by a nineteenth-century scepticism. The situation 
 was plainly insoluble. It was as plainly so to the 
 clear mind of the unselfish little woman without 
 faith as it was to him. Perhaps she could not have 
 respected him if he had yielded. Strangely enough, 
 the attraction of the priest for her and for other 
 women who called themselves servants of humani- 
 ty was in his consecration, in his attitude of sepa- 
 ration from the vanities and passions of this world.
 
 279 
 
 They believed ia him, though they did not share 
 his faith. To Kuth Leigh this experience of love 
 was as unexpected as it was to the priest. Per- 
 haps because her life was lived on a less exalted 
 plane she could bear it with more equanimity. 
 But who knows ? The habit of her life was endur- 
 ance, the sturdy meeting of the duty of every day, 
 with at least only a calm regard of the future. And 
 she would go on. But who can measure the inner 
 change in her life ? She must certainly be changed 
 by this deep experience, and, terrible as it was, per- 
 haps ennobled by it. Is there not something su- 
 pernatural in such a love itself ? It has a wonderful 
 transforming power. It is certain that a new light, 
 a tender light, was cast upon her world. And who 
 can say that some time, in the waiting and work- 
 ing future, this new light might not change life al- 
 together for this faithful soul ? 
 
 There was one person upon whom the tragedy of 
 life thus far sat lightly. Even her enemies, if she 
 had any, would not deny that Carmen had an ad- 
 mirable temperament. If she had been a Moslem, 
 it might be predicted that she would walk the wire 
 El Serat without a tremor. In these days she was 
 busy with the plans of her new house. The project 
 suited her ambition and her taste. The structure 
 grew in her mind into barbaric splendor, but a 
 barbaric splendor refined, which revelled in the ex- 
 quisite adornment of the Alhambra itself. She
 
 was in daily conferences with her architect and her 
 artists, she constantly consulted Jack about it, and 
 Mavick whenever he was in town, and occasionally 
 she awakened the interest of Henderson himself, 
 who put no check upon her proceedings, although 
 his mind was concerned with a vaster structure of 
 his own. She talked of little else, until in her 
 small world there grew up a vast expectation of 
 magnificence, of which hints appeared from time to 
 time in the newspapers, mysterious allusions to Ro- 
 man luxury, to Nero and his Golden House. Hen- 
 derson read these paragraphs, as he read the para- 
 graphs about his own fortune, with a grim smile. 
 
 " Your house is getting a lot of free advertis- 
 ing," he said to Carmen one evening after dinner 
 in the library, throwing the newspaper on the table 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " They all seem to like the idea," replied Carmen. 
 " Did you see what one of the papers said about 
 the use of wealth in adorning the city ? That's my 
 notion." 
 
 " I suppose," said Henderson, with a smile, " that 
 you put that notion into the reporter's head." 
 
 " But he thought he suggested it to me." 
 
 " Let's look over the last drawing." Henderson 
 half rose from his chair to pull the sheet towards 
 him, but instantly sank back, and put his hand to 
 his heart. Carmen saw that he was very pale, and 
 ran round to his chair.
 
 281 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " Nothing," he said, taking a long breath. " Just 
 a stitch. Indigestion. It must have been the cof- 
 fee." 
 
 Carmen ran to the dining-room, and returned 
 with a wineglass of brandy. 
 
 "There, take that." 
 
 He drank it. " Yes, that's better. I'm all right 
 now." And he sat still, slowly recovering color 
 and control of himself. 
 
 " I'm going to send for the doctor." 
 
 " jSTo, no ; nonsense. It has all passed," and he 
 stretched out his arms and threw them back vigor- 
 ously. " It was only a moment's faintness. It's 
 quite gone." 
 
 He rose from his chair and took a turn or two 
 about the room. Yes, he was quite himself, and he 
 patted Carmen's head as he passed and took his 
 seat again. For a moment or two there was si- 
 lence. Then he said, still as if reflecting : 
 
 "Isn't it queer? In that moment of faintness 
 all my life flashed through my mind." 
 
 " It has been a very successful life," Carmen said, 
 by way of saying something. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but I wonder if it was worth while ?" 
 
 " If I were a man, I should enjoy the power you 
 have, the ability to do what you will." 
 
 " I suppose I do. That is all there is. I like to 
 conquer obstacles, and I like to command. And
 
 282 
 
 money ; I never did care for money in itself. But 
 there is a fascination in building up a great fortune. 
 It is like conducting a political or a military cam- 
 paign. Now, I haven't much interest in anything 
 else." 
 
 As he spoke he looked round upon the crowded 
 shelves of his library, and, getting up, went to the 
 corner where there was a shelf of rare editions and 
 took down a volume. 
 
 " Do you remember when I got this, Carmen ? 
 It was when I was a bachelor. It was rare then. I 
 saw it quoted the other day as worth twice the 
 price I gave for it." 
 
 He replaced it carefully, and walked along the 
 shelves looking at the familiar titles. 
 
 " I used to read then. And you read still ; you 
 have time." 
 
 " Not those books," she replied, with a laugh. 
 " Those belong to the last generation." 
 
 " That is where I belong," he said, smiling also. 
 " I don't think I have read a book, not really read 
 it, in ten years. This modern stuff that pretends 
 to give life is so much less exciting than my own 
 daily experience that I cannot get interested in it. 
 Perhaps I could read these calm old books." 
 
 " It is the newspapers that take your time," Car- 
 men suggested. 
 
 " Yes, they pass the time when I am thinking. 
 And they are full of suggestions. I suppose they
 
 are as accurate about other things as about me. I 
 used to think I would make this library the choic- 
 est in the city. It is good as far as it goes. Per- 
 haps I will take it up some day if I live." And 
 he turned away from the shelves and sat down. 
 Carmen had never seen him exactly in this humor, 
 and was almost subdued by it. 
 
 He began to talk again, philosophizing about life 
 generally and his own life. He seemed to like to 
 recall his career, and finally said : " Uncle Jerry is 
 successful too, and he never did care for anything 
 else except his family. There is a clerk in my 
 office on five thousand a year who is never without 
 a book when he comes to the office and when I see 
 him on the train. He has a wife and a nice little 
 family in Jersey. I ask him sometimes about his 
 reading. He is collecting a library, but not of rare 
 books ; says he cannot afford that. I think he is 
 successful too, or will be if he never gets more than 
 five thousand a year, and is content with his books 
 and his little daily life, coming and going to his 
 family. Ah, well ! Everybody must live his life. 
 I suppose there is some explanation of it all." 
 
 "Has anything gone wrong?" asked Carmen, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " No, not at all. Nothing to interfere with the 
 house of gold." He spoke quite gently and sin- 
 cerely. " I don't know what set me into this mor- 
 alizing. Let's look at the plans."
 
 284 
 
 The next day it was the first of June in con- 
 sultation with the architect, a project was broached 
 that involved such an addition of cost that Car- 
 men hesitated. She declared that it was a question 
 of ways and means, and that she must consult the 
 chairman. Accordingly she called her carriage and 
 drove down to Henderson's office. 
 
 It was a beautiful day, a little warm in the nar- 
 row streets of the lower city, but when she had 
 ascended by the elevator to the high story that 
 Henderson occupied in one of the big buildings 
 that rise high enough to give a view of JSTew York 
 Harbor, and looked from the broad windows upon 
 one of the most sparkling and animated scenes in 
 the world, it seemed to her appreciative eyes a day 
 let down out of Paradise. 
 
 The clerks all knew Mrs. Henderson, and they 
 rose and bowed as she tripped along smiling tow- 
 ards her husband's rooms. It did not seem to be 
 a very busy day, and she found no one waiting in 
 the anteroom, and passed into the room of his pri- 
 vate secretary. 
 
 " Is Mr. Henderson in ?" 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 " And busy ?" 
 
 " Probably busy," replied the secretary, with a 
 smile, " but he is alone. No one has disturbed him 
 for over half an hour." 
 
 " Then I will go in."
 
 285 
 
 She tapped lightly at the door. There was no 
 response. She turned the knob softly and looked 
 in, and then, glancing back at the secretary, with 
 a finger uplifted, "I think he is asleep," opened 
 the door, stepped in, and closed it carefully. 
 
 The large room was full of light, and through 
 the half-dozen windows burst upon her the enchant- 
 ing scene of the Bay. Henderson sat at his table, 
 which was covered with neatly arranged legal doc- 
 uments, but bowed over it, his head resting upon 
 his arms. 
 
 " So, Rodney, this is the way, old boy, that you 
 wear yourself out in business !" 
 
 She spoke laughingly, but he did not stir, and 
 she tiptoed along to awaken him. 
 
 She touched his hand. It moved heavily away 
 from her hand. The left arm, released, dropped 
 at his side. 
 
 She started back, her eyes round with terror, 
 and screamed. 
 
 Instantly the secretary wcij at her side, and sup- 
 ported her, fainting, to a seat. Other clerks rushed 
 in at the alarm. Henderson was lifted from his 
 chair and laid upon a lounge. When the doctor 
 who had been called arrived, Carmen was in a 
 heap by the low couch, one arm thrown across the 
 body, and her head buried in the cushion close to 
 his. 
 
 The doctor instantly applied restoratives; he
 
 sent for an electric battery ; everything was done 
 that science could suggest. But all was of no 
 avail. There was no sign of life. He must have 
 been dead half an hour, said the doctor. It was 
 evidently heart-failure. 
 
 Before the doctor had pronounced his verdict 
 there was a whisper in the Stock Exchange. 
 " Henderson is dead !" 
 " It is not possible," said one. 
 " I saw him only yesterday," said another. 
 " I was in his office this morning," said a third. 
 " I never saw him looking in better health." 
 
 The whisper was confirmed. There was no 
 doubt of it. Henderson's private secretary had 
 admitted it. Yet it seemed incredible. No pro- 
 vision had been made for it. Speculation had not 
 discounted it. A panic set in. No one knew what 
 to do, for no one knew well the state of Hender- 
 son's affairs. In the first thirty minutes there was 
 a tremendous drop in Henderson stocks. Then 
 some of them rallied, but before the partial recov- 
 ery hundreds of men had been ruined. It was a 
 wild hour in the Exchange. Certain stocks were 
 hopelessly smashed for the time, and some combi- 
 nations were destroyed ; among them was one that 
 Uncle Jerry had kept out of ; and Jack Delancy 
 was hopelessly ruined. 
 
 The event was flashed over the wires of the 
 continent ; it was bulletined ; it was cried in the
 
 287 
 
 streets ; it was the all-absorbing talk of the town. 
 Already, before the dead man was removed to his 
 own house, people were beginning to moralize 
 about him and his career. Perhaps the truest 
 thing was said by the old broker in the board 
 whose reputation for piety was only equalled by 
 his reputation of always having money to loan at 
 exorbitant rates in a time of distress. He said to 
 a group of downcast operators, " In the midst of 
 life we are in death."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE place that Eodney Henderson occupied in 
 the mind of the public was shown by the attention 
 the newspapers paid to his death. All the great 
 newspapers in all the cities of importance published 
 long and minute biographies of him, with pictorial 
 illustrations, and day after day characteristic anec- 
 dotes of his remarkable career. Xor was there, it 
 is believed, a newspaper in the United States, secu- 
 lar, religious, or special, that did not comment upon 
 his life. This was the more remarkable in that he 
 was not a public man in the common use of the 
 word ; he had never interested himself in politics, 
 or in public affairs, municipal or State or national ; 
 he had devoted himself entirely to building up his 
 private fortune. If this is the duty of a citizen, he 
 had discharged it with singleness of purpose ; but 
 no other duty of the citizen had he undertaken, 
 if we except his private charities. And yet no 
 public man of his day excited more popular in- 
 terest or was the subject of more newspaper com- 
 ment. 
 
 And these comments were nearly all respectful, 
 and most of them kindly. There was some justice
 
 in this, for Henderson had been doing what every- 
 body else was trying to do, usually without his 
 good -fortune. If he was more successful than 
 others in trying to get rich, surely a great deal 
 of admiration was mingled with the envy of 
 his career. To be sure, some journals were very 
 severe upon his methods, and some revived the 
 old stories of his unscrupulousness in transactions 
 which had laid him open to criminal prosecu- 
 tion, from the eifects of which he was only saved 
 by uncommon adroitness and, some said, by legal 
 technicalities. His career also was denounced by 
 some as wholly vicious in its effect upon the youth 
 of the republic, and as lowering the tone of public 
 morals. And yet it was remembered that he had 
 been a frank, open-hearted friend, kind to his fam- 
 ily, and generous in contrast with some of his close- 
 fisted contemporaries. There was nothing mean 
 about him ; even his rascalities, if you chose to 
 call his transactions by that name, were on a grand 
 scale. To be sure, he would let nothing stand be- 
 tween him and the consummation of his schemes 
 he was like Napoleon in that but those who knew 
 him personally liked him. The building up of his 
 colossal fortune which the newspapers were say- 
 ing was the largest that had been accumulated in 
 one lifetime in America had ruined thousands of 
 people, #nd carried disaster into many peaceful 
 houses, and his sudden death had been a cyclone 
 
 19
 
 290 
 
 of destruction for an hour. But it was hardly fair, 
 one journal pointed out, to hold Henderson respon- 
 sible for his untimely death. 
 
 Even Jack Delancy, when the crushing news was 
 brought him at the club, where he sat talking with 
 Major Fairfax, although he saw his own ruin in a 
 flash, said, " It wouldn't have happened if Hender- 
 son had lived." 
 
 " Not so soon," replied the Major, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that Henderson and Mav- 
 ick and Mrs. Henderson would have thrown me 
 over ?" 
 
 ""Why, no, not exactly; but a big machine 
 grinds on regardless, and when a crash comes ev- 
 erybody looks out for himself." 
 
 " I think I'll telegraph to Mavick." 
 
 " That wouldn't do any good now. He couldn't 
 have stopped the panic. I tell you what, you'd bet- 
 ter go down to your brokers and see just how mat- 
 ters stand." 
 
 And the two went down to Wall Street. It was 
 after hours, but the brokers' office was full of ex- 
 citement. No one knew what was left from the 
 storm, nor what to expect. It was some time be- 
 fore Jack could get speech with one of the young 
 men of the firm. 
 
 "How is it?" he asked. 
 
 " It's been a of a time." 
 
 " And Henderson ?"
 
 " Ob, his estate is all right, so far as we know. 
 He was well out of the Missouris." 
 
 " And the Missouri ?" 
 
 " Bottom dropped out ; temporarily, anyway." 
 
 " And my account ?" 
 
 " Wiped out, I am sorry to say. Might come up 
 by-and-by, if you've got a lot of money to put up, 
 and wait." 
 
 " Then it's all up," said Jack, turning to the Ma- 
 jor. He was very pale. He knew now that his 
 fortune was gone absolutely house, everything. 
 
 Few words were exchanged as they made their 
 way back to the club. And here the Major did a 
 most unusual thing for him. He ordered the drinks. 
 But he did this delicately, apologetically. 
 
 "I don't know as you care for anything, but 
 Wall Street has made me thirsty. Eh ?" 
 
 " I don't mind if I do," Jack replied. 
 
 And they sat down. 
 
 The conversation was not cheerful ; it was main- 
 ly ejaculatory. After a second glass, Jack said, 
 " I don't suppose it would do any good, but I should 
 like to see Mavick." And then, showing the drift 
 of his thoughts, " I wonder what Carmen will do ?" 
 
 " I should say that will depend upon the will," 
 replied the Major. 
 
 " She is a good-hearted woman," and Jack's tone 
 was one of inquiry. 
 
 " She hasn't any, Jack. Not the least bit of a
 
 292 
 
 heart. And I believe Henderson found it out. I 
 shall be surprised if his will doesn't show that he 
 knew it." 
 
 A servant came to the corner where they were 
 sitting and handed Jack a telegram. 
 
 "What's this? Mavick?" He tore it open. 
 " No ; Edith." He read it with something like a 
 groan, and passed it over to the Major. 
 
 What he read was this : " Don't be cast down, 
 Jack. The boy and I are well. Come. Edith." 
 
 " That is splendid ; that is just like her," cried 
 the Major. " I'd be out of this by the first train." 
 
 " It is no use," replied Jack, gloomily. " I 
 couldn't face Edith now. I couldn't do it. I won- 
 der how she knew ?" 
 
 He called back the servant, and penned as reas- 
 suring a message as he could, but said that it was 
 impossible to leave town. She must not worry 
 about him. This despatched, they fell again into a 
 talk about the situation. After another glass Jack 
 was firm in his resolution to stay and watch things. 
 It seemed not impossible that something might 
 turn up. 
 
 On the third day after, both the Major and Jack 
 attended the funeral at the house. Carmen was not 
 visible. The interment was private. The day fol- 
 lowing, Jack left his card of condolence at the door ; 
 but one day passed, and another and another, and 
 no word of acknowledgment came from the stricken
 
 293 
 
 widow. Jack said to himself that it was not nat- 
 ural to expect it. But he did expect it, and with- 
 out reason, for he should have known that Carmen 
 was not only overwhelmed with the sudden shock 
 of her calamity, but that she would necessarily be 
 busy with affairs that even grief would not permit 
 her to neglect. Jack heard that Mavick had been 
 in the city, and that he went to the Henderson 
 house, but he had not called at the club, and the 
 visit must have been a flying one. 
 
 A week passed, and Jack received no message 
 from Carmen. His note offering his services if she 
 needed the services of any one had not been an- 
 swered. 
 
 Carmen was indeed occupied. It could not be 
 otherwise. The state of Henderson's affairs could 
 not wait upon conventionalities. The day after the 
 funeral Mr. Henderson's private secretary came to 
 the house, and had a long interview with Mrs. 
 Henderson. He explained to her that the affairs 
 should be immediately investigated, the will proved, 
 and the estate put into the hands of the executors. 
 It would be best for Mrs. Henderson herself to 
 bring his keys down to the office, and to see the 
 opening of his desk and boxes. Meantime it would 
 be well for her to see if there were any papers of 
 importance in the house ; probably everything was 
 in the office safe. 
 
 The next morning Carmen nerved herself to the
 
 task. "With his keys in hand she went alone into 
 the library and opened his writing-desk. Every- 
 thing was in perfect order; letters and papers filed 
 and labelled, and neatly arranged in drawers and 
 pigeon-holes. There lay his letter-book as he had 
 last used it, and there lay fresh memoranda of his 
 projects and engagements. She found in one of 
 the drawers some letters of her own, mostly notes, 
 and most of them written before her marriage. 
 In another drawer were some bundles of letters, a 
 little yellow with age, endorsed with the name of 
 " Margaret." She shut the drawer without looking 
 at them. She continued to draw papers from the 
 pigeon-holes and glance at them. Most of them 
 related to closed transactions. At length she drew 
 out one that instantly fixed her attention. It was 
 endorsed, " Last Will and Testament." She looked 
 first at the date at the end it was quite recent 
 and then leaned back in her chair and set herself 
 deliberately to read it. 
 
 The document was long and full of repetitions 
 and technicalities, but the purport of it was plain. 
 As she read on she was at first astonished, then she 
 was excited to trembling, and felt herself pale and 
 faint; but when she had finished and fully com- 
 prehended it her pretty face was distorted with 
 rage. The great bulk of the property was not for 
 her. 
 
 She sprang up and paced the floor. She came
 
 back and took up the document with a motion of 
 tearing it in pieces. No it would be better to 
 burn it. Of course there must be another will de^ 
 posited in the safe. Henderson had told her so. 
 It was drawn up shortly after their marriage. It 
 could not be worse for her than this. She lighted 
 the gas-jet by the fireplace, and held the paper in 
 her hand. Then a thought struck her. What if 
 somebody knew of this will, and its execution 
 could be proved! She looked again at the end. 
 It was signed and sealed. There were the names 
 of two witnesses. One was the name of their late 
 butler, who had been long in Henderson's service, 
 and who had died less than a month ago. The 
 other name was Thomas Mavick. Evidently the 
 will had been signed recently, on some occasion 
 when Mavick was in the house. And Henderson's 
 lawyer probably knew it also ! 
 
 She folded the document carefully, put it back 
 in the pigeon-hole, locked the desk, and rang the 
 bell for her carriage. She was ready when the 
 carriage came to the door, and told the coachman 
 to drive to the office of Mr. Sage in Nassau Street. 
 Mr. Sage had been for many years Henderson's 
 most confidential lawyer. 
 
 He received Carmen in his private office, with 
 the subdued respect due to her grief and the sudden 
 tragedy that had overtaken her. He was a man 
 well along in years, a small man, neat in his dress,
 
 a little formal and precise in his manner, with a 
 smoothly shaven face and gray eyes, keen, but not 
 unkindly in expression. He had the reputation, 
 which he deserved, for great ability and integrity. 
 After the first salutations and words of condolence 
 were spoken, Carmen said, " I have come to consult 
 you, Mr. Sage, about my husband's affairs." 
 
 " I am quite at your service, madam." 
 
 " I wanted to see you before I went to the office 
 with the keys of his safe." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mr. Sage, " I could spare you 
 that trouble." * 
 
 " Oh no ; his secretary thought I had better come 
 myself, if I could." 
 
 " Very well," said Mr. Sage. 
 
 Carmen hesitated a moment, and then said, in 
 an inquiring tone, " I suppose the first thing is the 
 will. He told me long ago that his will was made. 
 I suppose it is in the safe. Didn't you draw it, Mr. 
 
 " Oh yes," the lawyer replied, leaning back in his 
 chair, " I drew that ; a long time ago ; shortly after 
 your marriage. And about a year ago I drew an- 
 other one. Did he ever speak of that ?" 
 
 " No," Carmen replied, with a steady voice, but 
 trembling inwardly at her narrow escape. 
 
 " I wonder," continued Mr. Sage, " if it was ever 
 executed ? He took it, and said he would think it 
 over."
 
 297 
 
 " Executed ?" queried Carmen, looking up. " How 
 do you mean, before a magistrate ?" 
 
 'Oh no; signed and witnessed. It is very sim- 
 ple. The law requires two witnesses ; the testator 
 and the witnesses must declare that they sign in 
 the presence of each other. The witnesses prove 
 the will, or, if they are dead, their signatures can be 
 proved. I was one of the witnesses of the first 
 will, and a clerk of Henderson's, who is still in his 
 office, was the other." 
 
 " The last one is probably in the safe if it was 
 executed." 
 
 " Probably," the lawyer assented. " If not, 
 you'd better look for it in the house." 
 
 " Of course. Whether it exists or not, I want to 
 carry out my husband's intention," Carmen said, 
 sweetly. " Have you any memorandum of it ?" 
 
 " I think so, somewhere, but the leading pro- 
 visions are in my mind. It would astonish the 
 public." 
 
 " Why ?" asked Carmen. 
 
 " Well, the property was greater than any of us 
 supposed, and perhaps I ought not to speak to 
 you of this now, Mrs. Henderson." 
 
 " I think I have a right to know what my hus- 
 band's last wishes were," Carmen answered, firmly. 
 
 " Well, he had a great scheme. The greater 
 part of his property after the large legacies " 
 The lawyer saw that Carmen looked pale, and he
 
 hesitated a moment, and then said, in a cheery 
 manner : " Oh, I assure you, madam, that this will 
 gave you a great fortune ; all the establishment, 
 and a very great fortune. But the residue was 
 in trust for the building and endowment of an In- 
 dustrial School on the East Side, with a great li- 
 brary and a reading-room, all to be free. It was a 
 great scheme, and carefully worked out." 
 
 " I am so glad to know this," said Carmen. " Was 
 there anything else ?" 
 
 " Only some legacies." And Mr. Sage went on, 
 trying to recall details that his attentive listener 
 already knew. There were legacies to some of his 
 relatives in New Hampshire, and there was a fund, 
 quite a handsome fund, for the poor of the city, 
 called the " Margaret Fund." And there was some- 
 thing also for a relative of the late Mrs. Hender- 
 son. 
 
 Carmen again expressed her desire to carry out 
 her husband's wishes in everything, and Mr. Sage 
 was much impressed by her sweet manner. When 
 she had found out all that he knew or remembered 
 of the new will, and arose to go, Mr. Sage said he 
 would accompany her to the oiBce. And Carmen 
 gratefully accepted his escort, saying that she had 
 wished to ask him to go with her, but that she 
 feared to take up so much of his time. 
 
 At the office the first will was found, but no 
 other. The lawyer glanced through it, and then
 
 handed it to Mrs. Henderson, with the remark, " It 
 leaves you, madam, pretty much everything of 
 which he died possessed." Carmen put it aside. 
 She did not care to read it now. She would go 
 home and search for the other one. 
 
 " If no other is found," said Mr. Sage, in bidding 
 her good-morning, " this one ought to be proved 
 to-morrow. I may tell you that you and Mr. Hollo- 
 well are named as executors." 
 
 On her way home Carmen stopped at a telegraph 
 station, and sent a message to Mavick, in Washing- 
 ton, to take an afternoon train and come to New 
 York. 
 
 When Carmen reached home she was in a seri- 
 ous but perfectly clear frame of mind. The reve- 
 lation in the last will of Henderson's change of 
 mind towards her was mortifying to a certain ex- 
 tent. It was true that his fortune was much in- 
 creased since the first will was made, and that it 
 justified his benevolent scheme. But he might have 
 consulted her about it. If she had argued the 
 matter with her conscience, she would have told 
 her conscience that she would carry out this new 
 plan in her own way and time. She was master of 
 the situation, and saw before her a future of al- 
 most unlimited opportunity and splendor, except 
 for one little obstacle. That obstacle was Mr. 
 Mavick. She believed that she understood him 
 thoroughly, but she could not take the next step
 
 300 
 
 until she had seen him. It was true that no one 
 except herself positively knew that a second will 
 now existed, but she did not know how much he 
 might choose to remember. 
 
 She was very impatient to see Mr. Mavick. She 
 wandered about the house, restless and feverish. 
 Presently it occurred to her that it would be best 
 to take the will wholly into her own keeping. She 
 unlocked the desk, took it out with a trembling 
 hand, but did not open it again. It was not neces- 
 sary. A first reading had burned every item of it 
 into her brain. It seemed to be a sort of living 
 thing. She despised herself for being so agitated, 
 and for the furtive feeling that overcame her as she 
 glanced about to be sure that she was alone, and 
 then she ran up-stairs to her room and locked the 
 document in her own writing-desk. 
 
 What was that ? Oh, it was only the door-bell. 
 But who could it be ? Some one from the office, 
 from her lawyer ? She could see nobody. In two 
 minutes there was a rap at her door. It was only 
 the servant with a despatch. She took it and 
 opened it without haste. 
 
 " Yery well, Dobson ; no answer. I expect Mr. 
 Mavick on business at ten. I am at home to no 
 one else." 
 
 At ten o'clock Mr. Mavick came, and was shown 
 into the library, where Carmen awaited him. 
 
 " It was very good of you to come," she said, as
 
 301 
 
 she advanced to meet him and gave him her hand 
 in the natural subdued manner that the circum- 
 stances called for. 
 
 " I took the first train after I received your de- 
 spatch." 
 
 " I am sorry to inconvenience you so," she said, 
 after they were seated, " but you know so much of 
 Mr. Henderson's affairs that your advice will be 
 needed. His will is to be proved to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes?" saidMavick. 
 
 "I went to see Mr. Sage to-day, and he went 
 with me to the office. The will was in the safe. 
 I did not read it, but Mr. Sage said that it left 
 everything to me except a few legacies." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " He said it should be proved to-morrow, unless 
 a later will turned up." 
 
 " Was there a later will ?" 
 
 " That is what he did not know. He had drawn 
 a new will about a year ago, but he doubted if it 
 had ever been executed. Mr. Henderson was con- 
 sidering it. He thought he had a memorandum of 
 it somewhere, but he remembered the principal 
 features of it." 
 
 " Was it a great change from the first ?" Mavick 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, considerable. In fact, the greater part of 
 his property, as far as I could make out, was to go to 
 endow a vast training-school, library, and reading-
 
 room on the East Side. Of course that would be a 
 fine thing." 
 
 " Of course," said Mavick. " And no such will 
 has been found ?" 
 
 "I've looked everywhere," replied Carmen, 
 simply; "all over the house. It should be in that 
 desk if anywhere. We can look again, but I feel 
 pretty sure there is no such document there." 
 
 She took in her hand the bunch of keys that lay 
 on the table, as if she were about to rise and un- 
 lock the desk. Then she hesitated, and looked 
 Mavick full in the face. 
 
 "Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that will was ever 
 executed ?" 
 
 For a moment they looked steadily at each other, 
 and then he said, deliberately, their eyes squarely 
 meeting, " I do not think it was." And in a mo- 
 ment he added, "He never said anything to me 
 about such a disposition of his property." 
 
 Two things were evident to Carmen from this 
 reply. He saw her interests as she saw them, and 
 it was pretty certain that the contents of the will 
 were not made known to him when he witnessed 
 it. She experienced an immense feeling of relief 
 as she arose and unlocked the desk. They sat 
 down before it together, and went over its con- 
 tents. Mavick made a note of the fresh business 
 memoranda that might be of service next day, since 
 Mrs. Henderson had requested him to attend the
 
 303 
 
 proving of the will, and to continue for the present 
 the business relations with her that he had held 
 with Mr. Henderson. 
 
 It was late when he left the house, but he took 
 with him a note to Mr. Sage to drop into the box 
 for morning delivery. The note said that she had 
 searched the house, that no second will existed 
 there, and that she had telegraphed to Mr. Mavick, 
 who had much knowledge of Mr. Henderson's af- 
 fairs, to meet him in the morning. And she read 
 the note to Mavick before she sealed it. 
 
 Before the note could have been dropped into 
 the box, Carmen was in her room, and the note 
 was literally true. No second will existed. 
 
 The will was proved, and on the second day its 
 contents were in all the newspapers. But with it 
 went a very exciting story. This was the rumor of 
 another will, and of Henderson's vast scheme of 
 benevolence. Mr. Sage had been interviewed and 
 Carmen had been interviewed. The memorandum 
 (which was only rough and not wholly legible 
 notes) had been found and sent to Carmen. There 
 was no concealment about it. She gave the re- 
 porters all the details, and to every one she said 
 that it was her intention to carry out her husband's 
 wishes, so far as they could be ascertained from 
 this memorandum, when his affairs had been set- 
 tied. 
 
 The thirst of the reporters for information amused
 
 304 
 
 -even Carmen, who had seen much of this industri- 
 ous tribe. One of them, to whom she had partially 
 explained the situation, ended by asking her, " Are 
 you going to contest the will ?" 
 
 " Contest the will ?" cried Carmen. " There is 
 nothing to contest." 
 
 " I didn't know," said the young man, whose us- 
 ual occupation was reporting sports, and who had 
 a dun idea that every big will must be contested. 
 
 Necessarily the affair made a great deal of talk. 
 The newspapers discussed it for days, and turned 
 over the scheme in every light, the most saying 
 that it was a noble gift to the city that had been 
 intended, while only one or two doubted if chari- 
 ty institutions of this sort really helped the poor. 
 Regret, of course, was expressed that the second 
 will had never been executed, but with this regret 
 was the confidence that the widow would carry 
 out, eventually, Henderson's plans. 
 
 This revelation modified the opinion in regard 
 to Henderson. He came to be regarded as a public 
 benefactor, and his faithful wife shared the credit 
 of his noble intention.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WAITING for something to turn up, Jack found a 
 weary business. He had written to Mavick after 
 the newspaper report that that government officer 
 had been in the city on Henderson's affairs, and 
 had received a very civil and unsatisfactory reply. 
 In the note Mavick had asked him to come to 
 Washington and spend a little time, if he had noth- 
 ing better on hand, as his guest. Perhaps no of- 
 fence was intended, but the reply enraged Jack. 
 There was in the tone of the letter and in the 
 manner of the invitation a note of patronage that 
 was unendurable. 
 
 " Confound the fellow's impudence !" said Jack 
 to himself ; and he did not answer the invitation. 
 
 Personally his situation was desperate enough, 
 but he was not inclined to face it. In a sort of 
 stupor he let the law take its course. There was 
 nothing left of his fortune, and his creditors were 
 in possession of his house and all it contained. 
 " Do not try to keep anything back that legally 
 belongs to them," Edith had written when he in- 
 formed her of this last humiliation. Of course 
 decency was observed. Jack's and Edith's ward- 
 
 20
 
 robes, and some pieces of ancestral furniture that 
 he pointed out as belonging to his wife, were re- 
 moved before the auction flag was hung out. 
 
 When this was over he still temporized. Edith's 
 affectionate entreaties to him to leave the dreadful 
 city and come home were evaded on one plea or 
 another. He had wild schemes of going off West 
 or South of disappearing. Perhaps he would 
 have luck somewhere. He couldn't ask aid or seek 
 occupation of his friends, but some place where he 
 was not known he felt that he might do something 
 to regain his position, get some situation, or make 
 some money lots of men had done it in a new 
 country and reinstate himself in Edith's opinion. 
 
 But he did not go, and days and weeks went by 
 in irresolution. No word came from Carmen, and 
 this humiliated Jack more than anything else 
 not the loss of her friendship, but the remem- 
 brance that he had ever danced attendance on her 
 and trusted her. He was getting a good many 
 wholesome lessons in these days. 
 
 One afternoon he called upon Miss Tavish. There 
 was no change in her. She received him with her 
 usual gay cordiality, and with no affectation. 
 
 " I didn't know what had become of you," she 
 said. 
 
 "I've been busy," he replied, with a faint at- 
 tempt at a smile. 
 
 "Yes, I know. It's been an awful time, what
 
 807 
 
 with Henderson's death and everything else. Al- 
 most everybody has been hit. But," and she looked 
 at him cheerfully, " they will come up again ; up and 
 down; it is always so. Why, even I got a little 
 twist in that panic." The girl was doing what she 
 could in her way to cheer him up. 
 
 "I think of going off somewhere to seek my 
 fortune," said Jack, with a rueful smile. 
 
 " Oh, I hope not ; your friends wouldn't like 
 that. There is no place like New York, I'm sure." 
 And there was a real note of friendliness and en- 
 couragement in her tone. " Only," and she gave 
 him another bright smile, " I think of running away 
 from it myself, for a time. It's a secret yet. Car- 
 men wants me to go abroad with her." 
 
 " I have not seen Mrs. Henderson since her hus- 
 band's death. How is she ?" 
 
 " Oh, she bears up wonderfully. But then she 
 has so much to do, poor thing. And then the let- 
 ters she gets, the begging letters. You've no idea. 
 I don't wonder she wants to go abroad. Don't 
 stay away so long again," she said as Jack rose to 
 go. " And, oh, can't you come in to dinner to- 
 morrow night just Carmen I think I can per- 
 suade her and nobody else ?" 
 
 " I'm sorry that I have an engagement," Jack 
 answered. 
 
 " Well, some other time. Only soon." 
 
 This call did Jack temporarily a world of good.
 
 308 
 
 It helped his self -esteem. But it was only tem- 
 porary. The black fact stared him in the face 
 every morning that he was ruined. And it came 
 over him gradually that he was a useless member 
 of society. He never had done anything ; he was 
 not trained or fitted to do anything. And this 
 ^ was impressed upon him in the occasional attempts 
 he made to get employment. He avoided as much 
 as possible contact with those who knew him. 
 Shame prevented him from applying to them for 
 occupation, and besides he very well knew that to 
 those who knew him his idle career was no recom- 
 mendation. Yet he formed a habit of going down- 
 town every day and looking for work. His ap- 
 pearance commanded civility, but everywhere he 
 met with refusal, and he began to feel like a well- 
 bred tramp. There had been in his mind before 
 no excuse for tramps. He could see now how they 
 were made. 
 
 It was not that he lacked capacity. He knew 
 a great deal, in an amateurish way, about pict- 
 ures, books, bric-a-brac, and about society. Why 
 shouldn't he write ? He visited the Loan Exhibi- 
 tion, and wrote a careful criticism on the pictures 
 and sent it to a well-known journal. It was re- 
 turned with thanks : the journal had its own art crit- 
 ic. He prepared other articles about curious books, 
 and one about porcelain and pottery. They were 
 all returned, except one which gave the history of
 
 a rare bit of majolica, which had been picked up 
 for - fifty cents and then sold for five hundred dol- 
 lars, and was now owned by a collector who had 
 paid four thousand dollars for- it. For that the 
 newspaper sent him five dollars. That was not 
 encouraging, and his next effort for the same jour- 
 nal was returned. Either he hadn't the newspa- 
 per knack, or the competition was too great. 
 
 He had ceased going to his club. It was too 
 painful to meet his acquaintances in his altered 
 circumstances, and it was too expensive. It even 
 annoyed him to meet Major Fairfax. That philos- 
 opher had not changed towards him any more than 
 Miss Tavish had, but it was a melancholy business 
 to talk of his affairs, and to listen to the repeated 
 advice to go down to the country to Edith, and 
 wait for some good opening. That was just what 
 he could not do. His whole frivolous life he began 
 now to see as she must have seen it. And it seemed 
 to him that he could only retain a remnant of his self- 
 respect by doing something that would reinstate 
 him in her opinion. 
 
 " Yery well," said the Major, at the close of the 
 last of their talks at the club ; " what are you go- 
 ing to do ?" 
 
 " I'm going into some business," said Jack, stiffly. 
 
 " Have you spoken to any of your friends ?" 
 
 " Ko. It's no use," he said, bitterly ; " they are 
 all like me, or they know me."
 
 310 
 
 " And hasn't your wife some relations who are in 
 business ?" 
 
 " The last people I should apply to. No. I'm 
 going to look around. Major, do you happen to 
 know a cheap lodging-house that is respectable ?" 
 
 " I don't know any that is not respectable," the 
 Major replied, in a huffy manner. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Jack. "I want to 
 reduce expenses." 
 
 The Major did know of a place in the neighbor- 
 hood where he lived. He gave Jack the address, 
 and thereafter the club and his usual resorts knew 
 him no more. 
 
 As the days went by and nothing happened to 
 break the monotony of his waiting and his fruit- 
 less search, he became despondent. Day after day 
 he tramped about the city, among the business 
 portions, and often on the East Side, to see misery 
 worse than his own. He had saved out of the 
 wreck his ample wardrobe, his watch, and some 
 jewelry, and upon these he raised money for his 
 cheap lodgings and his cheap food. He grew care- 
 less of his personal appearance. Every morning 
 he rose and went about the city, always with less 
 hope, and every night he returned to his lodging, 
 but not always sober. 
 
 One day he read the announcement that Mrs. 
 Rodney Henderson and Miss Tavish had sailed for 
 Europe. That ended that chapter. What exactly
 
 311 
 
 he had expected he could not say. Help from Car- 
 men ? Certainly not. But there had never been a 
 sign from her, nor any word from Mavick lately. 
 There evidently was nothing. He had been thrown 
 over. Carmen evidently had no more use for him. 
 She had other plans. The thought that he had 
 been used and duped was almost more bitter than 
 his loss. 
 
 In after-days Jack looked back upon this time 
 with a feeling akin to thankfulness for Carmen's 
 utter heartlessness in regard to his affairs. He 
 trembled to think what might have happened to 
 him if she had sent for him and consulted him and 
 drawn him again into the fatal embrace of her 
 schemes and her fascinations. Now he was sim- 
 ply enraged when he thought of her, and irritated 
 with himself. 
 
 These were dark days, days to which he looked 
 back with a shudder. He wrote to Edith frequent- 
 ly a brief note. He was straightening out his af- 
 fairs ; he was busy. But he did not give her his 
 address, and he only got her letters when the Ma- 
 jor forwarded them from the club, which was ir- 
 regularly. A stranger, who met him at his lodg- 
 ings or elsewhere, would have said that he was an 
 idle and rather dissipated-looking man. He was 
 idle, except in his feeble efforts to get work ; he 
 was worn and discouraged, but he was not doing 
 anything very bad. In his way of looking at it,
 
 312 
 
 he was carrying out his notion of honor. He was 
 only breaking a woman's heart. 
 
 He was conscious of little except his own mis- 
 fortunes and misery. He did not yet apprehend 
 his own selfishness nor her nobility. He did not 
 yet comprehend the unselfishness of a good wom- 
 an's love. 
 
 On the East Side one day, as he was sauntering 
 along Grand Street, he encountered Dr. Leigh, his 
 wife's friend, whom he had seen once at his house. 
 She did not at first recognize him until he stopped 
 and spoke his name. 
 
 "Oh," she said, with surprise at seeing him. 
 and at his appearance, " I didn't expect to see you 
 here. I thought everybody had gone from the 
 city. Perhaps you are going to the Neighborhood 
 Guild?" 
 
 " IS"o," and Jack forced a little laugh, " I'm not 
 so good as that. I'm kept in town on business. I 
 strolled over here to see how the other side of life 
 looks." 
 
 " It doesn't improve. It is one of the worst sum- 
 mers I ever saw. Since Mr. Henderson's death 
 
 " What difference did Henderson's death make 
 over here ?" 
 
 " Why, he had deposited a little fund for Father 
 Damon to draw on, and the day after his death the 
 bank returned a small check with the notice that 
 there was no deposit to draw on. It had been such
 
 a help in extraordinary cases. Perhaps you saw 
 some allusion to it in the newspapers ?" 
 
 " Wasn't it the Margaret Fund ?" 
 
 " Yes. Father Damon dropped a note to Mrs. 
 Henderson explaining about it. No reply came." 
 
 " As he might have expected." Dr. Leigh looked 
 up quickly as if for an explanation, but Jack ig- 
 nored the query, and went on. " And Father Da- 
 mon, is he as active as ever ?" 
 
 " He has gone." 
 
 " What, left the city, quit his work ? And the 
 mission ?" 
 
 " I don't suppose he will ever quit his work while 
 he lives, but he is much broken down. The mission 
 chapel is not closed, but a poor woman told me 
 that it seemed so." 
 
 " And he will not return ? Mrs. Delancy will be 
 so sorry." 
 
 " I think not. He is in retreat now, and I heard 
 that he might go to Baltimore. I thought of your 
 wife. She was so interested in his work. Is she 
 well this summer ?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you," said Jack, and they parted. 
 But as she went on her way his altered appearance 
 struck her anew, and she wondered what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 This meeting with Mr. Delancy recalled most 
 forcibly Edith, her interest in the East Side work, 
 her sympathy with Father Damon and the mission,
 
 314 
 
 the first flush of those days of enthusiasm. "When 
 Father Damon began his work the ladies used to 
 come in their carriages to the little chapel with 
 flowers and money and hearts full of sympathy 
 with the devoted priest. Alone of all these Edith 
 had been faithful in her visits, always, when she 
 was in town. And now the whole glittering show 
 of charity had vanished for the time, and Father 
 Damon 
 
 The little doctor stopped, consulted a memoran- 
 dum in her hand-bag, looked up at the tenement- 
 house she was passing, and then began to climb its 
 rickety stairway. 
 
 Yes, Father Damon had gone, and Kuth Leigh 
 simply went on with her work as before. Perhaps 
 in all the city that summer there was no other per- 
 son whose daily life was so little changed as hers. 
 Others were driven away by the heat, by tempora- 
 ry weariness, by the need of a vacation and change 
 of scene. Some charities and some clubs and 
 schools were temporarily suspended ; other chari- 
 ties, befitting the name, were more active, the very 
 young children were most looked after, and the 
 Good Samaritans of the Fresh -Air Funds went 
 about everywhere full of this new enthusiasm of 
 humanity. But the occupation of Ruth Leigh re- 
 mained always the same, in a faithful pertinacity 
 that nothing could wholly discourage, in a routine 
 that no projects could kindle into rnuclfenthusiasm.
 
 315 
 
 Day after day she went about among the sick and 
 the poor, relieving and counselling individuals, and 
 tiring herself out in that personal service, and more 
 and more conscious, when she had time, at night, 
 for instance, to think, of the monstrous injustice 
 somewhere, and at times in a mood of fierce revolt 
 against the social order that made all this misery 
 possible and hopeless. 
 
 Yet a great change had come into her life the 
 greatest that can come to any man or woman in 
 the natural order. She loved and she was loved. 
 An ideal light had been cast upon her common- 
 place existence, the depths of her own nature had 
 been revealed to herself. In this illuminating 
 light she walked about in the misery of this world. 
 This love must be denied, this longing of the heart 
 for companionship could never be gratified, yet 
 after all it was a sweet self-sacrifice, and the love 
 itself brought its own consolation. She had not to 
 think of herself as weak, and neither was her lov- 
 er's image dimmed to her by any surrender of his 
 own principle or his own ideal. She saw him, as 
 she had first seen him, a person consecrated and 
 set apart, however much she might disagree with 
 his supernatural vagaries set apart to the service 
 of humanity. She had bitter thoughts sometimes 
 of the world, and bitter thoughts of the false 
 system that controlled his conduct, but never of 
 him.
 
 316 
 
 It was unavoidable that she should recall her 
 last interview with him, and that the image of his 
 noble, spiritual face should be ever distinct in her 
 mind. And there was even a certain comfort in 
 this recollection. 
 
 Father Damon had indeed striven, under the 
 counsel of his own courage and of Brother Monies, 
 to conquer himself on the field of his temptation. 
 Bat with his frail physique it was asking too much. 
 This at last was so evident that the good brother 
 advised him, and the advice was in the nature of a 
 command in his order, to retire for a while, and 
 then take up his work in a fresh field. 
 
 When this was determined on, his desire was 
 nearly irresistible to see Kuth Leigh ; he thought it 
 would be cowardly to disappear and not say good- 
 by. Indeed, it was necessary to see her and ex- 
 plain the stoppage of help from the Margaret 
 Fund. The check that he had drawn, which was 
 returned, had been for one of Dr. Leigh's cases. 
 With his failure to elicit any response from Mrs. 
 Henderson, the hope, raised by the newspaper 
 comments on the unexecuted will, that the fund 
 would be renewed was dissipated. 
 
 In the interview which Father Damon sought 
 with Dr. Leigh at the Women's Hospital all this 
 was explained, and ways and means were discussed 
 for help elsewhere. 
 
 " I wanted to talk this over with you," said Fa-
 
 317 
 
 ther Damon, " because I am going away to take a 
 rest." 
 
 "You need it, Father Damon," was Ruth's an- 
 swer, in a professional manner. 
 
 "And and," he continued, Tvith some hesita- 
 tion, " probably I shall not return to this mission." 
 
 " Perhaps that will be best," she said, simply, 
 but looking up at him now, with a face full of ten- 
 der sympathy. 
 
 " I am sure of it," he replied, turning away from 
 her gaze. " The fact is, doctor, I am a little 
 hipped overworked, and all that. I shall pull 
 myself together with a little rest. But I wanted 
 to tell you how much I appreciate } T our work, and 
 and what a comfort you have been to me in my 
 poor labors. I used to hope that some time you 
 would see this world in relation to the other, 
 and" 
 
 " Yes, I know," she interrupted, hastily, " I can- 
 not think as you do, but " And she could not go 
 on for a great lump in her throat. Involuntarily 
 she rose from her seat. The interview was too 
 trying. Father Damon rose also. There was a 
 moment's painful silence as they looked in each 
 other's faces. Neither could trust the voice for 
 speech. He took her hand and pressed it, and 
 said " God bless you !" and went out, closing the 
 door softly. 
 
 A moment after he opened it again and stood
 
 318 
 
 on the threshold. She was in her chair, her head 
 bowed upon her arms on the table. As he spoke 
 she looked up, and she never forgot the expression 
 of his face. 
 
 "I want to say, Kuth" he had never before 
 called her by her first name, and his accent thrilled 
 her " that I shall pray for you as I pray for my- 
 self, and though I may never see you again in this 
 world, the greatest happiness that can come to me 
 in this life will be to hear that you have learned to 
 say Our Father which art in heaven." 
 
 As she looked he was gone, and his last words re- 
 mained a refrain in her mind that evening and af- 
 terwards " Our Father which art in heaven " a 
 refrain recurring again and again in all her life, in- 
 separable from the memory of the man she loved. 

 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ALONG the Long Island coast lay the haze of 
 early autumn. It was the time of lassitude. In 
 the season of ripening and decay Nature seemed 
 to have lost her spring, and lay in a sort of deli- 
 cious languor. Sea and shore were in a kind of 
 truce, and the ocean south wind brought cool re- 
 freshment but no incentive. 
 
 From the sea the old brown farm-house seemed 
 a snug haven of refuge ; from the inland road it 
 appeared, with its spreading, sloping roofs, like an 
 ancient sea-craft come ashore, which had been, 
 covered in and then embowered by kindly Nat- 
 ure with foliage. In those days its golden-brown 
 color was in harmony with the ripening orchards 
 and gardens. 
 
 Surely, if anywhere in the world, peace was 
 here. But to its owner this very peace and quiet- 
 ness was becoming intolerable. The waiting days 
 were so long, the sleepless nights of uncertainty 
 were so weary. When her work was done, and 
 Edith sat with a book or some sewing under the 
 arbor where the grape clusters hung, growing dark 
 and transparent, and the boy played about near
 
 her, she had a view of the blue sea, and about her 
 were the twitter of birds and the hum of the cica- 
 da. The very beauty made her heart ache. Sea- 
 ward there was nothing nothing but the leap- 
 ing little waves and the sky. From the land side 
 help might come at any hour, and at every roll of 
 wheels along the road her heart beat faster and 
 hope sprang up anew. But day after day noth- 
 ing came. 
 
 Perhaps there is no greater bravery than this 
 sort of waiting, doing the daily duty and waiting. 
 Endurance is woman's bravery, and Edith was en- 
 during, with an almost broken but still with a cou- 
 rageous heart. It was all so strange. Was it sim- 
 ply shame that kept him away, or had he ceased to 
 love her? If the latter, there was no help for her. 
 She had begged him to come, she had offered to 
 leave the boy with her cousin companion and go 
 to him. Perhaps it was pride only. In one of his 
 short letters he had said, " Thank God, your little 
 fortune is untouched." If it were pride only, how 
 could she overcome it ? Of this she thought night 
 and day. She thought, and she was restless, fever- 
 ish, and growing thin in her abiding anxiety. 
 
 It was true that her own fortune was safe and 
 In her control. But with the usual instinct of 
 women who know they have an income not likely 
 to be ever increased, she began to be economical. 
 She thought not of herself, but of the boy. It was
 
 the boy's fortune now. She began to look sharply 
 after expenses; she reduced her household; she 
 took upon herself the care of the boy, and other 
 household duties. This was all well for her, for it 
 occupied her time, and to some extent diverted her 
 thoughts. 
 
 So the summer passed a summer of anxiety, 
 longing, and dull pain for Edith. The time came 
 when the uncertainty of it could no longer be en- 
 dured. If Jack had deserted her, even if he should 
 die, she could order her life and try to adjust her 
 heavy burden. But this uncertainty was quite be- 
 yond her power to sustain. 
 
 She made up her mind that she would go to the 
 city and seek him. It was what he had written 
 that she must not on any account do, but nothing 
 that could happen to her there could be so bad as 
 this suspense. Perhaps she could bring him back. 
 If he refused, and was angry at her interference, 
 that even would be something definite. And then 
 she had carefully thought out another plan. It 
 might fail, but some action had now become for 
 her a necessity. 
 
 Early one morning it was in September she 
 prepared for a journey to the city. This little trip, 
 which thousands of people made daily, took on for 
 her the air of an adventure. She had been im- 
 mured so' long that it seemed a great undertaking. 
 And when she bade good-by to the boy for the 
 21
 
 day she hugged him and kissed him again and 
 again, as if it were to be an eternal farewell. To 
 her cousin were given the most explicit directions 
 for his care, and after she had started for the train 
 she returned to give further injunctions. So she 
 told herself, but it was really for one more look at 
 the boy. 
 
 But on the whole there was a certain exhilara- 
 tion in the preparation and the going, and her spir- 
 its rose as they had not done in months before. 
 Arrived in the city, she drove at once to the club 
 Jack most frequented. 
 
 "He is not in," the porter said; "indeed, Mr. 
 Delancy has not been here lately." 
 
 " Is Major Fairfax in?" Edith asked. 
 
 Major Fairfax was in, and he came out imme- 
 diately to her carriage. From him she learned 
 Jack's address, and drove to his lodging-house. 
 The Major was more than civil ; he was disposed to 
 be sympathetic, but he had the tact to see that 
 Mrs. Delancy did not wish to be questioned, nor to 
 talk. 
 
 " Is Mr. Delancy at home?" she asked the small 
 boy who ran the elevator. 
 
 " No'me." 
 
 " And he did not say where he was going ?" 
 
 "No'rae." 
 
 " Is he not sometimes at home in the daytime ?" 
 
 "No'me."
 
 " And what time does he usually come home in 
 the evening ?" 
 
 " Don't know. After I've gone, I guess." 
 
 Edith hesitated whether she should leave a card 
 or a note, but she decided not to do either, and or- 
 dered the cabman to take her to Pearl Street, to 
 the house of Fletcher & Co. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher, the senior partner, was her cousin, 
 the son of her father's elder brother, and a man 
 now past sixty years. Circumstances had carried 
 the families apart socially since the death of her 
 father and his brother, but they were on the most 
 friendly terms, and the ties of blood were not in 
 any way weakened. Indeed, although Edith had 
 seen Gilbert Fletcher only a few times since her 
 marriage, she felt that she could go to him any 
 time if she were in trouble, with the certainty of 
 sympathy and help. He had the reputation of the 
 old-fashioned New York merchants, to whom her 
 father belonged, for integrity and conservatism. 
 
 It was to him that she went now. The great 
 shop, or wholesale warehouse rather, into which 
 she entered from the narrow and cart-encumbered 
 street, showed her at once the nature of the busi- 
 ness of Fletcher & Co. It was something in the 
 twine and cordage way. There were everywhere 
 great coils of ropes and bales of twine, and the 
 dark rooms had a tarry smell. Mr. Fletcher was 
 in his office, a little space partitioned off. in the
 
 334 
 
 rear, with half a dozen clerks working by gaslight, 
 and a little sanctum where the senior partner was 
 commonly found at his desk. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher was a little, round-headed man, with 
 a shrewd face, vigorous and cheerful, thoroughly a 
 man of business, never speculating, and who had 
 been slowly gaining wealth by careful industry and 
 cautious extension of his trade. Certain hours of 
 the day from ten to three he gave to his busi- 
 ness. It was a habit, and it was a habit that he 
 enjoyed. He had now come back, as he told 
 Edith, from a little holiday at the sea, where his 
 family were, to get into shape for the fall trade. 
 
 Edith was closeted with him for a full hour. 
 When she came out her eyes were brighter and 
 her step more elastic. At sundown she reached 
 home, almost in high spirits. And when she 
 snatched up the boy and hugged him, she whis- 
 pered in his ear, " Baby, we have done it, and we 
 shall see." 
 
 One night when Jack returned from his now 
 almost aimless tramping about the city he found a 
 letter on his table. It seemed from the printing 
 on the envelope to be a business letter; and busi- 
 ness, in the condition he was in and it was the 
 condition in which he usually came home did not 
 interest him. He was about to toss the letter aside, 
 when the name of Fletcher caught his eye, and he 
 opened it.
 
 It "was a brief note, written on an office memo- 
 randum, which simply asked Mr. Delancy to call at 
 the office as soon as it was convenient, as the writer 
 wished to talk with him on a matter of business, 
 and it was signed " Gilbert Fletcher." 
 
 " Why don't he say what his business is ?" said 
 Jack, throwing the letter down impatiently. " I 
 am not going to be hauled over the coals by any of 
 the Fletchers." And he tumbled into bed in an in- 
 jured and yet independent frame of mind. 
 
 But the next morning he reread the formal little 
 letter in a new light. To be sure, it was from 
 Edith's cousin. He knew him very well ; he was 
 not a person to go out of his way to interfere with 
 anybody, and more than likely it was in relation 
 to Edith's affairs that he was asked to call. That 
 thought put a new aspect on the matter. Of course 
 if it concerned her interests he ought to go. He 
 dressed with unusual care for him in these days, 
 breakfasted at the cheap restaurant which he fre- 
 quented, and before noon was in the Fletcher 
 warehouse in Pearl Street. 
 
 He had never been there before, and he was 
 somewhat curious to see what sort of a place it 
 was where Gilbert carried on the string business, 
 as he used to call it when speaking to Edith of her 
 cousin's occupation. It was a much more dingy 
 and smelly place than he expected, but the carts 
 about the doors, and the bustle of loading and un-
 
 loading, of workmen hauling and pulling, and of 
 clerks calling out names and numbers to be regis- 
 tered and checked, gave him the impression that it 
 was not a dull place. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher received him in the little dim 
 back office with a cordial shake of the hand, gave 
 him a chair, and reseated himself, pushing back 
 the papers in front of him with the air of a 
 very busy man who was dropping for a moment 
 one thing in order to give his mind promptly to 
 another. 
 
 " Our fall trade is just starting up," he said, " and 
 it keeps us all pretty busy." 
 
 " Yes," said Jack. " I could drop in any other 
 time" 
 
 " ]STo, no," interrupted Mr. Fletcher ; " it is just 
 because I am busy that I wanted to see you. Are 
 you engaged in anything ?" 
 
 " Nothing in particular," replied Jack, hesitating. 
 "I'd thought of going into some business." And 
 then, after a pause : " It's no use to mince matters. 
 You know everybody knows, I suppose that I 
 got hit in that Henderson panic." 
 
 " So did lots of others," replied Mr. Fletcher, 
 cheerfully. " Yes, I know about it. And I'm not 
 sure but it was a lucky thing for me." He spoke 
 still more cheerfully, and Jack looked at him in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 "Are you open to an offer?"
 
 327 
 
 " I'm open to almost anything," Jack answered, 
 with a puzzled look. 
 
 "Well," and Mr. Fletcher settled back in his 
 chair, " I can give you the situation in five minutes. 
 I've been in this business over thirty years yes, 
 over thirty -five years. It has grown, . little by 
 little, until it's a pretty big business. I've a part- 
 ner, a first-rate man he is in Europe now who 
 attends to most of the buying. And the business 
 keeps spreading out, and needs more care. I'm 
 not as young as I was I shall be sixty-four in Oc- 
 tober and I can't work right along as I used to. 
 I find that I come later and go away earlier. It 
 isn't the work exactly, but the oversight, the de- 
 tails ; and the fact is that I want somebody near 
 me whom I can trust, whether I'm here or whether 
 I'm away. I've got good, honest, faithful clerks 
 if there was one I did not trust, I wouldn't have 
 him about. But do you know, Jack " it was the 
 first time in the interview that he had used this 
 name " there is something in blood." 
 
 " Yes," Jack assented. 
 
 " Well, I want a confidential clerk. That's it." 
 
 "Me?" he asked. He was thinking rapidly 
 while Mr. Fletcher had been speaking ; something 
 like a revolution was taking place in his mind, and 
 when he asked this, the suggestion took on a hu- 
 morous aspect a humorous view of anything had 
 not occurred to him in months.
 
 " You are just the man." 
 
 " I can be confidential," Jack rejoined, with the 
 old smile on his face that had been long a stranger 
 to it, "but I don't know that I can be a clerk." 
 
 Mr. Fletcher was good enough to laugh at this 
 pleasantry. 
 
 " That's all right. It isn't much of a position. 
 We can make the salary twenty-five hundred dol- 
 lars for a starter. Will you try it ?" 
 
 Jack got up and went to the area window, and 
 looked out a moment upon the boxes in the dim 
 court. Then he came back and stood by Mr. 
 Fletcher, and put his hand on the desk. 
 
 "Yes, I'll try." 
 
 " Good. When will you begin ?" 
 
 "Now." 
 
 " That's good. No time like now. Wait a bit, 
 and I'll show you about the place before we go 
 to lunch. You'll get hold of the ropes directly." 
 This was Mr. Fletcher's veteran joke. 
 
 At three o'clock Mr. Fletcher closed his desk. It 
 was time to take his train. " To-morrow, then," he 
 said, "we will begin in earnest." 
 
 "What are the business hours here?" asked 
 Jack. 
 
 " Oh, I am usually here from ten to three, but the 
 business hours are from nine till the business is 
 done. By-the-way, why not run out with me and 
 spend the night, and we can talk the thing over ?"
 
 There was no reason why he should not go, and 
 he went. And that was the way John Corlear De- 
 lancy was initiated in the string business in the old 
 house of Fletcher & Co
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 FEW battles are decisive, and perhaps least of all 
 those that are won by a sudden charge or an acci- 
 dent, and not as the result of long-maturing causes. 
 Doubtless the direction of a character or a career 
 is often turned by a sudden act of the will or a mo- 
 mentary impotence of the will. But the battle 
 is not over then, nor without long and arduous 
 fighting, often a dreary, dragging struggle without 
 the excitement of novelty. 
 
 It was comparatively easy for Jack Delancy in 
 Mr. Fletcher's office to face about suddenly and 
 say yes to the proposal made him. There was on 
 him the pressure of necessity, of his own better 
 nature acting under a sense of his wife's approval ; 
 and besides, there was a novelty that attracted him 
 in trying something absolutely new to his habits. 
 
 But it was one thing to begin, and another, with 
 a man of his temperament, to continue. To have 
 regular hours, to attend to the details of a traffic 
 that was to the last degree prosaic, in short, to 
 settle down to hard work, was a very different 
 thing from the " business " about which Jack and 
 his fellows at the club used to talk so much, and to
 
 fancy they were engaged in. When the news came 
 to the Union that Delancy had gone into the house 
 of Fletcher & Co. as a clerk, there was a general 
 smile, and a languid curiosity expressed as to how 
 long he would stick to it. 
 
 In the first day or two Jack was sustained not 
 only by the original impulse, but by a real instinct 
 in learning about business ways and details that 
 were new to him. To talk about the business and 
 about the markets, to hear plans unfolded for ex- 
 tension and for taking advantage of fluctuations in 
 prices, was all very well ; but the drudgery of de- 
 tails copying, comparing invoices, and settling 
 into the routine of a clerk's life, even the life of a 
 confidential clerk was contrary to the habits of 
 his whole life. It was not to be expected that 
 these habits would be overcome without a long 
 struggle and many backslidings. 
 
 The little matter of being at his office desk at 
 nine o'clock in the morning began to seem a hard- 
 ship after the first three or four days. For Mr. 
 Fletcher not to walk into his shop on the stroke of 
 ten would have been such a reversal of his habits 
 as to cause him as much annoyance as it caused 
 Jack to be bound to a fixed hour. It was only the 
 difference in training. But that is saying every- 
 thing. 
 
 Besides, while the details of his work, the more 
 he got settled in them, were not to his taste, he was
 
 daily mortified to find himself ignorant of matters 
 which the stupidest clerk in the office seemed to 
 know by instinct. This acted, however, as a sort 
 of stimulus, and touched his pride. He determined 
 that he would not be humiliated in this way, and 
 during office hours he worked as diligently as Mr. 
 Fletcher could have desired. He had pledged him- 
 self to the trial, and he summoned all his intelli- 
 gence to back his effort. 
 
 And it is true that the satisfaction of having a 
 situation, of doing something, the relief to the pre- 
 vious daily anxiety and almost, despair, raised his 
 spirits. It was only when he thought of the pub- 
 lic opinion of his little world, of some other occupa- 
 tion more befitting his education, of the vast change 
 from his late life of ease and luxury to this of 
 daily labor with a clerk's pay, that he had hours 
 of revolt and cursed his luck. 
 
 No, Jack's battle was not won in a day, or a 
 week, or a year. And before it was won he need- 
 ed more help than his own somewhat irresolute 
 will could give. It is the impression of his biogra- 
 pher that he would have failed in the end if he had 
 been married to a frivolous and selfish woman. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher was known as a very strict man of 
 business, and as little else. But he was a good 
 judge of character, and under his notions of disci- 
 pline and of industry he was a kindly man, as his 
 clerks, who feared his sharp oversight, knew. And
 
 besides, he had made a compact with Edith, for 
 whom he had something more than family affec- 
 tion, and he watched Jack's efforts to adjust him- 
 self to the new life with sympathy. If it was an 
 experiment for Jack, it was also an experiment for 
 him, the result of which gave him some anxiety. 
 The situation was not a very heroic one, but a life 
 is often decided for good or ill by as insignificant 
 a matter as Jack's ability to persevere in learning 
 about the twine and cordage trade. This was a 
 day of trial, and the element of uncertainty in it 
 kept both Mr. Fletcher and Jack from writing of 
 the new arrangement to Edith, for fear that only 
 disappointment to her would be the ultimate re- 
 sult. Jack's brief notes to her were therefore, as 
 usual, indefinite, but with the hint that he was be- 
 ginning to see a way out of his embarrassment. 
 
 After the passage of a couple of weeks, during 
 which Mr. Fletcher had been quietly studying his 
 new clerk, he suddenly said to him, one Saturday 
 morning, after they had looked over and estimated 
 the orders by the day's mail, "Jack, I think you'd 
 better let up a little, and run down and see Edith." 
 
 " Oh !" said Jack, a little startled by the propo- 
 sal, but recovering himself ; " I didn't suppose the 
 business could spare me." 
 
 " I didn't mean a vacation, but run down for over 
 Sunday. It must be lovely there, and the change 
 will make you as keen as a brier for business. It
 
 334 
 
 always does me. Stay over Monday if the weath- 
 er is good. I have to be away myself the week 
 after." As Jack hesitated and did not reply, Mr. 
 Fletcher continued: "I really think you'd better 
 go, Jack. You have hardly had a breath of fresh 
 air this summer. There's plenty of time to go up- 
 town and get your grip and catch the afternoon 
 train." 
 
 Jack was still silent. The thought of seeing 
 Edith created a tumult in his mind. It seemed as 
 if he were not quite ready, not exactly settled. 
 He had been procrastinating so long, putting off 
 going, on one pretext or another, that he had fallen 
 into a sort of fear of going. At first, absorbed in 
 his speculations, enthralled by the company of 
 Carmen and the luxurious, easy-going view of life 
 that her society created for him, he had felt Edith 
 and his house as an irritating restraint. Later, 
 when the smash came, he had been still more re- 
 lieved that she was out of town. And finally he 
 had fallen into a reckless apathy, and had made 
 himself believe that he never would see her again 
 until some stroke of fortune should set him on his 
 feet and restore his self-respect. 
 
 But since he had been with Fletcher & Co. his 
 feelings had gradually undergone a change. With 
 a regular occupation and regular hours, and in con- 
 tact with the sensible mind and business routine of 
 Mr. Fletcher, he began to have saner views of life,
 
 385 
 
 and to realize that Edith would approve what he 
 was now attempting to do much more than any 
 effort to relieve himself by speculation. 
 
 As soon as he felt himself a little more firmly 
 established, a little more sure of himself, he would 
 go to Edith, and confess everything, and begin life 
 anew. This had been his mood, but he was still 
 irresolute, and it needed some outside suggestion 
 to push him forward to overcome his lingering re- 
 luctance to go home. 
 
 But this had come suddenly. It seemed to him 
 at first thought that he needed time to prepare for 
 it. Mr. Fletcher pulled out his watch. " There is 
 a later train at four. Take that, and we will get 
 some lunch first." 
 
 An hour of postponement was such a relief! 
 Why, of course he could go at four. And instantly 
 his heart leaped up with desire. 
 
 "All right," he said, as he rose and closed his 
 desk. " But I think I'd better not stay for lunch. 
 I want to get something for the boy on my way 
 up-town." 
 
 " Very good. Tuesday, then. My best regards 
 to Edith." 
 
 As Jack came down the stakway from the ele- 
 vated road at Twenty-third Street he ran against a 
 man who was hurrying up a man in a pronounced 
 travelling-suit, grip-sack and umbrella in hand, and 
 in haste. It was Mavick. Recognition was instan-
 
 336 
 
 taneous, and it was impossible for either to avoid 
 the meeting if he had desired to do so. 
 
 " You in town !" said Mavick. 
 
 "And you!" Jack retorted. 
 
 " No, not really. I'm just going to catch the 
 steamer. Short leave. We have all been kept by 
 that confounded Chile business." 
 
 " Going for the government ?" 
 
 " No, not publicly. Of course shall confer with 
 our minister in London. Any news here ?" 
 
 " Yes ; Henderson's dead." And Jack looked 
 Mavick squarely in the face. 
 
 " Ah !" And Mavick smiled faintly, and then 
 said, gravely : " It was an awful business. So sud- 
 den, you know, that I couldn't do anything." He 
 made a movement to pass on. " I suppose there 
 has been no no " 
 
 " I suppose not," said Jack, " except that Mrs. 
 Henderson has gone to Europe." 
 
 " Ah !" And Mr. Mavick didn't wait for fur- 
 ther news, but hurried up, with a " Good-by." 
 
 So. Mavick was following Carmen to Europe. 
 Well, why not ? What an unreal world it all was, 
 that of a few months ago ! The gigantic Hender- 
 son ; Jack's own vision of a great fortune ; Car- 
 men and her house of Nero ; the astute and diplo- 
 matic Mavick, with his patronizing airs ! It was 
 like a scene in a play. 
 
 He stepped into a shop and selected a toy for the
 
 837 
 
 boy. It was a real toy, and it was for a real boy. 
 Jack experienced a genuine pleasure at the thought 
 of pleasing him. Perhaps the little fellow would 
 not know him. 
 
 And then he thought of Edith not of Edith the 
 mother, but of Edith the girl in the days of his- 
 wooing. And he went into Maillard's. 
 
 The pretty girl at the counter knew him. He 
 was an old customer, and she had often filled or- 
 ders for him. She had despatched many a costly 
 box to addresses he had given her. It was in the 
 recollection of those transactions that he said : " A 
 box of marrons glaces, please. My wife prefers 
 that." 
 
 " Shall I send it ?" asked the girl, when she had 
 done it up. 
 
 " No, thanks ; we are not in town." 
 
 " Of course," she said, beaming upon him ; " no- 
 body is yet." 
 
 And this girl also seemed a part of the old life, 
 with her little affectation of familiarity with its 
 ways. 
 
 He went to his room it seemed a very mean 
 little room now packed his bag, told the janitor 
 he should be absent a few days, and hurried to the 
 ferry and the train as if he feared that some acci- 
 dent would delay him. 
 
 When he was seated and the train moved off his 
 thoughts took another turn. He was in for it now. 
 22
 
 338 
 
 He began to regret that he had not delayed, to 
 think it all out more thoroughly ; perhaps it would 
 have been better to have written. 
 
 He bought an evening journal, but he could not 
 read it. What he read between the lines was his 
 own life. What a miserable failure ! What a mess 
 he had made of his own affairs, and how unworthy 
 of such a woman as Edith he had been ! How in- 
 different he had been to her happiness in the pur- 
 suit of his own pleasure ! How would she receive 
 him ? He could hardly doubt that ; but she must 
 know, she must have felt cruelly his estrangement. 
 What if she met him with a royal forgiveness, as if 
 he were a returned prodigal ? He couldn't stand 
 that. If now he were only going back with his 
 fortune recovered, with brilliant prospects to spread 
 before her, and could come into the house in his 
 old playful manner, with the assumed deference of 
 the master, and say : "Well, Edith dear, the storm 
 is over. It's all right now. I am awfully glad to 
 get home. Where's the rascal of an heir ?" 
 
 Instead of that, he was going with nothing, hu- 
 miliated, a clerk in a twine-store. And not much 
 of a clerk at that, he reflected, with his ready hu 
 morous recognition of the situation. 
 
 And yet he was for the first time in his life earn- 
 ing his living. Edith would like that. He had 
 known all along that his idle life had been a con- 
 stant grief to her. No, she would not reproach
 
 him ; she never did reproach him. No doubt she 
 would be glad that he was at work. But, oh, the 
 humiliation of the whole thing ! At one moment 
 he was eager to see her, and the next the rattling 
 train seemed to move too fast, and he welcomed 
 every way-side stop that delayed his arrival. But 
 even the Long Island trains arrive some time, and 
 all too soon the cars slowed up at the familiar 
 little station, and Jack got out. 
 
 " Quite a stranger in these parts, Mr. Delancy," 
 was the easy salutation of the station-keeper. 
 
 " Yes. I've been away. All right down here ?" 
 
 " Eight as a trivet. Hot summer, though. Cal- 
 culate it's goin' to be a warm fall generally is." 
 
 It was near sunset. "When the train had moved 
 on, and its pounding on the rails became a distant 
 roar and then was lost altogether, the country 
 silence so impressed Jack, as he walked along the 
 road towards the sea, that he became distinctly 
 conscious of the sound of his own footsteps. He 
 stopped and listened. Yes, there were other sounds 
 the twitter of birds in the bushes by the road- 
 side, the hum of insects, and the faint rhythmical 
 murmur of lapsing waves on the shore. 
 
 And now the house came in view first the big 
 roof, and then the latticed windows, the balconies, 
 where there were pots of flowers, and then the long 
 veranda with its hammocks and climbing vines. 
 There was a pink tone in the distant water answer-
 
 840 
 
 ing to the flush in the sky, and away to the west 
 the sand-dune that made out into the Sound was a 
 point of light. 
 
 But the house ! Jack's steps were again arrested. 
 The level last rays of the disappearing sun flashed 
 upon the window-panes so that they glowed like 
 painted windows illuminated from within, with a 
 reddish lustre, and the roofs and the brown sides 
 of the building, painted by those great masters in 
 color, the sun and the sea -wind, in that moment 
 were like burnished gold. Involuntarily Jack ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " It is the Golden House !" 
 
 He made his vra.y through the little fore yard. 
 No one was about. The veranda was deserted. 
 There was Edith's work-basket; there were the 
 baby's playthings. The door stood open, and as he 
 approached it he heard singing not singing, either, 
 but a fitful sort of recitation, with the occasional 
 notes of an accompaniment struck as if in absence 
 of mind. The tune he knew, and as he passed 
 through the first room towards the sitting - room 
 that looked on the sea he caught a line : 
 
 "Wely, wely, but love is bonny, for a little while when 
 it is new." 
 
 It was an old English ballad, the ballad of the 
 u Cockle - shells," that Edith used to sing often in 
 the old days, when its note of melancholy seemed
 
 841 
 
 best to express her happiness. It was only that 
 line, and the voice seemed to break, and there was 
 silence. 
 
 He stole along and looked in. There was Edith, 
 seated, her head bowed on her hands, at the piano. 
 
 In an instant, before she could turn to the sound 
 of his quick footsteps, he was at her side, kneeling, 
 his head bowed in the folds of her dress. 
 
 " Edith ! I've been such a fool !" 
 
 She turned, slid from her seat, and was kneeling 
 also, with her arms thrown about his neck. 
 
 "Oh, Jack! You've come. Thank God! Thank 
 God !" 
 
 And presently they stood, and his arms were still 
 around her, and she was looking up into his face, 
 with her hands on his shoulders, and saying, 
 
 " You've come to stay." 
 
 " Yes, dear, forever."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE whole landscape was golden, the sea was 
 silver, on that October morning. It was the brill- 
 iant decline of the year. Edith stood with Jack on 
 the veranda. He had his grip -sack in hand and 
 was equipped for town. Both were silent in the 
 entrancing scene. 
 
 The birds, twittering in the fruit-trees and over 
 the vines, had the air of an orchestra, the concerts 
 of the season over, gathering their instruments and 
 about to depart. One could detect in the lapse of 
 the waves along the shore the note of weariness 
 preceding the change into the fretfulness and the 
 tumult of tempests. In the soft ripening of the 
 season there was peace and hope, but it was the 
 hope of another day. The curtain was falling on 
 this. 
 
 Was life beginning, then, or ending ? If life only 
 could change and renew itself like the seasons, with 
 the perpetually recurring springs ! But youth comes 
 only once, and thereafter the man gathers the fruit 
 of it, sweet or bitter. 
 
 Jack was not given to moralizing, but perhaps a 
 subtle suggestion of this came to him in the thought
 
 that an enterprise, a new enterprise, might have 
 seemed easier in May, when the forces of nature 
 were with him, than in October. There was some- 
 thing, at least, that fell in with his mood, a mood 
 of acquiescence in failure, in this closing season of 
 the year, when he stood empty-handed in the har- 
 vest-time. 
 
 " Edith," he said, as they paced down the walk 
 which was flaming with scarlet and crimson bor- 
 ders, and turned to look at the peaceful brown 
 house, " I hate to go." 
 
 "But you are not going," said Edith, brightly. 
 " I feel all the time as if you were just coming back. 
 Jack, do you know," and she put her hand on his 
 shoulder, " this is the sweetest home in the world 
 now!" 
 
 " It is the only one, dear ;" and Jack made the 
 statement with a humorous sense of its truth. 
 " Well, there's the train, and I'm off with the oth- 
 er clerks." 
 
 " Clerk, indeed !" cried Edith, putting up her face 
 to his ; " you are going to be a Merchant Prince, 
 Jack, that is what you are going to be." 
 
 On the train there was an atmosphere of busi- 
 ness. Jack felt that he was not going to the New 
 York that he knew not to his New York, but to 
 a city of traffic ; down into the streets of commer- 
 cial enterprise, not at all to the metropolis of lei- 
 sure, of pleasure, to the world of clubs and draw-
 
 344 
 
 ing-rooms and elegant loiterings and the rivalries 
 of society life. That was all ended. Jack was 
 hurrying to catch the down-town car for the dingy 
 office of Fletcher & Co., at an hour fixed. 
 
 It was ended, to be sure, but the struggle with 
 Jack in his new life was not ended, his biographer 
 knows, for months and years. 
 
 It was long before he could pass his club win- 
 dows without a pang of humiliation, or lift his hat 
 to a lady of his acquaintance in her passing carriage 
 without a vivid feeling of separateness from his old 
 life. For the old life he could see that any day 
 in the Avenue, any evening by the flaming lights 
 went by in its gilded chariots and entrancing toi- 
 lets, the fascinating whirl of Vanity Fair crowned 
 with roses and with ennui. 
 
 Did he regret it? No doubt. Not to regret 
 would have been to change his nature, and that 
 were a feat impossible for his biographer to accom- 
 plish. In a way his life was gone, and to build up 
 a new life, serene and enduring, was not the work 
 of a day. 
 
 One thing he did not regret in the shock he 
 had received, and that was the absence of Carmen 
 and her world. When he thought of her he had a 
 sense of escape. She was still abroad, and he heard 
 from time to time that Mavick was philandering 
 about from capital to capital in her train. Cer- 
 tainly he would have envied neither of them if
 
 345 
 
 he had been aware, as the reader is aware, of 
 the guilty secret that drew them together and 
 must be forever their torment. They knew each 
 other. 
 
 But this glittering world, to attain a place in 
 which is the object of most of the struggles and 
 hungry competition of modern life, seemed not so 
 real nor so desirable when he was at home with 
 Edith, and in his gradually growing interest in 
 nobler pursuits. They had decided to take a mod- 
 est apartment in town for the winter, and almost 
 before the lease was signed, Edith, in her mind, 
 had transformed it into a charming home. Jack 
 used to rally her on her enthusiasm in its simple 
 furnishing ; it reminded him, he said, of Carmen's 
 interest in her projected house of Nero. It was a 
 great contrast, to be sure, to their stately house by 
 the Park, but it was to them both what that had 
 never been. To one who knows how life goes 
 astray in the solicitations of the great world, there 
 was something pathetic in Edith's pleasure. Even 
 to Jack it might some day come with the force of 
 keen regret for years wasted, that it is enough to 
 break a body's heart to see how little a thing can 
 make a woman happy. 
 
 It was another summer. Major Fairfax had 
 come down with Jack to spend Sunday at the 
 Golden House. Edith was showing the Major the
 
 346 , 
 
 view from the end of the veranda. Jack was run- 
 ning through the evening paper. 
 
 "Hi!" he cried; "here's news. Mavick is to 
 have the mission to Home, and it is rumored that 
 the rich and accomplished Mrs. Henderson, as the 
 wife of the minister, will make the Koman season 
 very gay." 
 
 "It's too bad," said Edith. "Nothing is said 
 about the training-school ?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "Poor Henderson!" was the Major's comment. 
 " It was for this that he drudged and schemed and 
 heaped up his colossal fortune ! His life must look 
 to him like a burlesque."
 
 MAR 
 
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