- : - ' . 
 
 . 
 
 

 
 ELLIOTT, Stephen, naturalist b in Beaufort 
 SO 11 Nov 1771 ; d. in Charleston, S. 0., W 
 March 1830. His father settled in Beaufort, where 
 ne purchased land, and married a granddaughter 
 of John Barnwell. He was graduated at Yale m 
 1791 devoted himself to the cultivation of his es 
 tate 'and to literary and scientific studies and L m 
 1793 was elected to the legislature of South Caro 
 lina, of which he continued to be a member until 
 the establishment of the Bank of the state in 1818, 
 of which he was chosen president. He retained 
 this office till his death. His leisure was devoted 
 to literature and science and he cultivated the 
 study of botany with enthusiasm. In 1813 he was 
 instrumental in founding the Literary and philo 
 sophical society of South Carolina, of which he 
 was president. He lectured gratuitously on his 
 favorite science, and was for some time editor < 
 the " Southern Review." In 1825 he aided in estab 
 lishing the Medical college of the state, and was 
 elected professor of natural history and botany. 
 He was the author of "The Botany of South Caro 
 lina and Georgia" (Charleston, 1821-'4), m the 
 preparation of which he was assisted by Dr. James 
 McBride, and left several works in manuscript. 
 His collection in natural history was one of the 
 
 on 5 Nov., 1861, was promoted major in the regu 
 lar army. He afterward commanded a brigade of 
 cavalry in the Army of th6 Tennessee, was engaged 
 at the capture of Madrid, brevetted for gallantry 
 at the capture of Island No. 10, and again for ser 
 vices at the siege of Corinth, and in a raid on the 
 Mississippi and Ohio railroad in May, 1862. He 
 was promoted to brigadier-general of volunteers in 
 June, 1862, became chief of cavalry in the Army of 
 Virginia in August, 1862, and was wounded at the 
 second battle of Bull Run. He commanded the 
 Department of the Northwest in the beginning of 
 1863, was placed in command of a division in the 
 Army of the Potomac in the summer of that year, 
 then in the Army of the Cumberland, and was en 
 gaged in re-enforcing Gen. Burnside, and com 
 manded in the action of Mossy Creek, Tenn. He 
 was subsequently chief of cavalry in the Armv of
 
 
 (7 
 
 JkCt^tA' 
 
 ELLIOTT, Sarah Barnwell, author; d. 
 Bishop Stephen and Charlotte Bull (Barnwell) 
 E. (D.C.L., U. of the South, 1913). Mem. Soc 
 Colonial Dames S.C., Hist. Soc. S.C., United 
 Daughters of Confederacy, Descendants of Co 
 lonial Governors of S.C.; pres. Tenn. Equal 
 Suffrage Assn.; v.-p. Southern States Woman's 
 Suffrage Conference. C/Mbs: Barnard, Wednes 
 day Afternoon (New York), Lyceum (London). 
 Author: The Felmeres, 1880; A Simple Heart, 
 1886; Jerry, 1889; John Paget. 1S93; The Durket 
 Sperret, 1897; An Incident, and Other Happen 
 ings, 1899; Sam Houston. 1900: The Making of 
 Jane, 1901. Plays: His Majesty's Servant. Ad 
 dress: Sewanee, Tenn.
 
 MISS ELLIOTT'S NOVELS 
 
 In Uniform Style. 
 
 JERRY. 
 
 THE FELMERES. 
 
 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 HENRY HOLT & CO., 
 PUBLISHERS, N. Y.
 
 JOHN FACET 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 (4.C. 
 
 SARAH BARNWELL ELLIOTT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JERRY," "THE FELMERES," "A SIMPLE 
 HEART " 
 
 " To man propose this test 
 Thy body at its best, 
 How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? " 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1893
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1892, 
 
 HENRY HOLT & CO. 
 
 THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAY, N. J.
 
 PS 
 
 
 
 DEDICATED 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 Obv ffatber, 
 
 THE RT. REV. STEPHEN ELLIOTT, D. D., 
 FIRST BISHOP OF GEORGIA.
 
 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 i. 
 
 " The branches cross above our eyes, 
 
 The skies are in a net ; 
 And what's the thing beneath the skies 
 We two would most forget ? 
 Not birth, my love, no, no, 
 Not death, my love, no, no, 
 The love once ours, but ours long hours ago." 
 
 "T SENT for you, Claudia, because " then he 
 
 1 hesitated. 
 
 " Because you could not help yourself," sug 
 gested a voice that anyone, man or woman, would 
 have listened to until its last cadence faded. 
 
 " Yes," the man answered, " I would not have 
 troubled you else." 
 
 " No. I was outlawed. John had ceased to 
 be my brother, and his children had none of my 
 blood in their veins. Nothing but the circum 
 stance of their being twins would have let you 
 turn to me for help." 
 
 " You are quite right." 
 
 "Alice did not want me? To put it gently, 
 Alice did not care for me ; and yet, I might 
 
 443318
 
 2 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 have helped her in all these months of her ill 
 ness." 
 
 " She had everything that was necessary." 
 "Alice had been accustomed to luxuries." 
 "The war had cured us of luxuriousness." 
 " And my Northern money could not have 
 been digested ? " 
 
 "Some of Alice's Northern friends were very 
 kind to her." 
 
 " It was only my money then ; and you de 
 clined it. Alice loved money ; she would have 
 taken it. You are angry? Pardon me, but I 
 never believed in my brother John's wife. Did 
 John bear me ill will to the last, Carter? " 
 " We never spoke of you." 
 " Do you think he bore me ill will ? " 
 " You caused him the greatest sorrow of his life." 
 " If my marriage was all his sorrow, my brother 
 was fortunate. Am I a disgrace because I mar 
 ried a Northern man on the eve of the war? 
 Nonsense ! " 
 
 "And you did no more than that, Claudia? " 
 " In the letter no. In the spirit " look 
 ing up at the man who had crossed the room and 
 now stood close beside her. 
 
 " In the spirit, how was it, dear ? " 
 Her look faltered. It was the thrill in his 
 voice, maybe, or the " dear " of old days that 
 made things about her seem to waver. " I hurt 
 
 you, Carter you ! And I " She stopped 
 
 and turned her face aside.
 
 JOHN- PA GET. 3 
 
 Carter waited. The soft curve of the cheek 
 was so near him ; and she had been his once this 
 woman. The bitterness of years overwhelmed 
 him suddenly, and he cried j " And you what 
 can you say? " bending to look in her eyes. The 
 old love his tenderness had wakened, turned and 
 stung itself to death. 
 
 Moving a little she answered, " I was wise." 
 
 "And happy? Made happy by your exceed 
 ing wisdom ? " 
 
 " Not perfectly not as happy as I expected to 
 be, perhaps, but happier than I should have been 
 under any other circumstances." 
 
 Fora moment they stood looking hard at each 
 other ; then Carter went away. 
 
 The room in which Claudia was left was large , 
 and well proportioned ; but the walls were defaced, 
 the floors were bare and charred in places, as if 
 fires had been built elsewhere than in the broad 
 fireplace, and the wainscoting was battered and 
 hacked. The furniture it contained was heavily 
 carved, and on the table, where lunch had been 
 served for one, and where the remnants still stood, 
 were odd pieces of exquisite china. In front of 
 the hearth there was a square of worn Turkey 
 carpet ; the faded curtains that draped the win 
 dows were of silk damask, and the pitchers and 
 bowls that stood on the mutilated sideboard 
 were of heavy beaten silver. 
 
 Outside there were further marks of past 
 wealth. The side windows, opening down to a
 
 4 JOHN FACET. 
 
 broad piazza, looked out on curiously designed 
 gardens where the camelias, grown into trees, were 
 covered with perfect flowers ; where the roses 
 were opening under the warm March sun, and 
 where the yellow jasmine, running wild, had 
 climbed to the tops of the great magnolia trees. 
 In front was the stately, solemn vista of the live- 
 oak avenue, draped with sweeping gray moss, 
 and meeting overhead so that the yellow sun 
 shine could seldom reach the white shelled road 
 beneath. About this circle of cultivation the 
 untouched pine forest kept guard, swaying and 
 murmuring, sighing and whispering in an eternal 
 monotone. 
 
 To Claudia, alone in the desolate house, the 
 cry came strangely. At first her listening was 
 unconscious, for her thoughts were busy. Per 
 haps it was this call from the stately pines that 
 disturbed her that took the tones of voices she 
 had loved ; for old laughter sounded faintly old 
 footsteps echoed through the empty halls. She 
 walked hastily to the open window. The fresh 
 wind swept by her, swaying the old curtains, and 
 bringing in faint whiffs of garden sweetness. She 
 paused a moment, drawing in a long breath. 
 
 " I will go to the landing," she said aloud, 
 and the old phrase startled her. 
 
 A quick walk in the sunshine would help her. 
 She looked about for some other head-covering 
 than her traveling bonnet that still lay on the 
 chair where she had placed it on her arrival. It
 
 JOHN PA GET. 5 
 
 seemed an absurd thing in the light of this 
 Southern sun, and going back to an old habit, she 
 turned into the hall and looked up to the rem 
 nants of deer-antlers, still screwed to the panel 
 ing, for something more useful. And there, as if 
 swept back like her memories, was a broad- 
 brimmed hat that she could have sworn she had 
 left there six years before. 
 
 " Carter's," she said, reaching it down and 
 turning it about ; then she put it on and left the 
 house. Through a well remembered side gate 
 she went, turning her face away from the deserted 
 outbuildings, and entering quickly the dim gloom 
 of a long cedar walk. A raised path or dam it 
 was, for the land was low, with gnarled old cedars 
 growing along one side, and wild myrtle making 
 a dense brake on the other. Overhead the pines 
 met across the path; under foot the shining 
 brown needles ; on all sides the golden jasmine ; 
 and far in the depths of the wood, where the pine- 
 barren turned into swamp, stood the great mag 
 nolias, and the solemn cypress trees on their knees 
 in the still, brown water. 
 
 Claudia knew every step of the way, every turn 
 of the path, and waited a little before she passed 
 the last curve, where she knew she would see the 
 brilliant flash of the river. There it was ! Time 
 nor war could change that ; and she ran as she 
 had not run since her girlhood, swiftly, gladly, 
 down to the water's edge. The broad rush of 
 waters how wide how wide it was to the far-
 
 6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 away dim line of woods on the other shore ! 
 And between the blues of wood and water the 
 low stretch of brown rice fields, with a storm 
 house standing in the midst like a sentinel. The 
 blue sky shone and sparkled as one looked, and 
 the sunlight fell in a deluge of glory. 
 
 Close about her feet the brown rushes ; the 
 line of foam and broken sedge left on the low, 
 shelled bank ; the rotting, barnacle-covered posts, 
 scarcely showing above the water, where the 
 boats used to be tied; the old oak bending low 
 over the stream. Beyond, bunches of wild myrtle, 
 ending in a cane-brake. Nothing was changed. 
 She stood still and looked and listened. 
 
 The wind came across the river, making a little 
 white shiver as it came ; it trembled in the dry 
 rushes, then stole away to the swaying pines a 
 cry a sob. The water swished up softly to her 
 feet. There came the sharp rat-tat-tat of a wood 
 pecker, and far away in the dark woods the cry of 
 a dove. 
 
 She had been mad to come back ! She lifted 
 her clasped hands above her head she wrung 
 them together, then reached them, palms upward, 
 to the sky, with an expression on her downcast 
 face that told more than torture could have 
 dragged from her lips. 
 
 She laughed, and dropping her hands at her 
 sides, sat dowji on the bare roots of the old oak. 
 
 This had been a favorite seat of hers and 
 Carter's. It was here that she had told him of
 
 JOHN FACET. 7 
 
 her decision to marry Mr. Van Kuyster. His 
 first look of contempt had been withering, and 
 her cheeks burned at the memory. This morning 
 Carter had given her that same look. 
 
 In every line of the letter he had sent her, and 
 which had brought her South, she had read defi 
 ance, and in so many plain words was the assur 
 ance that " only the starving necessity of others 
 could have driven him to her." That had seemed 
 natural, but his bitterness, as she had realized it 
 this morning, seemed immeasurable. How had 
 he ever appealed to her ? The letter had hurt her. 
 The difficulty of winning from her husband per 
 mission to come had been great, and surrounded 
 by hard conditions. She had suffered much 
 humiliation in order to-help Carter. 
 
 She shied an oyster shell into the river, smil 
 ing when she found that she had not lost the 
 art. So many things the boys had taught her. 
 The smile died from her lips, her eyes grew 
 brighter and harder. She leaned back against 
 the tree, and looked out across the shining water. 
 She had not been the only one to blame. 
 Alice had made her life miserable ; John had 
 taken his wife's view of things, and Carter had 
 seemed to look on Alice as perfection. Between 
 them they had made her desperate. A young, 
 sensitive thing is easily driven to desperation. 
 
 A step sounded near. She rose quickly, and 
 confronted Carter. 
 
 "It is not safe to come so far alone," he said.
 
 8 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " Safe ! Must I be afraid of the negroes ? " 
 
 " Not of our own," Carter answered, " but there 
 are many strange negroes about." 
 
 An uneasy silence fell between them, while 
 Claudia thought, " I have betrayed weakness in 
 coming to this old haunt," and Carter thought, 
 "She remembers, at least ; " then he said: " The 
 little boys have waked from their nap if you wish 
 to see them." 
 
 " I wish to see them very much," Claudia 
 answered formally, and they turned their steps 
 toward the house. 
 
 " The war has made no difference in this walk," 
 Claudia went on, preferring talk to silence. 
 
 " It was entirely overgrown when we came 
 back." 
 
 " It does not look as if it had been touched," 
 she answered, then the silence came again. 
 
 To Carter the silence was nothing. The woman 
 beside him was so entirely the cousin of bygone 
 days, even to his old hat that she had put on and 
 had forgotten, that to make talk to do anything 
 but feel, through every fiber of his being, would 
 have seemed monstrous to him. How prettily the 
 old hat drooped about her softly rounded face, 
 where scarcely a tint or a line was changed. The 
 years that had made him an old man seemed not 
 to have touched her. He wondered if she would 
 ever grow old if the light would ever fade from 
 her changeful eyes and face, the music from her 
 voice. He and John had helped to bring her up
 
 JOHN FACET. 9 
 
 and educate her ; had taken entire care of her 
 after her father's death the wild, pretty child 
 they had found it so hard to discipline. He had 
 no wish to talk as they sauntered over the brown 
 pine needles. His life was past, and in that past 
 his mind and heart were busy. He might live a 
 long time yet, but he had no hope in store for that 
 possible future. 
 
 " What are the names of the children, Carter? " 
 
 " The names? oh, yes! why John and Claude, 
 of course." 
 
 "Claude?" looking up quickly. "Claude, 
 after " 
 
 " Your mother." 
 
 Her look held his for a moment, then she 
 turned away. 
 
 "I had forgotten," she said, " for I never knew 
 my mother." The momentary hope that she had 
 been remembered by her brother had made her 
 glad. Carter had not let this gladness draw one 
 breath ; but he had not known that to kill her joy 
 would hurt him. 
 
 There was silence after this until they entered 
 the hall, and, as of old, Claudia swung her hat to 
 cast it up to the stag's horns. She stopped with 
 her arm poised, while her cheeks burned, and her 
 eyes met Carter's like the eyes of a guilty child. 
 
 " My bonnet would not have served," she 
 said. 
 
 It was not in man to withstand the look, and 
 Carter took the hat from her gently. " You al-
 
 10 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 ways liked our hats better than your own, dear," 
 he said. " It was only an old habit." 
 
 Old habits ? Of one thing she was sure, she 
 must get away. She went into the dining room 
 like one in a dream. Children's voices greeted 
 her, and she stopped just inside the door. She 
 could not see them, for they were playing under 
 the great, old-fashioned table, but she had not 
 moved a step forward before she was clasped so 
 suddenly about the knees that she would have 
 fallen but for Carter, who followed close behind. 
 
 " Old Tenah," he whispered, his mustache 
 brushing her cheek, and Claudia looked down 
 into the wrinkled, black face of the old negress 
 kneeling before her. 
 
 " Mawmer ! " she cried, and put her soft white 
 hands tenderly about the small old face. " I was 
 afraid you were dead, Mawmer I was afraid to 
 ask." The old negress was standing now, scarcely 
 reaching to Claudia's shoulder, and kissing over 
 and over again the little hands she held. 
 
 "Me chile me missus me little chile! "she 
 murmured in her soft, flat voice, " I nebber tink 
 to see dis day old Mawsa chile come back teng 
 Gawd teng Gawd ! " 
 
 This was the first remembered voice of Claudia's 
 childhood. These old hands had cared for her ; 
 these old eyes had watched her lovingly ; in these 
 old arms she had found comfort for all her child 
 ish troubles. And now this faithful heart had 
 given her the only welcome she had found,
 
 JOHN PA GET. II 
 
 She drew one hand away, and laid it about the 
 old negress's shoulder. 
 
 " You love me, Mawmer ? " she asked wistfully. 
 
 " Dawter ! " and ceasing her caresses the old 
 woman looked up reproachfully; "you ax me 
 dat ? Who I got in dis wull 'sides you an' Mass 
 Cahter an' Mass Johnny chilluns? Fahder in 
 heben, who I got ? " her voice breaking into a 
 wail, and seating herself on the woodbox near 
 the hearth, she rocked back and forth repeat 
 ing : " Who I got who I got ! " There was a 
 scrambling rush, and from under the table the 
 children came, crying out, " Mawmer, Mawmer! " 
 and clung about her. 
 
 Claudia looked with swelling heart on these 
 last sons of her father's house on the old servant 
 still clinging to their fallen fortunes on the 
 signs of careful poverty that were everywhere. 
 The short-waisted jackets and old-fashioned long 
 trousers of the little boys ; the homemade woolen 
 shoes ; the colorlessness of the old woman's frock, 
 and apron, and head handkerchief all so faded, 
 so darned, so clean. 
 
 Carter watched her. He, who for years had 
 loved and studied her face, could read every 
 thought and feeling. She had shown herself 
 strong, and hard, and cold in the years that were 
 gone ; this morning she had betrayed some heart 
 what would she do now ? 
 
 One moment longer Claudia stood aloof, then 
 with a hasty movement she knelt beside the little
 
 12 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 group. "I am your child too, Mawmer ? " she 
 pleaded, and her face went down on the old 
 negress's lap, and her tears fell once more where 
 so often they had been shed. It was Carter's 
 turn now to suffer, and leaving the house he 
 walked fast and far until the sun set and the soft 
 red light that came with the death of the day 
 spread over the level, moss-draped, solemn land. 
 
 And when he reached home some magic 
 seemed to have changed the place. The cur 
 tains were drawn ; the fire burned brightly ; the 
 pitifully thin homemade candles were lighted ; 
 flowers made a sweet radiance on the table ; the 
 children were playing on the floor, and Claudia 
 and Tenah were arranging supper. 
 
 He paused just within the door had his old 
 dream come true ? and a cruel sweetness said : 
 
 " You look so weary, Carter ! " 
 
 " I am," he answered, crossing the room and 
 sitting down near the fire; " I am very weary." 
 
 When supper was over and the table cleared, 
 old Tenah came for the children. T\vo little 
 boys one fair, and strong, and beautiful ; one 
 dark, and plain ; and Claudia, watching, saw Car 
 ter kiss the fair one lightly, but the dark one he 
 took into his arms. " He loves little John best," 
 she thought, " the other boy has my name." 
 When the door closed she said, "I must go to 
 morrow, Carter." 
 
 " To-morrow !" 
 
 "Yes, I am sorry that I cannot take both the
 
 JOHN FACET. 13 
 
 boys, but I cannot." A burning color stained 
 her face. " My husband is an old man, you know, 
 and two children would annoy him." 
 
 "Yes," Carter answered, looking steadily into 
 the fire. Why did she mention her " husband " to 
 him? Then he added, "My object in writing 
 to you was not to burden you with either of the 
 children, but only to arrange for their maintenance 
 until I was in a position myself to support and 
 educate them. I am sorry that I had to trouble 
 you at all." 
 
 " I know that ; but in any case I should have 
 claimed one. I have no children, and one will be 
 a happiness to me." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments, then Car 
 ter said with an impassible look on his face, 
 " Which one will you take ? " 
 
 " Claude," Claudia answered, and saw the whole 
 man relax. 
 
 "That is best," he said quickly. "He looks 
 like you ; I thought you would prefer Claude for 
 his good looks." 
 
 He had misjudged her. John's great, steadfast 
 eyes had won her too, they were so like her 
 brother's. But she had seen that Carter loved 
 John best. 
 
 "John has the ancestral name too, John Paget," 
 Carter went on. " Then Tenah understands 
 John, and will go with us." 
 
 " You leave the old place ? " 
 
 " Yes. I cannot bear it now, and it would
 
 14 JOHN FACET. 
 
 be bad for John to grow up here among tradi 
 tions of lost things. We shall go West ; to 
 Texas, I hope ; I am in correspondence about a 
 place called Corpus Christi." 
 
 " What will you do there ? " 
 
 " The ministry." 
 
 Claudia turned away. This choice of a pro 
 fession had been a long battle between them in 
 the olden time. 
 
 " I was ready for ordination when the war 
 came, you remember, and deferred it only until 
 that struggle should be over. If Alice had lived, 
 I should have put it off still longer in order to 
 plant this place for her; but now as I have only 
 John and can go away, I shall be ordained as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 "And the old place?" 
 
 " Is mortgaged. Only to satisfy Alice would 
 I have tried to pay the debts. The silver will be 
 sold, and I will send Claude's share to you." 
 
 " To Mr. Van Kuyster," Claudia corrected, 
 with a new bitterness in her voice, "he adopts 
 the boy." 
 
 ' Carter bent his head. For a moment he was 
 still, then the words, "Will he change the child's 
 name?" seemed to break from his lips against 
 his will. 
 
 The pain in his voice was very clear to Claudia 
 as she looked thoughtfully into the fire. But 
 why should he not suffer? She herself had felt 
 the bitterness of her husband's condition that a
 
 JOHN PA GET. 15 
 
 Paget should be made to perpetuate the name of 
 Van Kuyster. Carter would feel it doubly, but 
 why not hand it on ? He had been willingto give 
 up the ministry for Alice, but not for her. He 
 disliked little Claude because the child looked 
 like her and had her name. He had no belief in 
 her ; no respect for her ; no mercy. He was as 
 hard as steel save where his pride was touched ; 
 and he would have done more for Alice than for 
 her, and she used to beg him so. Why need she 
 trouble to mitigate any truth for him, or soften 
 any fact ? And she answered : 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Van Kuyster wants the boy to be as 
 much his as possible." 
 
 There was a sound like the echo of a sob, and 
 Carter turned his face away. 
 
 " If you had given up the ministry for civil 
 engineering, as I tried to persuade you long ago, 
 you could have kept both the boys, could not 
 you ? " Claudia suggested. 
 
 Carter did not answer, and she went on. 
 
 " Of course it is too late now, for I claim 
 Claude. He shall keep Paget as his middle 
 name, and Claude because it is my own." 
 
 Carter got up and went to the window. Very 
 still he stood looking blindly on the moonbeams 
 that, not satisfied with the broad sweep of the 
 garden, strove vainly to pierce the dense shadow 
 of the avenue. Presently he turned and looked 
 to where Claudia sat in the red circle of fire 
 light. He drew a short, sharp breath ; had
 
 1 6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 necessity been his only motive in sending for 
 her? 
 
 " Do you realize that little John will be the 
 only Paget left ? " he asked harshly. 
 
 Claudia looked up. "The last Paget," she re 
 peated, " so he will. I always forget that you 
 are a cousin and named Wilton." 
 
 "And still you take Claude's name away?" 
 
 At last he was pleading pride at least could 
 move him. 
 
 " Mr. Van Kuyster is the last of his name," 
 she said quietly, " and he adopts a son of good 
 blood in order to perpetuate his name." She 
 knew how Carter's eyes would flash and burn, 
 and she looked to see. Like a mortally wounded 
 man he flung up his arms, and she heard a bitter, 
 inarticulate cry ! Transfixed, she gazed at him 
 leaning against the window with his face half 
 hidden in the curtain. He was hard enough for 
 anything ; why had he not turned on her 
 poured the bitterest reproaches on her done 
 anything but give that cry? 
 
 Carter Wilton was hard. His love and trust 
 trampled in the dust, he had gone out into the 
 bloody mist of war, and groped for death as the 
 only hope left in life. Ruined and defeated, he 
 had touched that round of suffering where one is 
 thankful when those they love die. He had a 
 right to be hard. 
 
 He came back to his chair by the fire, asking 
 Claudia if she would mind his pipe.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 17 
 
 "It is not a necessity," he said. 
 
 ''No," she answered; "no, I will not mind." 
 She scarcely knew what she said, she was so 
 longing to tell him all the misery of her life to 
 tell him how bitter her punishment was. It 
 might help him, and she would give her life to 
 help him. 
 
 " Will Mr. Van Kuyster educate Claude for 
 any profession ?" Carter asked presently from 
 out a cloud of smoke. 
 
 "There will be no necessity; he will be Mr. 
 Van Kuyster's heir." 
 
 " I had forgotten " and Carter blew out a ring 
 of smoke. " I hope that you and the boy will 
 be very happy, Claudia." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " And however much I regret the necessity 
 for separating the brothers, I think I am doing 
 the best thing in my power. I will educate John 
 myself ; it will be an object." 
 
 "And Claude shall have every advantage," 
 Claudia rejoined, casting about for some method 
 of stopping this foolish babble. " What time 
 will I have to leave in the morning ? " 
 
 " The train passes at eleven, and the steamer 
 sails at four." 
 
 " That will give me time in town for a little 
 shopping." 
 
 " And to see some friends," Carter suggested. 
 
 " Scarcely." 
 
 Carter cleared his throat. " I forgot ; you
 
 1 8 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 must not blame us too much. The South feels 
 her failure very bitterly, and even old friends 
 must forgive a little coldness if they come from 
 the North. In a little while it will be different." 
 
 "Doubtless; but I will have no call to come 
 back ; even the old place will be in strange hands." 
 Then a sudden thought flashed into her mind ; 
 so sudden, so simple that she uttered a little 
 exclamation. 
 
 Carter looked at her suspiciously. " What is 
 it?" he asked. 
 
 " Nothing nothing," but a new expression 
 was on her face, and she said good-night in a 
 preoccupied way. 
 
 When she was gone Carter dashed his old clay 
 pipe into the fire and covered his face with his 
 hands. 
 
 " She will buy the silver and the place," he 
 groaned. 
 
 But he made not a sign the next day when 
 she asked who held the mortgage on the place, 
 and where the silver would be left for sale. He 
 had himself well in hand by that time ; he 
 even smiled when old Tenah said with joy : 
 " Miss Clauddy is gwine left awl Mass Cluddy 
 cloze fuh Mass Johnny." 
 
 What he had been able to provide was not 
 good enough. Of course not, but it hurt him. 
 
 To Claudia that day was like a dream. Old 
 Tenah's tears and blessings, and John's pitiful 
 cries as they drove away from the old place.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 19 
 
 The slow journey across the wide rivers and level 
 rice fields through the dim swamps and into the 
 old dreamy town. The worried shopping ; the 
 settling in the steamer; the last farewell to Car 
 ter; his mute acceptance of the package she sent 
 back to John and Tenah. And at the last she 
 looked into his deep, sad eyes so weary so 
 lonely. 
 
 " God keep you," he said, then hastily turned 
 away. 
 
 The great steamer moved slowly, leaving the 
 beautiful old town sleeping beside her tawny 
 river.
 
 II. 
 
 " This is a spray the bird clung to, 
 
 Making it blossom with pleasure, 
 Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 
 
 Fit for her nest and her treasure. 
 
 Oh, what a hope beyond measure 
 Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to, 
 So to be singled out, built in, and sung to! " 
 
 /"^LOSE in the curve of a crescent of chaparral, 
 \j that grew on the side of a dip in the prairie, 
 there stood a small group of buildings. A low, 
 unpainted frame house of two rooms ; a smaller 
 outhouse of the same material, and one or two 
 h"ts built of mud and brush after the Mexican 
 fashion. From point to point of the protecting 
 crescent of chaparral there was a high fence or 
 hedge of cactus, filled in, where the cactus failed, 
 with thorny brush, the combination making a most 
 effective barrier. The entrance to the inclosure 
 was by a winding path through the chaparral at 
 the back of the houses. The place was known 
 as " Marsden's " when known at all, which was 
 seldom; for it was not easy to find. There were 
 no landmarks anywhere to guide the seeker, and 
 it was so cleverly screened that even in winter 
 when the foliage was gone the low, weather- 
 stained houses were not easily descried.
 
 JOHN PAGET. 21 
 
 No actual crimes could be traced to the 
 Marsdens, but they were not considered safe, 
 and many prophecies were afloat in the surround 
 ing country, to the effect that startling revelations 
 would be made some day. It was many years 
 since Marsden's first appearance ; indeed no one 
 knew very clearly the date of his advent. But 
 when he first became differentiated from the 
 surrounding country, it was as a lone man living 
 somewhere out on the prairie, with only a tiny 
 girl for companion. He came into Corpus 
 Christi sometimes to buy supplies, and the baby 
 was always hanging over his bridle-arm, and the 
 women said that of course his wife was dead. 
 Then he disappeared for several years. Not that 
 anyone thought of him as appearing or dis 
 appearing, or thought of him at all, for that 
 matter, but after a while, when a gaudy creature 
 came to buy provisions, who called herself Mrs. 
 Marsden, people remembered Marsden and the 
 baby, and that they had not seen them for years. 
 The loud-voiced woman had two small boys with 
 her who called her mother. A day or two later 
 Marsden rode into the town ; the little fair-faced 
 girl was with him still, but she was big enough 
 to ride alone ; at least her father thought so, 
 and her saddle was a sheepskin strapped on the 
 horse. 
 
 Then the women made sure that her own 
 mother was dead and the present Mrs. Marsden 
 was her stepmother. After this the Marsdens
 
 22 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 seemed to be permanent features in the landscape ; 
 and a place, somewhere out on the prairie, came 
 to be called." Marsden's." Where they had come 
 from, and how they lived, was their own affair, 
 and in those days, in Texas, it was considered the 
 better plan to mind one's own business, and to 
 attend to one's neighbor only when he got into 
 a difficult position and asked one's help. So the 
 Marsdens lived their own life in their own way. 
 The little girl grew to be a big girl, and had a 
 saddle when she saw fit, and the small boys grew 
 to be very hard cases, and very skillful cowboys. 
 From the time they were ten and twelve, they 
 were in great request in the driving season, the 
 only young fellow who could compete with the 
 Marsdens, father and sons, as a shot and as a 
 rider, being John Paget, the young cousin of the 
 Reverend Carter Wilton, the clergyman in Cor 
 pus Christi. 
 
 But John Paget held a very different position 
 in the community from the Marsdens. It was 
 perfectly well known that he made his living as 
 a cowboy in the busy seasons ; but to obtain his 
 services was difficult. There were only certain 
 people for whom he would drive, and then only 
 if he had complete control. His terms were 
 always accepted, however, as he was universally 
 wanted, and as popular as he would permit him 
 self to be. He seemed to enjoy, as the rest did, 
 the recklessness of a cowboy's existence, but once 
 his time of service expired, and he was back in
 
 JOHN FACET. 23 
 
 Corpus, his life was as secluded as a nun's almost, 
 and report ran that he was never seen without a 
 book in his hands. He had a little boat ; and 
 old Calavaros, a Spaniard ranchero, gave him a 
 steady job of horse-breaking and training, which 
 placed many beasts at young Paget's disposal. 
 He and Mr. Wilton were close companions; in 
 deed, Mr. Wilton had no other, for his married 
 life with a young Spanish girl had been of very 
 short duration, and after his wife's death, which 
 happened when John was a young boy, he had 
 sent his baby girl to a convent down the coast 
 where his wife had been brought up. A truly 
 pious parish in a truly Christian community would 
 have wondered, not to say flared up, over the little 
 Beatrice being placed in a convent, but there was 
 no sewing society in Corpus at that time, nor any 
 altar guilds, nor any other female centers in which 
 the flare could begin. In truth, out on those 
 borders the fight was between heathenism and 
 Christianity, and not between creeds. Besides, 
 Mr. Wilton was a dreamer, and his only wish was 
 that his daughter should be trained by a good 
 woman and a lady, which he knew the Mother 
 to be. Added to this, it was the last and only 
 request of his child-wife. He had married his 
 wife out of pity, and felt sorry for her still ; so, 
 though he was a good Protestant, the child went 
 to the convent, and he and John Paget lived on 
 together with old Angela, who had succeeded old 
 Tenah, for housekeeper, and maids, and cook, and
 
 24 JOHN FACET. 
 
 boot-black, everything, in short, and were emi 
 nently comfortable. 
 
 One afternoon a wild horse of old Calavaros', 
 a beast in every sense of the word, had taken 
 young Paget many miles farther out on the 
 prairie than he had dreamed of going, and riding 
 back in the dusk, he was halted from behind a 
 large bunch of cactus and mesquite. John drew 
 rein, then obeyed the further order to dismount 
 and give up his valuables. He looked over the 
 prairie, however, and saw that for miles there was 
 not another hiding-place for man or beast and 
 listening, he heard that his captor was a Mexican. 
 Deceived by John's obedience, the robber lowered 
 his pistol for the space of a breath as he pushed 
 John's money and watch into his pocket. But 
 that second was enough, his pistol was struck 
 from his ha-nd, and he was in a grasp like a vise. 
 It took John about two minutes to disarm his 
 assailant, and to tie his hands behind him. When 
 he finished he said : 
 
 "You are Manuel Planco ; you live at Mars- 
 den's. I will put the bridle of my horse around 
 your neck so that you can lead him, but you had 
 better not try to run. You know the horse ; he 
 is Calavaros' horse Black Eagle ; he bites when 
 he is provoked. Is it Marsden's horse you have 
 tethered there behind the brush ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then I will bring him. Now lead the way 
 to Marsden's. Remember, I have your pistols
 
 JOHN PA GET. 25 
 
 and mine, all loaded and the horse bites." 
 John felt the Mexican tremble, and knew that if 
 he could see him he would look gray, for that is 
 the way with Mexicans when they are cold or 
 frightened. Once Manuel had turned off the trail, 
 there was seemingly nothing to guide him, but 
 though going carefully, because of the beast 
 behind him, he went steadily in one direction, 
 and after a while a line of chaparral crossed their 
 line of march. Into this Manuel went, and John 
 followed without any hesitation. Presently they 
 entered an inclosure and Manuel stopped. 
 
 " Marsden's," he said. 
 
 "All right," John answered, "you and the 
 horse wait here until I see." 
 
 His knock on the door of the main house was 
 answered by a young girl, who looked very much 
 surprised. 
 
 " Is this Mr. Marsden's house? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Is Mr. Marsden at home?" 
 
 " Yes." Then a tall, lean, gray-headed man, 
 with a face like an eagle, came to the door. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Marsden," the young man 
 said ; " Paget, you know." 
 
 "Yes, of course," opening the door wider. 
 " Come in. How did you find me ? " 
 
 " Out on the trail, Manuel Planco tried to rob 
 me. I have brought him in, and your horse. You 
 will find my watch and money in Manuel's pocket. 
 He will get you into trouble, Mr. Marsden,"
 
 26 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 With a deep oath Marsden closed the door 
 and stepped out into the yard where John stood. 
 They found Manuel just where John had left him, 
 and could hear his teeth chattering. It is not 
 necessary to give old Marsden's address to Man 
 uel, save to say that it finished with certain 
 blood-curdling threats and a kick that sent the 
 creature rapidly in the direction of the house 
 door. 
 
 "May I put up for the night?" John asked, 
 as he restored his money and watch to their 
 places. 
 
 "Of course; I'll send the boys out to attend 
 to your horse." 
 
 " I think I had better do that," John answered; 
 " I am riding Calavaros' Black Eagle." 
 
 " You are not afraid of that devil ? " 
 
 "No. But I put the reins round Manuel's 
 neck as we walked here. Manuel did not try to 
 run." There was a low laugh, then old Marsden 
 opened the door of the outhouse that was 
 empty. " Put him in there the other horses 
 we leave out in the yard." After this they went 
 into the house. Within, everything was as rough 
 as possible, but the food and drink were clean 
 and plentiful, and the young girl seemed to be 
 the presiding genius. Mrs. Marsden could be 
 heard quarreling with Manuel and one of her 
 sons in the next room. Her language was not 
 choice, and, as her utterance was thick, John drew 
 the very correct conclusion that she was drunk ;
 
 JOHN PA GET. 27 
 
 and that as no one seemed to mind, it must be a 
 common occurrence. 
 
 Up to this time John had known the two Mars- 
 den boys, who were much younger than he, only 
 as boys whom he never employed on his drives ; 
 the old man he knew only by sight. He had felt 
 some curiosity about these people because he 
 had heard them talked of mysteriously and care 
 fully ; because everybody seemed to distrust 
 them, yet have no specific charges against them; 
 because nobody could ever tell him exactly 
 where they lived, and because, as a little boy, he 
 remembered seeing old Marsden ride into the 
 town with the baby over his bridle-arm. To his 
 knowledge he had never seen the girl since, 
 though now that he met her face to face, he rec 
 ognized her as a person whom he had seen some 
 times in church. That old Marsden's girl should 
 go to church was another complication. 
 
 Mrs. Marsden and Manuel did not come in to 
 supper, seeming to prefer to quarrel and drink in 
 peace in the next room. Old Marsden and the 
 two boys and John sat down, and the girl, 
 Elizabeth, waited on them. After supper the 
 boys disappeared, and two or three men whom 
 John knew well as desperadoes, came in. They 
 seemed a little disconcerted on seeing him, but 
 sat down, and Elizabeth bringing in glasses and 
 bottles and pipes, the night began. Elizabeth 
 took her seat in a low chair near the fire, for it 
 was winter.
 
 28 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 As the evening wore on, John heard some 
 strange revelations, and talk that made his cheeks 
 burn for the young girl near the fire. Once after 
 an awful story from the old man, their eyes met. 
 Her look did not waver her color did not rise 
 and after a moment in which her eyes told him 
 that she understood his feeling for her, and that 
 such feeling was a waste of sympathy, as she was 
 quite used to this kind of thing, she returned 
 quietly to the reading of a book that lay open on 
 her lap. 
 
 John drank very little. In the first place he 
 did not care for it ; in the second, it would not be 
 safe to drink much in such company. Gradually 
 speech got thicker, and the talk less coherent ; 
 then Elizabeth laid her book on the floor and 
 came to her father's side. 
 
 "You had better lie down now, father," she 
 said. After a few oaths the old man essayed to 
 rise ; it was difficult, but with John's assistance he 
 succeeded, and tottered toward the door of the 
 next room. 
 
 " George is usually here to help me," Elizabeth 
 said, as between them they piloted the limp, 
 lurching, swearing old man to a low bed, " but 
 to-night he and Jim have gone to a Mexican 
 dance." 
 
 On another bed Mrs. Marsden was snoring, 
 and Manuel, on the floor by the fire, was also 
 asleep. John followed Elizabeth back to the 
 kitchen, and watched her with some curiosity as
 
 JOHN PA GET. 29 
 
 she spread three piles of hides and blankets in 
 three corners of the room, and ordered the other 
 men to go and lie down. They seemed to be 
 accustomed to it, and did as the girl told them. 
 
 " Now I will show you a place to sleep," she 
 said. 
 
 "And you?" John asked, "you cannot stop 
 in here." 
 
 "Oh, no ! My place is in a loft outside; but I 
 must clear all this away first." 
 
 " I will help you." 
 
 When all was done, and the fire made safe, she 
 led him to one of the huts outside, which evi 
 dently had been prepared for him. 
 
 "The boys sleep in the other cabin," she said ; 
 " they will not disturb you when they come ; and 
 I live up in that loft," pointing to the top of the 
 shanty where John's horse had been put. 
 
 " But my horse is in the lower part ; will he not 
 disturb you ?" 
 
 "No, horses are often put in there." 
 
 " And are you not afraid ? " 
 
 "No, I have a pistol and a Winchester; I am 
 quite safe. Often and often I am the only sober 
 creature on the place; but I am never afraid." 
 Then she said good-night and went away, and John 
 turned into the little hut with much to think of, 
 
 The next morning he was up at an early hour, 
 to find Elizabeth arranging the breakfast table 
 out in the yard. 
 
 " Those people are still asleep in .the house,"
 
 30 JOHN FACET. 
 
 she said, " and as it is not cold I think it will be 
 pleasanter out here." 
 
 By daylight her face seemed fresher and more 
 appealing. She was not handsome perhaps, but 
 there was something that attracted John strongly. 
 It might be only the contrast to her surroundings, 
 but she struck him as being so undefiled. Purity 
 was an unmistakable thing, and her clear stead 
 fast eyes must look out of a pure heart and mind. 
 
 " I saw you reading last night," John said ; 
 " what was it ? " 
 
 " ' Ivanhoe,' " was answered, to his great aston 
 ishment. 
 
 " I have very few books," she went on ; " only a 
 remnant of what father used to have, and one or 
 two that belonged to my own mother. Mrs. 
 Marsden is not my mother." 
 
 " Of course not ; and the boys are only your 
 half-brothers." 
 
 " Yes, but they have Marsden blood in their 
 veins, and maybe they will do something some 
 day." John stirred his coffee slowly, as he pon 
 dered on the words " Marsden blood" what was 
 there in the old reprobate to be proud of? 
 
 "And you are fond of reading? " he went on. 
 
 "Yes. When Mrs. Marsden is herself, she man 
 ages everything ; then I have little to do except 
 ride and read, and I read whatever I can find. 
 We stayed a long time in San Antonio once, and 
 father let me go to school." 
 
 "Perhaps I can lend you some books," John
 
 JOHN PA GET. 31 
 
 suggested. "I am a horse-breaker and a cowboy, 
 but between the busy seasons I do a good deal 
 of reading and studying. My cousin, Mr. Wilton, 
 you know, has spent a great deal of time on my 
 education. Perhaps I can help you." 
 
 " I know all about you," Elizabeth answered 
 quickly, " and several times I have been on the 
 point of stopping you and asking you a favor. 
 But I was afraid that, when you heard who I was, 
 you would not listen to me. Last night, when I 
 opened the door for you, I thought 'God has 
 sent nim here to help me.' " 
 
 "And the favor?" 
 
 "That you will be kind to my brothers. They 
 admire you ; you can do them good if you will." 
 
 " I will," John answered promptly. 
 
 So it was that John Paget came to know the 
 Marsdens. After this he often carried books 
 to the girl, and kept faithfully his promise to 
 befriend the boys. 
 
 When it was observed that these young fellows 
 were constantly with him, and when later it came 
 to be known that Paget went constantly to Mars- 
 den's, it aroused much interest ; far more than 
 the sending of little Beatrice to the Convent had 
 done, because it seemed a stranger, and a far 
 more dangerous thing. It was a dreadful step 
 down for young Paget. Few comments were 
 made, however, for manifestly Paget and Mr. 
 Wilton were old enough to manage their own 
 affairs ; and neither Paget nor the Marsdens
 
 32 JOHN FACET. 
 
 were safe objects of criticism. So events moved 
 quietly. 
 
 The gray prairie stretched without a break out 
 to the far horizon, where it met the gray sky. 
 Down in the west a long red gash showed that 
 the sun had set. The low, steady wind, that blew 
 straight from the north, had a relentless sound 
 that promised length, and strength, and at last a 
 touch from the polar seas. 
 
 At the beginning of the path that led through 
 the chaparral into the inclosure, Elizabeth waited, 
 with a red setter puppy at her feet. Her arms 
 were crossed, and she leaned against one of the 
 small, gnarled trees. She was facing the north 
 and the wind, but her head was turned, and her 
 eyes were fixed on the red bar down in the 
 west. 
 
 Presently, far off, she heard the thud of a 
 horse's hoofs ; the ground was so baked by 
 drought that the sound traveled a long distance. 
 She moved as she heard it, and calling the dog, 
 withdrew into the woods by the little path. She 
 did not want to be found waiting and watching 
 save by one. Her surroundings demanded great 
 circumspection. Presently she saw the horseman 
 silhouetted black against the gray sky ; for a 
 moment she watched him, then she and the 
 puppy she called " Wamba" came back to where 
 they had been waiting, and took position as 
 before.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 33 
 
 The horseman was not riding very rapidly, and 
 when he saw the girl he did not seem to hasten 
 at all. Evidently it was the usual thing to find 
 her waiting there. Dismounting, he put thehorse 
 in the path, and struck him slightly ; this seemed 
 to be a habit too, for the horse trotted quietly 
 through the chaparral into the inclosure. Then 
 the horseman stooped and touched Elizabeth's 
 brow with his lips. Elizabeth put her hands on 
 his shoulders, and looked up into his face. 
 
 " I am a tall woman, Jack," she said, " but you 
 are so much taller that I cannot kiss you unless 
 you will." 
 
 Then John stooped and kissed her on the 
 lips. 
 
 " You are late," Elizabeth went on ; " I began 
 be be afraid that you would not come. To-day 
 is my birthday don't you remember ? and the 
 anniversary. Three years ago to-day you came 
 here first, and I have always looked on you as a 
 birthday gift." 
 
 John's eyes grew gloomier as she spoke. " I 
 ought not to have forgotten," he said, " but " 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 " I am afraid that I did." 
 
 There was silence for a moment while Elizabeth 
 turned her eyes again to the red gash down in 
 the west ; but she did not move her hands from 
 where they were on John's shoulders, nor did he 
 move his arm from where it rested about her 
 waist loosely, but still it was about her waist.
 
 34 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Elizabeth sighed a little, but there was a smile on 
 her lips when she spoke. 
 
 " As it is the first time you have ever for 
 gotten," she said," I suppose I must forgive you. 
 Three years is a long time, Jack, and to-day I am 
 twenty. It is hard to realize." 
 
 " I don't know," John answered ; " it seems 
 longer than that since I came here first it seems 
 ages." 
 
 " Counting by the strides in my education," 
 the girl went on, " it seems ages to me too. You 
 have been very good to me, and have taught me 
 a great deal. You believe in my gratitude, don't 
 you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so ; but you ought not to be 
 grateful." 
 
 " I think I am the best judge of that," Eliza 
 beth answered, " and you have been good to the 
 boys too. But what is wrong this evening are 
 you ill ? " 
 
 " I believe I am ill. My head has been dull 
 for days, and now it aches dreadfully. As for 
 wrong everything is wrong, and has been wrong 
 from beginning to end." 
 
 Elizabeth looked up with a slight start, as one 
 who had been struck unexpectedly. 
 
 "My cousin came nearer to lecturing me to 
 day," John went on, " than ever in my life be 
 fore ; and he was right." 
 
 "What did he say? " Elizabeth asked, and 
 moved as if to leave the circle of the arm that
 
 JOHN PAGET. 35 
 
 scarcely touched her. It did not tighten its hold ; 
 instead, it was withdrawn. Then, as if she had in 
 tended to move, Elizabeth took her original posi 
 tion, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed. 
 John put his hands in his pockets. 
 
 " He did not say much," he answered, "that is 
 not my cousin's way ; but what he said drove 
 home." 
 
 " Does he know anything about me about 
 your coming here?" 
 
 " I do not know what he knows. We seldom 
 talk of our private affairs. What he said was to 
 the effect that I was wasting my life and I am." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then John went 
 on. " He said that he had, after educating me, 
 left me free to choose my own path, hoping that 
 as the last of the name, I would choose a worthy 
 one. That so far I had drifted ; making my own 
 living, of course, and paying my way a gentle 
 man could do no less ; but did I intend to be a 
 cowboy and a horse-trainer all my life. It is a 
 just question, for I am nearly twenty-six and no 
 choice made yet." 
 
 "What does he want you to be?" Elizabeth 
 asked quietly. 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " Civil engineering, or law, or medicine? " 
 
 " Medicine would finish me ; civil engineering 
 I do not fancy, and the law would take too 
 long." 
 
 " That does not matter," Elizabeth said ; " you
 
 36 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 have plenty of patience I have tested it. You 
 would make a good lawyer, I think." 
 
 John looked at her a moment. "And you?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I have nothing to do with it," she answered 
 steadily. " I have loved you, that is all. If 
 ' everything is wrong, and has been wrong from 
 beginning to end/ it must stop." 
 
 " Has it not been wrong ? " 
 
 " You must answer for yourself. For me, I 
 have loved you truly and purely there has been 
 
 no wrong in my love. I " She stopped 
 
 abruptly 
 
 John moved restlessly. 
 
 "Perhaps a cup of coffee will help your head," 
 Elizabeth went on. 
 
 " And the family ? " 
 
 "Were perfectly quiet when I came out. But 
 you need not go into the house unless you like ; 
 I can bring it to you in the loft." 
 
 "Oh, no; one riot more or less at the end of 
 things should not matter. Come on." 
 
 "Was your cousin angry?" Elizabeth asked, 
 as she followed down the path. 
 
 " No, but there was an infinite scorn in his 
 voice, which he made worse by trying to hide. I 
 felt more than he meant, I suppose, because I 
 knew how true it was, but I had not realized it 
 fully. I know now, though, how far down I have 
 gone." 
 
 It was bad that he could not see the girl's face
 
 JOHN PA GET. 37 
 
 as each word struck her. She lived a long 
 time while they walked through that little 
 wood. 
 
 John turned aside when they reached the in- 
 closure, to unsaddle his horse ; and Elizabeth 
 went into the house. Alas, for the quiet she 
 had left ! They had finished supper while she 
 and John talked, and now the old man had his 
 bottle beside him, while Manuel Planco, Mrs. 
 Marsden, and the younger boy, Jim, were having 
 one of their many squabbles in the next room. 
 George was cleaning a gun near the fire. The 
 air was close, and the mingled smells of food, 
 and whisky, and gun-cleaning were not pleasant. 
 It was no worse than it had been on the evening 
 when John first came there, but Elizabeth knew 
 that it would seem infinitely worse. Then it was 
 new and strange, and there seemed to be possi 
 bilities now, he said, 'One riot more or less at 
 the end_of things should not matter ;' and if it were 
 the end, it did not matter. She left the door 
 partly open to freshen the air a little ; and pull 
 ing out some coals, she put the coffee down to 
 get hot. She straightened the table as well as 
 she could on such short notice, and put the chairs 
 in their places. 
 
 "Paget come?" 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 The old man laughed a little. " What are you 
 good for, Bess," he said, " if you can't make 
 Paget go with us to-morrow night. I think we 
 
 443318
 
 3 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 will make a good job." Elizabeth went on with 
 her preparations silently. 
 
 " You think he is too good ? If he is too good 
 for your father, he ought to be too good for you." 
 
 " He is," the girl answered. 
 
 " I'll be damned if he is ! do you know who 
 you are ? " 
 
 "Your daughter. But do not let us quarrel ; 
 Jack is sick this evening." She spoke hurriedly, 
 for she heard John coming. 
 
 John paused a moment in the doorway, and 
 the look on his face as he stood there would have 
 hurt Elizabeth, if the words he had said outside 
 had not benumbed her. As it was, she smiled a 
 little as she took the coffee-pot from the hearth. 
 
 " Things are not as quiet as I represented 
 them," she said. Then, John sitting down, she 
 poured out his coffee. He took it without a word, 
 and, stirring it slowly, said a short, " No, thank 
 you," to her offers of food. Having done all that 
 she could, Elizabeth took her seat near George, 
 withdrawing from John, as it were, and the old 
 man spoke. 
 
 " I tell Bess, Paget," he said, " that she ought 
 to make you go with us to-morrow night. 
 Manuel has been to find out, and he knows 
 what will be in that stage. It will be an easy 
 and a paying job, and it is so far away that no 
 body will connect it with us. We will leave in 
 the morning before day, and, by riding pretty 
 hard, we can make the place where the road skirts
 
 JOHN PAGET. 39 
 
 the bayou by nine o'clock to-morrow night. 
 There is good cover there, and if George and 
 Jim, and Manuel and I, are willing to run the 
 risk, your going will reduce the risk to nothing, 
 and will only divide the spoils by one more." 
 
 Elizabeth watched John closely. Somehow, he 
 seemed to have drifted so far away from her 
 already that she could look at him with critical 
 eyes. But he neither looked up nor answered. 
 
 " It will surely pay you better," the old man 
 went on, " than breaking old Calavaros' horses ; 
 and besides, to do the one, you need not give up 
 the other. These little expeditions come in very 
 well in idle times. Manuel there," looking up to 
 where Manuel stood in the doorway between the 
 rooms, " is making quite a fortune. And he 
 takes precious good care to get behind me or 
 George when the fight is on ; but, as he does all 
 the sneaking and lying beforehand, in order to 
 find out the valuable stage-loads, he is entitled to 
 his share. I could not do that part, but the rest 
 of it is fun. Will you go ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Damn it, then, you needn't, " the old man 
 answered sharply, as John, rising from the table, 
 pushed back his chair roughly. 
 
 " He too good," Manuel said, " too good. What 
 you think, Mees Eleesabet what think the loft 
 yah !" Something bright glittered in John's hand 
 that Elizabeth clung to as he sprang toward 
 Manuel.
 
 40 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " George ! " she cried, as John tried to fling 
 her off ; and John was pinioned from be 
 hind. 
 
 " No murder here, Paget," George said quietly, 
 as John, struggling like a madman, tried to free 
 himself. " Get out of here, Manuel you fool ! " 
 George went on. But Manuel was just drunk 
 enough to be reckless, and stood laughing softly 
 until Jim, pushing him aside, came to George's 
 assistance. 
 
 " Tie him," Elizabeth said, seeing that the 
 struggle was going against her brothers. " Here is 
 a lariat," bringing it quickly, while John swore 
 that, if they tied him, he would kill them all. 
 Nevertheless, the boys managed to hold him 
 while the old man tied him skillfully. 
 
 It was not a pleasant or elevating sensation 
 that John experienced as he lay helpless on the 
 floor; and in the mad rage that possessed him he 
 swore that he would never forgive this insult and 
 would someday murder Manuel. But Manuel's 
 time had come ; for George, who loathed him, now 
 collared him, and reaching down a cowhide as he 
 went, dragged him outside. " Cur" was the mild 
 est epithet that George used as he flogged the 
 creature, and the blows and curses rained down 
 relentlessly until the old man, remembering the 
 next day's work, went out and stopped it. Then 
 Manuel crept away. 
 
 Presently Elizabeth kneeled down by John, 
 and he felt the cords loosening. " George has
 
 JOHN PA GET. 41 
 
 beaten Manuel, and sent him away," she said. 
 "Will you come? " 
 
 John rose and went in silence to the loft, where 
 Elizabeth followed with a bucket of water. She 
 put it down, with some clean towels, near the box 
 that held the basin. 
 
 " It would have been murder, Jack," she said. 
 " I could not let you do it ; that would have been 
 worse than all the rest." Then, without further 
 speech, she left him, closing the door after her. 
 
 Wrapped in a serape she seated herself on the 
 lowest round of the ladder. John thought that 
 she would hold him. He seemed to have 
 wakened suddenly to such a loathing of himself ; 
 and he thought that she would hold him ! She 
 felt a great pity for him. She knew, for she knew 
 him better than he knew himself, that to a man 
 of his temperament all that he had done was 
 irrevocable, but he did not realize this, and she 
 would not tell him. She would let him think 
 that it could all be wiped out quite easily ; she 
 would let him go without one remonstrance. 
 This would do until he could take a fresh grasp 
 on life ; by that time she might be dead and he 
 be really free. 
 
 " He has loved me yes, he has loved me." 
 She whispered it over and over. " He loved me 
 once once ! " 
 
 The gray sky was starless, and the steady wind 
 blew a little stronger and a little colder each 
 hour. By dawn it would be very cold. She
 
 42 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 must get John into Corpus, for she felt sure that 
 he was going to be ill, and she could not make 
 him comfortable. Besides, in his present state of 
 self-abasement, the further humiliation of being 
 found in such a place by the physician would be 
 death to him almost. 
 
 Her face burnt in the darkness. For some 
 time she had seen that John was growing rest 
 ive, but she had not said anything one way 
 or another. She had been afraid of losing 
 him. Now she called herself a mean-spirited 
 coward. 
 
 She heard a twig snap. She did not move, but 
 she listened intently. Something was moving 
 very cautiously, but moving, and in her direc 
 tion. 
 
 Presently a shadow stole from out the chapar 
 ral, pausing to make observations, then came for 
 ward quickly. 
 
 " Manuel ! " she said, rising, and the figure 
 stopped. " Go and make the fire in the house 
 go quickly." Her voice was very low, but it did 
 not quiver. " Go ; one shot will kill you and 
 rouse everybody." 
 
 There was a second's pause, then with a low 
 oath the figure turned, muttering to himself, " To 
 night he make you stay outside dog to him 
 
 now " and Elizabeth drew a long breath ; 
 
 she went over to one of the cabins and roused 
 her brothers. 
 
 " It is time to get up," she said, " and you had
 
 JOHN 1 FACET. 43 
 
 better get Manuel away quickly." Then she 
 went back to her watch at the foot of the ladder. 
 It would be an easy thing for Manuel to slip up 
 to the loft and stab John. 
 
 When the party was gone she went into the 
 house and made fresh coffee; then, after eating 
 her breakfast, she fed and saddled John's horse 
 and her own. It was bright enough now to be 
 called day, and she went up to rouse John. 
 She felt instantly that he had fever, and became 
 more anxious than ever to get him into town. 
 It would be almost a day's journey, going at the 
 pace a sick man would have to ride, and they 
 must start at once. 
 
 John did not want to go did not want to 
 move at all until she bathed his face, and per 
 suaded him to drink a cup of coffee into which 
 she had put some whisky. 
 
 "I will ride with you to the edge of the town," 
 she said. " It will be better for you ; indeed it 
 will be, Jack." 
 
 It took some time to persuade him, but at last 
 they started. The wind that now was blowing 
 cold revived John somewhat, and they rode more 
 rapidly than Elizabeth had ventured to hope; 
 still it was late in the day when they reached the 
 town. 
 
 " Good-by, Jack," she said, drawing rein be 
 hind a clump of huisachie trees within a stone's- 
 throw of Mr. Wilton's house, " remember, you 
 are free ; good-by."
 
 44 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," John an 
 swered. " I have never gone to your father's 
 house against my will. But my head aches too 
 much to talk good-by." He held the hand she 
 extended, for a second, then rode up to the gate 
 of his house.
 
 III. 
 
 " Stand still, fond fettered wretch ! while Memory's art 
 Parades the past before thy face, and lures 
 Thy spirit to her passionate portraitures : 
 Till the tempestuous flood gates, flung apart, 
 Flood with wild will the hollows of thy heart, 
 
 And thy heart rends thee, and thy body endures." 
 
 " A YOUNG woman is here, sir." Old Angela 
 L\ stood outside Mr. Wilton's study door; a 
 brown, shriveled, little old woman with great 
 gold hoops in her ears, and a scarlet cloth about 
 her head. These things struck one first ; then 
 the pathos in her soft black eyes made one 
 wonder if her heart were as old as her body 
 looked, for her eyes were bedded in wrinkles, and 
 her figure was much bowed. 
 
 Mr. Wilton came out quickly. " Do you know 
 her, Angela ? " he asked. 
 
 The old woman shook her head. "She is 
 young, she is strong," she answered, " that is all 
 I know. She waits in the kitchen." 
 
 "You are sure you can get no man, Angela, 
 who could nurse? " 
 
 " Those who will take money are low are 
 dirty and will drink, and you will have none ex 
 cept you pay them. You give kindness, but you 
 will not take it. I have tried for three days. 
 
 45
 
 46 JOHN FACET. 
 
 This woman is clean, and young, and strong, and 
 she will take the money." 
 
 " Send her here, then." 
 
 And the old woman disappeared down the hall. 
 
 Mr. Wilton, with his hands clasped behind him, 
 and his head bowed, was thinking very deeply. 
 He did not hear the light steps, and started 
 when a low, clear voice said, "I am here, Mr. 
 Wilton." 
 
 He looked at the tall, slight girl who stood be 
 side him, in silence for a moment. 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Elizabeth Clare Marsdeh." 
 
 " Marsden ? " 
 
 " My father is Reginald Marsden, an English 
 man, and lives many miles out on the prairie. My 
 brothers are cowboys. Mr. Paget has been very 
 good to them, and has made them better men. 
 When I heard that you needed help to nurse him, 
 I came. I know a good deal about fever." 
 
 " You look very young." 
 
 " I am twenty by the count of years, but my 
 life has been hard and rough ; full of dangers 
 and experience, and I have been a woman a long 
 time; you may trust me to do my duty, and 
 nothing but my duty. . I can give you no ref 
 erences, however, for I know no one in the town. 
 I have kept away from the people I do not like 
 them." 
 
 " I have seen you in church." 
 
 "Yes. My father was a gentleman once, and
 
 JOHN PA GET. 47 
 
 my mother was a lady, brought up in the Church 
 of England. She died when I was born. I have 
 her prayer-book, and I go to church because I 
 think she would like it if she were here. I have 
 brought you one of my father's books, the only 
 proof I have of my story " handing him a much 
 worn, but handsomely bound volume. " His 
 name is in it, and his coat-of-arms. He was dis 
 missed from the English army, and disinherited. 
 He forged the name of a brother officer. Now 
 I have told you all. I would rather nurse Mr. 
 Paget because I am grateful for his kindness to 
 my brothers, but if, as your servant says, you will 
 not permit this, I will take the money." 
 
 " You need not take the money, Miss Marsden." 
 
 " Call me Clare, if you please." 
 
 "As you will," Mr. Wilton answered, closing 
 the book he had been examining; "and now I 
 will take you to my cousin's room." 
 
 He had listened to John's ravings ; they were 
 incoherent and unconnected, but "Elizabeth 
 Elizabeth Elizabeth," came with monotonous 
 certainty at the end of every storm of words. 
 Was this the Elizabeth? Her request to be 
 called Clare made him almost sure. 
 
 Old Angela sat by the bed where the young 
 man lay; his eyes brilliant, his lips parched, his 
 tremulous fingers picking, picking, always pick 
 ing at the coverlid. He did not see them, and 
 Elizabeth, approaching from behind, laid her 
 hand on his forehead.
 
 48 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 "Tie me tie me! how dare you!" he mut 
 tered ; then his voice sank into a whisper, while 
 he struggled as if to free his wrists. 
 
 "You are not tied," Elizabeth said quietly; 
 " see, I have loosed you." At her words a per 
 fect stillness fell, and the sick man seemed to be 
 listening for her voice again. 
 
 " You may go, Angela," Mr. Wilton whis 
 pered ; " Clare will take charge of things now," 
 and the old woman went away. 
 
 Elizabeth turned to him. " What are the 
 doctor's directions? " she asked. 
 
 Mr. Wilton handed her a sheet of paper, then 
 showed her where everything was. 
 
 " Elizabeth, Elizabeth ! " John called ; but the 
 girl did not turn from reading the paper. 
 
 " If you want me," Mr. Wilton went on, 
 " I am in the room just below ; strike on the 
 floor." 
 
 "Yes. And when does the doctor come 
 again ? " 
 
 "At nine this evening. Do you know him?" 
 
 " No ; we are our own physicians." 
 
 " Elizabeth !" John said again, but again she 
 did not answer. 
 
 " Does the doctor have any hope ? " 
 
 Mr. Wilton shook his head. " He has not said 
 so, but I think he fears the worst." 
 
 " Elizabeth ! " This time she turned and laid 
 her hand on John's that were so restless, and 
 looked into his eyes that were so bright, and yet
 
 JOHN PA GET. 49 
 
 so weary. " All that I have done has been of 
 my own free will," he said. 
 
 " And all the future shall be according to your 
 will," she answered. 
 
 "And I am not tied?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then I will be quiet I will try." He lay 
 still after this, and Elizabeth kept her hand on 
 his. When Mr. Wilton left the room, she bent 
 over John bent low until her cheek touched his 
 forehead. 
 
 " Jack," she whispered, " Jack, you know me 
 you are glad to see me ? " But his mind had 
 slipped away, and he looked at her vacantly. 
 
 For days they fought death. Sometimes John 
 was raving, sometimes in a stupor, and, though 
 never seeming to know Elizabeth, he was always 
 submissive to her word or touch. At last the 
 crisis came, and he fell asleep. The doctor said 
 that he would watch himself for his waking, and 
 Elizabeth went downstairs. She met Mr. Wil 
 ton in the hall, and asked if she might speak with 
 him in his study. 
 
 " If Mr. Paget wakes up himself," she said, " I 
 will go without seeing him again, for his recov 
 ery will then be sure. If not, I will stay until 
 the end. But in view of my going, I want to ask 
 a promise of you. It is that you will never tell 
 Mr. Paget that I have been here, and never ask 
 him any questions concerning me or mine. If 
 he tells you anything of his past life that is in
 
 5 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 any way connected with us, do not let him know 
 even then that I have been here. It is for his 
 good that I ask this, and you will believe me 
 when I tell you that you will do well to heed this 
 promise." 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 "And I am going to ask something else of 
 you," Elizabeth went on. " Will you lend me 
 something to read that will make me a better 
 woman? I am weary with the struggle of my 
 life. Sometimes I feel that I must let go and 
 drift. Life is not so glad a thing to me that I 
 can return thanks for my ' creation and preserva 
 tion.' I am not needed anywhere, and I am 
 lonely." 
 
 There was a moment's silence; then Mr. Wil 
 ton, walking slowly up and down the little room, 
 with his hands clasped behind him and his head 
 bent, spoke, almost as if to himself. 
 
 "It helps us sometimes," he said, "to know 
 that we have helped another. That the character 
 we have been building for years, through pain 
 and hindrances, has reached a point where it 
 strengthens others without knowing it without 
 effort. You have helped me. You have made 
 me see in a different light a woman who long 
 ago trod on my life." He stopped and held out 
 his hand. " You are sure that what you ask is 
 best ? " 
 
 " I am sure," and Elizabeth put her hand in 
 his. "What is really mine will come to me ; I
 
 JOHN PAGET. 51 
 
 will wait. About the books. Outside your back 
 gate there is a large huisachie tree, hollow, sur 
 rounded by bushes. Every fortnight, beginning 
 with next Monday, I will come there and take 
 what I find, and leave what I have finished. 
 Now, I will go and listen outside his door until 
 he wakes. Put the book you will lend me to-day 
 on the hall table, so that, if I go, I can find it. I 
 may not see you again. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by. God bless you, child." 
 
 She went upstairs and into the sick room, 
 where she stood for a moment looking down on 
 John, then took up her position just outside the 
 door. After a while a long while she heard a 
 movement and a sigh. She held her breath ; 
 then a weak voice asked : 
 
 " Have I been very ill ? " 
 
 She did not wait for the answer. She found 
 the book on the hall table, and her small bundle 
 where she had placed it at the back door. She 
 did not say farewell to old Angela, even, but 
 took her way through the back gate out to the 
 prairie. 
 
 " What is really mine will come to me," Eliza 
 beth had said ; but as far as could be seen, 
 nothing came. She had answered the family 
 jeers concerning John by silence, until about six 
 weeks after John's recovery, when the fact became 
 known that John Paget had given up his old life 
 entirely, and was studying for the ministry.
 
 5^ JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Then, out at Marsden's things threatened to 
 become serious. 
 
 " Paget preaching ! " the old man roared. " I'll 
 go preach myself, Bess ; and you are not good 
 enough for him now ? I'll break every bone in 
 his hypocritical body damn him ! " 
 
 Elizabeth laughed softly. " It does seem 
 rather funny," she said ; " but you need not 
 trouble him, nor yourself, father, nor be so quick 
 to take it for granted that it is his fault that he 
 does not come here any more. It may be my 
 doing, you know." 
 
 The old man looked at her doubtfully. " You 
 are sure about it?" he said. "We will put a 
 bullet in him any time you say so." 
 
 " I do not say so. I do not want him shot. 
 I could do it myself if I wanted it done, and I 
 would." 
 
 " Good for you ! " was Jim's comment, but 
 George looked at her earnestly. " I should hate 
 to kill Paget, sister," he said, " and so would you." 
 
 " Of course I would, especially as there is no 
 need. I nursed him when he was ill, to pay off 
 all old scores, and now we are quits. Jack is a 
 good fellow; he could make a great deal of 
 trouble for us if he chose to talk." 
 
 " He would be sure to get his bullet then, and 
 he knows it," Mr. Marsden said. 
 
 " If he wanted to talk he would not stop for 
 fear, and you know it. He keeps silent simply 
 because he is a gentleman, and has accepted our
 
 JOHN PA GET. 53 
 
 hospitality, such as it is. For me, I am surprised 
 that he came here so much ; we are not very 
 desirable acquaintances. I wonder that he did 
 not loathe us and our life long ago." 
 
 The old man looked at her thoughtfully. 
 " You have never known any other life," he said. 
 "What do you mean by loathing this? " 
 
 " My blood has known a better life," she 
 answered, " and I am thankful that Jack Paget 
 has turned from this sort of existence while he is 
 still young enough to choose another." 
 
 " It is your own business," her father said at 
 last ; " do as you please. I am sorry you loathe 
 us, though ; I might have sent you across the 
 water to a respectable life when you were a baby, 
 but you were all I had and well, I loved you." 
 
 Elizabeth laid her cheek against his hand. 
 
 From that day the jeers ceased, and John 
 Paget seemed to drop out of the life and memory 
 of Marsden's. 
 
 For three years neither John nor Mr. Wilton 
 had seen Elizabeth. If she came to church she 
 managed to sit where she would be hidden from 
 them. But in all that time she had not failed 
 once to go to the huisachie grove for her books. 
 Sometimes there would be a .note from Mr. 
 Wilton a few kind words, but she never answered 
 them. 
 
 One afternoon toward dusk she went to get 
 her books; she heard voices in Mr. Wilton's 
 garden, and listened. John's she recognized, but
 
 54 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 a new voice, and a woman's voice, answered him. 
 It was a short way from the shadow of the 
 huisachie grove to the shadow of the garden 
 hedge, and in the gathering dusk it was easily 
 crossed without detection. 
 
 With one arm resting on the low branch of 
 a fig tree, John stood looking down on a girl 
 swinging in the hammock. He addressed her as 
 " My dear child," once or twice, then he called her 
 Beatrice, and Elizabeth knew that she was Mr. 
 Wilton's daughter come home from the Convent. 
 She went back to the huisachie grove and got 
 the books, then walked out to the chaparral 
 where her horse was tied. It was well that he 
 was fresh, for she put him at his best speed and 
 did not let him flag for a moment until she 
 reached home. 
 
 Once more she kept a long night's vigil seated 
 on the lowest round of the ladder to the loft, 
 where she had watched three years before. To 
 night the moon was full the ragged shadows 
 were clear cut and black as ink, and the wind was 
 a low whisper. In the other vigil the sky had 
 been gray, and the wind had been wild. How 
 long ago it seemed ! In what a fool's paradise 
 she had lived while John Paget had loved her. 
 How had she dreamed, even, that that life could 
 continue? 
 
 And yet she had not been all to blame in 
 grasping whatever she could get of happiness. 
 She had been so lonely.
 
 JOHN FACET. 55 
 
 Once she had seen a half-starved dog find a 
 bone ; an old, dry bone it looked, but the poor 
 beast seized it hungrily. Suddenly he dropped 
 it and fled, howling piteously. Curiosity made 
 her look closely, and she found that thQ bone 
 was filled with small red ants. 
 
 She laughed a little at her parable. 
 
 She had thought that in the three years just 
 gone she had learned what suffering meant, but 
 now the lesson seemed just begun. She shut her 
 eyes and saw her lover the curve of his throat, 
 the poise of his head, the movement of his hands, 
 so slim and tapering, so firm of grasp. And who 
 so tall and straight as he, and who could ride 
 or shoot so well? How brilliant and fearless 
 were his eyes how deep and dreamy ! And the 
 tones of his voice how she knew them every one ! 
 
 He had loved her yes, he had loved her. 
 And now it was dead. 
 
 She had thought some bitter things when she 
 saw John Paget ordained deacon, but she had 
 fought against them, and had reasoned with her 
 self until she could see things from John's stand 
 point. 
 
 He had gone down into the shadow of death, 
 and life had come to seem a different thing. 
 He had lived for weeks with no influence near 
 him but Mr. Wilton's, in the light of whose pure 
 life John's past must, indeed, seem dark and 
 loathsome. She was a part of that past she 
 was connected irretrievably with all that would
 
 56 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 make him miserable for years. If she had let 
 him murder Manuel, he would have been com 
 mitted to outlaw life. If she had chosen to 
 keep him through his illness, he could not have 
 withdrawn then. If she had chosen to stay by 
 him in life own home, Mr. Wilton would have 
 thought her justifiable. She could have held him, 
 but she had not fallen low enough for that ! 
 
 Now, how could she live ? To let him go had 
 been agony to yield him to another was tor 
 ture unspeakable. Perhaps, after a little while, 
 the pain would destroy itself ; there was a limit 
 to pain. 
 
 For the next fortnight she did not go near the 
 town ; her rides were all in the opposite direc 
 tion, and she went on some wild expeditions 
 with her brothers ; a thing she had begun to do 
 since John's desertion. 
 
 At the end of the two weeks she rode to the 
 huisachie'grove early in the morning and deposited 
 the books. This time she left an unsigned note 
 saying that she would not come again, and 
 thanking Mr. Wilton for his past kindness. 
 
 That evening Mr. Wilton asked John if he 
 knew where the Marsdens lived. John said yes, 
 but that there were no landmarks by which one 
 could be directed to the place. This was all. 
 He asked no questions in return, and gave no 
 opening for further explanation, and Mr. Wilton, 
 remembering his promise to Elizabeth, did not 
 push his inquiries. But he asked in the town,
 
 JOHN FACET. 57 
 
 first one person and then another, something of 
 the Marsdens, intimating, as his reason, that the 
 girl came to church. No one seemed to know 
 anything at all about the girl, but all spoke of 
 the family as low and bad hopelessly bad ; 
 generally adding that they had been so glad 
 when young Paget dropped the acquaintance. 
 
 After this Elizabeth had no further communi 
 cation with Mr. Wilton, but she kept an unfail 
 ing watch on John, and her reward was the 
 certainty that he loved his cousin, the little 
 Beatrice. She watched him in his walks and in 
 his rides with his cousin, hiding skillfully, and 
 hearing his talk when he thought nobody near 
 but Beatrice. Such innocent talk as it was ! 
 Sometimes her eyes would fill with tears for the 
 very simplicity of it. How pure the girl was ! 
 So she herself should have been, so it was her 
 right to be, and not the hardened, life-tired, 
 deserted thing she was. And John how really 
 true John was at heart. At night, through the 
 open windows, she watched him busy with his 
 books, and she would see him stop, when alone, 
 and a cloud come over his face. She knew what 
 that meant. Dressed as a boy, both for dis 
 guise and protection, she dogged him day and 
 night. Her people gave up expecting her at any 
 given time, and it was very seldom now that she 
 would go on expeditions with her brothers and 
 father. 
 
 The months went by ; then, before the first
 
 58 JOHN FACET. 
 
 year of Beatrice Wilton's life at home was past, 
 Elizabeth heard of the illness of the rector. 
 It was a grief to her. She went constantly to 
 listen and watch for news of him, until her own 
 father was brought home badly injured, and her 
 time and strength had to be spent on him. 
 
 Then the news came of Mr. Wilton's death. 
 Once more Elizabeth donned her disguise and 
 went to the rectory. The moon was full and 
 brilliant, and the shadows were black. Elizabeth, 
 keeping close to the hedge, drew very near to 
 the open windows of the study. The lamp was 
 dim, but the moonlight pouring in, she could see 
 the coffin on the bier, and John sitting close to 
 the window, looking out over the water. 
 
 How motionless he was how broken-hearted 
 his expression. If she went straight up to him 
 and took his hand, would he send her away? 
 would he look at her with that loathing she had 
 thought so much about ? If she told him she had 
 come only as a friend, asking nothing if she 
 told him how she had learned to love and rev 
 erence the dead man, would he look at her still 
 with that loathing? 
 
 How she loved him how she loved him, sit 
 ting there so still and sad ! How she loved him ! 
 Would anyone in all the world love him as she 
 had done as she did ? 
 
 John left the room, closing the door after him. 
 She heard doors shutting and keys turning. 
 He was locking the house for the night; he
 
 JOHN PA GET. 59 
 
 would not be back for a little while yet, and if he 
 should come on her suddenly she would take 
 the consequences. 
 
 She moved swiftly toward the house; to step in 
 at the low window was the work of a second, and 
 she stood by the open coffin. 
 
 "Death was sweet to you," she said, laying her 
 hand on the hands of the dead man. " It is best 
 to be good ; that is what your face says. I know 
 it, and I will try. Your life had been trodden on 
 too. You were lonely yourself, so you understood 
 me. If I could have confessed, you would have 
 absolved me, but it was Jack's story too. You 
 know all my story now. You lived for others. 
 I will try I promise you. Good-by. Wherever 
 you are, pray for me." There was a movement 
 in the room above. Her whisper stopped, and 
 she listened. A step, and it was not John's; no 
 one else must find her here. 
 
 " Good-by pray for me" and she stepped 
 from the window. From under the shadow of 
 the hedge she watched. 
 
 The door opened and a woman, a stranger, 
 tall, slender, beautiful, came in. She did not 
 look at the coffin ; she looked at the bookshelves, 
 at the floor, at the desk, out of the window, any 
 where but at the coffin. She came to the window 
 and stood there as if thinking, and Elizabeth was 
 so near that she could almost smell the huisachie 
 flowers the stranger held. 
 
 She was not afraid of death, or she would not
 
 to JOHN PA GET. 
 
 stay in that room alone ; she must have some 
 deeper feeling. Yet love would go straight to 
 the coffin. Was she the woman who had "trod 
 on the life" of the man lying dead behind her? 
 Foolish woman! She need not be reluctant to 
 look ; she would find only peace and gladness. 
 She had no more power to hurt him. She was 
 going to the coffin now. Ah, it hurt her ! How 
 still she was how deathly white! What pain, 
 what dreadful pain was on her face! Poor 
 thing ! The stranger went away, then John 
 came again. He lowered the lamp, and took his 
 seat by the window as before. He was going to 
 watch ; so would she ; they would keep this vigil 
 together. 
 
 The night waxed and waned. Through the 
 long, slow hours the moonlit waters of the gulf 
 washed back and forth on the glittering sands ; 
 the flowers flung out their perfume to the warm 
 wind, and the woman sitting under the hedge in 
 the darkness looked and looked as if her eyes 
 would never get their fill. 
 
 Hovering about the next day, she learned that 
 the strange woman whom she had seen would take 
 Beatrice Wilton away, and that John would go too. 
 
 Then Elizabeth waited at home. Surely John 
 would not go without some last word to her. 
 But he did not come ; and on the day of his de 
 parture, disguised, with a sombrero pulled well 
 down over her face, and a serape hiding her figure, 
 she rode to the railway station.
 
 JOHN FACET. 6 1 
 
 She stood quite close to John in the crowd ; 
 she relieved the party of their bags and wraps ; 
 she followed them into the train and stowed the 
 things away. When she finished John gave her 
 a half-dollar, but he did not look to see who it 
 was that had helped him. 
 
 She stood outside on the railway platform, and 
 as the train moved she laid her hand on the edge 
 of the open window. She said softly, " Good- 
 by, Jack." Low as it was he heard it, and the 
 color left his face.
 
 IV. 
 
 " Is all our fire of shipwreck wood 
 
 Oak and pine ? 
 
 Oh, for the ills half understood, 
 The dim dead woe 
 Long ago." 
 
 "\7OUR letter has made you grave, mother." 
 1 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked up in a startled 
 way from where she sat behind the glittering tea- 
 urn. 
 
 " Yes," she answered slowly; "it is from John, 
 your brother." 
 
 "And the contents? " 
 
 " Carter Wilton is dying." 
 
 "Dying!" Claude repeated, his blue eyes 
 clouding. 
 
 " Yes, and you must get a ticket for me," Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster went on as she rose "a ticket to 
 San Antonio." 
 
 " Have they sent for you ? " 
 
 "Yes. Carter is the last who belongs to me. 
 He asks me to take his daughter. He married 
 out there a Spanish girl. I think we should have 
 written to each other in all these years ; but Car 
 ter thought not. Your brother John will come 
 too. Get one ticket, Claude ; I prefer to go 
 alone, and shall leave to-night." 
 
 62
 
 JOHN PA GET. 63 
 
 "You will not need me, then? " 
 
 " No. But remember they live in Corpus 
 Christi " looking at the letter. " Perhaps you 
 can get a ticket farther than San Antonio. Find 
 out all about it." 
 
 " And all your engagements for the next 
 month?" 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster frowned. ",You will have 
 to make my excuses. Write to the Slaters at 
 once ; their dinner is this evening." 
 
 " And your lunch on Thursday ? " Claude went 
 on ; "I shall have to hire a secretary." 
 
 " Write to the Slaters, and get my ticket," 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster answered, " then you will find 
 on the study table a list of commissions," and 
 she left the room. 
 
 " The highest civilization gives way some- 
 times," Claude soliloquized. "The mater is mar- 
 velously civilized for an impulsive person, but she 
 fails sometimes. Sometimes temper, sometimes 
 affections, but both marks of the Beast. And 
 these Philistines she will import ! I am afraid my 
 own civilization will be tried. A cowboy and a 
 a cowgirl ! But a Spanish mother promises eyes 
 eyes shake me. After all, they may be interest 
 ing studies. Redfern can make the girl over, and 
 John can go to my tailor. Poor Dechard ! a cow 
 boy will tear his delicate nerves to pieces ; never 
 theless, he must clothe him. I suppose this ' long- 
 lost brother ' will advance on me habited in very 
 light trousers; a low-cut evening waistcoat ; a red
 
 64 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 cravat, a black frock coat longer in the front than 
 in the back a sombrero ! his boots very short 
 with very high heels. Ye gods ! I have seen one 
 or two of the things in Chicago," and he poked 
 the fire as if his own civilization were shaken. " I 
 must suggest to the mater to stop in Philadelphia 
 and get him an ulster a blanket anything to 
 hide him from the servants. I do not believe that I 
 could stand the pity I should see in Waters' eyes." 
 
 The said Waters entering to remove breakfast, 
 Claude ordered the coupe" and his overcoat, then 
 went away to the study. 
 
 It was a long journey to Corpus Christi ; the 
 biting wind growing softer, the world growing 
 greener as Mrs. Van Kuyster went. The sweep 
 ing prairies burst on her sight ; the sunshine be 
 came hot glare ; then in the dawn a shadowy town 
 that seemed to spring from the desert sand. A 
 muddy stream, the Rio Grande, and foreign 
 figures from the Mexican side. All seemed a 
 dream to the weary woman. The desolation de 
 pressed her, and the voices of the few people that 
 were about had a slow, tired sound. Time meant 
 nothing to these people, and Carter was dying. 
 Five hours would have done the remaining dis 
 tance, even in most parts of the South ; here they 
 said it would take twelve. Carter had been so 
 patient always, perhaps he would wait for her even 
 now. 
 
 Three times in her life Carter had sent for her. 
 The first time he had sent a messenger on horse-
 
 JOHN PA GET. 65 
 
 back to fetch her from a neighbor's where she was 
 calling. She was sitting in front of a roaring 
 wood fire, talking to a friend of her grandmother's, 
 an old lady who looked like a delicate ivory carv 
 ing. She remembered the fine lace of her ker 
 chief, and the careful tying of her cap-strings. 
 Strange that she should recall it here in this 
 border town, sitting on a railway platform in the 
 chilly dawn. And she had put down the cake 
 and wine and had gone away quickly from her 
 old friend, because Carter had sent for her, and in 
 those days she belonged to Carter. They seldom 
 agreed, for she craved excitement and gayety, and 
 he was stern, and grave, and years older than she. 
 She could remember the sound of the carriage 
 wheels in the sand, and the voice of the old coach 
 man as he called to the footman behind to get 
 down and open the gate. And she had laughed 
 at his grumbling about " dese good-fuh-nuttin 
 young niggers dat sleep awl de time." Her last 
 careless laugh. Carter had met her at the gate, 
 helping her out of the carriage. " I had to send 
 for you, dear," he said ; "I needed you." And his 
 eyes were so full of love clear, sweet eyes, so 
 tender and so true. The last love she had had. 
 Since then she had lived without it, as the desert 
 lives without water. 
 
 In the drawing room she had met a stranger; 
 handsome, thoroughbred, but beyond middle life ; 
 further beyond than appeared, and she a girl in 
 her teens.
 
 66 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Mr. Van Kuyster," Carter had called him, 
 from New York, with letters to her brother John. 
 Had a cold wave touched this almost tropic dawn 
 that she should shiver? Was it the memory of 
 that first clasp of her husband's hand ? 
 
 John had gone to take Alice to her own people 
 and could not be back until night, so it fell to 
 her lot to make the stranger welcome. 
 
 Again Carter had sent for her when the war 
 was done, and the land was desolate, and she had 
 hurt him. She had not dared to do anything 
 else. She would explain it to him now when she 
 should meet him. Would he wait for her stop 
 one day longer in this worn-out world for her sake? 
 
 After that visit there, she had bought the old 
 place, and the silver too ; and Claude had been 
 down often, but not she. It must go o tms 
 nephew John, who was the only Paget. He had 
 been trained by Carter, he would have all the 
 traditions of the race all the old ideas all the 
 old-time breeding. Claude was essentially mod 
 ern. She had not been allowed to train him, and 
 she had been held up to ridicule so systematically 
 in his presence that she had scarcely been able 
 to keep his respect. Claude had been trained by 
 Mr. Van Kuyster, who seemed to have cast away 
 traditions. He ridiculed everything nothing 
 was sacred everything was a fetich. She had 
 been trained through Claude. 
 
 And now Carter sent for her again. Death 
 was too strong for him, and he sent for his old
 
 JOHi\ r PA GET. 67 
 
 love the child he had helped to rear. She re 
 membered once she had run away from old Tenah 
 to follow him to the rice fields. Such a long way 
 it was, and she had fallen into a ditch and got 
 wet, and had lost her sunbonnet, but at last she 
 had found him. She remembered how he looked, 
 sitting so straight on his- horse, with his gun 
 across the saddle in front of him, and the sun 
 shine all about him. And Romp, his red setter, 
 had rushed up to her and licked her face in his 
 delight. Dear old Romp, were ever any eyes in 
 all the world as beautiful as his ? Then Carter 
 caught sight of her and came quickly, giving his 
 gun to a negro standing near. He had swung 
 her up in front of him, holding her close and 
 wiping away her tears. " How did you come, 
 little'one ? " he asked, half laughing. " I wanted 
 you," she sobbed, " I wante'd you." 
 
 How was it that she had changed so much 
 after she met 'that strange man? She had 
 seemed bewitched. And Alice had worked 
 against her, had made the first unhappiness in 
 her life. Alice always made her appear wrong 
 in John's eyes, and had made Carter hard on her 
 too. Alice, who was much older, and should have 
 known better, had spoiled the home. Still, she 
 must have been bewitched. That worldly tongue 
 had fascinated her, those wicked eyes had 
 charmed her as a snake would charm a bird. 
 She shuddered, they were closed forever ; now 
 she must not call them wicked.
 
 68 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Soon Carter would know all. She had never 
 explained anything to him, for he, himself, had 
 taught her that explanation showed weakness 
 of cause and character. 
 
 A bell rang ; at last the train was ready. 
 Twelve hours, and Carter was dying. The world 
 would seem empty without him, and where would 
 he be ? 
 
 She nodded a farewell to the little town. The 
 paper she had read the day before said that it 
 had a great future a future down here in the 
 desert. And how dreary to have a future ! She 
 would almost like to agree with Claude and Mr. 
 Van Kuyster about this future: laugh at the 
 suggestion and live in the present. But Carter 
 would know, for he hovered now in the border 
 land between life and death, and he would tell 
 her. 
 
 It was a hot day, and the way 'was long and 
 dusty, and the train was slow,- and the prairie 
 was endless. It was a dreary country in spite of 
 the sweeps of wild flowers, and she would never 
 forget it. The snow she had left in the North 
 seemed more sympathetic. 
 
 How would Claude and John get on, and what 
 would Carter's daughter be like ? Beatrice, a 
 pretty name ; and the story of Carter's marriage 
 was strange. A Spanish lady, in dying, gave him 
 her little fortune and her daughter, praying him 
 to save both from a rapacious uncle who had a 
 dispensation to marry the girl. And Carter had
 
 JOHN PA GET. 69 
 
 married the girl at once. They had had one 
 daughter, Beatrice, who was now just seventeen ; 
 brought up in a convent ever since her mother's 
 death. Carter had been such a stanch Protes 
 tant, how had he consented to this? Or had his 
 young wife managed him? Her nephew John 
 was studying for the ministry. That would 
 have annoyed her in the old days, but now, if 
 one could reach the point of being absorbed 
 and fanatical about anything, she deemed it a 
 blessing. 
 
 The people she lived among were absorbed in I 
 many ways. One man had a fancy farm, and 
 could talk of nothing but weeds. Some women 
 were daft about Church embroidery, some about 
 art, some about dress reform, prison reform, ham 
 mered brass, woodcarving, refuges for women, 
 cruelty to animals, etching, orphan asylums, gym 
 nastics, Christian Science, Russian cruelty, any 
 thing to quiet the conscience and the craving for 
 reality. No doubt good was done as well as time 
 killed, but reality seemed to be missing. 
 
 They were all in earnest, these people ; the 
 man who talked of weeds spent hundreds, that 
 his acres should be guiltless of one dandelion. 
 All the rest were in earnest too, only the work 
 did not seem to have come to them as the duty 
 of life. They seemed to have created a great 
 deal of it in order to satisfy a restless energy by 
 which they were possessed. She had no restless 
 energy, and any of these things would have
 
 70 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 seemed playing at work. She gave money, but 
 she could not give herself. For generations her 
 people had lived in a hot climate, owned slaves, 
 and been filled with repose. Work was a serious 
 thing to such people, and had to be a solemn 
 duty before they would do it. These Northern 
 people had lived in a cold climate, where life was 
 a battle, and so had been energetic for genera 
 tions. As long as they had nature to conquer, 
 and fortunes to carve out, this energy was a 
 necessity, a boon ; but now it had become the 
 gadfly that goaded them into rest-cures and 
 lunatic asylums. For herself, she spent her time 
 on books and the study of her kind. The world 
 called her icy; Claude said she was thoroughly 
 civilized. To analyze thoroughly, one must put 
 one's heart out of count; thus, to her, analysis of 
 her kind was an easy thing. It had become a 
 second nature; but she could remember the time 
 when she hated herself for this power of moral 
 dissection. Once when she analyzed her brother 
 John because he was unjust to her, once when 
 she had analyzed Carter, it had seemed to harden 
 her heart. In her analysis of'Carter, she had left 
 weakness out, but weakness had come and he 
 had sent for her. When she should come to 
 die, there would be no one to send for. A trained 
 nurse, for it was not civilized to trouble one's 
 friends with illness and pain and death throes. 
 All the eyes that would look into hers at the end 
 would be calm and resigned ; no hardly restrained
 
 JOHN PA GET. 71 
 
 agony, no passionate pain, but Christian resigna 
 tion changing into resigned cheerfulness as she 
 passed the point where she could change her 
 will. 
 
 She laughed a little. She had not weighed all 
 this when she made her choice. 
 
 She smoothed her soft dress. She had gone 
 " clothed in purple and fine linen," and had 
 " fared sumptuously," but that had not been the 
 temptation to her, for she had never known any 
 thing else she had been bewitched, that was all. 
 The glamour of the world, the mocking light in 
 'those wicked eyes that had made the simplicity 
 and peace of her past seem contracted. And 
 Carter had insisted on going into the ministry. 
 The day seemed endless. Would Carter wait for 
 her? 
 
 Poor Carter ! He had been richer than she. 
 His wife, his child, his peaceful life full of small 
 duties. How the thought of quiet day succeed 
 ing day had irritated her in her youth, when she 
 longed for the " kingdoms of the world." She 
 had grasped the mirage, and regret and longing 
 had made the warp and woof of her life ; a 
 " might have been " had been her only dream. 
 
 Again she smoothed her soft dress. She had 
 always loved luxurious things, and missing them, 
 she would, without doubt, have been miserable. 
 Traveling alone to the death of her one love was 
 making her maudlin. How Claude would have 
 laughed how Mr. Van Kuyster's eyes would
 
 72 JOHN FACET. 
 
 have glittered with cynical amusement over her 
 train of thought. His nostrils would have con 
 tracted, and his face have drawn into many tiny 
 wrinkles, because he had found a point on which 
 .to attack her. 
 
 He was dead, but she often seemed to see his 
 face, and hear the clear metallic sound he called 
 a laugh. The ridicule she had undergone was a 
 bitter recollection ; under it she had become what 
 Claude called " civilized." The same civilization 
 as the Red Indian's, whose lips no agony can 
 open as the old Spartan civilization ; only in 
 these modern days the Indian must smile as the 
 fire crisps hisjflesh ; and, while the fox gnaws, the 
 Spartan must wax enthusiastic about the preven 
 tion of cruelty to animals. 
 
 She laughed. She must gather herself together 
 before she reached her journey's end ; whatever 
 she might reveal to Carter, the young people, 
 John and Beatrice, must see nothing. 
 
 The evening fell, the air grew cooler with a 
 freshness in it "like the sea winds at The Oaks," 
 she thought. 
 
 " What is it that smells so sweet ? " she asked 
 a fellow-traveler. " Huisachie," was answered ; 
 " we are at Corpus." 
 
 The train stopped at the edge of the bluff, and 
 before her eyes was spread a glory of moonlit 
 waters, and the air was filled with a sweetness 
 strangely familiar. Huisachie, what was that? 
 Then a tall young man and more than the
 
 JOHN PA GET. 73 
 
 magic perfume, he took her into the past. She 
 went up to him. "John," she said, "John 
 Paget." 
 
 " Aunt Claudia," he answered, and stooped 
 and kissed her. Surely she was dead and gone 
 into the other world ! 
 
 He held her hands, and she looked up into his 
 face, so clear-cut, so stern. Was it not the same 
 face that had condemned her when she went 
 away years ^ago with the man of her choice ? 
 And the same voice that had said "God help \ 
 you " but never once, " God bless you." 
 
 "Carter is dead," he said, then dropped her 
 hands and turned to gather up her things. " He 
 died this morning at dawn at the rise of the 
 wind." 
 
 In the gray dawn, when she sat shivering and 
 dreaming, his spirit had come to her had led 
 her back to the still, old days. She said nothing, 
 but followed to the vehicle that was waiting be 
 low the bluff. 
 
 There stretched a white-shelled road that ran 
 very near the water ; then the wide sweep of the 
 bay that went out to the gulf that went out to 
 the wandering sea. 
 
 " How beautiful," she said, " and how sweet! " 
 
 " Huisachie," John answered. " Opoponax, 
 Carter called them. All these trees are either 
 huisachie or fig." 
 
 " Opopanax ; that is the reason it made me 
 think of home."
 
 74 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 "The old plantation?" it was a deep, sweet 
 voice. "Carter has often told me about it." 
 
 " You called him Carter ? " 
 
 " He liked it because my voice was like my 
 father's. He wanted you very much, Aunt 
 Claudia." 
 
 " You should^ have telegraphed," she answered 
 quickly. 
 
 " When we wrote the physician said he would 
 live for weeks ; at the last it was very sudden." 
 
 "And his daughter?" 
 
 " Beatrice has been away from her father all her 
 life almost, she scarcely knew hirrh For me " 
 he stopped for a moment. " For you, Aunt Clau 
 dia, Carter had a great longing. He talked of 
 you incessantly. At the last he wandered a 
 little." John paused, and the woman beside him 
 scarcely breathed. " He seemed to have gone 
 back to when you were a little child, and laughed 
 because you were so droll, he said. His last 
 words were to you. ' I had to send for you, dear,' 
 he said, ' I needed you.' Then his mind came 
 back, and he looked at me and whispered, ' The 
 wind has risen, and my soul will go out with it 
 tell her I tried to wait.' And I heard the long rip 
 ple on the sands, and his soul went with a sigh." 
 
 He ceased, but no answer came. They had 
 driven the length of the town by this, and stopped 
 on the beach, where a small house stood with some 
 trees about it. In front was a garden reclaimed 
 from the sand then the beach then the curving
 
 JOHN FACET. 75 
 
 bay. It was only a short way to the piazza 
 where a figure in white stood, and John -said : 
 
 "This is Beatrice, aunt," and Mrs. Van Kuy- 
 ster scanned the young face from which the soft 
 dark eyes looked dreamily, as if the soul behind 
 them were sleeping still. 
 
 " You have come too late," the girl said simply. 
 
 "She knows," John answered, "and is very 
 tired. I will take her to her room, and you send 
 a cup of tea, dear." 
 
 " So ? well then, I will," and she turned away. 
 
 "She is such a dreamer," John explained as he 
 led the way up the stairs, " I have to tell her 
 always what to do. I think the training at the 
 Convent was a mistake, but Carter said a girl 
 needed women about her. This is your room, 
 aunt, and when you want to go down, he is in a 
 room to the right of the hall. I shall send Bea 
 trice to bed presently ; she is a gentle creature." 
 Then he shut the door and went away. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked about her mechani 
 cally on the plainness and barrenness of the place ; 
 but through the open window shone the moon 
 light, and the bay, and the long waves rippling 
 softly on the sands. 
 
 In the same mechanical way she took off her 
 bonnet and bathed her face. Then a little, old, 
 brown woman came with a tray, putting it down 
 and courtesying, and Mrs. Van Kuyster ate and 
 drank with scarcely a realization of what she did. 
 When the servant and the tray were gone, she
 
 7 6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 heard the sound of muffled steps and closing 
 doors, then all was still. Was the town asleep 
 too ? How plainly she heard the waves and the 
 wind that stirred in the opopanax trees outside 
 the windows ! She reached out and gathered 
 some of the little yellow balls ; how sweet they 
 were! The old lady she had been seeing, that 
 first day Carter sent for her, kept them among 
 her caps and laces. How merrily the fire had 
 crackled, how nice the lightwood had smelled as 
 it burned how blue the sky was ; how sweet the 
 orange blossoms that looked in at the open win 
 dow"! How oppressive the steady heat of the 
 Northern houses had been to her, after the open 
 windows and roaring fires of her home ! The 
 careless, spendthrift, comfortable, arrogant, beau 
 tiful South what a wonderful life the " upper 
 ten thousand " had led how sure they had been 
 that the world had been made for them ! Swept 
 away ! And now it was becoming a money- 
 making, and money-saving, conventional country 
 like any other! She smelled the little yellow 
 balls once more. She had found some in Egypt 
 when she went there on her wedding tour. Some 
 of the bitterest realizations of her life had come 
 to her in that beautiful Cairene garden. 
 
 As a child she had learned to climb on an 
 opopanax tree, because the branches were near 
 the ground. It had been destruction to her 
 frocks, but what Southern child ever hesitated 
 between fun and clothes! Once she had fallen
 
 JOHN PA GET. 77 
 
 from the top of the tree, and had caught by her 
 skirts on the stump of a broken branch. It was 
 not a tall tree, but it had seemed an awful fall to 
 her. At her cry, her father had come from where 
 he was smoking on the long piazza, to find her 
 dangling. What a stout little flannel petticoat it 
 must have been to hold her safe while her father 
 laughed ! How furious the laughing made her ! 
 Then Carter came and lifted her down. He was 
 laughing a little himself ; she saw that when he 
 brushed her curls back, but not much, and he had 
 carried her off in his arms that she might weep 
 away her anger and mortification with only him 
 for witness. Carter Carter Carter ! How all 
 the days of her life had been woven in with his ! 
 
 How still it was ! John had meant that if she 
 went down she should be alone. Carter lay there 
 dead. Not the Carter of her youth, not even the 
 Carter she had last seen, but an old man. Did 
 she want to see him ? Living, she would have 
 found his heart and soul as they had been ; the 
 body would not have mattered ! Would not she 
 rather remember him ? 
 
 She would hide the little flowers in his coffin 
 in memoriam ; he would understand what they 
 meant. She would^bury her remorse with him ; 
 it was not needful that it should live now that he 
 was at rest. 
 
 He had come to her in the dawn where was 
 he now? She opened the door softly and stole 
 downstairs. She paused with her hand on the
 
 78 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 latch. It was an old man she would see, not her 
 lover. 
 
 All the available space in the little room was 
 filled with bookshelves, and a shabby desk was 
 pushed against the fireplace to make way for the 
 coffin. The windows opened down to the floor, 
 and the dim lamplight mingled strangely with 
 the moonlight that poured in. Here, apart from 
 human kind, he had lived the real life of all these 
 years. He had had a way of walking up and 
 down with his hands clasped behind him. Up 
 and down this little hole ! 
 
 Carter dead ! It was a stranger she would see 
 when she turned to that coffin. The fine dark 
 hair would be white ; the delicate, sensitive fea 
 tures would be a little thickened and marred by 
 time ; the grave, sweet lips would have grown 
 thinner and sterner; the eyes would be closed. 
 
 She shivered a little. The moonlight had 
 grown so cold, and the winds and the waves so 
 still ! 
 
 The white priestly vestments lay in straight 
 folds, the fine hair shone as a silver crown, the 
 slim, folded hands were marble the calm, strong 
 face was radiant ! What vision had his vanish 
 ing spirit seen that left such light in every death- 
 fixed curve and line? What use her little 
 flowers, what use her remorse, her earthly love 
 and sorrow? The light from that glorified coun 
 tenance destroyed the flimsy dream that through 
 all these years she had been in his life ; and past
 
 JOHN PA GET. 79 
 
 and future were left empty. He had lived above 
 her above the world. A conquered life, a free 
 spirit seeing the unseen, touching the infinite. 
 
 There were such things. In the world one 
 doubted them, but the glory in that face swept 
 one out to the central calm where faith keeps 
 guard. What use her remorse, her love, to this 
 strong saint of God? 
 
 She closed the door softly, and went away up 
 stairs. No fear now of betraying anything, and 
 she would impress it on John that all the longing 
 for her, and all the wanderings, had been but a 
 sick man's fancies. t 
 
 Very matter-of-fact she was the next morning 
 while John studied her. Very quiet through the 
 funeral service, showing annoyance when Beatrice 
 broke into sobs as the earth fell on the coffin. 
 The man's dead face had struck her such a numb 
 ing blow at the last. What use that she should 
 feel and remember? 
 
 And' when the little flowers drooped, she flung 
 them into the sea.
 
 V. 
 
 " She hath fair eyes ; maybe 
 I love her for sweet eyes, or brows or hair, 
 For the smooth temples, where God touching her 
 Made blue with sweeter veins the flower sweet white ; 
 Or for the tender turning of the wrist, 
 Or marriage of the eyelid with the cheek ; 
 I cannot tell ; or blush of lifting throat, 
 I know not if the color get a name 
 This side, of heaven no man knows ; or her mouth, 
 A flower's lip." 
 
 T3EATRICE thought that she had never seen 
 -L) anything as dismal as New York. The 
 weather was very bad, and Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 lived in a fashionable part of the town, so that 
 an occasional omnibus or coal wagon or cab was 
 the only thing to be seen. Ever since morning 
 sleet and rain and snow had taken turns in fall 
 ing, and a horrible homesickness came over the 
 girl as she remembered the roses of Corpus Christi 
 and the blue waves washing on the shore. How 
 *could one live in a climate like this from choice? 
 The house was warm, with a dead, still heat for 
 which the fires could not account ; a heat that op 
 pressed her, but did not drive the cold from her 
 bones. 
 
 They had arrived very early, with nothing to 
 meet them but servants and a telegram from her
 
 JOHN PA GET. 8r 
 
 cousin Claude in Washington. He would be at 
 home for dinner. 
 
 After lunch she was told to lie down until the 
 maid should come to dress her; then her few 
 dresses were taken away. She was dressed now 
 in her Confirmation frock ; a white wool thing 
 which she remembered as being unsufferably hot 
 that Southern winter day, but that seemed noth\ 
 ing in this climate. Would she ever be warm 
 again ? 
 
 She satin a deep chair close to the drawing 
 room fire, feeling more comfortable than she had 
 done at any time since her arrival. This seemed 
 a strange life, and John now left her entirely to 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster. A very handsome woman 
 she was, looking scarcely older than John, and 
 dressed so beautifully ; but why should middle- 
 aged people care how they looked ? 
 
 All the long afternoon she had rested ; still, she 
 was sleepy. Why not go to sleep ? No one 
 seemed to be coming, and dinner would be in the 
 middle of the night, probably, for it had been 
 dark for so long. 
 
 So this was the " cowgirl," and, leaning against 
 the mantelpiece, Claude looked down on Beatrice 
 sleeping in the big red chair. He had come into 
 the fire-lighted room quietly, and now stood very 
 still. What an extraordinary frock it seemed ! 
 but such a throat, and such hands and wrists 
 ye gods ! Tailor-made clothes would spoil her. 
 Was her hair arranged at all, or did it grow in
 
 82 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 those waves and folds about her head ? Was it 
 the firelight that made the girl such a picture? 
 and her lips! A pomegranate flower. A cheap 
 old simile, but it suited her. Would her eyes be 
 beautiful ? How heavy the lids were, and the 
 lashes lay like shadows on her cheeks. Would 
 her teeth be good and her voice and her Eng 
 lish ? His dream seemed to fall into dust and 
 ashes. If the mother had been half as lovely 
 as this girl, it had been no hardship for Carter 
 Wilton to marry her. 
 
 Mr. Van Kuyster had so often twitted his wife 
 with the name of Carter Wilton that Claude had 
 decided that an old love story lived behind it, 
 and Mrs. Van Kuyster's explanation that her 
 cousin had married for pity had confirmed his 
 belief. He raised his eyes from the fire where 
 they had been fixed while he thought, to find 
 the girl's eyes open. They did not look startled, 
 perhaps hardly awake. 
 
 " Is dinner ready ? " The voice was so soft and 
 slow that each syllable seemed to be a matter of 
 thought. " Not quite," he answered, then waited 
 while the dark eyes, questioning like a child's, 
 looked at him quietly. 
 
 " Are you John's brother, the one who changed 
 his name ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I would not have done that." 
 
 " Nor I," Claude answered glibly ; " it was done 
 for me."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 83 
 
 " How is it you are so fair ? " was the next ques 
 tion. " John is dark ; are not you twins ? " 
 
 " Yes, we are twins," pulling his mustache to 
 hide a smile, " and I do not know how the dif 
 ference came." 
 
 " And John is bigger than you." 
 
 "Is he?" 
 
 " Have you not seen him ? " 
 
 " No, I only had time to dress for dinner." 
 
 " So ? I should have gone to see my brother 
 first." 
 
 "You have been better trained than I." 
 
 " Yes, I was trained in the Convent, and the 
 Mother is a saint, I think." 
 
 " A Frenchwoman ? " 
 
 " No, the sisters were French, and the priest ; 
 the Mother was English." 
 
 " Ah, yes; I believe some English people have 
 been saints." 
 
 " But French people also. Oh, there have 
 been lots and lots of saints ! We used to read 
 their lives all the time. Poor things, they had 
 such trouble. But that little while of suffering 
 does not matter now, you know, for they have 
 reached eternal blessedness. They had not to 
 go to Purgatory for a day even." She was lean 
 ing a little forward, and her eyes were shining. 
 
 " Are you a Catholic ?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? I called the Sisters 
 Catholics, and they called themselves so, but John 
 got vexed and gave me a long explanation about
 
 84 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 it all. He called them Romanists ; is that what 
 you mean ? No, I am not a Romanist. John 
 lectured me a lot, but father did not bother 
 me ; he only said we must be good, that we must 
 fight for Christianity, and not about different 
 creeds." 
 
 "And are you going to fight for Christianity?" 
 
 "Oh, no; I have not got sense enough. The 
 Mother said that woman's work in life was obe 
 dience ; so while father and John studied and 
 puzzled, I swung in the hammock under the fig 
 trees." 
 
 "And are you obedient?" 
 
 " Yes, when anybody tells me what to do." 
 
 " And when they do not ? " 
 
 " Then I don't do anything." 
 
 " You go to sleep, perhaps." 
 
 " Perhaps. John always told me what to do 
 until Aunt Claudia came ; now he seems miles 
 away. John is so good he frightens me. He is 
 a deacon, you know." 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 "Yes," nodding her head. "He makes me 
 think of Father Michael who used to come to the 
 Convent to confess us. Sister Therese said he was 
 a saint. He was an Englishman. She said the 
 father used to lash himself on his bare skin until 
 he bled, and then he put on a stickery hair shirt 
 and a belt with spikes in it. Once he had been 
 very wicked. He frightened me ; his eyes used 
 to burn like fire. Do you think he did all that ? "
 
 JOHN PA GET. 85 
 
 " No," Claude answered promptly. " But is 
 John like that?" 
 
 " Old Angela said not ; she was the servant, 
 you know, my grandmother's and my mother's 
 servant. She cried when we came away. She 
 said John should have married me and gone on 
 living there that my mother had been married 
 so that a motherless girl should be married very 
 soon and asked no questions. The Mother 
 thought so too. I wanted to be a nun, it was so 
 peaceful. I put on a habit one day, and showed 
 myself to the Mother. She smiled and blessed 
 me, and hoped it would be so some day." 
 
 " And was the dress becoming to you?" 
 
 " Yes, only all my hair was covered, and every 
 body says that I have very pretty hair. Sister 
 Therese used to take care of it, and she said I 
 could cut it off and lay it on the altar of the 
 Blessed Virgin, and then in heaven I should find 
 it all again, and turned to purest gold. But I 
 like dark hair best, don't you? " 
 
 " I believe I do," Claude answered, turning to 
 where Waters was lighting the lamps. " Light 
 them all," he said, then watched to see how the 
 girl's beauty would stand the light. 
 
 " I love light," she said, " and here it is so dark 
 and cold. In Corpus the roses are blooming, and 
 the sky and the water are so blue. And the 
 jackdaws ! There are thousands of them, and 
 they are so funny and so clever. I loved to see 
 them steal the figs. Do you know jackdaws?"
 
 86 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 " Only what I have read." 
 
 " I wish you had come to Corpus. At the 
 Convent we had a pet crow old Corvus he 
 used to steal dreadfully, and when the cat would 
 be asleep in the sun, old Corvus would nip his 
 tail, then look away as if he had not done it ; and 
 the cat would be in such a rage and the dog 
 too. Once Corvus was nearly killed. Father 
 Michael found him on the altar in the chapel, and 
 said that he must die, and shut him up in a cage 
 to kill him after vespers. How we cried Marie, 
 Antoinette, and I, and prayed the Mother to save 
 him, and she did. She talked to Father Michael, 
 then brought Corvus to us." 
 
 " How many girls were in the convent ? " 
 
 " Only the three of us. It was not a school. 
 It was away off in the country, down by the 
 water. The Mother and six Sisters lived there. 
 It was a farm that sent things to Convents in 
 towns, and took care of sick Sisters and girls 
 from other Convents. The Mother never let us 
 see the town girls ; she said that town mice were 
 not good for country mice. I could just talk 
 when I went there. My grandmother was 
 Spanish and found out this convent for a place 
 to educate my mother. So it was my mother's 
 home and mine. Marie and Antoinette were 
 orphans and given to be nuns. I wish I had 
 been, but John gets into a rage when I say that. 
 Yet, when he talks to me he makes me long more 
 than ever to go back, for it makes me tired even
 
 JOHN PA GET. 87 
 
 to think of all the things he says a [Christian 
 ought to do." Suddenly she rose and stood as 
 if on drill, and Claude turned to see Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster entering. 
 
 " So you have come," as Claude kissed her 
 lightly on her cheek, " and have made friends 
 with Beatrice. Sit down, dear," to the girl, who 
 was still standing; and Beatrice sitting down 
 primly on a very straight chair, Claude felt a 
 little at a loss. He had thought she was afraid 
 of being caught sitting carelessly, and talking 
 familiarly to a stranger, even though he was a 
 cousin, but Mrs. Van Kuyster's words made him 
 abandon this conclusion. Perhaps it was respect ! 
 He had seen such respect in other countries, and 
 had fallen in love with it rather ; but the average 
 American girl, if she observed her elders at all, 
 granted them only a condescending patronage. 
 Then he remembered that this girl could scarcely 
 be called American. 
 
 "You are quite well, mother?" he said mean 
 while. 
 
 " Quite well, thank you : and you ? " 
 " Quite well. I should have been at home to 
 meet you," he went on, " but did not dream that 
 you could get here so soon." 
 
 " We left immediately. Have you seen John ? " 
 
 " No, but here he is," and Claude went forward 
 
 to meet his brother. How different they were, 
 
 Beatrice thought, as she watched the meeting. 
 
 Claude was slighter and shorter than John, and
 
 88 JOHN FACET. 
 
 so very fair. There was something grand about 
 John too grand ; he frightened her. 
 
 And Claude said lightly, "What a whale you 
 are, Jack." John seemed to wince a little, then 
 he smiled. His smile was beautiful if only he 
 would smile oftener, the girl thought. 
 
 " I remember you perfectly," he answered, 
 putting his hand on Claude's shoulder and look 
 ing straight into his eyes, " have you no recollec 
 tion of me ?." 
 
 Claude shook his head " I remember old 
 Tenah, and remember what we played, and how 
 we played, but your looks made no impression on 
 me." 
 
 "And our mother?" 
 
 "Only as someone always sick, and Carter 
 as always taking us out that we might not dis 
 turb her. I remember him as a sort of lovely 
 giant." 
 
 Then dinner was announced, and Claude 
 turned to Beatrice. 
 
 " Dinner at last," he said, and put her hand on 
 his arm. " John frightens me too," he whispered 
 as they followed into the dining room ; " he is 
 quite awful." 
 
 " But he has a better voice than you. I never 
 knew until now what made me listen always when 
 he spoke it is his voice. You call Aunt Claudia 
 mother?" 
 
 " Yes, I was adopted. Your father sold me, 
 and now you tell me it was wrong."
 
 JOHN FACET. 89 
 
 " Not if father did it. I wonder how much 
 they paid him for you." 
 
 " Hush ! " Claude answered, laughing, " another 
 time." 
 
 As dinner went on Claude's spirits rose. To 
 him the girl was charming; and John, though a 
 trifle solemn, was most distinguished looking. 
 He was terribly in earnest, and was talking about 
 the slums now. 
 
 " Carter suggested that I could provide for my 
 course at the seminary by assisting in some 
 church," he was saying ; " is it possible?" 
 
 " I suppose so, but there is no necessity." 
 
 " I want the experience," he answered a little 
 stiffly, " and I suspect that they need slum- 
 workers ' slummers ' you call them ? " 
 
 " The best antidote for the slums is Black- 
 well's Island," Claude struck in, "with Sing Sing 
 for the extras, and electricity for the hope 
 less." 
 
 " Perhaps," John answered ; " but even with all 
 these antidotes working busily, wretched crea 
 tures still swarm in the slums. What shall be 
 done with, or to them, if you like that better?" 
 
 " ' To them' is better. I think transportation 
 to Alaska and New Mexico would be good." 
 
 " Then form a society for the prevention of 
 poverty and sin and slums?" 
 
 " Poverty and sin are synonymous. Preven 
 tion of poverty would be sufficient," 
 
 "What is poverty?"
 
 90 JOHN FACET. 
 
 Claude shook his head. " It is as hard to de 
 fine as wealth. I should say it is not having 
 what one wants. You ask dreadful Pilatinous 
 questions. What is poverty, Beatrice?" 
 
 " The Mother said not to have what one needed 
 was to be poor." 
 
 " Needed not wanted. I think I must hunt 
 that Reverend Mother up and go to school to 
 her. What do you think?" 
 
 " She would teach you a great deal," Beatrice 
 answered, and Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. 
 
 " What made her tell you that about poverty?" 
 
 " There was a bad man with a big ranch who 
 used to come to the convent for medicine, and 
 Sister Therese called him rich, and the Mother 
 called him poor. He was not a Christian, she 
 said, and so did not have the only thing that one 
 absolutely needs." She looked deprecatingly at 
 John. "He asked me," she said; "I had to 
 answer." 
 
 "Does not John allow you to talk?" Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster asked, smiling. 
 
 "Yes; but the Mother said that I was too 
 young to speak unless I was spoken to, and 
 John looked so surprised." 
 
 There was silence for a moment, then Claude 
 looked at Mrs. Van Kuyster. " Don't you think," 
 he said, " that the government should import a 
 Reverend Mother for every girl baby born in the 
 land, and send them off to lonely prairies ? Think 
 of it, women who would listen ! " and he gave
 
 JOHN PA GET. 91 
 
 Beatrice a meditative look which she did not 
 see, being busy with her dinner. 
 
 "And you and the Mother, Claude, agree with 
 a difference," John said. " She says sin is pov 
 erty; you say poverty is sin." 
 
 " I understood that the Mother holds unbelief 
 to be the only poverty, not sin. Am I not 
 right, Beatrice ? " 
 
 "Of course; for unbelief is sin, is it not?" 
 
 Claude smiled, "/don't know," he said ; "for 
 the Mother would call Jack a heretic, and Jack 
 would call the Mother a schismatic ; and when 
 saintly Mothers and Reverend deacons begin to 
 vituperate, what must lay folk think ? " 
 
 " I fancy that the Mother and I agree on the 
 fundamental truths," John answered, looking at 
 his brother thoughtfully; then he added, " But to 
 whom shall I apply for work ? " 
 
 " Why, yes " and Mrs. Van Kuyster seemed 
 to bring her thoughts back with an effort, " to 
 Mr. Ratcliffe, our rector, of course." 
 
 " And his churchmanship," Claude suggested. 
 " What is the rhyme 
 
 " Broad and hazy, 
 Low and lazy, 
 High and crazy 
 
 " What is your fad, Jack ? " 
 
 " Carter advised me not to be a party man 
 if I could help it," John answered. "In these 
 days everything Christian had better stand
 
 92 JOHN FACET. 
 
 shoulder to shoulder against everything anti- 
 Christian." 
 
 " Quite true," Claude answered. " The creeds 
 ought to decide where the best stand can be 
 made, and make it at once. And any scheme of 
 religion on which they agree as being the best 
 moral sanitary measure, ought to be supported, 
 and would be, I think, by all respectable people. 
 Don't swear, Jack," laying his hand on his 
 brother's arm as if to stop the words he saw on 
 his lips. " The sooner we understand each other, 
 the better. We must talk it over. Meanwhile, 
 I think that you and Beatrice are most docile 
 young people. She declares herself a reflection 
 of the Mother, and you seem to reflect Carter 
 Wilton." 
 
 " I wish I could reflect Carter, for even that 
 would be a great light." 
 
 " Why did he not come out into the world, 
 then ? why did he not head a crusade ? " 
 
 "A crusade takes a strong heart," John an 
 swered, " and I think Carter's heart was broken." 
 Then he rose to follow Beatrice and Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster. 
 
 Later, Mrs. Van Kuyster and Claude were in 
 the study together ; Mrs. Van Kuyster looking 
 over bills, and Claude smoking. 
 
 " I hope you are not going to have tailor-made 
 clothes for Beatrice," he said unexpectedly. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked at him a moment, 
 then returned to the bill she was studying.
 
 JOHN PAGET. 93 
 
 " She is too picturesque for rectangular 
 clothes," he added. 
 
 " On the contrary, absolute plainness and 
 simplicity will greatly enhance her beauty. A 
 beautiful woman can dare any style of dress 
 if she cling to two things trimness and fresh 
 ness ; and a plain woman can always be chic. 
 Who ever remembers that Marjorie Van Kuyster 
 is not pretty." 
 
 Claude clapped his hands softly. " Positively 
 you wax epigrammatic," he said ; " but Beatrice 
 has a style of her own." 
 
 " And will always have. Besides, Beatrice is a 
 schoolgirl, and for one year will be in mourning." 
 
 " The devil ! " and Claude walked to the fire. 
 "The folly of it, putting that child in black: 
 sacrificing her beauty and my pleasure to a vile 
 old custom that must have been invented by 
 idiots it's scandalous ! " 
 
 " My dear Claude, you are foolish. The only 
 question to be asked is, ' Ought one to grieve ? ' if 
 the answer be yes, then one must show some 
 semblance of grief. It is the proper thing, and 
 heretofore I have looked on you as the Apostle 
 of Propriety." 
 
 A change came over Claude's face as he lis 
 tened, and when Mrs. Van Kuyster ceased, he 
 was looking at her as one who was realizing her 
 for the first time. 
 
 " And one thing I must beg of you," she went 
 on more coldly, if that were possible ; " it is that
 
 94 JOHN FACET. 
 
 you will not disturb the child's religious faith. 
 Women ought to be religious." 
 
 Claude took a turn up and down the room, 
 then, throwing his cigar into the fire, faced Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster. " I am going to astonish you," he 
 said. " I announce to you as guardian, that I am 
 going to marry Beatrice." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked at him a moment. 
 " Love at first sight," she said ; " you who laugh 
 at love ? " 
 
 " Call it what you please, but you cannot 
 object. From a worldly standpoint you can ask 
 nothing better for the girl. It is quite out of 
 line with all my plans of life, still I am going to 
 do it." 
 
 "And John?" 
 
 " All I ask is a fair field." 
 
 "Will you tell him?" 
 
 " No. I tell you because the girl was left to 
 you. If, as you seem to say, John loves her, he 
 will realize my attitude before many days." 
 
 " Do you not agree that he loves her ? " 
 
 " If he does, the girl does not know it, and has 
 only awe for him. But you are free to do as you 
 please in the matter. I know I will win her." 
 Then Claude left the room, and Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster sat looking into the fire. 
 
 Carter Wilton's daughter to be Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster J
 
 VI. 
 
 " For some ships safe in port, indeed, 
 
 Rot and rust, 
 
 Run to dust, 
 
 All through worms i' the wood which crept, 
 Gnawed our hearts out while we slept ; 
 
 That is worse." 
 
 FTOW do you do?" and dropping the portiere, 
 1 1 a woman entered who would impress the 
 most casual observer as being perfectly finished. 
 Nobody who knew Marjorie Van Kuyster could 
 ever think of her as having a button off her glove 
 or shoe, or her bonnet-strings awry, or with an 
 umbrella that was not the perfection of smoothly 
 rolled slimness. 
 
 "Don't let me disturb you" holding out her 
 hand to John, who had risen. "You are Mr. 
 Paget"; then, touching Claude on the shoulder, 
 she went round to Mrs. Van Kuyster. " I thought 
 I would step in, cousin, and see your condition." 
 
 "Thank you, Marjorie," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 answered, while a place was arranged for Miss 
 Van Kuyster; "and this is my cousin, Beatrice 
 Wilton ; I am her guardian, you know." 
 
 " Yes, Claude told me. You find New York 
 dreadfully cold, do not you?" to Beatrice. 
 
 "Yes; I think my frocks are too thin." 
 
 95
 
 $6 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 "How nice of you," Marjorie answered, "to 
 blame your gowns and not the climate ! " Then 
 to Claude : " How are you after your Washington 
 outing?" 
 
 " I had a frightfully stupid time. But then 
 you know, Marjie, that only one place in America 
 is thoroughly civilized, and that is New York." 
 
 " I don't know it at all. I adore both Wash 
 ington and Philadelphia." 
 
 "And I am devoted to Boston," said Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster. 
 
 "After a life spent in training you two," 
 Claude said, " is this my reward to have you 
 adoring such provincialisms and crudities as 
 those names suggest ? " 
 
 "Washington is so spontaneous and unique," 
 Marjorie said, "and Philadelphia is so conserva 
 tive and self-contained, and altogether so different 
 from any other place in the world." 
 
 " Thank God for that ! " Claude answered fer 
 vently. " I suppose the mater will repeat all 
 that and tack it on to Boston, and Jack can say 
 it of any wilderness or prairie in the far South. 
 I think I must begin to train Beatrice; I am sure 
 she will make me a better return." 
 
 " I will like any place that is not cold," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Then you are safe against any of these places. 
 As for Washington," Claude went on, " I always 
 think of it as a great menagerie where every idea 
 of the ' Eternal Fitness ' is shocked. I suppose
 
 JOHN PA GET. 97 
 
 that is what Marjie means by spontaneous.' 
 Fancy Buckingham Palace or Marlborough House 
 with towels hanging out of the windows ! " 
 
 " The simplicity of a great Republic," John 
 said. "Given the window and the sun, and what 
 more fit than that a towel should be hung there ? " 
 
 " Exactly," Claude answered, " and the Royal 
 family wash in the shrubberies." 
 
 "Eminently practical," John returned. 
 
 " And supremely simple," Marjorie added, " and 
 quite the correct thing in this country, where all 
 are free and equal, where any Bridget or Sukey 
 can say to a member of the elect ' Four Hundred,' 
 'Are you the woman who want a lady to cook 
 for you?' We shall have to do our own laundry 
 work presently, and you may be sure, Claude, 
 that I shall hang my things out of the front 
 window, as that is the sunny side of the house." 
 
 " If there had been an English general with 
 any sense on this side the water," Claude went 
 on, "the miserable little sixpenny Revolution 
 would have been ended in a jiffy, and we should 
 have been under a respectable government still. 
 As it is, we have demoralized the world, and all 
 that I see ahead of humanity is abject slavery." 
 
 "You are talking nonsense," Marjorie said. 
 "This is the freest country in the world." 
 
 " On the ground that there is no freedom save 
 in obedience," John said, " Claude is right." 
 
 " That is not my ground exactly," Claude 
 answered ; " but all know that there is no such
 
 98 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 slavery as mob rule. In a country where caste 
 is recognized, so many laws are not necessary, 
 for each man knows his place, and the friction is 
 immensely reduced." 
 
 " But there are blacker slums," Marjorie sug 
 gested. 
 
 " America can show slums with any country," 
 Claude answered. " And think of the freedom 
 where there are States in which a gentleman 
 cannot have a glass of wine on his table, and 
 of other sections where a man may have twenty 
 wives, and more, if he likes ; where Marjorie can 
 have me arrested for managing my horse, and I 
 can have her remonstrated with for wearing bird- 
 wings in her hat. We are so free that training 
 has become obsolete, and everything, living and 
 dead, has to be protected by a thousand laws." 
 
 " This excited tone, Claude, almost proves 
 your theory of the lack of training," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster said ; " I have not seen you so animated 
 in years." 
 
 Claude laughed. " You are quite right, and 
 there are very few things in life worth an extra 
 beat of the pulse." 
 
 " There are things that I would die for," John 
 answered. " I am interested in this talk, even. 
 I think you have touched on the poisoning evil 
 of these days the lack of training. All are 
 allowed to develop ; hence, principle is almost 
 unknown, and law has to come to the rescue. 
 And this age seems to be extremely sensitive,
 
 JOHN PA GET. 99 
 
 and a maudlin sentimentality is going far to 
 pauperize about half the nation. ' If a man do 
 not work, neither shall he eat.' I believe in 
 hanging for murder; the penitentiary for all 
 kinds of stealing ; ducking and flogging for 
 drunkenness ; stocks for scolds, and whipping for 
 children. I go so far," he went on, looking at 
 Marjorie with a smile, " as to shake hands with 
 the old la\v that still obtains in South Carolina, 
 which forbids divorce, but permits a man to whip 
 his wife, provided the stick be no bigger than his 
 thumb." 
 
 " You are a barbarian," Marjorie said, "and I 
 thought from the cut of your coat that you were 
 a benevolent clergyman who would want us to 
 give all our goods to feed the poor." 
 
 "Need clergymen be sentimental?" John 
 asked. " Will you not allow us to be men with 
 common sense? " 
 
 " With pleasure ; but the type is new to me, 
 that is all." 
 
 " Maybe your search has not been very ex 
 tended." 
 
 " Perhaps I have not put the same zeal into it 
 that I would put into the search for a good dress 
 maker," she answered, laughing, " but I have 
 known a good many clergymen. The religion of 
 to-day seems to me to be degenerating into a 
 sort of kindergarten arrangement, with athletic 
 attachments to the churches. It is not good. 
 When you have to pamper and pay people to
 
 100 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 come to church, the system must be very rotten. 
 I think the old times, when people were burned 
 because they went to church, were much more 
 wholesome. At least it was genuine." 
 
 " Immensely so to the victim." Claude said. 
 "Suppose it had been you?" 
 
 " Never, my dear Claude ! I am one of Mr. 
 Paget's unprincipled Americans threaten me 
 with an attack of neuralgia, and I would give up 
 anything. The ' correct thing,' ' The fashion,' 
 ' expediency ' these are my principles, and I 
 flourish." 
 
 " I have seen you torture yourself for the ' cor 
 rect thing,' " said Mrs. Van Kuyster. 
 
 " Of course, but it pays ; and when it ceases to 
 pay, I let it alone. For instance, I am tired of 
 dancing, so am ceasing to exert myself for dan 
 cing acquaintances; meanwhile, I cultivate the 
 dinner and lunch people. I used to be a Sun 
 day-school teacher, it looked well in a young girl; 
 in an old maid that sort of thing looks lonely, 
 and I have stopped it." 
 
 " Do you call yourself an old maid, my dear ? " 
 Claude asked. 
 
 " If I did not, other people would, and I worry 
 some of them by taking their stings out." 
 
 "Why not spoil their fun by marrying?" 
 
 "You always say such nice things, Claude," 
 looking at him with a twinkle in her eyes. " Of 
 course because I do not want to. All the same, 
 I am going to write a love story in which the
 
 JOHN PA GET. 10 1 
 
 woman, in a moment of temporary insanity, casts 
 away the love of her life ! The rest of the book 
 will be a harrowing picture of her regrets. And, 
 Claude- 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Many men will embalm that book, each think- 
 ing himself the hero. I will immediately loom 
 into ' a masked life' a ' mysterious wreck.' 
 All this from the men ; do you see how I revenge 
 myself on the women?" 
 
 "What an awful fraud you are," Claude said, 
 while the company laughed. 
 
 " But successful ; what deadlier blow could I 
 deal a woman who after a long chase has bagged 
 her game, than to have this game look senti 
 mentally at zpass^ old maid?" 
 
 " A truly fiendish revenge." 
 
 "But why so down on your own sex?" 
 asked John. 
 
 " Woman is woman's natural prey," Marjorie 
 answered, and, as they left the lunch table, she 
 put her hand through Mrs. Van Kuyster's arm 
 and led her to the study. 
 
 "Your girl is beautiful," she said, "and Mr. 
 Paget most effective." 
 
 "Yes; only I think John is handsome." 
 
 " He is, but the strength struck me first. His 
 eyes are fine ; so grave, don't you know, yet not 
 solemn." 
 
 " They are like his father's," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 went on, " my brother, who brought me up."
 
 102 JOHN FACET. 
 
 "And you left him for Cousin Jacob?" and 
 Marjorie looked at the elder woman with a 
 gleam of amusement in her eyes. 
 
 "Yes. But what about the sewing woman?" 
 
 " She will come in the morning, and you may 
 leave everything to her." 
 
 " Thank you, that is just what I want. The 
 child's clothes are not nice enough even to go to 
 the tailor in, so something must be done first at 
 home." 
 
 " Exactly ; but I am in love with the child, 
 and so are your young men. I have never seen 
 Claude as animated as he was to-day, but he was 
 never so much interested as to overlook her 
 slightest want ; and she so exquisitely uncon 
 scious." 
 
 " It promises to be interesting," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster answered. 
 
 Marjorie looked at her keenly. " So ? " she 
 said, and rose. " You may look for me often ; 
 your household is pleasant." 
 
 " Always glad to see you. We are in half- 
 mourning, you know ? " 
 
 " Yes, Claude explained. He was upset he 
 did not know what to expect." 
 
 "Claude is immensely selfish," Mrs. Van Kuy 
 ster answered, "and I do not think that he will 
 ever realize it, for he has money enough to gratify 
 every whim." 
 
 " Let us hope he will desire something that 
 money cannot buy : there are such things."
 
 JOHN FACET. 103 
 
 " I know : I have always had money, and never 
 had anything I really wanted. Food and rai 
 ment of course, and loads of other non-essen 
 tials ; but the real wants are things that no 
 wealth can compass." 
 
 Miss Van Kuyster looked thoughtful. " That 
 has always puzzled me," she said. " If you had 
 married for money but you did not." 
 
 " No, I did not" opening the study door for 
 her guest. 
 
 " And you had position, and beauty, and 
 youth," Marjorie went on cautiously. " What did 
 you lack ? " 
 
 " Sense," the elder woman answered with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Good-by," Marjorie said. 
 
 "Good-by," and with the lightest of cheek 
 touches and a little sound of the lips made in the 
 air, they parted. 
 
 "What has happened?" Marjorie wondered 
 as she drove away. " I have never dared men 
 tion her miserable life to her until to-day. I 
 have always likened her to a fire in an ice box. 
 Something has frozen the fire. And will she lift 
 no guiding hand to that play beginning in her 
 house will she watch it as a play?"
 
 VII. 
 
 " Alas, poor soul possest ! 
 Yet would to-day when courtesy grows chill 
 And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest, 
 Some fire of thine might burn within us still ! 
 Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest, 
 And charge in earnest were it but a mill ! " 
 
 V\ TILL you walk down to the club, Jack ? " 
 VV They were standing near the fire in the 
 drawing room, the only other occupant of which 
 was Beatrice. 
 
 " Yes, I should like to," John answered ; " I will 
 get my gloves." 
 
 "And what are you thinking of?" Claude 
 asked, approaching the silent girl, who looked 
 very doleful. 
 
 " Home and the roses," and the eyes she lifted 
 were suspiciously dewy. " Then all are so clever, 
 and talk so fast, that I do not understand the 
 half that is said ; of course I am stupid, too." 
 
 " Poor little co'usin," and Claude lifted her face 
 still higher by putting his finger under her chin. 
 " We did chatter like magpies, and with about as 
 much point. I will tell it all to you some day. 
 As to home and roses " taking her two hands 
 and putting them together in his "you must not 
 cry about them, you break me all up."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 105 
 
 Beatrice shook her head hopelessly. 
 
 " Crying will spoil your eyes. If you will be 
 very good, I will give you all the roses you want. 
 I will bring you some to-day. Better still ; there 
 is a conservatory to this house, which the mater 
 shut up for some inscrutable reason. It shall be 
 done over for you." 
 
 " You are very good to me ; but it will be so 
 much trouble." 
 
 " A pleasure. There comes Jack, and I must 
 go : watch for me and the roses. If no one has 
 given you any orders, I tell you to go to sleep," 
 and nodding, he was gone. 
 
 "Shall I put your name up at the club?" 
 Claude asked as they^ walked briskly down the 
 street. 
 
 " I scarcely think it worth while, thank you ; 
 I will have no time. Besides, I do not know that 
 it would be wholesome for the club to have a 
 slummer, or the slummer to have a club." 
 
 " Oh, the clergy patronize the clubs, I assure 
 you," Claude answered, " and find them very 
 respectable, not to say fascinating." 
 
 " Doubtless, but where do they find the time?" 
 
 " They are systematic and have all sorts of 
 machinery ; assistants, and superintendents, and 
 readers, and brigades of women in various ca 
 pacities. I have studied the church question," 
 he added ; " I wanted to find out where the weak 
 ness lay I was curious." 
 
 "And where is the weakness?"
 
 106 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " In humanity, I think." 
 
 " Whose humanity clergy or laity ? " 
 
 "Both. The laity are so human that they do 
 not enjoy being bored to death, so they put their 
 hands into their pockets and make religion as 
 inviting as money can, with handsome churches 
 and beautiful music, and, if possible, an eloquent 
 man, who is also a gentleman. For he must be a 
 person whom they can ask to dinner." 
 
 " If that is all," John asked, " why do you have 
 any religion ? " 
 
 "Well," Claude answered, as if thinking, "it 
 does seem a little pointless, but it is the custom, 
 and violent revolutions are troublesome. I do 
 not remember any that have been great comforts 
 or successes." 
 
 "That depends on the point of view. But 
 to return ; how does the clergyman's humanity 
 come in ?" 
 
 "Why, he likes it and wants to keep his com 
 fortable position. To do this he must keep his 
 church full of paying people, for even in the free 
 system the expenses must be paid. To accom 
 plish this he must keep his mind and body in 
 good order to preach the eloquent sermons, and 
 must have time to keep up with the world and 
 its fads. So he organizes a system of assistants, 
 and readers, and superintendents, and women." 
 
 John struck his stick sharply on the pavement. 
 
 "Why, my dear fellow," Claude went on, 
 " there is as much competition among the
 
 JOHN FACET. 107 
 
 churches as among the shops. They rush after 
 customers in the same manner, and they look 
 the other way when a brother clergyman has to 
 advise his people to sell the church and move 
 farther up town in order to pay expenses. So you 
 see all this organization is necessary ; they are 
 in a sense ' drummers ' for the different parishes." 
 
 Again John struck his stick on the pavement. 
 " If they would only realize," he said sharply, 
 " that one man who killed himself with over 
 work would be worth a hundred well organized 
 parishes." 
 
 " Rather heroic treatment, especially for the 
 dead clergyman, and I am not sure that it would 
 do any good. The world is grown cheerfully 
 cold, and practical, and critical. Civilized, in 
 short, and enthusiasm and heroics are not good 
 form." 
 
 " It is not heroics I mean," John answered. 
 "An earnestness that means death, and an en 
 thusiasm that means crucifixion, would be bound 
 to have an effect. A man who would give his 
 life not sell a portion of it for so many dollars 
 and cents, but give his very life for the love of 
 the Christ, could make this city, you think so cool 
 and critical, burn with a fire of enthusiasm. 
 Work day and night, if need be, anywhere that 
 work is to be done, and when the time came to 
 preach the soul would speak ; and always soul 
 answers to soul," and the eyes that looked into 
 Claude's were burning.
 
 108 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 . Claude looked away. "And kill himself in a 
 year," he said. " I had a friend, we were class 
 mates ; he went in for that sort of thing. He 
 broke down in six months." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " He lives in Europe now for his health." 
 
 " He should have died between the plow- 
 handles! So many look on themselves as being 
 necessary, that they think they must take care of 
 themselves. If they have any faith at all, they 
 ought to believe that the Almighty will take care 
 of his own tools. It reminds me of the old 
 woman who said when her horse ran away ' I 
 trusted in Providence till the breechin' broke, 
 then I jumped out.' ' 
 
 Claude laughed. " And you intend to kill 
 yourself ? " he asked. 
 
 " God helping me, I will die in harness. But 
 do not think" turning quickly to face his brother 
 " do not think for a moment that I hold my 
 self worthy to do it. I would not have you 
 dream such a thing ! My life has been absolutely 
 misspent ; evil in every direction. There is no 
 sin, save perhaps lying and stealing, which a 
 gentleman cannot do, you know, that I have not 
 committed. Murder; aye and worse," lowering 
 his voice. " I did my best to commit murder, 
 but a woman made them throw me down and tie 
 me. I take no credit that my hands are not 
 bloodstained, for I did my best. You see," look 
 ing into Claude's face wistfully, " I grew up on
 
 JOffiV PA GET. 109 
 
 the border. I was poor, and at certain seasons I 
 could make a good deal of money by going on 
 cattle drives as a cowboy they were a hard lot. 
 Between the seasons I studied, and at the last 
 Carter's life overcame me." 
 
 " My dear fellow," and Claude's voice had lost 
 its slight drawl, " I understand perfectly, and I 
 like you infinitely better. I systematically avoid 
 young clergymen ; they are well clammy ; and 
 I beg your pardon, but I had a dread of you. 
 Now " 
 
 " Now that you find me to have been a licen 
 tious, blasphemous ruffian," John struck in, "you 
 have more faith in me. It is always so, but 
 why ? " 
 
 " Because a man is a man, and a woman is a 
 woman, and a tough is a tough, and you can 
 classify them, but I'll be hanged if you can classify 
 a clergyman I mean the usual run of them. 
 For the different parties seem to mean different 
 things, and few of them seem to mean I scarcely 
 know what to call it." 
 
 "A consecrated life," John suggested. 
 
 " Exactly. Some make it ridiculous by looking 
 as much like early Christian art as possible ; but 
 they are more logical than the other party who 
 try to secularize themselves. Men of the world 
 don't respect that sort of thing, far from it ; but 
 we do ask that whatever a man is, or thinks him 
 self, let him be that thing really. I would like 
 much better a bigot who tried to burn me for
 
 HO JOHN FACET. 
 
 my unbelief, than these men who offer a com 
 promise on every point. Your man who would 
 kill himself all the week in the slums, and poke 
 hell-fire at us on Sunday, would have some grit 
 at least." 
 
 " And yet you say that such a man would do 
 no good." 
 
 " Maybe not, but at least we would know 
 what he would be at. We could classify him ; 
 a great thing in a scientific age. Further, we 
 could believe that he believed what he preached. 
 Bad as we are, we outside heathen have an ideal 
 of priests, filled with divine joys and visions 
 living far above this world, save as they come 
 down to minister to sorrow and pity sin. Think 
 of an early Christian martyr playing billiards in 
 a cutaway coat, or smoking in a club. They 
 smoked, but differently. You .cannot better a 
 thief by helping him to steal, nor elevate a beg 
 gar by sleeping with him in the gutter. If the 
 Church is anything, then these men are priests; 
 and if priests they ought to be ' set apart.' They 
 had better rise so high as to be out of sight than 
 descend to our level. Take this from a man of 
 the world, and I don't think that I am much off 
 the average. You are the first clergyman to 
 whom I have ever spoken my mind." 
 
 " Thank you," John answered. " I will re 
 member. Now I must get the other side of the 
 picture. There is another side, of course." 
 
 A few men were standing about in the club,
 
 JOHN FACET. Ill 
 
 to one or two of whom Claude introduced his 
 brother, then watched a little anxiously to see 
 how he would demean himself in this new sphere ; 
 for a fashionable club must be a new sphere to 
 John. In ten minutes Claude said to himself, 
 " He is clubable," and felt his spirits rise. A 
 man was talking now whom Claude had never 
 heard talk before. From weather to climate, to 
 health, to heredity they had gone, and in an 
 aside a listener said to Claude : "It's a beastly 
 shame your brother goes into the Church, he is 
 far too clever." 
 
 Claude laughed. " Don't you think the Church 
 needs clever men ? " 
 
 " Awfully ; but they can't get 'em. A clever 
 man can't believe all that stuff, don't you know." 
 
 " My brother believes it to the extent of fagot 
 and stake." 
 
 " Gad ! " his friend said lightly. " But listen, 
 he's preaching now, and of all men, to Tilly." 
 
 Claude pulled his mustache with some specu 
 lation in his eyes, and a slight line gathering 
 between his brows. 
 
 " It is a terrific thing to realize," John was 
 saying; "it is hopeless, immutable. 'The sins 
 shall be visited on the children unto the third 
 and fourth generation.' You commit the sin, and 
 your children pay the penalty ; it is in their blood 
 and character. It is a frightful thought, but we 
 cannot sin to ourselves alone, or bear all our own 
 punishment."
 
 H2 JOHN FACET. 
 
 Claude took out his watch. " If we are to go 
 to the tailor's, Jack," he said in the pause that 
 followed John's words, " we have just time to 
 make it in." 
 
 " Thanks, I do want to go," and they went 
 away to the fashionable place where Claude's 
 perfect garments were made. 
 
 " Remember," Claude said as they entered, 
 "the mater has given you unlimited credit here, 
 and this fellow can furnish you entirely." 
 
 "But I do not like this," John said, coloring 
 slightly, " I am able 
 
 " Doubtless," Claude interrupted, " but you are 
 the mater's heir. I tell you this to set your mind 
 at rest. You are the last Paget, and she has 
 bought the old place for you, and all the old silver, 
 and everything that she could lay her hands on 
 that ever was a Paget's. For me I am bound to 
 perpetuate the name of Van Kuyster ; but if I 
 know anything, one of my sons shall take my 
 father's name." 
 
 Having handed John over to the shop-people, 
 Claude turned again toward the door, promising 
 to be back very soon, realizing at the same mo 
 ment how astonishingly eager he was to reach 
 the florist's. Beatrice had bewitched him. 
 
 He got exquisite roses, and, late as it was, he 
 gave orders that the florist should send his people 
 at once to look into the condition of the con 
 servatory, and to put the flowers in before lunch 
 the next day. Then he returned to the tialor's.
 
 JOHN PA GET. H3 
 
 He was immensely amused at himself. His 
 ideal civilized man must be absolutely calm and 
 rational ; impulses, and emotions, and eccentrici 
 ties were bad form. Matrimony and love, as 
 usually practiced, were vulgar. A civilized mar- 
 riage must be nothing more than an alliance 
 made with calm, critical discretion, based on re 
 spect, equality, and forbearance. And behold ! 
 A simple child had thrown him completely off 
 his balance. For nearly twenty-four hours he 
 had been acting solely and entirely from impulse, 
 and was discovering the most vivid emotions in 
 every direction. It was his Southern blood that 
 was to blame ; it could be nothing else. It was 
 little short of absurd that after years of care 
 ful training of himself, after years of preaching 
 to Mrs. Van Kuyster on the total depravity of 
 impulse and emotion, he should come to this. 
 To fall so low that his disciple laughed at him as 
 she had done the evening before. 
 
 " And to-morrow," John finished, as the cab 
 stopped, " I must see Dr. Ratcliffe, and arrange 
 for work." Claude wondered if he had been talk 
 ing slums all the way home. "Yes," he an 
 swered, " we can go before lunch," and looking up, 
 as he turned from paying the cab, he caught the 
 outline of a girlish figure behind the lace of the 
 drawing room window. It would be wise to get 
 John settled to something. 
 
 "A man has been here to look at the conserv 
 atory," Mrs. Van Kuyster said to Claude, when
 
 U4 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 as usual they were having their last words by the 
 study fire. " You sent him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I want it rearranged for Beatrice. You 
 have no objection ? " 
 
 " None," with a smile that Claude did not 
 think pleasant. " And you have not changed 
 your mind since last night ? " 
 
 " Am I so changeable ? " 
 
 " Yes, or rather, you are contrary. You would 
 go through fire and water for anything, if fire 
 and water opposed you ; but the thing once yours 
 you begin to pick flaws in it. Beatrice has cap 
 tured your fancy, and in John you see a rival. 
 Let John leave the field, and Beatrice tumble 
 into your arms, and " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I should be sorry for Beatrice." 
 
 Claude laughed. "You are a clever woman," 
 he said. " Why have you not done more in this 
 world ? " 
 
 " Environment." 
 
 " You chose your environment ? " 
 
 " Yes, and you will choose yours. I envy those 
 people who have been strong enough to let duty 
 and not desire make their place in life for them. 
 In the end they are better off. For you," tap 
 ping on the table with her pen-handle, " you 
 seem to have no duty to direct you, unless you 
 make this girl love you. I have always thought 
 it fortunate that you had trained yourself into a 
 perfectly practical view of life ; not a high view,
 
 JOHN FACET. 115 
 
 but a safe one. Now, you are making a danger 
 ous experiment." 
 
 " And yet you permit it." 
 
 " Permit it ! opposition would determine you 
 as nothing else could. And ^Beatrice will also 
 want to break her heart her own way ; nothing 
 else ever satisfies humanity." 
 
 " And after the break ? " 
 
 "Some have the sense to gather up the frag 
 ments and make a compromise. Some spend the 
 rest of their little span in breaking each fragment 
 separately. Some go to the bad." 
 
 "And Beatrice?" 
 
 " Will grind each fragment to powder, to the 
 refrain, ' dust and ashes all that is.' Her con 
 ventual training will come in, you see, with pen 
 ance and the rest as wheelhorses." 
 
 " You take a cheerful view of things." 
 
 " The truth is seldom cheerful. But remem 
 ber, if you win Beatrice you must stand to it; 
 and as I have no doubt of your success, I will lay 
 before you my plans for her." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 " I have to-day engaged teachers for her in 
 French, German, music, and dancing all women." 
 
 " Most wise." 
 
 " Of course. I could not spend my life keeping 
 guard over masters. She will exercise at the 
 riding club two afternoons in the week. Her 
 house dresses for the present will be white ; her 
 street dresses, black. We will let her be seen a
 
 Il6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 little in Newport this summer ; next winter she 
 will come out. Finally, I have engaged an 
 elderly woman as attendant." 
 
 " Admirable ! And John ? " 
 
 " Mr. Houston comes to-morrow to turn over 
 to him The Oaks, and all the income that has 
 accrued ; when I die, I will leave him all that I 
 can. For the rest, he has withdrawn all influence 
 from Beatrice, apparently all interest. I do not 
 understand him." 
 
 "I believe I do, and, accepting your parable, I 
 think that he is now busy smashing all the frag 
 ments of a rather wild life, which he seems to feel 
 called upon to repent. Why, God only knows; 
 and is going to show his repentance by killing 
 himself in the slums. If he loves Beatrice, I do 
 not see how he intends working her into his plans 
 unless they both join the Salvation Army."
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Whose sad face on the cross sees only this 
 After the passion of a thousand years." 
 
 'TT is inhumanly early, Jack," Claude said, rising 
 1 reluctantly from a deep chair in front of the 
 study fire, "but as it is a clergyman it does not 
 matter. Let us go and see the Reverend 
 Ratcliffe." 
 
 " People used to come and see Carter from 
 dawn until midnight," John said. " I suppose 
 they all thought 'it does not matter with a cler 
 gyman.' ' 
 
 " Quite so. One does not like to be formal 
 with one's spiritual adviser. Suppose I should 
 have a moral chill ; must I wait until after lunch 
 to have my morals doctored ? " 
 
 It was the morning after the visit to the club, 
 and Claude was carrying out his plan of putting 
 John to work as soon as possible. John had had 
 a long start of him in the affair of Beatrice, and 
 though he did not seem eager in the pursuit, 
 Claude knew that nothing made one so eager as 
 to see another pursuing. 
 
 " You won't want the coup before lunch, 
 mother ? " Claude asked, as he rang the bell. 
 
 " No, nor after lunch. Marjorie is to be here
 
 Il8 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 to see me through some interviews. A sewing 
 woman this morning; after lunch, Beatrice's 
 teachers." 
 
 " What a day for you," Claude said, smiling 
 down on the girl who sat near the fire. " Think 
 of being pinned and basted all morning as I have 
 seen the mater done, when as a small boy I used 
 to go with her to her dressmaker. To go about 
 with the mater was a liberal education. I learned 
 my first installment of French oaths from that 
 dressmaker." 
 
 " She was dreadful," Mrs. Van Kuyster ad 
 mitted, " but she fitted one marvelously." 
 
 " I never saw her do anything but swear at the 
 pale, nervous woman who did the work. I hope 
 that woman is dead, she looked so tired." 
 
 " Madame died of absinthe ; but in Beatrice's 
 case Marjorie will direct." 
 
 "And if she swears, Beatrice," Claude said, 
 "you must be sure to tell me. But, mother," he 
 went on, "/ want Beatrice after lunch. When 
 will those teaching creatures come?" 
 
 " At half past three. By the way, have you a 
 voice, Beatrice? " 
 
 Beatrice looked at. John. 
 
 " She used to sing to the guitar," John 
 answered. 
 
 "By Jove! what a find." And Claude sat 
 down close to Beatrice. " Did you bring your 
 guitar?" 
 
 " No."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 119 
 
 " You shall have one by noon ; then we will 
 heat the conservatory to a torrid degree, and 
 play that we are your Spanish ancestors 
 singing down in the tropics. How distinctly 
 precious ! " 
 
 Beatrice looked at him curiously. " You are 
 like a child," she said, "always wanting to play 
 at something." 
 
 " Of course ; if we do not play, we might be 
 inveigled into work. I live in terror of Jack 
 dragging me down to the slums. Fancy my 
 going among those brutes. I have a theory, you 
 know, that by the process of the survival of the 
 fittest, all mortals with souls have risen and are 
 clean ; and all without souls have sunk and are 
 unclean ; and that is the reason why nothing can 
 be done in the slums ; they have no souls are 
 beasts. They ought to be put out on the plains 
 in droves, and 'rounded up' every night by cow 
 boys clerical if you like and put in stalls." 
 
 " There is too much truth in that nonsense for 
 it to be funny," John said slowly. 
 
 " It is all truth. I think there is just as much 
 sense in going out and living with a herd of cat 
 tle, as in going down into the slums ; or in work 
 ing on any low caste people." 
 
 "And yet, if it be true that suffering and pain 
 live, and that pleasure vanishes," John said, "the 
 lives of those 'brutes 'are more immortal than 
 yours. The teaching is that it is the experience 
 gathered from the suffering of a generation that
 
 120 JOHN FACET. 
 
 is handed on, and not the pleasures. That 
 Father Damien's sufferings, for instance, will live 
 and help people for generations ; but the balls of 
 that year, the pleasures, the heaped up refine 
 ment of enjoyment where are they ? " 
 
 Claude shook his head. "Where is the flame 
 of last night's lamp?" he said. " I do not know ; 
 but I would rather be the flame that vanishes, 
 than the wick that suffers and lasts. I would 
 rather have balls than leprosy, and Spanish songs 
 than slums." 
 
 Then they went out, and Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 and Beatrice went upstairs. 
 
 The rector of Mrs. Van Kuyster's place of 
 worship lived in a handsome house on a fashion 
 able street, and, admittance being gained, the 
 interior was found to be handsome also. Dr. 
 Ratcliffe had a guest in the front parlor, so the 
 gentlemen were shown into the second parlor, 
 which was dark save for the gaslight, which per 
 mitted chairs to be found without danger. 
 
 " Our senior warden owned this house," Claude 
 said, when the maid had disappeared with the 
 cards, " and when the church was moved up here, 
 he sold it for a rectory. The improvements of 
 his own house, which is next, shut up these two 
 windows " pointing to two heavily curtained 
 windows " but as the price was tremendously 
 lowered, nothing was said." 
 
 " ' As it is a clergyman, it does not matter, ' 1 
 John quoted.
 
 JOHN PAGET. 121 
 
 Claude laughed. " Very true," he said ; " still, 
 he is free to resign." 
 
 " If there is so much competition among the 
 churches," John answered, " situations must be 
 hard to get." 
 
 " ' Situations ' is good," Claude said, " and they 
 are very hard to get until you have made a repu 
 tation. Ratcliffe is holding on to his tooth and 
 nail, for some of the richest men in the congrega 
 tion are tired of him, and he knows it." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " John said slowly, "how much 
 better to have a place that no one covets, and do 
 a work that only God pays for." 
 
 Claude looked at his brother curiously, then 
 down on the floor. " I hear the parson," he 
 said. 
 
 " Here is five dollars," came to them in a rather 
 metallic voice, "and really I can do no more for 
 you until next month, for there are many de 
 mands on the communion alms. And the books 
 I bought of you for the reading room are not 
 worth having." 
 
 " But, sir," a low voice pleaded, " I can only 
 sell what I can get to sell." 
 
 " Very true ; but I am responsible for the Guild 
 books." 
 
 " And I am so old," the low voice said again, 
 " and this little will not support life." 
 
 " I am very sorry, but really I have guests 
 waiting. Bridget!" 
 
 There was a sound of shuffling footsteps and a
 
 122 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 walking stick in the hall, a shutting of doors, 
 then the rector entered with Claude's card in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Van Kuyster? " and a glove seemed 
 to have been drawn over the voice " so glad to 
 see you." 
 
 "You are very kind ; this is my brother, Mr. 
 Paget. We seem to have interrupted the visit 
 of a ' dead beat,' " Claude said, when they had 
 been taken into the front parlor and seated. 
 
 " No, only an incapable, the most difficult class 
 to deal with. This man has ' seen better days,' 
 and is quite willing to work, but knows nothing 
 practical. Then he is old, and age is at a dis 
 count, Mr. Van Kuyster." 
 
 " Of course," Claude answered ; " but of course 
 you have plenty of work for a young man. My 
 brother, here, is in orders." 
 
 " Ah ? " looking at John curiously. 
 
 "Yes, and is madly anxious to go a-slumming. 
 My mother desires to turn him over to you. We 
 do not want him killed, however, because he is 
 the only Paget heir." 
 
 Dr. Ratcliffe looked puzzled. "I did not 
 know that you had a brother," he said. 
 
 " Yes, we go so far as to be twins," Claude 
 answered. " I was adopted by my aunt, and took 
 the name of Van Kuyster ; my brother lived with 
 a cousin in the far South, and kept the family 
 name. As I say, he is the last of the Pagets, and 
 must be handled carefully."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 123 
 
 " I would like to say all that a little differently," 
 John said, smiling. " I am very anxious to see 
 the mission work in the slums ; to assist, if 
 possible. I hope you are not overrun with 
 workers ? " 
 
 " No, there is plenty of room in that kind of 
 work but " 
 
 " I will not do for it? " 
 
 "Not at all; I meant to say that I could not 
 assist you in that direction." 
 
 " What parish does the slum work, then ? " 
 
 " Well, each large church has its mission chapel 
 and its guilds. Then there are the City missions 
 that do good work, and a brotherhood that 
 potters about in various directions. But a quan 
 tity is done too much, almost." 
 
 " I have told my brother that it will be a waste 
 of muscle," Claude put in ; " he could do just as 
 much good in a menagerie. But I have an en 
 gagement," he added, while Dr. Ratcliffe looked 
 a little shocked. " I will leave the carriage, Jack ; 
 lunch at one, remember." Then he went his 
 way, and Dr. Ratcliffe looked a little uneasily at 
 the stranger left on his hands. 
 
 "You have just arrived ? " he began. 
 
 " Yes. I want to study in the seminary and 
 do mission work." 
 
 " Of course money is no object with you ?" 
 
 " No," John answered, as if regretting the 
 estate and bank account turned over to him that 
 morning. " No, I am not permitted to deny my-
 
 124 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 self pecuniarily. I see what you think " flashing 
 a quick look on Dr. Ratcliffe, who had sighed : 
 " that I am a young enthusiast. I am not very 
 young, and I do not think my enthusiasm comes 
 from a lack of experience. I was educated by a 
 clergyman. His work was unheard of, but no 
 saint ever lived a grander life. His people, a 
 mixed and shifting population, loved him beyond 
 expression, the worst reprobates honoring good 
 ness for his sake. His life was lonely and, from 
 your standpoint, comfortless, but he was so filled 
 with faith that he seemed not to realize doubts 
 and difficulties. He looked up so steadfastly 
 that he did not see the trial that the next step 
 might hold for him ; he walked as simply as a 
 child walks holding by its father's hand." He 
 stopped abruptly, and the light went out of his 
 eyes. "I beg your pardon," he said ;" when I 
 speak of my cousin I forget myself." 
 
 "You are very pardonable. You describe the 
 ideal Christian life a life that is seldom lived 
 now." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Why, life has grown so complex that sim 
 plicity is not understood, and enthusiasm drives 
 people away. A bishop described one of his 
 clergy to me, very much as you describe your 
 friend, and finished with, ' he is the holiest, the 
 most ideal Christian ; he is, indeed, impossibly 
 good; he belongs to the first century; I had to 
 send him into the rural districts,' You perceive,
 
 JOHN PAGET. 125 
 
 Mr. Paget, that modern life cannot assimilate 
 truth and enthusiasm in its crude form." 
 
 " Then I am sorry for modern life," John an- 
 swered. 
 
 Dr. Ratcliffe smiled. " I will tell you an anec 
 dote of this same man. He was trying to pay 
 off the debt on his church ; one of his most influ 
 ential vestrymen sent him a check for several 
 thousand dollars, saying that it was a tithe from 
 a lucky speculation. He asked this gentleman 
 to tell him about this speculation ; hearing that 
 it was railroad wrecking, he thanked the man 
 and returned the check. He very nearly de 
 stroyed the parish." 
 
 " And the bishop sent that man into the coun 
 try ? " John said, a tone of scorn creeping into 
 his voice. " He had better have resigned his bish 
 opric to him. I would ruin a dozen dioceses to 
 establish a truth like that." 
 
 " Experience teaches the necessity of expedi 
 ency," Dr. Ratcliffe said, smiling. " Must I de 
 cline the offerings of my people because the 
 money was made by gambling on Wall Street ? 
 Almost every fortune in New York has been 
 founded on lucky speculation." 
 
 " A man whose fortune is the result of his 
 father's gambling, is not responsible," John an 
 swered. " But a man red-handed from a theft- 
 sending a check wet, as it were, with the tears of 
 those he has ruined, ought, it seems to me, to be 
 shown his wrong in the clearest way, and to a
 
 126 JOHN FACET. 
 
 man like that, declining his money would be the 
 clearest way." 
 
 " And drive him from the church ?" 
 " The money-changers were driven out of the 
 Temple. I may be mistaken," John went on, 
 " but only yesterday a man of the world said, ' I 
 would like much better a bigot who tried to burn 
 me for my unbelief, than these men who offer a 
 compromise on every point.' The man who de 
 clined the check would have pleased him." 
 
 " In theory, yes, but that simplicity will not 
 work. Of course, I am talking to you now as a 
 clergyman, and one who has evidently heard my 
 order criticised. It is easy to criticise to say, 
 ' if our teachers were better, or the Church more 
 at unity and more consistent, we would believe,' 
 and perhaps, Mr. Paget, these people are not con 
 sciously telling an untruth ; still, what they say 
 is not true. They have no wish to believe, or to 
 lead higher lives. They are corroded through and 
 through with worldliness, vanity, selfishness, and 
 luxuriousness. The supercilious stare that would 
 be accorded the guileless saint, would go far to 
 annihilate him. In a fashionable parish, such as 
 I have, for instance, such a man would be impos 
 sible. Each day has a hundred things to be ad 
 justed wisely, and a man has to meet them 
 come down to them, if you like so that things 
 may be kept in decent order. As parishes go, 
 mine is considerate and kind. They make no dif 
 ficulty about my getting away in summer; the
 
 JOHN FACET. 127 
 
 offertories are good ; they stand well on mis 
 sion lists ; they have guilds and missions, and 
 spend much on the music ; but they require a 
 rigid account to be kept of all this kindness. For 
 in these days we may not ' permit ' our congre 
 gations : we have to ask permission, and have to 
 make everything most attractive in order to per 
 suade them to come to church at all. There 
 must be no draughts; there must be no strangers 
 allowed, except in certain pews ; the decorations 
 must be in the latest style ; the sermon short and 
 quiet ; the service rapid, and the music perfect. 
 Our congregations require all this, else they will 
 not come to church. Then when the time comes 
 that all moves smoothly and there is nothing to 
 find fault with, they begin to realize that it is ar 
 tificial and perfunctory, and turn and rend the 
 church and the clergyman. They want reality, 
 conviction, simplicity, they say. Let me assure 
 you that they do not want anything of the kind ; 
 they are idle and pampered, and will never be 
 satisfied. And not only in New York is this so, 
 but everywhere." 
 
 " In that case I would go my own way," John 
 said, "and disregard their fads musical and 
 other." 
 
 " And be starved out, and your church sold for 
 debt," Dr. Ratcliffe answered. " I often wish," 
 he went on, "that Mr. Gladstone could be the 
 rector of a fashionable American church for a 
 little while ; he would take a different view of
 
 128 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 disestablishment. Over there, if a man is in 
 earnest, he can preach and teach as he thinks 
 right ; here, a man may be desperately earnest, 
 he is ruled by his congregation, and the ' divine 
 call ' amounts to an excuse for Sunday concerts, 
 and a weekly salve for fashionable consciences. 
 The rector must truckle or must go. How to 
 remedy all this is the problem. It is a luxurious 
 age, a doubting age, an age that will have noth 
 ing but sugar-plums and persuasion. Sometimes 
 I look about me, and ask, ' will any faith be 
 found.?' Every other man you meet is at heart 
 an agnostic, and the women are not far behind." 
 " If it is so bad as that," John said, " we had 
 better stop persuading and begin to fight. If 
 truth is with us, we must prevail. Throw over 
 all nonsense, let the churches be sold for debt, 
 and preach on the street corners. If they put us 
 in prisons and lunatic asylums, men have died 
 before this for truth and right ; why should not 
 we ? A luxurious, unbelieving age grant it. 
 But there has never been an age when men were 
 more eager for truth when men were more 
 earnestly pleading for some firm place where 
 they could cling ; never an age when humanity 
 was so eager to help humanity ; never an age 
 when people cried out more for reality ! It seems 
 to me that there neVer has been a grander age 
 in which to make the fight for truth ! Only, the 
 champions must be true must eliminate self, 
 and live the life of the crucified."
 
 JOHN PAGET. 129 
 
 Dr. Ratcliffe looked at his young companion 
 sadly. " You almost make me believe that 
 enthusiasm is better than experience," he said 
 " almost make me believe that youth only can 
 grapple with the problems of this generation. 
 The race is become so swift, the battle so fierce ! 
 When one is weary, one can but lag, and one 
 must temporize with blistered feet and tremulous 
 heart. As a vigorous young soldier, I used to 
 feel the deepest pity for those who lay down on 
 the roadside and let the column move on, and 
 now I begin to look longingly at the roadside." 
 
 " Surely not yet," said John, looking at the 
 hair that was just touched with silver. 
 
 " It is the pace that makes age, more than 
 time," Dr. Ratcliffe answered. " But tired or 
 old, I cannot drop out. There is no life that 
 seems so pitiful as the life of a superannuated 
 clergyman. They are so often dependent on the 
 alms of the Church, and people are so apt to feel 
 that money given in that way is wasted. You 
 will see that all the tendency is to set the young 
 forward in life. It is right ; it is of the first 
 importance ; but as I get tired I begin to think of 
 those who have to drop out. There are alms- 
 houses and homes " He stopped abruptly. 
 
 " I cannot see why I should talk to you in this way, 
 Mr. Paget ; I beg your pardon. But when one 
 has always to keep one's finger on the pulse of 
 one's public, nervousness as to the fluctuations 
 is sure to ensue. People who are stimulated all
 
 130 JOHN FACET. 
 
 the week cannot do without it entirely on Sun- 
 day, and to play the part of stimulant is nothing 
 short of death by slow torture. Meanwhile, Mr. 
 Paget," as John rose, " I hope that your enthu 
 siasm will do good work, only it will be hard to 
 keep." 
 
 Then John went away without having found 
 the hard work about which Claude was anxious.
 
 IX. 
 
 " And some we loved, the loveliest and the best 
 That from his vintage rolling Time has prest, 
 
 Have drunk their cup a round or two before, 
 And one by one crept silently to rest. 
 
 " Ah, make the most of what we yet can spend, 
 Before we too into the dust descend : 
 
 Dust unto dust, and under dust, to lie, 
 Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and Sans End ! " 
 
 D Marjie swear?" Claude asked Beatrice, as 
 they sat down to lunch. 
 
 " If there be a time when swearing is allowable 
 for a woman/' Marjorie said, " it is when she is 
 struggling with a dressmaker." 
 
 " Were you polite and sweet-tempered through 
 it all? " Claude went on. 
 
 " Yes," Beatrice answered ; " but the sewing 
 woman looked astonished at my Convent clothes. 
 Cut and fit are nothing to the Sisters, you 
 see." 
 
 " Fancy being such a saint as not to mind a 
 baggy gown," Marjorie said, laughing. " Were 
 they not a great trial to you the gowns, I 
 mean ?" 
 
 Beatrice shook her head. " I never thought of 
 them. I am afraid I just like to be comfortable."
 
 I3 2 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Very sensible, I am sure," Claude answered. 
 "And women so seldom look comfortable." 
 
 " We are, though," Marjorie asserted ; " and in a 
 week Beatrice will wonder how she endured her 
 Convent clothes." 
 
 " And when are we to judge of the difference 
 between clothes made by saints and clothes made 
 by sinners? " Claude asked. 
 
 " By Sunday," Mrs. Van Kuyster answered. 
 Then turning to John : " How did you get on 
 with Dr. Ratcliffe?" 
 
 " Speaking of saints brought him to her mind, 
 you see," Claude said. " When I left, mother, 
 they were looking at each other like two strange 
 dogs." 
 
 " He was kind and civil, and talked to me 
 quite frankly," John answered. 
 
 Claude laughed. " He had to be frank. Jack 
 walked up to him as a terrier walks up to a rat 
 he means to shake. About this time I remem 
 bered the proverbial horrors of religious wars, 
 and left. Did you find out about the slums? 
 Will he turn you over to the brotherhood that 
 he spoke of so kindly as ' pottering about down 
 there ' ? That was just like old Ratcliffe," Claude 
 went on. " A different church party, hence the 
 amiable detraction. Ratcliffe is finikin." 
 
 " He seemed very much in earnest this morn 
 ing," John said. 
 
 " He could not help it, my dear fellow; when 
 you come at a man with that life-and-death ear-
 
 JOHN PA GET. 133 
 
 nestness of yours, you compel the truth. I have 
 never told the truth so straight along in my life, 
 as I have done since your advent." 
 
 " I have been wondering what was the matter," 
 Marjorie said. " You talk more and better, and 
 your opinions seem to have crystallized with 
 remarkable celerity." 
 
 Claude gave her a quick look of amusement. 
 " Your criticism is quite just," he said. " As soon 
 as I come in contact with truth and strength, my 
 whole nature answers to the call. Meanwhile, I 
 wish we would hasten to finish this abnormally 
 protracted meal. I am in a hurry." 
 
 " Claude ! " and Mrs. Van Kuyster looked at 
 him in astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, mother, I know all that you would say 
 if I had left you any breath. Still, I am in a 
 hurry. I want to take Beatrice home to that 
 delectable little Christi what?" 
 
 " Corpus Christi." 
 
 " An extraordinary name for a heathen village." 
 
 " Oh, no, not heathen ! " 
 
 " Why, it must be, unless you can convert jack 
 daws, water, and roses to Christianity, for I have 
 not heard you mention any other inhabitants." 
 
 " Claude, you are positively silly," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster said, laughing with the rest, " systemat 
 ically silly." 
 
 " Even so," and Claude emptied his wine 
 glass. " Still, the company looks ten per cent, 
 better than when we sat down. The systematic
 
 134 fOHN PA GET. 
 
 idiot has done some good. Have you finished, 
 Marjie ? Your appetite makes me think of an 
 Egyptian locust." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster pushed her chair back. 
 " You are hopeless," she said. 
 
 "Come," and putting Beatrice's hand on his 
 arm, Claude led the way through the study to a 
 door that had hitherto been hidden by a carved 
 screen. This had been removed, and Waters 
 stood waiting. 
 
 " All quite right, Waters ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Come forward, dear friends," Claude went on, 
 " and see the home of the lonely cow-girl who 
 was captured and brought away by cruel friends 
 to a cold and dismal land. Open! " and Waters 
 rolled the doors back. 
 
 "Oh!" Beatrice cried, and held closer to 
 Claude's arm. " All this for me ? " 
 
 "All this!" he repeated, laughing. "I have 
 done nothing but give a few orders. Come." 
 And he led her down among the palms and 
 flowers. 
 
 " It is beautiful," John said to Marjorie. " And 
 how kind Claude is to the child." 
 
 Marjorie looked up at him curiously. " Why 
 are you not kind to the child ? " she asked. 
 
 " Am I not ? " returning her look questioningly. 
 
 They were in the conservatory now, watching 
 Beatrice as she went from flower to flower with 
 Claude.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 135 
 
 *' And you may cut every one every day," he 
 said. " Northern flowers are much superior to 
 Southern flowers; they bloom all over every 
 night." 
 
 " You talk to me as if I were a dreadful goose," 
 Beatrice answered, laughing; "I shall be very 
 careful." 
 
 " No," Claude answered, "you may be anything 
 but full of care. You must behave as if the 
 world were full of flowers put there for you 
 to gather promise me?" taking her hands. 
 "Promise me? " 
 
 " But, Claude 
 
 " ' But me no buts,' even if you are a cowgirl. 
 Promise me." 
 
 "Yes. Oh, there is the guitar!" and drawing 
 away her hands, she went to where a servant 
 stood in the doorway with a case in his hands. 
 
 " Take it and open it for her," Marjorfe said to 
 John, and he obeyed her. 
 
 "O John!" Then, looking up wistfully: "It 
 is such a beauty ; must I take it all, John ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, just as you would from me." And 
 Marjorie thought, "How grand and true his love 
 will be. Claude will make a petted doll of his 
 wife; John will make a living soul of his, and 
 the girl will never realize this, never!" And an 
 unreasonable anger sprang up in her heart against 
 Claude, who was so clever to make and to take 
 opportunities. " A great, true nature like John's 
 was apt to blunder," her thoughts ran on, " and
 
 136 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 could never learn .how to handle these toy 
 weapons that Claude had used year after year 
 on as many flirtations as there were weeks in a 
 season. The weapons were old until they were 
 dingy; why was he burnishing them on this 
 child's heart that still slept? " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster had gone back into the 
 study, and sitting there the tones of the guitar 
 came to her. She turned her face away, for 
 Marjorie stood in the door. The old Spanish 
 Fandango ! It was like a dream the fireflies 
 were tangled in the jessamine vines, and the 
 moonlight flickered up and down the dark 
 avenue. A voice that had been stilled on the 
 battlefield was singing low, and a hand that 
 death had clasped by the blue Southern waters 
 was holding hers. And now these these also, 
 in there among the flowers, would break their 
 hearts their own way. Nothing else would con 
 tent them nothing else ! 
 
 There was a sudden discordant twanging of the 
 strings and a sobbing cry of " Father ! " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster started up ; Marjie still 
 leaned in the doorway ; Claude had caught the 
 falling guitar, and John on the low, cushioned 
 seat had his arm about Beatrice, who was sobbing 
 bitterly. 
 
 " Take me home please take me home ! ' she 
 pleaded, clinging to him and burying her face on 
 his shoulder ; " I want father I want Angela I 
 want my home ! Let us go, John; let us go!"
 
 JOHN FACET. 137 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster beckoned. " Better leave 
 her alone a little with John," she said, and led 
 the way to the drawing room. " The first attack 
 of homesickness," she went on, seating herself 
 near the fire. u I knew it must come."
 
 X. 
 
 " It's wiser being good than bad ; 
 It's safer being meek than fierce ; 
 It's fitter being sane than mad." 
 
 BEATRICE'S mortification over her breakdown 
 -U was very great, and she was thankful that the 
 interview with the four teachers came on that 
 special afternoon. She was very miserable 
 through it all, and when the hours, the methods, 
 the books had been arranged, and Marjorie had 
 gone, she donned her thick white frock and stole 
 downstairs in search of John. 
 .! It seemed to her that he was the one rock left in 
 the sea of misery which life had become since 
 lunch. She felt that she could not live another 
 hour in this New York that she must go back 
 to her home. If not to Corpus Christi, then to 
 the Convent to the dear Mother. It was impos 
 sible that she should stay here. Perhaps if she 
 talked to John reasonably and quietly about it, 
 he would take her back, or send her back, it did 
 not matter which. She had been very foolish to 
 cry, she would not be such a baby again, and 
 maybe he would consent to her going. He would 
 have to consent, or she would die. He had not 
 refused positively when she begged him in the 
 
 138
 
 JOHN PA GET. 139 
 
 conservatory, and it might be that now he would 
 say yes. Indeed he had seemed very miserable 
 himself. Maybe he wanted to go home maybe 
 he would ! and she could keep house for him, and 
 old Angela could cook. 
 
 Her visions grew rose colored as she stole 
 through the hall and peeped into the drawing 
 room. She made no sound, and Claude, who, 
 ready dressed for dinner, sat staring into the fire, 
 did not know of her nearness. 
 
 She scarcely breathed as she turned away. 
 She did not want to meet him just then, for he 
 seemed apart of this obnoxious new life a pos 
 sible barrier to her plans. She wanted John 
 John, who of late seemed to have slipped away 
 from her John, the only salvage from the wreck 
 of her old life. 
 
 He must be in the study ; and like a ghost she 
 stole across the hall, and pushed open the door 
 that was not latched. Yes, there he sat gazing 
 into the fire, pretty much as Claude was doing 
 in the drawing room. She closed the door 
 softly, but as soft as the click of the latch was 
 John heard it, and looking, up held out his hand 
 to her. Quickly she came and knelt down at his 
 knee. 
 
 " What is it, dear ? have your teachers appalled 
 you ? " 
 
 " No, I have not thought of them," she an 
 swered quickly. " I have gone through it like a 
 dream a bad dream ; but I am awake now. and
 
 14 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 I want to talk to you. John, do you remember 
 when I was a little child, and came home from 
 the Convent once, you were very good to me ? " 
 
 "Was I, dear?" 
 
 "Yes; and when I came home last year a big 
 girl, you were good to me. And when father was 
 ill, John, all that long while," with a break in her 
 voice, "you told me always what to do, and you 
 promised father you would be good to me. You 
 remember?" 
 
 "Of course," looking into the fire. 
 
 "And, John," putting her hand on his face and 
 turning it back again, so that she could look 
 straight in his eyes, " all that goodness and kind 
 ness meant that you loved me did it not ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Loved me a great deal? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you wish me to be happy?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then you will do what I want? you will take 
 me home again," her voice breaking with a sigh 
 that was almost a sob, "take me home to old 
 Angela ; we will make you so comfortable, John, 
 she and I ; and I will do everything you tell me. 
 I will teach Sunday school, and read Church 
 history, and do all the things that you wanted 
 me to do and I did not want to do. I will do it 
 all, and more, if you will take me back again. 
 I tell you I will die if you keep me here I can 
 not stand it Iwz//not stand it! John! " draw-
 
 JOHN PA GET. 141 
 
 ing closer to him, " I did not mean that ; I did 
 not mean to say that I would not obey you 
 only" then her voice failed. 
 
 John laid his arm about her shoulder as she 
 kneeled beside him. " If you will try to be 
 happy/' he said, " and will trust me, I will try to 
 arrange it all for you." 
 
 " I will I will ! " an ecstatic light coming into 
 her face, " I will study I will practice I will 
 wear tight clothes and play the guitar for Claude. 
 I will do anything." 
 
 "Yes," John went on, "you must return their 
 kindness by being as happy as possible, and I 
 will do my best for you. You see I came here 
 to study to be a clergyman, and I have not found 
 out yet how long it will take me but not long, 
 I fancy. I promise you I will do it as quickly 
 as possible. Then " 
 
 "Then we will go home," the girl struck in, 
 " and hang up my old hammock again I left it 
 with Angela, and my own old guitar, and the 
 boat, and old Calavaros will let us have the 
 horses as usual. Oh, I will be so happy ! Only, 
 father, John ; it will be lonely without him," 
 her voice faltering. 
 
 " Hush, we will not talk of that just now ; but 
 we will work hard and be good, and all will come 
 right." 
 
 " We will ; oh, you are so good to me ! " and 
 she pressed her lips on his hand that lay on her 
 shoulder, " and I will begin by thanking Claude
 
 142 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 for the guitar. I did not to-day, you know ; I 
 cried instead, and begged to go away : now I will 
 go and thank him. Don't you think so ?" 
 
 " Yes, where is he ? " 
 
 " By himself in the drawing room. I looked in 
 there to hunt for you, and saw him, and, John " 
 pausing. 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " You will never go away and leave me here ? 
 
 To-day a sort of terror came over me that you 
 
 j might feel it your duty to go and you and 
 
 | father always do your duty, and so you would 
 
 leave me." 
 
 " I will never leave you without your full 
 knowledge and free consent. I think you would 
 let me do my duty?" 
 
 " You make life so hard," she answered slowly. 
 
 John sighed. 
 
 " Life is hard, child ; I do not make it so. 
 All we can do is to obey obey, if obedience 
 brings the bitterest sufferings. Only so you will 
 win the peace that no pain can touch." 
 
 Then she went away slowly, with thoughts in 
 her mind that she did not seem able to grasp. 
 Talking with John left her always with a 
 troubled longing for something she could not de 
 fine. What was it, this vague unrest he always 
 roused, that made her look back so longingly to 
 her life at the Convent. All she wanted in life 
 was peace such as she had there. Why not let 
 her go back ?
 
 JOHN FACET. 143 
 
 And John, left alone, thought of the day rather 
 sadly. He was still full of enthusiasm for his 
 work, and would never let his enthusiasm go, but 
 things were very different from what he had ex 
 pected. In the provinces New York was looked 
 on as the Mother Church, and he had thought to 
 find there, as nowhere else, a strong spiritual life 
 among the clergy men working shoulder to 
 shoulder, with glowing faith and burning hope. 
 He had thought to find an environment and an 
 encouragement that would be a memory and 
 strength through all the coming years. His talk 
 with Claude had hurt him ; still, he had been sure 
 that there was another side to the picture. To 
 day he had seen that other side. It was true he 
 had met only one clergyman had had only one 
 talk ; but from that talk he had come away feel 
 ing himself an ecclesiastical Don Quixote, in 
 stead of having had his zeal and enthusiasm con 
 firmed. He felt helpless when he remembered it. 
 How everywhere there was revealed the struggle 
 these men had to make against worldliness. The 
 fight against poverty and outspoken sin was 
 nothing compared with this war against luxurious- 
 ness and pleasure. How pitiful Dr. Ratcliffe's 
 talk had been! Sometimes bitter, sometimes 
 sad, sometimes complacent, but never taking the 
 calm high note of perfect faith. How pitiful his 
 praise of his congregation how pitiful his fear 
 of the future. And the old man who had begged 
 for a little more help. He could not forget the
 
 144 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 sound of those shuffling footsteps. No wonder 
 Dr. Ratcliffe dreaded loss of wealthy favor, he 
 knew so well how alms were doled ! To-morrow 
 he would send a check for the old man. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster entered. "Dreaming all 
 alone ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes," and as she came within the circle of fire 
 light, John was struck afresh by her beauty, and 
 his thoughts went back to the old love story that 
 had come to his knowledge during Carter's last 
 illness. What had separated those two ? 
 
 " What was it that came between you and 
 Carter, Aunt Claudia ? " he asked quietly. 
 
 She started slightly, then, as she settled herself 
 in her chair, she answered in a voice as quiet as 
 his own, "Your mother." 
 
 " My mother ! " 
 
 " Only that she showed him my faults day 
 after day," Mrs. Van Kuyster went on, "and in 
 duced him and your father to begin a system of 
 reproofs; needed, probably, but that, coming 
 after a life of indulgent love, I could not under 
 stand. I was very young, not eighteen when I 
 married. Then I did not like the thought of 
 Carter's going into the ministry. I did not know 
 life then, you see." 
 
 " Now you would love his work." 
 
 " Now I know that to be absorbed in anything 
 to believe in any work, or person, or future, is 
 the nearest we get to happiness." 
 
 "Aunt Claudia!"
 
 JOHN FACET. 145 
 
 " It is quite true. I do not forecast anything 
 for you, for you have earnestness and enthusiasm 
 to give away. You will have many disappoint 
 ments enthusiastic people always do ; but you 
 will make excuses for those who fail you, and 
 repeople your ' fool's paradise ' immediately. I 
 do not mean to call you a fool ; on the contrary, 
 I think you most fortunate to have a paradise of 
 any kind. But you have not told me one word 
 about Dr. Ratcliffe." 
 
 " I am sorry for him." 
 
 " How strange ! he is well paid well fed well 
 clothed ; his wife has several of the best people 
 on her visiting list ; his daughter was educated 
 abroad ; his son is just come home from Harvard. 
 Why pity him?" 
 
 " Because of all these things ; because he is 
 obliged to be so worldly that, in a measure, he 
 has forsaken his calling." 
 
 " On the contrary, I don't know a man who 
 poses better as the successful rector." 
 
 " Is Dr. Ratcliffe typical ? " 
 
 " Yes, of his school. He is really a good man, 
 I think, and tries to do his duty, but he must be 
 guided by the taste of his people. It would be 
 a desperate job to live elsewhere, once having 
 held such a comfortable position in New York. 
 He was elected missionary bishop once, but 
 declined." 
 
 " On what ground ? '' 
 
 " Various grounds. He felt that a great city
 
 146 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 parish was quite as important as a missionary 
 jurisdiction ; then he loved his people, and did not 
 think his health could stand the climate. This 
 to the public. Mrs. Ratcliffe told a select few 
 that she had cried for a week, and had declined 
 to leave New York. That the salary as bishop 
 was small, and out in the wilderness there were 
 no social advantages for either Jessie or Horton. 
 She told Dr. Ratcliffe that if he went he would 
 have to leave her and the children." 
 
 " Why did he not do it ? " 
 
 " My dear John, the wife of his bosom ! " 
 
 " Ten of them, if necessary." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. " He is at least 
 Christian enough to have only one. But I was 
 really sorry for him at the time, he seemed to be 
 so troubled. Of course it increased his value ; 
 the people like to have a rector who refuses bish 
 oprics it sounds well. Don't look so ill, dear," 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster went on. " I may be mis 
 taken as to his being typical. And at last it is 
 all very natural. One cannot blame him for pre 
 ferring a parish with a good salary, a rectory, 
 and a minimum of work to a diocese, a poor 
 salary, a tent, and work enough to kill two or 
 three men. Human nature must be con 
 sidered." 
 
 " Excuses of human weakness have to be made 
 for us all, God knows," John answered, " but the 
 wrong lies deeper than that. You speak of them 
 just as you would of any paid dependent, and
 
 JOHN PA GET. 147 
 
 you have a right to do this because Dr. Ratcliffe 
 has put himself in the position of a paid depend 
 ent. He has shown how much his place and 
 his position mean to him from a worldly stand 
 point. Why, in refusing a poor diocese in order 
 to stand by a rich parish, he simply trampled on 
 his calling and lay down like a hungry dog before 
 his vestry. Do you suppose that a man who re 
 garded the Church as she should be regarded 
 who believed in her as the mystical body of 
 Christ who honored his office as priest of the 
 living God as he should honor it, could take any 
 such position as that ? Do you suppose that a 
 man who believed that he was carrying on the 
 work that the Son of God suffered and died to in 
 augurate, could stop for one moment to consider 
 social advantages or money ? Of course, if you 
 look on the church as a sort of religious society, 
 earth-born and-bred what Claude calls a ' moral 
 sanitary measure ' why then elect your officers 
 for any reasons and in any way you please, and 
 ' log-roll,' and truckle to any extent. No one 
 expects anything else of earthly things. But the 
 Church is not this is not a republic subject to 
 mob rule ; it is a kingdom, with the Son of God 
 for king it is divine." 
 
 " My dear John, you should have lived a thou 
 sand years ago ; to-day you are an anomaly, you 
 are a phenomenon that only the remotest prov 
 inces could have produced. That you should 
 come to light in this age of ' isms,' and smooth
 
 148 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 words and ways, is almost enough to make one 
 believe in miracles." 
 
 " You are quite right," rising as dinner was 
 announced ; " my position is an old one, but it is 
 the only one that is true or "that can be held 
 permanently. And after all our discussion may 
 have arisen out of nothing, for we may have 
 misjudged Dr. Ratcliffe." 
 
 " Who and what ? " Claude asked, as he and 
 Beatrice came into the dining room behind 
 them. 
 
 " Dr. Ratcliffe and the bishopric," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster answered. 
 
 "And Jack is indignant? My dear fellow," 
 he went on as he took his seat, " the mater and I 
 almost came to blows about that. I said, 'What 
 is the proposition ? a thin salary and the glittering 
 honor ; we offer a fat salary and a rectory he 
 will pray over it and stay.' Don't murder me, 
 Jack, I am only a plain-spoken black sheep, and 
 that is the regular formula. Why, when I heard 
 of a man who ' prayed ' and then left the rich 
 parish, I could scarcely believe it. I went to 
 that man's consecration all the way to Philadel 
 phia; I bought his picture and sought an intro 
 duction." 
 
 " Claude sends that bishop a box every spring 
 and autumn," Mrs. Van Kuyster interrupted. 
 
 " Of course I do, and all the periodicals. If 
 Dr. Ratcliffe had gone, the mater should have 
 had that ponderous girl to stay here. I might
 
 JOHN PA GET. 149 
 
 even have gone so far as to invite the abominable 
 son, but never the mother! " 
 
 John laughed. "What ails the mother? "he 
 asked. 
 
 " Everything. She is scrawny and whiney, 
 and has a bullet head. As you love your life, 
 Jack, avoid women with bullet heads they have 
 hides" 
 
 " Is Miss Ratcliffe nice? " Beatrice asked. 
 
 " Nicer than her mother; God forbid that any 
 thing should be worse ; but she is red-headed 
 and voluble in three languages. The son is pink- 
 eyed and morose. By the way, mother, if that 
 woman dares bring that son to see Beatrice " 
 
 " Well," John said, " if she does? " 
 
 " I will sell him to a butcher for cat's meat. 
 But, really, you will not permit that, mother." 
 
 Beatrice looked anxious. " I am afraid of 
 strangers, Aunt Claudia," she said. 
 
 " You are only a schoolgirl, dear," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster answered, " you need not be afraid." 
 
 And everybody looked relieved.
 
 XI. 
 
 " Better men fared thus before thee ; 
 Fired their ringing shot and passed, 
 Hotly charged and sank at last." 
 
 ON Sunday morning, at breakfast, a note was 
 handed to John, and as he read a troubled 
 look came on his face. He handed it to Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster. 
 
 " Dr. Ratcliffe wants me to help him in the 
 service," he said; " both assistants called away." 
 
 " Of course, you cannot decline," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster answered. 
 
 "Why not?" Claude said sharply. "I call it 
 cheek." 
 
 " You assisted Carter, did you not? " Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster went on, giving Claude a glance of 
 amusement. 
 
 " Yes, but this is not the kind of work I want. 
 You will excuse me while I answer the note." 
 
 A frown gathered on Claude's brow. This 
 would be more trying than the club ; and, turn 
 ing to Waters, he said : " I wish you to look to 
 Mr. Paget's boots yourself, Waters." Then to 
 the company at laj-ge, " I loathe dingy boots, 
 but under a surplice they are unbearable." 
 
 "Have you vestments?" Mrs. Van Kuyster
 
 JOHN PA GET. 151 
 
 asked when John came back. " You are taller 
 than Dr. Ratcliffe or the assistants." 
 
 " Yes. A tall or a short man must always have. 
 A clergyman has no right to look ridiculous." 
 
 " Decidedly not," Claude said so emphatically 
 that John turned and looked at him. "You will 
 take John in the carriage, mother; I will walk. 
 Will Beatrice go ? " Then, the answer being in the 
 affirmative, Claude's face cleared a little, and he 
 turned to the girl. " You must sit near my end 
 of the pew," he said, "between me and Marjie." 
 
 " Suppose Marjorie is late ? " Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 suggested. 
 
 " Why, then, I will give Marjie a gentle push 
 which she will understand. She knows that Bea 
 trice can't find her places without help." 
 
 " Can you ? " John asked. 
 
 " My dear fellow, I am as regular at church as 
 Dr. Ratcliffe. I sing all that is singable, and re 
 spond in the most approved mumble. You do 
 not know me." 
 
 " You may always count on Claude to this ex 
 tent," Mrs. Van Kuyster said ; " whatever is cor 
 rect and proper, he will not fail in. Marjie calls 
 him the Apostle of Propriety." 
 
 " A gentleman has no choice," Claude an 
 swered. " He must do the correct thing, no mat 
 ter what his private fads may be. It is your own 
 teaching, mother." 
 
 " And Carter's," John said. 
 
 Claude was not happy. He had not been happy
 
 152 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 since the day before, when in the conservatory 
 Beatrice had turned to John. His sensations 
 under the circumstances had astonished and pro 
 voked him, the more so that both Marjie and Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster had seen his discomfiture. 
 
 Nor had his temper been improved when in the 
 dusk of the evening Beatrice had come to him in 
 the drawing room, to apologize for her tears. She 
 had looked very lovely as she stood by him in the 
 half-light, and he had started to his feet, pleased 
 and surprised that she should have sought him. 
 
 " You must think me very stupid and rude," 
 she began, " when I cried. I have come to beg 
 your pardon ; it was the music did it, and I thank 
 you very much for the guitar." 
 
 " I understand perfectly," he said, leading her 
 to a sofa and sitting down beside her. " It was 
 silly of me to make you recall your home." 
 
 " Yes," her voice breaking a little, " but I should 
 not have made everyone so uncomfortable." 
 
 " You must not think of it any more" and 
 Claude laid his hand on hers. 
 
 " I must think of it enough not to do it again. 
 John says that if I will study and be good, and 
 show my appreciation of all the kindness by being 
 happy, that he will promise to take me home again 
 soon as possible. John is so good to me." 
 
 " So it seems ! " and thrusting his hands into his 
 pockets, Claude took up his position in front of 
 the fire. 
 
 "And I shall be so happy! " the girl went on.
 
 JOHN FACET. 153 
 
 " I will keep house for John, and old Angela to 
 cook. And the jackdaws, and the flowers, and 
 all the shabby old things just as they used to be. 
 You cannot think how happy we were. I did not 
 know it myself until now, and I did not know 
 that our things were old and shabby." 
 
 " And maybe when you go away," Claude said 
 slowly, " you will recall the guitar, and these 
 flowers, and that silly Claude, with regret ; for 
 maybe you will have learned to care for this house 
 by that time." 
 
 "Oh, but I care for you now! No one has ever 
 been so good to me before ; but John, you know, 
 is a piece of my life." 
 
 "Yes," Claude answered, and after that he let 
 her talk with little interruption, and accepted her 
 plan that he should go to Corpus Christi too. 
 
 Arid now he was still more annoyed by John's 
 having to take part in the service, and Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster's smile at breakfast added to his anger. 
 Of course he must go to church ; to stay away 
 would not be civil. But suppose John's vest 
 ments were shabby suppose he should fail. 
 Hang old Ratcliffe ! And Marjorie and Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster would read him clearly, and laugh at him. 
 Confound it all ! 
 
 None of this annoyance appeared, however, and 
 at a quarter before eleven he stood in the hall care 
 lessly twirling a white rose between his perfectly 
 gloved fingers, and watching with approving, if fur 
 tive glances, Waters, who was brushing John's hat
 
 154 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 in a truly scientific manner. In church he found 
 things arranged as he had ordered. Marjorie was 
 next to Mrs. Van Kuyster, and Beatrice looked up 
 with a very lovely smile as he entered the pew. 
 So far, so good ; but he caught a twinkle in Mar- 
 jie's eye that made him long to fight. Of course 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster had told her that John was go 
 ing to read, and of course Marjorie knew that he, 
 Claude, was miserable. His feelings were in some 
 degree soothed, however, when he saw that peo 
 ple whose opinions were worth having were look 
 ing at Beatrice with approval, not to say admira 
 tion. 
 
 But satisfactory as this was, the organ prelude 
 and the opening of the vestry-room door, made 
 Claude wince ; Marjorie's nerves were a little 
 strained too. But Mrs. Van Kuyster smiled, and 
 Beatrice looked up with a serene light in her eyes. 
 
 Many people looked, and some whispered "Who 
 is it ?" Claude would have asked himself if he had 
 not known, and he wondered that he had not 
 realized long ago how very commonplace Dr. 
 Ratcliffe was. After this his fears subsided, and 
 the service had a different ring to it. 
 
 In the aisles when all was done, people asked, 
 " Who is that young man ? " " What a lovely voice!" 
 "How handsome !" "Such hands, I could not 
 take my eyes off them. " And Claude heard Mar 
 jorie answering, " Mrs. Van Kuyster's nephew, Mr. 
 Paget," and Mrs. Van Kuyster answering, 
 " Claude's brother, Mr. Paget," and Claude an-
 
 JOHX PA GET. 155 
 
 swered many times himself, " My brother, Mr. 
 Paget. " John was a success, and Beatrice was a 
 success, and a calm settled on his spirit. 
 
 " You read so well, John," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 said at lunch. " It seemed no effort to you." 
 
 " It was not ; the acoustics of the church are 
 good." 
 
 " You would not think so," Claude said, " if 
 you could hear little Dorkins shriek the lessons 
 at us." 
 
 " You created quite a sensation, Mr. Paget." 
 
 " You are laughing, Miss Van Kuyster." 
 
 " I was never more in earnest in my life," Mar- 
 jorie answered. " Am I not right, Claude ? " 
 
 " Quite right ; the buzz began before the bless 
 ing was done." 
 
 John laughed. " I heard the buzz," he said. 
 " I am sorry to hear that I caused it." 
 
 " Well, you did," Claude answered. " I ex 
 pected them to encore you once or twice, and 
 waited for them to call you back when the show 
 was over." 
 
 "Coming from a little country church, it did 
 seem something of a show." 
 
 " It is ; and to-day when you were real, it caused 
 a sensation. I saw people standing up and kneel 
 ing down whose knees I have doubted until to 
 day." 
 
 " Old Mrs. Badger was quite put out," Marjorie 
 said; "it was amusing to hear her. ' My dear 
 Miss Van Kuyster, that young man looked at me
 
 1 5 6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 quite severely because I sat during the Te Deum ; 
 does he not know that people like to be comfort 
 able when they are hearing good music ?' It was 
 funny." 
 
 " Where did the old person sit?" John asked. 
 " I do not remember looking at anyone in par 
 ticular." 
 
 " Just under your nose," Claude answered; " and 
 before service was over she looked like a boiled 
 lobster." 
 
 " It is a very handsome church," John said. 
 
 " And comfortable," Marjorie answered. 
 " The benches are well angled if I may coin an 
 expression ; the heating is good, the light well 
 tempered, the music bearable, and the sermons 
 short." 
 
 " But, oh, the voice ! " Claude exclaimed. " Rat- 
 cliffe's voice is like a blank wall ; I never realized 
 it until to-day." 
 
 " Church seems to have done us great good," 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster said, rising ; and Beatrice re 
 tiring on the plea of a headache, the rest wan 
 dered into the study. 
 
 " Beatrice does not seem to be strong," Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster said when they were seated about 
 the fire. 
 
 " She has never been ill," John answered ; " but 
 her mother was extremely delicate ; she seemed 
 to die chiefly of inability to live. The physician 
 diagnosed it as lack of vitality." 
 
 " We must put Beatrice on a tonic, mother,"
 
 JOHN PA GET. 157 
 
 Claude said quietly, " and this climate will help 
 her. It was old Ratcliffe's twaddle that tired 
 her out." 
 
 " Why do you not change your parish ? " John 
 asked. 
 
 "Any other would fare just the same," Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster answered. 
 
 " Yes, and there is not another building so 
 comfortable," Marjorie said. 
 
 " Why do you go to church at all ? " John went 
 on. 
 
 " Because it is a good habit, and the correct 
 thing," Marjorie answered. "Why do you go?." 
 
 " Because I believe in it as a divine institution." 
 
 " Really ? " 
 
 "Of course ; if I did not, I would not go near 
 it." 
 
 Marjorie looked a little uncertain. " I do not 
 think that I quite understand how it is you be 
 lieve in it," she said. 
 
 " Why, only this, that the Christ came to earth 
 to found his kingdom, the Church ; and it was in 
 pursuance of this work that he suffered and died. 
 Must it not seem holy and of worth to me to 
 anyone who looks at it truly ?" 
 
 "I was taught that Christ came down to die 
 for our sins." 
 
 " He came to work, and died because of our 
 exceeding sinfulness. Socrates said that if the 
 perfect man ever appeared on earth, he would be 
 put to death."
 
 1 58 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " You conducted the service as if you believed 
 in it," Mrs. Van Kuyster said. 
 
 " How could you think otherwise?" 
 
 "I do not know that I thought about it at 
 all ; but your manner was unusual and struck 
 me." 
 
 " I think I must tell on Claude," Marjorie said. 
 " He was in such misery this morning, Mr. Paget, 
 and all on account of your having to read the ser 
 vice. If you had fallen below his standard, he 
 would have become suddenly ill, and have come 
 away." 
 
 " Indeed I would," Claude answered so ear 
 nestly that John laughed. " I do not mind my 
 people being failures if I can take them off by 
 themselves, but it really hurts me to see the pub 
 lic stare at anything that is mine." 
 
 " Unless it be a stare of envious admiration," 
 Marjorie corrected. 
 
 " Granted ; and Marjorie never lets me alone 
 about it. She says that I am not loyal that 
 ridicule could make me forego the love of my 
 life ; what else, Marjorie ? " 
 
 " That if it were the fashion to admire bald- 
 headed, cross-eyed women, Claude would never 
 be contented until he possessed a wife with a 
 head like a billiard ball, and eyes that lapped ; 
 but that if the fashion changed, he would per 
 suade her into a sisterhood or a widows' home, 
 even if it broke what he calls his heart. He can 
 not stand the criticism even of Waters, here."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 159 
 
 " My word, Marjorie, you draw it strong ! Now 
 won't you give us a companion picture of Jack ? 
 If I am not mistaken, I have seen a very different 
 criticism of him in your eyes." 
 
 " Quite different ! " Marjorie answered. " If 
 Mr. Paget loved a person, the opinion of the 
 world would be to him as a wind that had blown 
 itself away before this country was discovered. 
 If he should meet a friend in rags on Fifth Ave 
 nue, he would walk with him to his tailor's and 
 clothe him. If his friend failed in reading the 
 service, he would go up to the chancel when the 
 service was over, and shake hands with him and 
 bring him home to dinner." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster and John laughed ; Claude's 
 eyes flashed, but after a second's pause he an 
 swered amiably : 
 
 " I believe he would, Marjie ; and nobody in 
 the world admires that sort of pluck more than 
 I do, but I haven't got it." 
 
 "You should cultivate it, my dear, seeing how 
 patiently I have lectured you about it." 
 
 "There has been no lack of lecturing, but the 
 process is disagreeable ; and to what purpose?" 
 
 "The making of character. Don't you re- 
 member the sermon that stranger preached not 
 long ago on character the only thing worth 
 having the only thing that outlasts ' this world 
 and the fireworks ' ? " 
 
 "Yes, it was a strong sermon, and if I believed 
 in the kind of future that he believed in, why
 
 160 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 then that kind of supernumerary, supererogatory, 
 superlative character would be worth striving for. 
 But that future, if indeed there is any, is an un 
 known quantity, and the theological road to it is 
 marvelously circuitous. What do you say, Jack ? " 
 Clasping his hands behind his head. " A moment 
 ago you said something that had a strong, if a 
 strange, sound ; give me your views on the sub 
 ject." 
 
 "On the future life, or on your attitude? I 
 do not know where you stand. Tell me what 
 you believe, and I will tell you what I know." 
 
 " Give me what you know for what /believe," 
 Claude said ; " a poor exchange, for I am certain 
 only of my uncertainty. Better let me tell you 
 what I think you would like me to believe." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 Claude rested his elbows on the arms of his 
 chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and 
 leaning back looked at the ceiling. There was 
 silence for a moment, then Claude dropped his 
 hands together in his lap. 
 
 "It would seem blasphemous to you," he said. 
 
 John gave him a quick look. " What I want 
 you to believe cannot be blasphemous." 
 
 "No, but my way of putting it " and Claude 
 passed his hand over his eyes. 
 
 "Do not put it that way, then. Since you do 
 not look on me as a fool, and since I hold these 
 views, there must at least be another side of the 
 question; since there is a question, there must be
 
 JOHN PAGET. 161 
 
 a doubt take the benefit of the doubt, then ; take 
 it thankfully, and state your proposition as rever 
 ently as may be." 
 
 The quick color sprang to Claude's face, and 
 the light to his eyes, but after a moment's pause 
 he put the tips of his fingers together as before, 
 and, once more looking at the ceiling, began 
 quietly. 
 
 " You would have me believe in a personal God. 
 who made man in his own image, pure and sinless, 
 and intended that he should remain sp. That this 
 man was tempted by the devil, an unaccounted 
 for being, and fell. This fall brought death. 
 Humanity once having succumbed, sin was fas 
 cinating, and the devil frustrated the plans of the 
 Almighty so entirely that the earth had to be puri 
 fied by a flood. After a few ages, however, the hu 
 man race was worse than before, and the anger of 
 the Almighty could be appeased only by sacrifice ; 
 and the only sacrifice that could satisfy the 
 justice of this loving God, so that his mercy could 
 be extended to the miserable creatures that he 
 had created, was the incarnation, daily suffer 
 ing, and death of his Son, the second person 
 of a mysterious Trinity." Claude paused. "A 
 moment ago you gave a different turn to that 
 point." 
 
 " Of course ! " and John, rising, rested one 
 elbow on the mantelpiece, and looked down on 
 his brother. " You have not stated Christian 
 ity at all. To begin. Man was created with
 
 1 62 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 a will, free to obey or disobey. You know 
 this." 
 
 " Know it ? " 
 
 " Yes, know it. What you cannot help think 
 ing, that you know. You cannot think yourself 
 an automaton, therefore you know that you are 
 free. And these things that you cannot help 
 thinking are revelations. Your own existence is 
 one. Man was created free, then ; anything else 
 is unthinkable. Now take the exquisitely simple 
 story of the fall ; treat it as you will, and one 
 fact remains the law of righteousness was 
 transgressed, and death came as it comes to-day 
 to such transgressions. Transgress the law of 
 righteousness to-day, and you are punished by 
 the crippling or death of that much good in your 
 nature. The law carries its own punishment. 
 To say law, is to say obedience or disobedience. 
 Disobedience is sin ; sin means all the ills that 
 flesh is heir to. The law of heredity brought the 
 sin down to the third and fourth generation, and 
 we say now, ' Man is born to sorrow as the 
 sparks fly upward.' The cure for all this is 
 obedience, and obedience is the one motive that 
 the Christ ever gave for his coming into this 
 world. He came to work. Was sent to estab 
 lish this 'kingdom of obedience' the Church, 
 to bring us once more into our true relations 
 with the Father." 
 
 " A personal God ? " 
 
 "Yes."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 163 
 
 Claude shook his head. " I cannot," he said. 
 
 " You believe such a thing as ' good ' ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " As I see it in you " 
 
 " Thanks ; I do not want an imaginary portrait 
 of myself, and you have granted my proposition 
 before it is made that you cannot think of 
 good as something suspended in the air; you 
 must think of it as inhering in something. Now 
 you may doubt good if you choose, but you can 
 not make such a mistake as to doubt the exist 
 ence of Claude Van Kuyster, for the very doubt 
 proves that there is one who doubts. Claiming 
 this revelation of self-existence for yourself, you 
 must grant it to all the creatures in the universe, 
 and hope that each has his little germ of good. 
 Now the greatest good must reside in the highest 
 Personality call this ' the Unknowable,' call 
 this ' The All-Being,' the ' First Cause,' the 
 ' Stream of Tendency ' if .you like ; for me there 
 is but one name, God the Father. For that 
 which satisfies the insatiable craving for a final 
 cause that which is the sum of all good, there 
 fore of all that is true and beautiful that is my 
 God." 
 
 " Now to the next proposition," Claude said, 
 " that He made man in his own image." 
 
 " Very well. Here we meet again those limi 
 tations those things that we cannot help think 
 ing, and those things that are unthinkable. We
 
 164 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 cannot help thinking ' Good ' we cannot think 
 good apart from some form. We have no celestial 
 imagination by which to produce a celestial form, 
 nor any celestial language in which to describe it, 
 so we are forced to say in finite humility, ' in his 
 own image ' the form he gave as highest, the 
 best we know. You may protest against it as 
 anthropomorphic, but you can think nothing else. 
 And this 'in his own image' means freewill 
 the sense of good and evil the law of obligation, 
 the immense ' Ought ' that ' makes for righteous 
 ness ' that dominates the universe, and against 
 which we so often beat out our little lives 
 the law that leads us, whether we will or no, to 
 a lawgiver your First Cause, my God. Now, 
 just here, I will grant you everything that 
 natural selection and evolution can prove. But 
 the moment when the ' divine spark ' that 
 ' makes for righteousness/ came to the clod, or 
 the ape, or what you will ; at that immortal mo 
 ment, God made man, and 'breathed into his 
 nostrils the breath of life.' Evolution only adds 
 to the miraculousness and the glory of it all. 
 The flood we will leave to the geologists; grant 
 ing, however, that the purification was needed." 
 
 " And the devil ? " Claude said. 
 
 " Is evil personified." 
 
 " You hold to a personal devil ? " 
 
 " Yes. A fallen angel. Angels are as free to 
 disobey as we are, and this Prince of Evil, the 
 founder of the kingdom of disobedience, had the
 
 JOHN PA GET. 165 
 
 splendid audacity to approach the son of God 
 himself." 
 
 " I thought that was allegory." 
 
 " If one part of the Scripture is allegory, why 
 not all ? where will you stop ? Because a thing is 
 difficult for our finiteness to compass, are we to 
 call it allegory? You cannot understand your 
 own walking stick, and why it must have two 
 ends, but you do not for that relegate your walk 
 ing stick to the realm of allegory. Impersonal 
 good and evil are as unthinkable as a one-ended 
 walking stick." 
 
 Marjorie laughed. " That one-ended stick will 
 torment me forever," she said ; " I shall dream of 
 sticks that stretch into infinity I shall spend my 
 life in extending them. What a horrid sugges 
 tion." 
 
 " And what do you do with the literary criti 
 cism of Scripture?" Mrs. Van Kuyster asked. 
 
 " I read it. It is plausible, poetical, and some 
 of it is well done ; but no one mortal critic can 
 decide spiritual things for me." 
 
 " I agree with you entirely on that point," 
 Claude said. " I maintain always that there is no 
 logical stopping place; you must believe all or 
 none. After the best translation is made, after 
 the canon of Scripture is decided, then, for a 
 Christian, there can be no further tampering all 
 or none." 
 
 " And I hold it all," John said. 
 
 " Believe all the miracles as you believe that I
 
 1 66 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 sit here?" Marjorie asked. " Take the stories of 
 the Gospels as historical facts? " 
 
 "As every kind of fact," John answered. 
 " Believe it as I believe in Christopher Columbus 
 and George Washington." 
 
 "How can you ! " Claude said as if involun 
 tarily, rising from his chair. 
 
 " How is it possible not to ! " and John's eyes 
 flashed. " Give up the Scriptures, give up every 
 thing except the one central, incontrovertible 
 fact that Jesus of Nazareth" and he bowed his 
 head reverently " lived on earth, and then gtf to 
 history and trace his work. Try again ; recon 
 struct history without the Christ, give us civiliza 
 tion as we have it to-day, bad as it is, without 
 his system of morals. You cannot ; Christ and 
 his kingdom, the Church, permeate the whole 
 universe. The taking up of our humanity into 
 his divinity has made man a different creature." 
 
 "And the ages before Christ? " 
 
 "God has never been without a witness in the 
 world. All truth, all beauty, all good, wherever 
 found, is a revelation of himself. God is imma 
 nent in his universe, and miracles cease to be 
 miraculous." 
 
 Claude shook his head. " You put it well," he 
 said ; " but the faculty, or the sense, or whatever 
 it may be that is required to grasp it, that thing 
 I have not got. What is it ? " 
 
 "There are several things required," John 
 answered ; " a little common sense to recognize
 
 JOHN PA GET. 167 
 
 * 
 
 your limitations ; a little humility to grant them ; 
 a little reason to see that you cannot think effect 
 without thinking cause, that you cannot think 
 evil without thinking good, that you cannot 
 think matter without thinking spirit. You need 
 clearer eyes to see that the limited and the rela 
 tive bring home to us the absolute, that the 
 finite is outlined on the infinite, that death 
 means life, and the universe shows us God. In 
 the midst of all this mystery we grope and cry as 
 a little child cries in the darkness, and our only 
 hope is to grasp our Father's hand. Faith as a 
 little child, and our eyes are opened." 
 
 " I do not know that I will admit that I lack 
 all these other things," Claude said, " but on faith 
 I lay no claim. I think I was born without it. 
 As a child I was told that God made me ; I 
 asked Mr. Van Kuyster, ' Who made God ? ' 
 
 "And what did he answer?" Mrs. Van Kuy 
 ster asked. 
 
 Claude shook his head. " I do not like to re 
 peat it," he said ; " but I laughed, and he gave 
 me a gold dollar." 
 
 rffr
 
 XII. 
 
 " The door was shut. I looked between 
 Its iron bars ; and saw it lie, 
 My garden, mine, beneath the sky, 
 Pied with all flowers bedewed and green. 
 
 A shadowless spirit kept the gate, 
 Blank and unchanging like the grave. 
 I, peering through, said : ' Let me have 
 
 Some buds to cheer my outcast state.' 
 
 He answered not. ' Or give me, then, 
 But one small twig from shrub or tree ; 
 And bid my home remember me 
 
 Until I come to it again.' 
 
 The spirit was silent ; but he took 
 
 Mortar and stone to build a wall ; 
 
 He left no loophole great or small 
 Through which my straining eyes might look." 
 
 WALKING to his club that afternoon, 
 Claude's step was slower, and when he 
 reached his destination his manner was more 
 preoccupied than usual. After the briefest greet 
 ings, he took his seat near a window with his 
 back to the room, and a paper as excuse for 
 silence. 
 
 A new view of life had been presented to him, 
 a view he had known of, but that had never been 
 brought home to him until now. Now he stood 
 
 1 68
 
 JOHN PA GET. 169 
 
 side by side with a man he was bound to respect 
 and in a measure look up to ; a man who had 
 tested life, and who was no "goody," for manli 
 ness showed in every movement and sounded in 
 every tone, and yet he took this view. 
 
 Could he have taken John's training, and would 
 John have taken his? Would John have been 
 satisfied, even for a little while, with life as he, 
 Claude, looked at it ? John seemed perfectly 
 willing that other people should take life lightly 
 and cheerfully, should laugh and see the farce of 
 it all ; but for himself, John seemed to be forever 
 looking through the flimsy show to the tragic 
 background. That the background of life was 
 tragedy, everyone knew who thought at all ; but 
 why live with this always in mind ? The tragedy 
 was the part that lasted, and it was the earnestness 
 of John's nature that turned him to it. To him 
 the life and Christianity of the Van Kuysters' 
 world must seem like stucco work and ginger 
 bread trimming. Already, this afternoon, he had 
 betrayed the scorn he felt for it. Soon this 
 scorn would extend to the people who could be 
 satisfied with such shams, for John really believed. 
 How strange that in this age a man like John 
 should hold as vital truths things which, if science 
 and literary criticism had not entirely destroyed 
 them, were at best held in mild solution ; things 
 that had been spared only because they had 
 served so long as moral police that the world, 
 feeling some obligation to them, had pensioned
 
 170 OHN PA GET. 
 
 them off, as it were, or had turned them out to 
 graze. Yet to John this old creed was a living 
 thing a thing for which he would give his life. 
 
 And after all, was he not wise ? Was not life 
 more worth living to him than to most people ? 
 He had, at least, something to strive for in the 
 race a crown that he believed to be incorruptible. 
 And if all the crowns were alike of straw, and all 
 who strove for them more or less idiots the man 
 who believed that his crown was imperishable gold 
 might be the greatest idiot, but was he not at the 
 same time the happiest man? How strange to 
 have the strong belief of John, or the unquestion 
 ing faith of Beatrice. 
 
 He put dovtn for a moment the screening 
 paper he had not read, and lighted a cigar. 
 
 Should he go over to them, or bring Beatrice 
 over to him ; or would it be better to stay where 
 he was, and to leave her in the mystic dreamland 
 that seemed to satisfy her? Win her he would, 
 but could he do it and not touch her faith ? How 
 would it do to have a wife who looked on one with 
 doubt? Did the child have any faith save in the 
 people who had guided her life had not the 
 Mother been her religion, and was not John her 
 religion now ? She was in awe of John as she had 
 been of the Mother, but it was the reverential 
 awe that was the surest foundation in the world 
 for hero worship. Could she have John for her 
 ideal and Claude for her lover? And through 
 the drifting rings of smoke rose up the soft eyes
 
 JOHN FACET. I? I 
 
 of the girl who had so disarranged his carefully 
 planned life. 
 
 No. Whatever might be the result, he, Claude, 
 must be her ideal, her crown, her religion. She 
 was still asleep, and the vision that should waken 
 her would be the dream of her life. John loved 
 her, yet he seemed unconsciously to be righting 
 against the realization of the fact. Why, was a 
 mystery. She would hamper him in his race, 
 maybe ? Claude laughed a low laugh. Which 
 was the greater fool : he, who would put his life 
 into the keeping of an undeveloped child, or John, 
 who would put aside everything pleasant for the 
 sake of an exploded idea ? John, with youth, and 
 strength, and beauty, and wealth, turning aside 
 to be an ascetic. To live on a high moral plane 
 where only highly moral and spiritual flowers 
 would grow. Did he fight against loving Bea 
 trice because he knew that she could not live 
 there ? She could not. She could be a nun and 
 live in one long passion of religious ecstasy ; or 
 she could be a woman and make her life one long 
 passion of devotion ; but a cool love, a friendly 
 affection, that would be death. Her mother had 
 died from no known cause ; perhaps she had been 
 starved on a high spiritual plane bleached out 
 of life. 
 
 He looked out on the passing throng, all in 
 holiday dress. Were they as contented as they 
 seemed, as contented as he had been before the 
 entrance of this new force into his life ? But why
 
 172 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 should he be discontented ; why could not he 
 love Beatrice naturally and heartily, and ask the 
 same kind of love in return ? What was the 
 necessity of all this introspection and discussion ; 
 why not ignore all differences and be comfort 
 able ? Was it Mrs. Van Kuyster or John who 
 made all this to do, or was it his own question 
 ing, dissatisfied self? He would go home at 
 once, and make a new common-sense beginning. 
 Beatrice would be rested by this, and be down 
 stairs, and John would be gone to church. 
 
 He found Beatrice sitting alone in the study, 
 looking through the open doors of the conser 
 vatory. 
 
 " Do you think it a sin to go into the con 
 servatory on Sunday?" Claude asked as he 
 entered. 
 
 Beatrice started. "No, oh, no!" she answered, 
 " the Mother used to make Sunday the nicest day 
 of all. I did not go in because ' 
 
 "Because?" Claude repeated, standing with 
 his back to the fire, and looking down on her. 
 
 " Because the smell of the roses makes me 
 homesick. I know it is weak, and ungrateful too, 
 and I am trying to overcome it," looking up 
 wistfully. "That is the reason I am sitting 
 here." 
 
 "You are trying to be a ridiculous little mar 
 tyr," and drawing a low chair close to her, Claude 
 sat down. 
 
 " Now, listen to me," he began ; " if the flowers
 
 JOHN PA GET. 173 
 
 make you sad, the conservatory shall be closed 
 at once." 
 
 " Do you think me so weak as that ? Why the 
 Mother would be ashamed, and John would be 
 mortified. We ought to fight against such things, 
 and be glad of the opportunity to learn self-con 
 trol. Everybody tells me that." 
 
 "/do not," Claude answered. "We are put 
 into this world to be happy, and why not be 
 happy ? If the conservatory makes you unhappy, 
 close it ; I only opened it because I thought it 
 would please you." 
 
 " It did it does ! It would hurt me dreadfully 
 to shut it up." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " First of all, John would be ' 
 
 " Confound John ! " Claude broke in, " I do 
 not care a straw about John's opinion ; he pre 
 fers being miserable, and would rather enjoy 
 being roasted by a slow fire ; but you were not 
 made for that sort of nonsense. You ought not 
 to cry any more than the flowers do ; you ought 
 to have sunshine all the time, and you shall. 
 Martyrs are tough, rawboned dyspeptics, who 
 are not happy unless they are miserable, who go 
 about the world begging people to step on their 
 coat-tails. You are too young and too pretty for 
 any such folly. To-day you were tired out by 
 that stupid sermon, and now you are made sad 
 by the flowers. If you do not get better, you 
 shall not go to church, and the flowers shall be
 
 i?4 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 banished. You may obey John in his house, but 
 I am master in this house and you must obey 
 me. I shall shut the conservatory." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " Beatrice cried, springing up and 
 laying a detaining hand on his arm, " I beg 
 that you will not ; I had much rather that you 
 took me into it, and let me become accustomed 
 to it." 
 
 Claude stood a moment looking down into the 
 pathetic face so near his own, and a shiver ran 
 over him, and the afternoon's thoughts came back 
 to him ; how much better to go through life with 
 the little hands held close in his ! Only a mo 
 ment he paused, then took hold of Beatrice's 
 wrist. 
 
 " Come, then, I will let you enjoy martyrdom 
 for a little while, I playing torturer. Come!" 
 and he led her down the one step that separated 
 the study from the conservatory. " Now, remem 
 ber that I am going to try my best to hurt you, 
 give you such a good dose of misery that you 
 will never yearn to be a martyr again." 
 
 Beatrice laughed a little, but there was a puz 
 zled look in her eyes. " You are so queer ! " 
 she said, " I never seem to understand you." 
 
 "Of course not," Claude answered; "for you 
 are a provincial saint, while I am a metropolitan 
 sinner. But come, let us do the martyr act. 
 Cross your hands behind your back ; cross them 
 so that I can tie them at the wrists; you gesticu 
 late a great deal when your feelings are excited,
 
 JOHN PA GET. 175 
 
 and you must not have the relief of gesture, for that 
 is weak," and with his handkerchief he skillfully 
 tied the wrists that at his bidding she had crossed. 
 " Now, shut your eyes, for they might move 
 me to mercy, and I must not be merciful. Chris 
 tians must be strong. Now, you may sit down, 
 for it is only morally that I wish to torture you, 
 not physically," and he led her to the seat where 
 the day before she had sat to try the guitar. 
 " Now," he went on, picking a rose and taking his 
 seat beside her, but with averted face, " keep 
 your eyes close shut, and think as I tell you. 
 Do you remember how the roses grew in the 
 Convent garden ? Smelling this rose I have 
 purposely bruised will make you remember bet 
 ter. This is a Christian rose ; it smells so sweet 
 because I have bruised it, and I bruised it for my 
 pleasure and your pain. How sweet it is! almost 
 as sweet as the Convent roses that used to peep 
 through the grating of the gate to see the rip 
 pling waters of the gulf. Do you remember 
 how blue the sky was, and how the white clouds 
 were blown this way and that, and lying flat on 
 your back you used to watch them and wonder 
 where they came from and where they were 
 going? And how above you the roses nodded 
 in the wind, and the jasmine seemed to be sweeter 
 than all of life together? How softly the Con 
 vent bell would ring for the Sisters to kneel and 
 pray by the lighted altar, how the oleanders 
 peeped in at the chapel windows, and the mock-
 
 1 76 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 ing-birds sang all the live-long night. Do you 
 remember ? And the water was so blue, and the 
 curving beach so white, and in the hot, still sum 
 mer days the whole wide land seemed dead still 
 and dead, save when a bee drowsed from one 
 flower to another, or a bird fluttered in the leaves. 
 Do you remember how sweet it all was, how 
 peaceful ? Do not you long to go back long 
 for the simple love and the peace and the rest ? 
 But now it would not be the same, for now you 
 have listened to the hum of the world, you have 
 heard far off the cry of pain that has no answer, 
 the echo of problems that none can solve ; you 
 have put your lips to the cup of life, and nothing 
 would seem the same. Nothing will ever seem 
 the same again, for you are waking from the 
 dream of childhood. Do you believe me?" 
 His voice ceased and he waited for a sign, but 
 no sign came, and he repeated, " Do you remem 
 ber do you believe me ? " Still no answer, and 
 turning quickly, he found the great dark eyes 
 wide open, and fixed reproachfully on his averted 
 face. 
 
 " You really wanted to hurt me," she said. " I 
 thought you were in fun, but you were not, for 
 you turned your head away ; you meant to hurt 
 me, but you could not bear to see the pain. Un 
 tie my hands ! " 
 
 " Not yet," Claude answered, " not until you 
 have learned your lesson thoroughly. Yes, you 
 are right," he went on gravely ; " I meant to hurt
 
 JOHN PA GET. 177 
 
 you, and I would not look because I could not bear 
 to hurt one whom I love. You believe that John 
 loves you, and you say John thinks that you 
 ought to bear pain useless pain like enduring 
 these flowers in order to grow strong. You be 
 lieve that the Mother loves you, and you say the 
 Mother thinks that you ought to control yourself 
 useless self-control in order to grow strong. 
 Now, /think all this is foolish, but my opinion 
 has no weight ; you have no faith in me because 
 I say, ' Be happy.' This afternoon I have hurt 
 you unnecessarily for two reasons to show you 
 how foolish such pain is to show you that 
 though I wish for you nothing but happiness in 
 your life, though I am so frivolous as to insist 
 that this kind of self-denial is nonsense; in spite 
 of this radical difference between me and John 
 that I love you too, and hurt you, and hurt my 
 self in order to prove it to you. I hurt myself 
 a thousand times more than I hurt you. It hurt 
 me to tie your little hands to bring you in 
 here, and every syllable of every word I said held 
 for me a separate pain. I can never forgive my 
 self, but if it is only by paining you that I can 
 win your faith, I will leave no kind of pain un 
 tried." 
 
 The girl rose quickly. "You are hurting me 
 now," she said, her voice trembling, " hurting me 
 more than anyone ever did before. Untie my 
 hands; untie them and let me go!" 
 
 Claude obeyed her. " You will not believe
 
 I?8 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 me? " he asked, " well, I will not insist," and fol 
 lowing her into the study, he shut and locked the 
 conservatory doors, and put the key into his 
 pocket. 
 
 " What is that for?" asked Mrs. Van Kuyster, 
 who at the same moment entered the study from 
 the hall. 
 
 "The flowers give Beatrice the blues," Claude 
 answered, "and she must not have the blues, she 
 must have a tonic." 
 
 " I begged him not, Aunt Claudia." 
 
 " I agree with Claude," Mrs. Van Kuyster said. 
 " I would shut up a hundred conservatories 
 rather than be depressed." 
 
 "It is weak," the girl insisted. 
 
 " Be weak, then. Anything is better than use 
 less misery. There will be plenty of pain in your 
 life ; do not adopt gratuitous suffering. Above 
 all, do not be morbid and introspective; it is not 
 wholesome." 
 
 "But self-examination is a duty." 
 
 " Not always. Where one has a vital decision 
 to make it may be very well, but very few deci 
 sions are vital. We generally use the first as a 
 weapon with which to commit either mental or 
 moral suicide, and of course no following deci 
 sion can be vital. But the shutting up or open 
 ing of the conservatory can scarcely be vital." 
 
 " John says that every decision either weakens 
 or strengthens one." 
 
 "Perhaps, as a rule, but not always. Some
 
 JOHN PA GET. 179 
 
 people stand very near to nature, and are very 
 direct, very simple, very true. They believe im 
 plicitly, they love intensely ; and falseness of any 
 kind is a pain to them. A nature like this does 
 not need the religious training as represented by 
 confessions, and meditations, and penances all 
 made for the intricate and false ; it turns to the 
 truth naturally, and needs only room to grow and 
 to expand needs happiness and a tonic." 
 
 Beatrice started. " But, indeed, Aunt Clau 
 dia," she exclaimed, " I was happy at the Con 
 vent from morning until night I was happy, for 
 I had nothing to do but to obey. But ever since 
 I left, things have been growing confused to me. 
 Whenever I asked the Mother: ' Is this right,' or 
 'wrong'? she always answered: 'Yes,' or 'no'; 
 but when I asked John, he would say : ' What 
 does your own judgment,' or ' your own conscience 
 tell you?' My judgment and my conscience? 
 Why, just as soon as I act on a decision, I am 
 sure it is wrong." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. " Poor child," she 
 said, "'the divine right of private judgment' is 
 wasted on you. But now that you belong to us, 
 you need not use it; we will only require you to 
 do what is pleasant, and be happy." 
 
 Beatrice looked doubtful. 
 
 " She has no faith in us, mother," Claude said. 
 
 " Indeed I have, Aunt Claudia, only your 
 orders are different again. The Mother used to 
 say : ' Only right things are pleasant.' Then
 
 i8o JOHN PA GET. 
 
 John said : ' Do it because it is right, and remem 
 ber that right things are seldom the pleasantest.' 
 Now you say," looking from one to the other, 
 " ' Whatever is pleasant is right. Be happy.' ' 
 
 " And happiness seems wrong ? " 
 
 " From Beatrice's standpoint, happiness and 
 self-indulgence are one," Claude said gravely, 
 " and I, for one, shall treat her very differently." 
 
 " I would rather that you left me to Aunt 
 Claudia," the girl answered, with a gentle dignity 
 that was quite new, but that became her wonder- 
 fully. 
 
 "You have quarreled with Beatrice?" Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster asked that night when they were 
 alone in the study. 
 
 " Beatrice thinks we have quarreled ; in reality, 
 I am just waking her up. Her unconsciousness 
 is very fresh and sweet in the abstract, but not 
 as applied to me." 
 
 " And you locked the conservatory to make 
 her feel your power?" With an amused smile. 
 
 " No, I locked it because she was using it as a 
 penance, compelling herself to endure the home 
 sickness which the flowers produced. It was bad 
 for her health, and I thought a little counter- 
 irritant in the shape of anger would be whole 
 some. Her Roman Catholic ancestry comes out 
 very strong in her; she absolutely needs laws 
 and infallibility; before long I will be her Pope." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster shook her head. " Her
 
 JOHN PA GET. l8l 
 
 belief has been so ground into her," she said, 
 " that unless you adopt it, you will never wear 
 the triple crown of her respect, her faith, her 
 love." 
 
 " Well said ! " and Claude bowed. " And I 
 would rather talk to you, as you show yourself 
 now, than to anyone I know ; nevertheless, you 
 will see me Beatrice's Pope." 
 
 " You may make her love you," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster said ; " you may even lead her aside 
 from her beliefs; but the moment she discovers 
 that she has wandered, she will turn back, and 
 you will not be able to hold her. Religion is in 
 that girl's flesh and blood, and it is her Roman 
 Catholic and Protestant heredity that are at war; 
 one led by John, the other by the Mother; but 
 Protestantism is too free for her, and I think that 
 it would have been happier to leave her a little 
 nun in her beloved Convent." 
 
 Claude threw away his cigar and clasped his 
 hands behind his head. " What an awful lack of 
 principle and conviction your words show ! " he 
 said. " John would preach you a sermon on the 
 wickedness of leaving a person in error in order 
 to leave him in peace. You are very clever," lie 
 went on, " and read your fellows easily ; but in 
 reading other women you leave out the greatest 
 factor in their lives ; the factor that can lead 
 them aside from duty, faith, principle every 
 thing ; this greatest factor is- love, and you 
 leave it out because it has had no play in your
 
 1 82 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 life, my dear. Once win Beatrice's love, and she 
 would die for one." 
 
 "I knew her father," Mrs. Van Kuyster said; 
 "he would die for a friend, but he would not so 
 much as entertain a wrong thought ; no, not if 
 it would save the life of the creature he loved 
 best on earth." 
 
 "And you think Beatrice like him? Maybe, 
 but with this difference ; she is a woman, and love 
 to a man and to a woman is as different as black 
 and white. This is where you fail to make allow 
 ances for your own sex. You are reasonable, 
 logical, magnanimous the only magnanimous 
 woman I have never known." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 " But all these qualities," Claude went on, 
 "limit your understanding of your own sex. 
 They do not limit your criticism, mind you, but 
 they do limit your sympathy." 
 
 " Only for women who lack balance." 
 
 Claude laughed. " I rather think that takes in 
 the whole sex," he said. " I grant you that a 
 man always wants his wife to be reasonable and 
 balanced, but, when he is in love, he wants quite 
 another creature to that. The old pattern for 
 women the vine clinging to the oak seems to 
 be going out of fashion, but it is not in reality. 
 It is the light weights who get married, or the 
 women who for the time being pretend to be light 
 weights. The women who love dress and luxury, 
 who seem to have wistful eyes and appealing ways,
 
 JOHN PA GET. 183 
 
 these win in the world ; while the women who 
 spend themselves on good works on the higher 
 education who go in for dress reform, and com 
 mon sense, and spring-heels, and metaphysics, 
 they well," drawing a long breath, " they are 
 allowed to spend their time that way." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. 
 
 " One wants the woman one is in love with," 
 Claude went on, " to be " 
 
 " A fool for the time being," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 struck in, " but to recover her senses later on ; you 
 want her to revolve around you, to think your 
 thoughts, believe in your vagaries, kneel down 
 before your selfishness, and be a door-mat to your 
 digestion." 
 
 " Exactly ! " Claude answered. " You put it 
 beautifully ; that ' door-mat to the digestion ' is 
 really fine, and that belief in one's vagaries is 
 good too. A man can meet plenty of clever 
 women in society the spring-heeled, high think 
 ers, for instance ; but at home he wants a wife on 
 whom he can rest his mind, or a wife who is clever 
 enough to be everything at once, a wife like 
 he paused. 
 
 " Whom ? " Mrs. Van Kuyster asked quickly. 
 
 " Marjorie," Claude answered. " She would make 
 an ideal wife: she could play the fool, being sen 
 sible all the while; she could make one thoroughly 
 comfortable, and would always take life from the 
 calm, high ground of expediency." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked at him gravely. " I
 
 1 84 JOHN FACET. 
 
 have often thought that you and Marjorie were 
 made for each other," she said ; " she knows the 
 world and you, thoroughly; she is even-tempered 
 and generous; she has her vagaries under perfect 
 control, and has a clear appreciation of yours; 
 she is what you call 'clubable ; ' she would allow 
 your life to flow always as peacefully as it does 
 now." 
 
 " It is all true," Claude said, then was silent, 
 looking into the fire. 
 
 " She has money," Mrs. Van Kuyster went on, 
 "and a fine constitution " 
 
 Claude sprang up. " She may have it all 
 all all ! " he said, bringing his fist down on the 
 table with a heavy thud, " but I love Beatrice 
 unreasonable delicate prejudiced illogical 
 conscience-ridden it does not matter; I love her 
 with that love you do not understand love her, 
 if that love leads me into a seven-times-heated 
 furnace ! Good-night ! Call me fool if you 
 like ! " and he left the room, followed by Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster's light laugh. 
 
 The love she did not understand ! and she put 
 her hands over her face.
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Young Love lies dreaming ; 
 But who shall tell the dream ? 
 
 He sees the beauty 
 Sun hath not looked upon, 
 And tastes the fountain 
 Unutterably deep." 
 
 next morning Beatrice missed the rose 
 1 that every day, since the opening of the 
 conservatory, she had found beside her plate. It 
 had become a habit to fasten this rose in her 
 dress, and she looked for it almost unconsciously. 
 No one seemed to observe her after the first 
 greetings, and Claude and John went on with 
 their talk as if no interruption had occurred. 
 
 "Grant to humanity all it wants," Claude was 
 saying, "let all be clothed fed all with leisure, 
 and what would be the point of life ? We should 
 return to the condition of brutes, and vegetate. 
 I consider the inequalities of life, with all their 
 attendant turmoil and confusion, as boons to the 
 human race. I consider it a great good that 
 charity has come down from its high moral plane 
 to be called a science. Once let humanity agree 
 that it is a science, and there will be no end to 
 the refinements it will undergo to the misery it 
 
 185
 
 1 86 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 will not touch to the strife it will arouse. It 
 will look on itself as the Science of Humanity 
 the science that is to take the place of theology, 
 and will serve as an exciting stimulus and prob 
 lem to several generations." 
 
 " From your standpoint," John answered, " I 
 confess that the whole thing does look rather 
 useless. I cannot understand how you live." 
 
 Claude shrugged his shoulders. "As to that," 
 he said, "life holds many things to be enjoyed, 
 and there are interesting experiments and dis 
 coveries yet to be made, and many problems yet 
 to be hammered at. I was only expressing my 
 unwillingness to have the socialistic millennium 
 come in my day. I was in fear that the time-old 
 fact that 'men must work, and women must 
 weep' would become extinct. Weeping and 
 working make a variety for the observer." 
 
 "As much as you seem to appreciate both," 
 John said, "you do not seem to have done either." 
 
 " Indeed, not, and if I keep my senses I never 
 will. My theory is that everybody's duty is to 
 be happy, and, as far as it is consistent with his 
 own welfare, to make others happy. The per 
 fect man will find his happiness in the happiness 
 which he produces. I know what you would 
 say," holding up his hand to John; "' he that 
 loseth his life' I know it is the best we can do ; 
 still, there is another side. Suppose every man 
 should do nothing but devote himself to his 
 neighbor what an awful bore it would be to the
 
 JOHN PA GET. 187 
 
 neighbor. Even the little I have seen of modern 
 scientific charity has shown me how the poor are 
 harried by their would-be helpers. Many are 
 happier when they are dirty, and enjoy the ex 
 citement of stealing a meal." 
 
 John laughed. " A thousand years ago," he 
 said, "our ancestors enjoyed raiding on their 
 neighbors, but it would be no pleasure to you to 
 steal Mrs. Slater's best silver teapot! Just this 
 difference, we hope to make in the descendant of 
 the present thief. Restrain him force his chil 
 dren into a purer environment, his grandchildren 
 will be purer, and in a thousand years they may 
 even blossom into a Claude Van Kuyster ! " 
 
 "Noble ambition!" Claude cried. "I will 
 put on my dress suit and visit the police stations 
 I will say ' my brothers, cease from your evil 
 ways, and in a thousand years you may be as I 
 am ! ' Do you think they would cease?" 
 
 "No," Mrs. Van Kuyster answered ; "it would 
 be another case of pearls and swine. Show them 
 some stoker who has made millions in oil, and 
 is in congress wears diamonds and broadcloth, 
 and doubtful linen he would seem the highest 
 to them." 
 
 " My dear mother, you are charming ! I am 
 pearls, Beatrice ; I must be handled gently and 
 dusted with a rose-leaf." 
 
 " I have no rose-leaf this morning," Beatrice 
 answered. 
 
 " Do you want one ? " Claude asked so quickly
 
 1 88 JOHN FACET. 
 
 that it was revealed to Beatrice that the flower 
 had been banished purposely. 
 
 " No," she answered, " you do not look dusty 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed ; John looked from 
 one to the other, not understanding the situation, 
 and Claude explained. " The flowers depress 
 Beatrice, and I have had them banished ; but she 
 can have them again whenever she wants them." 
 
 "Of course she wants them restored immedi 
 ately, do you not, Beatrice ? " John asked quickly- 
 
 " Of course. I begged Claude not to shut the 
 conservatory." 
 
 " Where do you go to-day, John ? " Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster interrupted. 
 
 " I am going on a tour of investigation. I 
 shall cover my clericals with an ulster, and strive 
 to see the real thing. I wonder if Claude will 
 go with me. Will you ? " 
 
 "Slumming? My dear Jack, impossible! 
 Think of how it would unfit me for living up to 
 the duty of being serenely happy? At best I 
 could only go in a close carriage with all the 
 glasses up, and all the curtains down, and lots of 
 cologne. Any other method would wreck me!" 
 
 " Are you in earnest ? " and John looked puz 
 zled. 
 
 " Of course I am. I do not believe in slum 
 ming. I will build things, and support schemes ; 
 but to investigate the private residences of ' round 
 ers ' and barrel-pickers would seem to me indeli-
 
 JOHN FACET. 189 
 
 cate. You are different, it is a part of your pro 
 fession." 
 
 " I will not be at home to lunch, Aunt Claudia," 
 John said, and turned away. Then Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster followed Claude into the study, and 
 Beatrice went up to what might be called her 
 schoolroom. 
 
 It was a back room, cheerfully furnished and 
 bright with light from two large windows. The 
 outlook was not bad, for, it being a rich neighbor 
 hood, the little courtyards were models of neat 
 ness. One neighbor, whose lowest story pro 
 jected back some twenty feet, had railed in the 
 roof, and every day two children and two dogs 
 were turned out there to play. It seemed piti 
 ful to Beatrice, and yet they looked healthy and 
 happy. The children were in their " pen " 
 this morning, running about with the dogs, and 
 screaming with laughter. What would they think, 
 Beatrice mused, if they could be turned out into 
 the Convent garden ! Claude always spoke of her 
 youth as an imprisonment, yet how much freer 
 than that of these children. The children had 
 brought out their dolls now, numbers of them, and 
 were busy seating them on the stone coping with 
 their backs to the iron railing ; once more the 
 window was pushed open, and the maid put 
 out two doll carriages, and the children trun 
 dled their dolls one by one round the inclos- 
 ure. " How stupid ! " Beatrice thought. " Poor 
 children ! "
 
 19 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 There was a tap at the door, and Claude 
 entered. 
 
 "Idling? "he said; "what will Miss Grigsby 
 say?" Beatrice was surprised : he had only been 
 in her schoolroom once, on the day of installa 
 tion, and she wondered a little. He came and 
 stood beside her. 
 
 " Those children," she said, " I am so sorry for 
 them. I am wondering how long they will play 
 in that stupid way. I had only one doll," she 
 went on ; " so had Antoinette and Marie ; droll 
 dolls, Sister Te"rese made them ; but they had 
 beds of rose-leaves, and swung in jasmine vines." 
 
 " See ! " said Claude, " they are changing their 
 play ; reproducing their own nurses," as the little 
 girls began shaking and slapping the dolls, and 
 reseating them violently on the stone ledge. 
 
 " Poor things," Beatrice answered ; " but what 
 now?" 
 
 The children seemed at a loss for the moment, 
 then stood talking earnestly. 
 
 "Some mischief," Claude said, "see how they 
 watch. Ah ! " as the smallest girl, taking hold of 
 a doll, pushed it through the railings. " Little 
 villains! how they enjoy it." 
 
 One after another the dolls were hurled to de 
 struction ; hurriedly, and with furtive watchings 
 of the nursery windows. But interruption came 
 from below. A footman ran out in the paved 
 court and remonstrated ; this only excited them 
 the more, for the larger girl began to hurl them
 
 JOHN FACET. 191 
 
 over the railing. Then up went the windows 
 and the maids dashed out on the culprits, seizing 
 them and shaking them violently. 
 
 "See!" said Beatrice, "that is just the way 
 they punished their dolls ; and they have not a 
 doll left. I wish I knew them." 
 
 " You shall," Claude answered. "We will 
 take them to drive, and get them a lot more dolls 
 to reward them for their originality. I am glad 
 they have had such a good murderous time. 
 But how are the lessons ? " turning from the 
 window. " I came up to help you." 
 
 " It is German to-day, and I know so little that 
 it is hard." 
 
 " Let me see your task," and Claude drew a 
 chair to the table. 
 
 " A little poem which I have memorized," 
 finding a place in her book. " I have picked out 
 all the words of it, still I cannot express it in 
 English. I think the person who wrote it must 
 have been unhappy. It is about a lonely fir 
 tree shut up in snow and ice, that dreams of a 
 lonely palm tree burning up in the desert sands. 
 It makes me feel lonely too." 
 
 " Heine," Claude said. " Yes, that poem 
 evades English. I often think it, but I think it 
 in German." 
 
 " I am so glad," and Beatrice looked relieved. 
 " I thought it was my stupidity, I am so often 
 stupid. I do not think I understood you this 
 morning. You seemed to be twisting right things
 
 19* JOHN PA GET. 
 
 wrong. You said it was a duty to be happy, and 
 yet, it would be a pity if people could stop 
 working and weeping, for there would be nothing 
 left to do. Don't you know that as long as 
 people are wicked there will be trouble and 
 Avant ?" 
 
 " So the Mother taught you that people are 
 poor because they are sinful ? I know some good 
 people who are poor." 
 
 "That is because other people are wicked. 
 Besides, good people are contented, and content 
 ment is wealth." 
 
 " The Mother is a logician" and Claude looked 
 amused. " Then the way to rectify the ills of life 
 is to make people good. Then what will be left 
 us to do ?" 
 
 " To grow better." 
 
 " I see. Good better best." 
 
 "Yes. Best is God." 
 
 " And when we reach the region of Best ? " 
 
 The girl looked startled. " Of course we shall 
 be satisfied," she said. " Perfectly satisfied." 
 
 " And if you loved one who had different ideas 
 of right from yours," Claude went on, " what 
 would you do ?" 
 
 " I would try to persuade him to my views. 
 If I could not, I would go away and leave him." 
 
 " But suppose he convinced you that his way 
 was best?" 
 
 Beatrice was silent, looking out of the window. 
 " Something always tells us ' do this,' or ' do
 
 JOHN PA GET. 193 
 
 that,' " she said at last, turning her face to his, 
 "and if we obey we will be right. And if you 
 tried to persuade me against that," she went on, 
 innocently transferring his abstract proposition 
 of "someone she loved " to himself, " I would go 
 away and leave you." 
 
 " Leave me to grow worse and worse?" 
 
 "You could come with me and be better." 
 
 " But if I were so what shall I say so " 
 
 " Obstinate." 
 
 Claude laughed. " So obstinate, then, as not 
 to follow, would you still leave me ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " If you loved me loved me better than John 
 or the mother? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then you would be a hard-hearted little 
 monster ! " 
 
 " Still, I would have to go, for you are so 
 clever that you would make me agree with you ; 
 so I would go." 
 
 " Might I not be ' righter ' than John or the 
 mother? Am I not as well educated, have I not 
 as much sense, have I not seen more of the 
 world ? Why may not I be right and they 
 wrong? " 
 
 " It seems to me that you laugh at everything," 
 Beatrice answered. " Nothing seems important ; 
 you go by what is pleasant, and one thing seems 
 as right as another. But John believes things. 
 His eyes light up, and he looks strong and earnest
 
 194 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 to go out and face the world and die like the 
 saints and martyrs!" her own dreamy eyes 
 catching fire as she spoke. 
 
 "And I," Claude said, while the color crept up 
 his face " I am like the Roman youths who 
 watched the bloody shows and turned a thumb 
 down when the victim was to die ? You think life 
 is a show to me, and that I could turn the wild 
 beasts of Poverty and Sin out on helpless human 
 ity and I could laugh, and be almost too lazy to 
 turn my thumb down. Is it so?" 
 
 He paused, but the girl, drawing idly, did not 
 look up. 
 
 "And you would have me spring down into the 
 arena like the young monk and be torn to 
 pieces? " 
 
 " But he stopped the awful shows, St. Telem- 
 achus did," she answered eagerly. " He was 
 grand ! " 
 
 "The wrong only changed its form," Claude 
 went on. "The brute in humanity had to come 
 out, and Christian persecutions took the place of 
 the games. I think it had been better to let the 
 brutality of the ' elect ' come out in shows. But 
 why not have life bright and happy, why insist 
 upon being tragic and solemn and why need I 
 sit here and preach to you ? " 
 
 " I should like to be gay and happy," Beatrice 
 said, " but we ought to live to be good and to 
 grow better." 
 
 " And I do not ask you to do anything else,"
 
 JOHN PA GET. 195 
 
 Claude answered gently, putting his hand on hers 
 to stop her idle drawing. "You have been 
 through a great deal lately that is trying, and I 
 only want to turn your mind away from sad things. 
 I am not like John and never can be, any more 
 than a butterfly can be like a lion ; and the butter 
 fly cannot help brushing the flowers lightly with 
 its wings cannot help enjoying the sunshine and 
 the sweet air. The butterfly could not crush the 
 flowers as the lion can, even if it wanted to crush 
 them down to death as he makes his way into the 
 dark jungles of life. And the butterfly cannot 
 help your seeming a flower to be cared for tenderly 
 kept in the full sunshine and sheltered from the 
 storm, and even from the lion's paw. The butter 
 fly will do his best to keep the flower from the 
 lion, but if the flower insists on coming to destruc 
 tion in the pathway of the lion the butterfly can 
 only suffer. Isn't that a nice little parable?" 
 
 Beatrice^ laughed. " You are so clever," she 
 said. " But it seems so useless to be only a 
 flower." 
 
 " Did you think all these dismal thoughts 
 when you used to watch the jackdaws stealing 
 figs ? " 
 
 " No," drawing her hand from under his in 
 order to turn about curiously his cuff-button that 
 struck her fancy. " No, I used not to think any 
 thing in those days. I did not know how to think 
 until father grew ill, and I used to fan him and 
 listen while he talked to John. And after Aunt
 
 I9 6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Claudia came, I stopped thinking again until you 
 and John began to discuss things." 
 
 "And do you like to think?" 
 
 " I do not know," lifting her face to look out 
 of the window, and resting her hand on Claude's. 
 " I do not really know." 
 
 Claude rose quickly, "/know," he said, putting 
 his hands into his pockets. " I know that you 
 were meant to be a flower ; that your mission in 
 life is to make people happy, and you must fulfill 
 it. It seems to me that this is a high mission, 
 and whenever you consent to be a flower and be 
 gin the serious work of making things bright and 
 beautiful for me and John, we will tune the gui 
 tar and open the conservatory." And nodding 
 gayly, he left the room.
 
 XIV. 
 
 ' ' Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
 And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
 Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
 All things are taken from us and become 
 Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
 Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
 To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
 In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? " 
 
 MARJORIE came to dinner that day, sending 
 a note beforehand to say that she wanted to 
 escape a bore. " I am fleeing a philanthropic 
 terror," she said as they took their seats at table. 
 " I can never bring myself to believe in them 
 thoroughly, because I have the misfortune to be 
 a born skeptic. I am harmless," smiling at Bea 
 trice, who looked startled, " I only mean that I 
 have the skeptical temperament. My Holy GrailH 
 has been the ' ding an sick,' which I translate 
 Reality, with a very big R." J 
 
 " And you do not find it ? " 
 
 " Not so far. I have ' carved the casques of 
 men ' only to find them empty, and I have ' thrust 
 sure' at windmills until that now I am tempted 
 to pitch my tent in the desert of Agnosticism and 
 sink into Nirvana." 
 
 " Marjie, Marjie, what ails you ! "
 
 198 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 " Mr. Paget inspires me. He turns me into an 
 Ancient Mariner, and makes me confess my sins. 
 He is a glimpse of reality." 
 
 " My dear Jack," Claude said, " you had better 
 escape at once. Think of being called ' ding an 
 sick ' and idealized into a kind of Holy Grail. 
 What an awful run you'll have for it." 
 
 " I have been after the ' ding an sick ' myself," 
 John answered. 
 
 " Yes, by the way, your slumming? " 
 
 Waters appeared with a card on his waiter. 
 " The gentleman says he will wait." 
 
 " Why, it is Martin Kinsey ! " 
 
 Marjorie sank back. " It is from him I me / 
 hiding," she whispered. 
 
 " His sister would faint at the thought of his 
 rushing in on us at this hour," Claude said. 
 "And I will bring him in, mother; we will be 
 here for ages yet." 
 
 "So glad to see you," Mrs. Van Kuyster said, 
 shaking hands with the newcomer, " so nice of 
 you to be so sociable." 
 
 "Thanks! You are awfully kind. I have so 
 little time, and hearing Miss Van Kuyster was 
 here, I was glad to catch you together." 
 
 " And I am glad that you should meet my 
 brother Mr. Paget," Claude said. " He is a slum- 
 mer, too." 
 
 " Indeed ! " adjusting his eye-glasses and fix 
 ing his eager eyes on John, while his words 
 tripped over each other with nervous quick-
 
 JOHN FACET. 199 
 
 ness. " You are interested in charities, Mr. 
 Paget ? " 
 
 " I am in orders." 
 
 " Quite so quite so ! I am not in orders, not 
 at all ; but all that sort of thing is very near to 
 me. But the clergy go in for that sort of thing ; 
 they ought to." 
 
 " And they do," John said ; " I have been look 
 ing into the work to-day. In the provinces we \ 
 read a great deal about the degraded poor in the \ 
 cities, and the little done for them." 
 
 " Quite so, quite naturally so ! " Mr. Kinsey 
 interrupted eagerly, " quite naturally so, and you 
 saw it to-day." 
 
 " From my cursory view, I almost think that 
 too much is done in the matter of amelioration." 
 
 " Bravo! " cried Claude. 
 
 "You astonish me!" And Mr. Kinsey laid 
 down his knife and fork. 
 
 " Strange as it may seem, Kinsey, I have looked 
 into this thing myself," Claude said, " and was 
 saying, not long ago, that it is fortunate that 
 charity is leaving the region of the heart, and 
 going to the head is become a science." 
 
 " But I have gone into these things very care 
 fully," Kinsey said. " I belong to a number of 
 societies the Audubon, and the Cruelty to Ani 
 mals and I am on several committees on lunatic 
 asylums and station houses and many other 
 things; and I assure you that not half enough is 
 done."
 
 200 JOHN FACET. 
 
 "Grant all that," John answered. "I meant 
 that to ameliorate is to prevent the eradicating 
 that ought to take place." 
 
 " I have a cousin," Claude said, with a twinkle 
 in his eyes, while the color crept up Beatrice's 
 face, " who declares that the only cure for pov 
 erty and suffering is to make people good." 
 
 "And your cousin is quite right, whoever your 
 cousin may be," John answered quickly. " A 
 man, a gentleman, who lives down in those awful 
 haunts, said to me to-day that the dishonesty of 
 property holders and builders made the slums. I 
 asked him why he did not ' stump ' the country 
 against these people ; he answered that to do that 
 would be to ' stump ' the country against its whole 
 corporate self. That the whole nation would 
 have first to be lifted into a cleaner moral atmos 
 phere. That as long as all offices could be 
 bought and sold, money would be the greatest 
 power in the land, and builders and property 
 owners would be allowed to manufacture slums, 
 would be encouraged to manufacture slums ; for 
 during the elections the power of the slums is 
 immense, and their votes cheap." 
 
 " His assertion is rather sweeping," Kinsey 
 said, more nervously than ever ; " some property 
 owners are very conscientious indeed, Mr. Paget. 
 But you cannot know the impossibility of keeping 
 houses for such people in repair." 
 
 " It is not impossible to prevent subletting and 
 overcrowding," John suggested. " A man who
 
 JOHN PA GET. 201 
 
 owns property there ought to make it his life's 
 work." 
 
 " Mr. Kinsey does a quantity of that sort of 
 work," Margie said* 
 
 " Ah, thank you, Miss Van Kuyster, but really 
 my work is all for helpless creatures birds and 
 beasts and lunatics and prisoners." 
 
 " It seems to me," said John, "that it would be 
 a 'saving of time and money to go to work and 
 destroy some of the causes of lunacy and vice. 
 Wipe out the places where your lunatics and 
 prisoners are manufactured. The destruction of 
 your tenements would lessen your societies im 
 mensely." 
 
 "Is not that a rather large proposition?" 
 Claude asked. " And as your friend says, it can 
 not be, as long as the city government, and the 
 State government, and the national government 
 are bought and sold. The only way would be 
 the individual reform of landlords." 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " You will have to begin with us. then," Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster said, laughing. "The Van Kuys- 
 ters own a great deal of that sort of property. I 
 used sometimes to write for Mr. Van Kuyster, 
 and I know what those tenement people endure. 
 They are slaves to high rents" and ' sweater's 
 wages.' ' 
 
 "You have gone into the subject?" John 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes, and have let it be. I remembered how
 
 202 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 that in the South, when one master would free 
 his slaves some did it it made all conditions 
 worse ; made slaves discontented, and, as a con 
 sequence, masters severe. A solitary slum icono 
 clast would have the same effect." 
 
 " Quite so," Martin Kinsey agreed quickly. 
 " Turn the poor things out, and they could only 
 crowd into the next tenement. More crowding, 
 you see ; and to stop their taking boarders would 
 be to stop a source of income." 
 
 " Shoot the sweaters," John suggested quietly, 
 " and lower the rents ; then they would not need 
 such large incomes." 
 
 " To lower rents is simply to insure over 
 crowding," Mrs. Van Kuyster answered. " It 
 must be a concerted movement." 
 
 "And as landlords will not concert, and the 
 state cannot destroy under the existing system," 
 Marjorie summed up, " the only thing left to do 
 is to join Mr. Kinsey 's societies to soothe the 
 lunatic, cheer the prisoner, and enjoy the punish 
 ment of keepers." 
 
 " It seems an awful conclusion," John said 
 slowly. 
 
 " My dear Jack," and Claude held his wine 
 glass up to the light, " you take things too des 
 perately ; you turn everything into a life-and- 
 death problem. You, and all other philanthro 
 pists go on the supposition that these creatures 
 and other beasts and birds suffer as we would 
 suffer under like conditions. They do not be-
 
 JOff.V PA GET. 203 
 
 cause they cannot. For generations I, for in 
 stance, have lived a satin-lined life ; my whole 
 mind and body are adjusted to a satin-lined life. 
 A loosely rolled umbrella is a pain dust, a great 
 trouble. I cannot even drive through lower New 
 York to the docks without many shocks to my 
 whole nervous system. A railway station is an 
 abomination. I send my man ahead to buy tick 
 ets and bestow my luggage ; I rush through the 
 station and take my seat with my back, as far as 
 possible, to my fellow-travelers. You cannot 
 persuade me that a low-caste piece of humanity, 
 or a horse, suffers all these delicate agonies, or 
 requires this same satin-lined environment ? My 
 chief grievance is that I do not own enough 
 tenements to possess myself of a private 
 car." 
 
 " Do you really own tenements ? " John asked. 
 
 " No, not really. The governor settled the 
 tenement property on mother ; mine is in shops 
 and uptown houses." 
 
 " My father left me slaves ; my husband left 
 me tenements," Mrs. Van Kuyster said. 
 
 " I would not mind either," Marjorie answered. 
 " Your slaves were freed. Probably the govern 
 ment, when sufficiently centralized, will pulldown 
 your tenements. Meanwhile, take time by the 
 forelock, and invest the proceeds in something 
 else. That is what you should have done in the 
 case of the darkies." 
 
 " My husband did sell my slaves," and Mrs.
 
 204 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Van Kuyster smiled ; " the price was invested in 
 uptown tenements." 
 
 " Hard luck for a conscientious woman with 
 cultivated tastes and ' flesh-pot blood,' " Claude 
 said, laughing. " I am almost as sorry for you as 
 for Kinsey, here ; he is a born philanthropist, and 
 yet owns tenements." 
 
 " My grandfather owned slaves too," Kinsey 
 said hesitatingly. 
 
 "A Southern man ?" 
 
 "No; oh, no! Massachusetts." 
 
 "So? then you burnt witches also," and Mar- 
 jorie laughed. " You have more than your share 
 of heredity, I think ; a witch-burner, a slave-owner, 
 and a tenement landlord ; dreadful ! " 
 
 Kinsey looked at her doubtfully. " It is really 
 very bad," he said earnestly. " Our ancestors 
 were queer." 
 
 " Very queer, to state it gently; " and Marjorie 
 followed Mrs. Van Kuyster and Beatrice from 
 the dining room. 
 
 "What are you going to do with Martin Kin 
 sey ? " Mrs. Van Kuyster asked, as she and Marjorie 
 stood near the drawing room fire, Beatrice having 
 gone into the study. 
 
 "Nothing," Marjorie answered. 
 
 "I was sorry for him during the tenement dis 
 cussion," Mrs. Van Kuyster went on, " and amused 
 when John asked if I had studied the subject. 
 Mr. Van Kuyster used to collect the statistics 
 for my benefit, and focus them and the ills of sla-
 
 JOHN PA GET. 205 
 
 very for me ; then left the property so that I can 
 not possibly sell it." 
 
 "Then you are not responsible," Marjorie 
 said gently. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked amused. 
 
 " You are sorry for me ? " she asked. " Do you 
 suppose I am sensitive still? It would not be 
 possible. I have sounded so many depths that 
 I have reached the point where life seems a farce. 
 I assure you that I am very comfortable. My \ 
 teeth are sound, my digestion good, and I sleep 
 like a top. What more can anyone ask ? "
 
 XV. 
 
 " What of the end, Pandora ? Was it thine, 
 The deed that set the fiery pinions free ? 
 
 What of the end ? These beat their wings at will, 
 The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill 
 
 Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. 
 Aye, clench the casket now ! Whither they go 
 Thou mayst not dare to think ; nor canst thou know 
 
 If Hope, still pent there, be alive or dead." 
 
 THE gentlemen came in presently, and Claude 
 missed Beatrice. He had to wait before 
 going in search of her, however, and during that 
 time she appeared. She pushed aside the portiere 
 and looked in doubtfully, and Claude waited to see 
 what she would do to whom she would come. 
 
 Martin Kinsey, seated near Mrs. Van Kuyster, 
 was talking rapidly. John, leaning on the mantel 
 piece, was listening to Marjorie ; Claude was stand 
 ing there too. At the first movement of the 
 curtain, Marjorie knew that Claude's attention 
 was gone, and instantly became more interested 
 in him than in her own words. She still talked, 
 however, and John still listened. 
 
 Presently Beatrice came forward, making di 
 rectly for Claude. Marjorie's voice ceased, and 
 John turned to see the cause.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 207 
 
 "Are you very busy? " Beatrice asked, looking 
 up at Claude. 
 
 " My dear child, how can you ask ? Is not 
 Marjie talking ? Still, what is it ? " 
 
 And Marjorie thought, " How well he does it!" 
 for she had caught the flash of triumph in his 
 eyes when the girl came to him. 
 
 "An English composition," Beatrice answered. 
 " I know that I ought not to interrupt you, but I 
 cannot even begin it." 
 
 " And the subject ? " 
 
 " Modern Civilization." 
 
 The trio laughed. 
 
 " How simple," Marjie said. " Suppose we write 
 it turn about ? Miss Grigsby will think that she 
 has unearthed a genius. Let us go to the study." 
 
 " No," Claude answered. "That will not help 
 Beatrice in the least. You stay here and empty 
 your vials of conversation on -Jack ; I can reduce 
 modern civilization to a pulp in a few minutes, 
 not to speak of Miss Grigsby." 
 
 John watched them go with a look of surprise 
 in his eyes, and Marjie watched him. " Is he 
 beginning to understand ?" she wondered. But 
 his expression had not changed when again he 
 spoke to her. 
 
 " How kind Claude is to Beatrice," he said. 
 " She seems to turn to him quite naturally." 
 
 " Do you think it hardship to be kind to a 
 pretty girl ? " 
 
 " A composition is always dull work."
 
 208 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 "Would you have found it dull if Beatrice had 
 come to you ? " 
 
 "No; but then I love the child." 
 
 For a moment Marjie was speechless, then she 
 went on : 
 
 "Claude is very fond of Beatrice too." 
 
 " Fond of her ? He scarcely knows her." 
 
 " If Claude takes a fancy, he cannot be kept 
 at a distance. If he should meet and like the 
 Angel Gabriel, he would make the angel his 
 friend in fifteen minutes." 
 
 " What you say is quite true," John answered, 
 laughing. " I am glad he likes Beatrice ; he 
 seems nearer her age than I can feel myself to be. 
 I think of her always as a child, and yet, she is 
 seventeen. Her mother married at sixteen." 
 
 "Was the mother as beautiful as Beatrice ?" 
 
 " Is Beatrice beautiful? " 
 
 "Are you blind?" 
 
 " When you live with a person always, you for 
 get looks." 
 
 "You should go to Washington and Boston to 
 see the sights; a fortnight would do it comfort 
 ably, even with your bad eyes." 
 
 " We were speaking of Beatrice." 
 
 "We were speaking of blindness." 
 
 John looked at her thoughtfully. "You are 
 trying to tell me something," he said simply, 
 " and I am too dull to see. I am awfully stupid 
 sometimes." 
 
 " Yes, you are," promptly. " Go to Washing-
 
 JOHN PA GET. 209 
 
 ton, Boston, and Philadelphia, if you like ; then 
 come back, and you will be able to take a new 
 view of us. There is nothing like absence for 
 teaching one the value of things." 
 
 "You think I do not value my friends 
 enough ? " 
 
 "In bulk, yes; I mean relative values. Some 
 one of us must be more necessary to you than 
 some other of us. Away, you will be able to 
 grade us; at present we are in some confusion. 
 Your work stands first." 
 
 " As it shall do always." 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " I will admit no doubt." 
 
 "Grant work the first place, then ; after work 
 comes Claude ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then your aunt? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then Beatrice and I in the background. 
 Poor little Beatrice ! to think of that beautiful 
 nose being broken, not to speak of her heart." 
 
 " You go too fast ; I did not grant this last 
 proposition. Beatrice goes without saying." 
 
 " Ahead of your work ? " 
 
 " I feel her my most sacred duty." 
 
 "A duty?" 
 
 " Of course : she has no one in the world but 
 me." 
 
 " Cousin Claudia and Claude." 
 
 " Oh, that is temporary ! She belongs to me."
 
 210 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Then you should take charge of her educa 
 tion." 
 
 John looked at her intently, a slow fire seem 
 ing to catch in his eyes. He moved away 
 abruptly, upsetting with his elbow a little vase 
 that stood on the mantelpiece. Marjorie caught 
 it, with an exclamation that made him face about 
 again. 
 
 " A most valuable bit of porcelain ! " she said. 
 " I have saved it. I shall demand it of cousin 
 mine by right of salvage." 
 
 "I shall add my entreaties," John answered, 
 " and we will call it the reward of divination." 
 
 " And are you glad to have eaten of the tree 
 of knowledge ?" 
 
 " No ; you have set my life in battle array 
 against me. At least, so it seems to me now." 
 He paused, looking down into the fire. " So it 
 is ! " raising his eyes to hers with a pain-stricken 
 look in them " So it is ! " 
 
 In the study, Beatrice was working faithfully; 
 somewhat mystified, but going on obediently, 
 this being her only hope of getting her task 
 done. 
 
 " In the beginning there was but one notion, 
 self-preservation but one determining quality, 
 strength," Claude dictated, walking up and down 
 with his hands behind him and a set look on his 
 face that seemed out of all proportion to the 
 work of the moment. " The strongest were best
 
 JOHN PA GET. 211 
 
 able to survive to seize and to keep. They in 
 spired in their fellows fear and awe ; from this 
 they became rulers chiefs ; after death were 
 deified. These strong ones demanded a certain 
 behavior from their fellows : this demand was 
 the beginning of law. The behavior was the 
 beginning of manners and customs." 
 
 Beatrice looked up. " Is this really true, 
 Claude ?" 
 
 " Of course, dear ; does it not seem perfectly 
 simple and reasonable? The awe these chiefs 
 inspired was the beginning of religion." 
 
 " But, God, Claude ? " 
 
 " How do you think of God ? " 
 
 "As my Father in heaven." 
 
 " Why do you think of God as a person, dear?" 
 
 "The Mother said it was a mystery. That 
 God said. ' Let us make man in our own image,' 
 so we cannot think of anything grander than 
 man. That is what she taught us." 
 
 " So in the beginning they deified man ? " 
 
 "The Mother said that the Incarnation lifted 
 humanity up. From the beginning the spirit of 
 God was in man the breath of life and only 
 man himself can destroy the divinity within him, 
 and become a brute. You say man was deified. 
 I do not know just where the wrong comes in, 
 but you seem to lower God." 
 
 " While the Mother elevated humanity? Then 
 she is a greater civilizerthan I am. Now, slavery 
 was an instrument for taming barbarous man.
 
 
 212 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 The Zeit-Geist is the great regulator of manners, 
 customs, laws, and creeds. The Zeit-Geist is the 
 Time-Spirit," he added, in answer to a puzzled 
 look from Beatrice. " It sweeps toys away from 
 children and tribes it sweeps trammels away 
 from men and nations. In one age Might rules 
 in another Right must rule. We are in a tran 
 sition state; we have neither Might nor Right, 
 and the world knows not where to turn, for the 
 false and the true seem to be inextricably mixed. 
 This mixture can scarcely be called civilization, 
 but it is modern without a doubt. Man is con 
 fused because his mental self has developed more 
 rapidly than his moral self. Intellectual teachers 
 have but one cry ' Advance, explore ! ' Ecclesi 
 astical teachers have but one cry ' Walk in the old 
 paths!' The old paths have become ditches like 
 the path of the mill-horse about the mill. The 
 wind of truth is blowing the dust from the road 
 of progress into the ditches of the old path, and 
 the Zeit-Geist is leveling them over. Soon the 
 moral nature will be set free to progress ; then 
 Might, that is, Customs and Creeds, will be packed 
 out of sight into the old path, and Right, because 
 it is Right, will rule the world." 
 
 " Are the creeds wrong?" looking up with con 
 sternation in her eyes. 
 
 " The creeds are mighty," Claude answered. 
 " See what Miss Grigsby will say," then he sat 
 down beside her. Beatrice read the remark 
 able production, and Claude, reading it along
 
 JOHN PA GET. 213 
 
 with her, showed her where a word was mis 
 spelled. 
 
 " The Mother would be shocked, that of all 
 words you should not know ecclesiastical ! " 
 
 " I am mortified," Beatrice said slowly, while 
 the blood stole up in her face.- Claude watched 
 the changing color on the cheek so near his eyes 
 a tide of tint, not color ; up to the blue-veined 
 temples up under the shadow of the drooped 
 lashes down the soft curve of the throat it crept. 
 His hand, that lay on the back of Beatrice's chair, 
 closed on the top round with a sudden grip that 
 jarred her slightly. She looked up. 
 
 " I was only joking about the spelling," he said. 
 A simple speech to make his voice so breathless. 
 " You have been most carefully taught drilled, ! 
 in fact." 
 
 She did not answer. Her eyes were fastened 
 on his wistfully, questioningly, like the eyes of a 
 child. His expression puzzled her. He looked 
 away, moving idly the pens and pencils that lay 
 on the table. He must not make a fool of him 
 self and terrify her, he must waken her gradually. 
 He took up her hand that still held a pen took 
 it up quite carelessly and looked at it. 
 
 "The hand of a musician," he said; "long, 
 slender fingers. Do you believe in palmistry?" 
 
 " Old Angela did," the girl answered, " and 
 she would never tell me what she saw in mine." 
 
 Claude turned her hand over, while the pen 
 dropped with a little clatter. " A very nervous
 
 214 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 hand," he said, " and you have a very hard time 
 introspectively. You are an idealist and a 
 mystic and an aesthete, and all the rest of it 
 and the life line is neither deep nor long lucky 
 girl ! It is all nonsense, dear," raising her hand 
 to his lips* " You have got a very nice little 
 hand, built on purpose to make music, and gather 
 flowers, and pull open purse-strings ; and as far 
 as I have the ordering of said hands, they shall 
 never do anything else. What do you think?" 
 
 " Very nice, but rather useless." 
 
 " Think of the good you can do when you pull 
 open the purses." 
 
 " I have no purses." 
 
 " My dear child, all our purses are yours ! Be 
 sides," he added mendaciously, as he saw the 
 color spring to the girl's face, " from your mother 
 you have a little surplus of your own. Have 
 you no check-book? John turned over every 
 thing of yours to the mater as your guardian, and 
 as I am her business manager, I must see to this. 
 You must have a bill at a book shop, a confec 
 tioner's, a florist's, and anywhere else you like. 
 We will institute them to-morrow; then there 
 will be some point to your walks with your very 
 respectable woman Billings." 
 
 " And the tenement people they were talking 
 about at dinner," Beatrice went on, her eyes 
 shining ; " there must be children there ; might I 
 give them things?" 
 
 "Of course, dear; we will make a pilgrimage
 
 JOHN PA GET. 215 
 
 to all the nurseries, and orphanages, and chil 
 dren's homes and hospitals, and have a good 
 time. Once you are interested, you will grow 
 well and strong, and not be homesick any more ; 
 then we can open the conservatory, and tune the 
 guitar." 
 
 " Do it now, Claude," laying her hand on his 
 impulsively. " I am happy now I am not 
 homesick ! " 
 
 " I am afraid ; I am an arrant coward about 
 people looking sad." 
 
 " Open it ! " rising and moving toward the 
 closed doors, " open it now. Please, Claude !" 
 
 Claude hesitated a moment, then followed her. 
 " Will you promise me," he said, standing be 
 tween her and the doors, '! promise to tell me if 
 it makes you homesick ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Promise to hunt me up whenever you feel 
 blue?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Promise to come to me for everything you 
 want ?". 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " To look on me as your Father Confessor and 
 business manager ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Promise, as you hope to save your little 
 soul ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He stood looking down on her a moment, then
 
 2l6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 reaching the key from a bracket near at hand, he 
 opened the doors. A wave of warm, sweet air 
 and a dim vision of moveless flowers. 
 
 " In a garden they would be nodding," the girl 
 said. " Here they stand still and dream like the 
 pine tree that dreamed of the palm. Does every 
 thing dream and long, Claude?" Then she 
 turned quickly away. 
 
 " Homesick ? " Claude asked, stopping her with 
 a hand on the shoulder. 
 
 " Only a moment. Don't shut it up can't 
 you understand? I cannot explain. I call it 
 homesickness because I know no better name ; 
 but I have felt it at home when the moon would 
 rise over the water, and the waves reached long 
 ingly up the land. I have felt it because a 
 guitar was thrumming in the street because the 
 mourning doves were cooing in the Convent gar 
 den. It seems to me that these flowers must be 
 longing for the flowers that are blooming and 
 blowing wherever it is warm and sweet. They 
 are all Southern flowers. Don't you know how 
 tears come into your eyes because you are 
 happy?" 
 
 "I will not shut it," Claude said, and wondered 
 how much longer he could keep up this " broth 
 erly business." " You may have your little tear 
 ful joys as often as you like," he went on, "if 
 you will promise to take your tonic, and to exer 
 cise faithfully. Tell me what you are thinking 
 now ; something unflattering, I am sure,"
 
 JOHN PA GET. 217 
 
 " You are a puzzle ; you seem to have hard 
 spots in you. I 
 
 " I did not think you would call me lumpy ! " 
 
 " Of course I expressed it badly, but something 
 seems missing in you. You can put a wall behind 
 your eyes, as it were, and a slab over your feel 
 ings, and yet, you are always reasonable." 
 
 " It is reasonable, but unfeeling to mix tonics 
 and tears. I agree with you entirely ; but an 
 excess of feeling is unwholesome and uncivilized ; 
 it shows a great lack of culture, and a surplus of 
 liver." 
 
 "But you have feelings." 
 
 "A headache now and then, a little fury for an 
 ill-cut glove." 
 
 " I am not so silly as you think. More than 
 once I have seen your heart in your eyes." 
 
 " My heart in my eyes ! My child, do you 
 know how the heart looks ? It is large, and 
 round, and red ! " 
 
 " Please be in earnest. If you ridicule me like 
 this I cannot keep all my promises. I cannot 
 confess if you laugh at me." 
 
 " You are quite right ; ridicule is death, and 
 not for several universes would I murder one of 
 your little thoughts or fancies. But I should 
 like to make you so happy that you would not 
 always see ' the tears in mortal things/ but some 
 times the smiles." 
 
 " You do make me happy," looking up in a 
 way that made Claude put his hands behind him.
 
 21 8 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 and long for some interruption from the outer 
 world. " You are kinder to me, more thought 
 ful of me than anybody has ever been. You are 
 constantly arranging pleasures for me. It does 
 not seem to me that you can have time to think 
 of anything else." 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " I was afraid so. Please leave me alone. It 
 worries me to think what a trouble I am. I 
 assure you that I am not accustomed to so much 
 spoiling, and I do not want to be a bore. I will 
 understand that you are fond of me without all 
 this." 
 
 " Fond of you ? " 
 
 She drew back, the color leaping into her face. 
 "You are so kind to me that I thought you must 
 like me a little." 
 
 Claude laughed. " You are quite right, I am 
 very fond of you. I repeated your words because 
 ' fond ' is rather a stranger to my vocabulary. I 
 like / like awfully. For instance, I like you 
 awfully. You are ' fond ' of things you find things 
 ' droll ' you ask for a ' bit.' It was only the 
 phrase I was thinking of." 
 
 The door opened and Marjorie came in. 
 
 " I want to go home, Claude," she said, " and I 
 do not want Martin Kinsey to go with me ; get 
 your hat and coat, please. How is the composi 
 tion, Beatrice ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was finished long ago ! " 
 
 "And what have you been studying since?"
 
 JOHN- PA GET. 219 
 
 " Many things," Claude answered : 
 
 " Why the sea is boiling hot, 
 And whether pigs have wings." 
 
 " ' I doubt it,' said the carpenter, 
 And shed a bitter tear," 
 
 Marjorie quoted. 
 
 " You were ever a skeptic, Marjie ; make your 
 farewells, my dear, while I fetch my hat and 
 coat."
 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " When the fight begins within himself, 
 A man's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, 
 Satan looks up between his feet both tug 
 He's left, himself, i' the middle ; the soul wakes 
 And grows. Prolong that battle through his life ! 
 Never leave growing till the life to come ! " 
 
 MARJORIE'S teaching had a varying effect on 
 John. For a day or two he had put it away 
 from him, but, the scales having fallen from his 
 eyes, he could not help seeing. Even a retro 
 spective glance proved the truth of Marjorie's 
 assertion that he was blind and stupid. He 
 laughed, remembering it. He thought that he 
 would have preferred hearing nothing of the mat 
 ter until it was announced. It would be ; an un 
 sophisticated child like Beatrice could not resist 
 a man like Claude ; and there was no reason why 
 she should resist him. 
 
 He was sitting alone in the study with a book 
 turned down on his knee and a paper knife in his 
 hands. A slightly wrought silver thing, and he 
 bent it slowly back and forth bent it double 
 while he thought. 
 
 It would be a very good marriage for Beatrice, 
 and settle her beyond most of the ' chances and 
 changes ' of life. She would be his little sister.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 221 
 
 He twisted the paper knife round and round, 
 and looked at it reproachfully when it fell apart. 
 What a fool he was ! He must go down to the 
 shops and replace it at once. Possibly his aunt 
 might want something, or Beatrice ; he would go 
 up and see. He had not been into Beatrice's 
 schoolroom since the first day. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster smiled and said she wanted 
 a gray gauze fan, if John would select it for her 
 at Tiffany's. 
 
 Going up the next flight, he tapped at the 
 open door of the schoolroom. Billings sat sewing 
 near the window, and Claude and Beatrice were 
 at the table with their heads together over a 
 book. They looked up in much surprise. 
 
 " Why, where are the slums? " Claude asked. 
 
 " I cannot go every day, you know," ap 
 proaching the table. " I have class work at the 
 seminary." 
 
 " So you have." 
 
 "Just now, I am going down to the shops, and 
 thought that Beatrice might want some errand 
 done." 
 
 "Oh, thank you! " 
 
 " Don't you want the coupe ? " Claude asked. 
 
 " Thanks, I prefer walking. Another com 
 position, Beatrice ? did the last win a prize? " 
 
 "Indeed not; Miss Grigsby was quite angry." 
 
 " Miss Grigsby is not advanced," Claude said. 
 " I am waiting now to have a long and exhaustive 
 discussion with her."
 
 222 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " I wish I might hear, but I must go. I 
 am sorry I can do nothing for you, Beatrice 
 good-by." 
 
 Why had he been such a fool as to suggest 
 doing errands for the family; they had regarded 
 him quite as if he had lost his senses. Was he 
 fool enough to think that he could enter the lists 
 with Claude? Even if he had the skill, he had 
 no right. His past life, that he was hating more 
 and more each moment, bound him. Was 
 Claude's past any better? Manifestly, this was 
 not his affair ; Mrs. Van Kuyster was the girl's 
 guardian, and all his responsibility in the matter 
 was with himself. 
 
 A gray gauze fan silver-gray. He did not 
 believe that Mrs. Van Kuyster wanted it really; 
 she had a queer look in her eyes when she gave 
 him the commission, for he had been idiotic 
 enough to tell her that he was on his way to ask 
 if Beatrice wanted anything. It was a perfectly 
 new thing for him to do, and of course, if 
 Marjorie could see through things, Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster had seen, too ; they had discussed it all, 
 probably. Confound it ! While he was flapping 
 about like a bat ! 
 
 He selected a fan and ordered it sent up; if she 
 did not want it, she could send it back. The 
 paper knife he matched exactly, and left the 
 broken one to be mended. He would keep the 
 mended one as a reminder of his temporary in 
 sanity. He hoped that it was temporary. He
 
 JOHN PA GET. 223 
 
 bought also a little pansy pin, with a diamond 
 dewdrop in the center. It would be quite proper 
 to give it to Beatrice; she was his little sister. 
 And when he reached home the little brooch was 
 locked away in his desk. 
 
 He read diligently until lunch, and at lunch 
 declined to realize Claude's possessive way with 
 Beatrice; but going out to walk after lunch, he 
 reflected on it. Of course Mrs. Van Kuyster saw 
 it, for it was ridiculously plain. Beatrice seemed 
 to take it as a matter of course. She liked being 
 watched over and directed. She had hermother's 
 dreamy, dependent, ease-loving nature weak, in 
 short. And how could she help that, poor child? 
 Was he weak enough to grow spiteful to Beatrice 
 and jealous of Claude? He had no right to think 
 of Beatrice in any way. 
 
 And Elizabeth ? Since Marjorie had opened 
 his eyes, how continually she had haunted him. 
 Surely he had done right in forsaking that old 
 life, so full of evil a life that he now loathed ! 
 Was his memory playing him false, or had Eliza 
 beth been as strong as she seemed to him now ? 
 Her father's degradation was a bitter thing to 
 her, yet how she had stood by him, even to the 
 extent of patiently enduring her stepmother, who 
 was most obnoxious to her. And how earnestly 
 she had tried to improve her half-brothers into 
 something decent. What young devils they 
 were ! Of course, having determined to take or 
 ders, he could not herd with such people, and as
 
 224 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 they had lived far from the town, he had found 
 no difficulty in avoiding them. In his content 
 ment at being freed from them, it had not oc 
 curred to him how strange it was that he never 
 saw Elizabeth after the day she helped him home. 
 But now he wondered over it. She could have 
 put herself in his way if she had wanted to ; was 
 it possible that she had avoided him ? 
 
 Elizabeth had a steadfast face and level brows, 
 and eyes that looked calm to the extent of cold 
 ness. He had been attracted by this quiet re 
 serve and dignity that was so out of keeping with 
 her apparent place in life, where the women were 
 usually viragoes and worse. When he knew her 
 better and found out how far her father had 
 fallen, he put down the good qualities to heredity ; 
 for as her mother had died at her birth, she had 
 always been free to be the lowest of the low. 
 
 Why should she haunt him now? He struck 
 his stick on the pavement impatiently. Poor 
 Elizabeth ! What had become of her and her 
 little dog Wamba ? Wamba would be a big dog 
 now. A sick setter puppy, a waif whose life she 
 had saved. He remembered so well when she 
 named the clumsy, tumbling creature. The men 
 at Marsden's had tried to drive it away, but she 
 had been kind to it, and in spite of everything it 
 would creep back to her when night fell. At last 
 they were about to kill it, when Elizabeth rescued 
 it, and announced that, if they touched it, she 
 would retaliate in kind. She took it out of the
 
 JOHN PA GET. 225 
 
 house after this, and by the light of the moon 
 she bathed the poor bruised body and named it 
 Wamba. 
 
 " He is a fool in his faithfulness," she said, 
 looking up at John, and in the moonlight he had 
 seen the sneer upon her lips. It was pitiful that 
 a girl of her age could sneer at faith. 
 
 Again he struck his stick on the pavement. 
 What were her views of her kind now ? how faith 
 ful had she found them? 
 
 The last time that he had ridden out to Mars- 
 den's, Elizabeth and Wamba met him on the edge 
 of the chaparral. The picture came before him 
 vividly. The world seemed to be all gray sky 
 and gray prairie that met far away ; down in the 
 west a dash of red like a smear of blood ; then 
 the line of leafless chaparral, and a white speck. 
 As soon as he descried that speck, he knew it to 
 be Elizabeth. He slackened his pace after he 
 saw her; his head ached, and he had come 
 against his will. He hated all the world that 
 afternoon, and was angry that Elizabeth should 
 wait for him. Had he given her unnecessary 
 pain when he met her? She had looked better 
 than usual. Her hair rippled back prettily, and 
 she had on a plain, dark frock, with a white ker 
 chief about her throat. This was the white he 
 had seen so far away. Every circumstance of 
 that evening was as clear in his mind as if it had 
 just happened. How rough the loft was where 
 Elizabeth lived and kept her few belongings;
 
 226 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 and how perfectly neat. He had been astonished 
 to find books up there ; remnants of what her 
 father had once owned, and the Marsden coat-of- 
 arms pasted in under the old man's name! She 
 had studied each one' of these books, and 
 " Wamba, the faithful fool " had appealed to her. 
 
 " I am a faithful fool," she said, " my dog is 
 another ; we do to go together. I have named 
 him well.' 5 John could hear her voice he could 
 feel her close beside him as he bent to rebuke 
 her for her bitter words. His face burned, and 
 his breath seemed to come with difficulty. Was 
 he the same man as Elizabeth's " Jack? " 
 
 It was nearly five years. She had loved him, 
 and for a time he had thought honestly that he 
 loved her. He had been sure of it, but love was 
 higher than anything he had given Elizabeth. 
 And if she had loved him truly, she would have 
 sent him from her, and from his evil companions. 
 He was quite sure that if he loved anyone, he 
 would put her good before his own happiness. 
 Elizabeth had not done this, and yet she was 
 coming back to him as the strongest woman he 
 had ever known. 
 
 Was it love for Beatrice that made him analyze 
 love? 
 
 During these days when John was trying to 
 readjust himself with both past and present, 
 Claude watched him curiously. His unique 
 offer to shop for Beatrice was puzzling, especially 
 as nothing had followed. Since then he had
 
 JOHN FACET. 227 
 
 held aloof, scarcely seeming to observe the girl. 
 Claude thought this a more dangerous sign than 
 the effort to approach her; for to anything ex 
 cessive there must come a reaction. 
 
 He wondered if John realized that he loved 
 Beatrice, and was fighting the feeling ; or was 
 still fighting blindly against acknowledging the 
 feeling. 
 
 In either case there would come a reaction, 
 and Claude determined to be prepared.
 
 XVII. 
 
 " How the world is made for each of us ! 
 
 How all we perceive and know in it 
 Tends to some moment's product thus, 
 When a soul declares itself to wit, 
 By its fruit, the thing it does ! " 
 
 MARTIN KINSEY was a great resource to 
 John at this time ; so was Marjorie ; and it 
 was not long before the latter was going with the 
 two men on some of their expeditions. " I am 
 old and ugly enough," she said, laughing, "and 
 sometimes it is almost exciting. One does not 
 know Mr. Paget, Cousin, until one sees him at 
 work. The whole man is changed and filled 
 with magnetism, and the worst people heed him." 
 
 " And the smells, Marjie ? " 
 
 " They are pretty bad, but I carry my salts, 
 and when no one is looking I take a sniff. Last 
 night I persuaded Martin Kinsey to take me 
 where I could see Mr. Paget at his rescue work. 
 Of course this is a dead secret between you and 
 me and Beatrice not even Mr. Paget knows 
 for it was questionable. But I assure you it was 
 far better than any play. Mr. Paget went to 
 this saloon entirely alone, he will go alone ; 
 Martin Kinsey is so devoted to him, however,
 
 JOHN PA GET. 229 
 
 that he follows and watches. We watched last 
 night from the shadow of a shop awning. There 
 was a screen across the entrance, but there was a 
 group of men between it and the door. As Mr. 
 Paget stepped in a man jostled him purposely, 
 and Mr. Paget asked him why. 
 
 " ' Because you've got no business here.' 
 
 " ' This is a free country,' Mr. Paget answered, 
 'and if I have money to pay for a drink, I sup 
 pose I may come and get it as well as you." 
 
 The men all gathered round him and asked 
 what office he was running for. 
 
 " ' I want to be a priest in the Church,' he said. 
 You should have heard the awful groan they 
 gave. Mr. Kinsey made me take my hand off his 
 arm. 
 
 " ' They may hustle him,' he said, ' and I must 
 be ready to run in.' Actually I began to tremble 
 with excitement, but Mr. Paget stood there very 
 quietly with his hands clasped behind him, until 
 the same man jostled him again, then he turned 
 and said : 
 
 " ' I have been a cowboy out on the border; I 
 have had to fight for my life many and many a 
 time, and possibly I can teach you something. 
 Why, once ' and then he began to tell a story. 
 I cannot pretend to tell it, but every man there 
 listened, and when he was done three or four 
 went away with him. Awful looking brutes, 
 walking off so quietly. And to see Martin Kin- 
 sey's eagerness. This philanthropy business
 
 230 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 used to be a fad ; now he is so desperately in 
 earnest that at last he is interesting." 
 
 "But you must not go into the rescue work, 
 Marjorie, that is going too far; suppose there 
 had been a difficulty ? " 
 
 " I should have run for the police." 
 
 " And have had the town agog over Miss Van 
 Kuyster in the witness-box of the police courts ! 
 / would have had to go with you." 
 
 " Poor cousin, it would have been truly awful ; 
 Claude would have had convulsions." 
 
 " Unimaginably awful ! Did you have on this 
 frock ? " 
 
 " No. You need not be afraid of me ; that 
 garment hangs in the trunk room. But does Mr. 
 Paget go to Newport with you ? " 
 
 " I am afraid not: I think he will only run up 
 and down : he is absorbed in this work. You 
 will come as usual ? " 
 
 " I will, but not immediately; I will follow in 
 in a week or two." 
 
 " Why do you wait ? " 
 
 "Why do I go? Why do I do anything? 
 Because there is nothing else to do. I think that 
 I am entertained just now, so will remain where 
 I am until that fallacy is exploded ; then I will 
 come to you in Newport." 
 
 " And you think that this delusion will last a 
 whole fortnight ? " 
 
 " A week at the outside ; the second week 
 will be consumed in preparations."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 231 
 
 " Why do you not study? " Beatrice asked. 
 
 They had forgotten the girl, and now Marjorie 
 turned to her, laughing. 
 
 " Is it possible you would have me pose as a 
 bluestocking? " 
 
 " I thought it would entertain you, and " 
 
 " And improve my mind ? Say it out, dear, I 
 like your little reproofs and suggestions. But to 
 what purpose besides entertainment would all 
 this mental effort tend ? A few years of superior 
 education for which my circle has no use, and 
 then? Nirvana?" 
 
 " What is Nirvana ? " 
 
 " It is the Buddhist heaven, which practically 
 amounts to annihilation." 
 
 " But that is not true. When we die, we go 
 into another life and carry all the best things 
 with us." 
 
 "Languages and music and drawing?" 
 
 "Not the actual things, the Mother said; but 
 all the true and the beautiful and the good that 
 education introduces us to. Is it not so, Aunt 
 Claudia?" 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "So I must study? Perhaps I shall. Which 
 instructress goes with you?" 
 
 " I left it to Beatrice, and she has selected Miss 
 Grigsby." 
 
 "The cross one?" 
 
 "She is so poor," Beatrice explained, "and I 
 thought the change, and having enough to eat,
 
 232 JOHN FACET. 
 
 would be good for her. Claude said that he 
 would do German and French with me." 
 
 " So Claude is making use of his education. I 
 will assist in your music, perhaps. But what can 
 Sister Grigsby teach me ? " 
 
 " Oh, she is awfully learned ! " 
 
 " That sounds well. Perhaps I shall follow you 
 in ten days, cousin ; this educational mania may 
 be interesting." 
 
 "It is interesting," Beatrice insisted. "Claude 
 makes everything so easy. I begin to think that 
 after all I am not entirely stupid. John used to 
 make me feel very hopeless." 
 
 "What did John teach you?" Marjorie asked. 
 
 " I used to read Church history aloud to him. 
 He said that the history of the Church was the 
 history of the world. Maybe it is ; I do not 
 remember, but it was awfully dismal, and I used 
 to cry. You see, Joh'n had reason to think me 
 dull ; he needs clever people like you, Miss Van 
 Kuyster, to interest him." 
 
 " Thank you. Claude, I suppose, is not so 
 exacting." 
 
 "Claude? Nobody knows how gentle and 
 patient he is. I have never had anyone so good 
 to me before." 
 
 " And you love him very much ? " Marjorie 
 asked. 
 
 " How can I help it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster's embroidery needle moved 
 more slowly, and Marjorie walked to the window.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 233 
 
 " No one has ever been unkind to you ? " Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster suggested. 
 
 "Oh, no! but nobody ever troubled to ask if I 
 were happy or not; nobody ever put me first 
 before. It is nice to be first ; don't you think so, 
 Aunt Claudia?" 
 
 " Yes, child, if it be only a dog that loves you 
 best, it is something." 
 
 "Cousin!" and turning from the window, 
 Marjorie laid her hand impulsively on Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster's shoulder. 
 
 "Thank you, dear," looking up with a serene 
 smile; "you are a great deal to me." 
 
 The spring was growing into summer, and the 
 annual move to Newport, which Beatrice had 
 looked forward to as a great joy, was now in the 
 near future, but she had ceased to think of it 
 longingly, for the city life had become a charming 
 thing. Very soon she had been promoted from 
 the riding club to riding in the Park with Claude ; 
 besides, Claude had taken her on many expedi 
 tions, introducing her to art exhibitions and 
 shops that were dreams of delight. Her wish to 
 make poor children happy had been indulged in 
 many ways, and Claude thought it worth a for 
 tune to see her face when she was distributing 
 toys in a day nursery. Always free from care 
 and responsibility, her young life had been nega 
 tively comfortable; now it had become positively 
 happy. Thanks to Claude, even her lessons had
 
 234 JOHN FACET. 
 
 been made pleasant, and all Miss Grigsby's sharp 
 criticisms were cleverly blunted before they 
 reached her. Miss Grigsby, however, deeply 
 resented Claude's interference ; she had never 
 forgiven the composition he had dictated, and 
 once had gone so far as to appeal to Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster, when she found a volume of Matthew 
 Arnold's poems in the schoolroom. Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster listened, then told her that Claude had 
 taken charge of his cousin's education. 
 
 Miss Grigsby was not agreeable, and Beatrice 
 knew that she could easily have her dismissed ; 
 but she had seen that there were holes in the 
 good lady's gloves, and that on cold days she 
 looked quite blue, and she said in confidence to 
 Claude : 
 
 " I am sure she does not have enough to wear 
 nor to eat." 
 
 "And you think that is why she is cross? " 
 
 "I am sure it is; and since I have lived here I 
 have such a horror of people being cold and 
 N hungry. In the South it is easy to keep warm 
 and not starve; but here the streets look so hard 
 and the houses so unapproachable, and the wind 
 is so sharp. I feel so selfish when I meet a 
 woman hugging herself in a thin shawl, and I all 
 wrapped in furs. Once I bought a shawl and 
 made Billings carry it until we met a poor woman. 
 Billings did not like it ; she said people were 
 looking at us. Then the woman said such bad
 
 JOHN PA GET. 235 
 
 words when I gave her the shawl it was 
 awful." 
 
 " Poor child ! " and Claude laughed. " Did the 
 woman put on the shawl?" 
 
 " No. Billings 'said she would sell it for drink. 
 Do you think she did ? " 
 
 " Probably. But I will send some shawls to 
 Kinsey to distribute for you at one of his station 
 houses, will that do? " 
 
 "You are so good to me, Claude." 
 
 " Pure selfishness, I assure you. You are 
 ' something to do,' don't you know ? " 
 
 " I keep you very busy, and make no return." 
 
 " Indeed you do. You sing for me every 
 evening, making me feel myself a Spanish Hi 
 dalgo, owning the waters of youth in the far-off 
 ' Land of Flowers,' and a private bull-ring at 
 home ; or a Mexican ranchero able to shoot my 
 neighbor or steal his cattle, to ride like the wind 
 across the prairies, or drink myself crazy. And 
 this is a great boon to a poor man whose only 
 resort is an extremely conventional club, a trot 
 in the park, and the whole vista of the future 
 blocked up by a bald head and an enlarged waist. 
 You put a touch of the unusual into my days, 
 with your unblunted sympathies and unique 
 training." 
 
 " Aunt Claudia says that I must not be uncon 
 ventional." 
 
 " My darling child, that is a woman's view. I
 
 236 JOHN FACET. 
 
 love you better than Aunt Claudia does. I think 
 I may say that I care more for you than any 
 one else does. I would not tell you anything 
 that was not for your good, and I am in serious 
 earnest when I charge you on no account to 
 change. Don't try to be like other women. If 
 you do " 
 
 The girl looked up wistfully. 
 
 " I will stop loving you without a moment's 
 grace." 
 
 "O Claude!" 
 
 " Indeed I will." 
 
 " But could you ? Can people stop loving all 
 in a minute like that ? " 
 
 " I can." 
 
 " I could not. I could not even do the way 
 John does forget slowly." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that he does not seem to remember 
 that I am in the world. He likes to talk to that 
 Mr. Kinsey, though, and to Miss Van Kuyster; 
 they seem to be together all the time." 
 
 " They are interested in the same things. If 
 you want to interest John, now, you must be very 
 wicked or very poor. To be pretty and com 
 fortable and good shuts you outside the pale of 
 John's sympathies. But, of course, he cares for 
 you just as much as he ever did cares more for 
 you than for anyone else in the world." 
 
 To himself Claude said : " Next to a dictatorial 
 devotion, nothing interests a woman so much as
 
 JOHN PA GET. 237 
 
 a pronounced neglect." Unconsciously John 
 had taken the strongest weapon that Claude had 
 left him; and Claude, being a "child of this 
 world," took pains to assure the girl of the mean- 
 inglessness of John's apparent absorption in 
 others.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " And if any painter drew her, 
 He would paint her unaware 
 With a halo round her hair. 
 
 And all voices that address her, 
 Soften, sleeken every word, 
 As if speaking to a bird. 
 
 And all hearts do pray, ' God love her ! ' 
 Ay, and always in good sooth, 
 We may all be sure He doth." 
 
 IF the life in New York had grown to be a 
 pleasant thing to Beatrice, the life in Newport 
 seemed a dream of happiness. 
 
 The beautiful, wide-spreading villa ; the shady 
 piazzas ; the lawns sloping down to the cliffs ; 
 the beds of brilliant flowers ; the beautiful drives, 
 the boats, the sea. The gray days with a light 
 wind that were devoted to sailing ; the long rides 
 and drives on brilliant days ; the walks in the fogs 
 that shut them away from the world, when all 
 was mysterious, and the booming of the sea grew 
 awful. It was like a fairy story too strange and 
 too pleasant to be true. 
 
 Miss Grigsby and the solid studies were not in 
 much demand; for from the beginning Claude
 
 JOHN FACET. 239 
 
 insisted that Beatrice's health must be the first 
 consideration, and that in their walks and rides 
 he was teaching her geology and botany and like 
 healthy things. In spite of earnest efforts on 
 Beatrice's part, however, Claude and MissGrigsby 
 did not get on, and in the many discussions they 
 had Miss Grigsby generally came out the worse 
 for wear. It worried Beatrice, and one aftenoon 
 when she and Claude were walking in the fog, she 
 asked him not to have any more discussions. 
 
 " I cannot always follow them," she said, as he 
 helped her down a very slippery place, " and they 
 worry me for a longtime afterward. They make 
 me feel uncertain about you." 
 
 " And why not about Miss Grigsby?" Claude 
 asked, as, landing her safely on the beach, he 
 took her tennis hat and gloves of which she 
 divested herself, and put them in his pockets. 
 She liked to go bare-headed and bare-handed, 
 and she used the dense fogs as screen for her 
 little unconventionalities. Claude drew her hand 
 through his arm, and pushed his last question 
 " Am I so far below Miss Grigsby that I cannot 
 be trusted? " 
 
 " You do not strike me as being safely 
 religious." 
 
 " There you are mistaken ; I am very religious, 
 and with what I think the highest kind of 
 religion." 
 
 "Are you, Claude?" stopping and lifting her 
 face to his wistfully. " If I thought that you
 
 240 JOHN FACET. 
 
 iwere religious, I should be absolutely, perfectly 
 jhappy." 
 
 As they stood there Claude looked away 
 through the dimness to where great waves rolled 
 sullenly. Gradually he was coming to the con 
 clusion that Mrs. Van Kuyster was right, and 
 Beatrice's belief was in her flesh and blood. He 
 could not sway her from these principles that 
 seemed to be the foundation of her whole nature. 
 He could not let her go. He had gone over this 
 ground many times of late, and now that she 
 pleaded with him for her happiness, he reached a 
 decision quickly. He paused only a moment as he 
 turned his face out to sea, then looking down 
 into her eyes he said : 
 
 " You may be absolutely and perfectly happy, 
 Beatrice." 
 
 " True ? " 
 
 " Have you ever fcund me false? " 
 
 11 I could not stand it to find you false." 
 
 "But even though I am religious, your faith in 
 me is not quite perfect ? " 
 
 She turned away. " You are different from 
 anyone I have ever known," she said; "you can 
 argue from any side " 
 
 " Beatrice ! " 
 
 " Wait a moment. I mean that you are not 
 
 rigid except in what your station in life requires. 
 
 Things are not right and wrong to you as a man, 
 
 but only as a gentleman. Do you see what I 
 
 ^ mean? I have thought about it a great deal."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 241 
 
 Claude's eyes were bright with surprise and 
 amusement. 
 
 "You are an arch deceiver," he said. " Under 
 your ' sweet simplicity ' you are dissecting ruth 
 lessly my moral immoral character. It is not 
 fair." 
 
 " Well, you so often say 'a gentleman can't do 
 that' and once ' it is a waste to spend time on 
 any low-caste people.' But they have souls and 
 hearts, and right is right for a common man as it 
 is for a gentleman, is it not ? " 
 
 " No. That is one of the great mistakes. The 
 proposition that before God all men are equal, 
 cannot be true. The Scriptures tell us of angels 
 and archangels ; and the Church shows us arch 
 bishops, and patriarchs, and popes, and bishops, 
 and priests, and deacons ; down to nuns, and 
 women's auxiliaries, and fashionable guilds, 
 down almost to the democracy of the Salvation 
 Army. If Heaven and the Church are divine in 
 stitutions, republics cannot be. And what might 
 be quite proper for the highest official in the Sal 
 vation Army, could be highly improper for the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury. And though proper 
 and improper are not hanging matters, save in 
 the case of women, they are degrees of right and 
 wrong ; and once you admit degrees, rigid lines 
 become impossibilities." 
 
 " But the Bible does say that God is no re- 
 spector of persons," Beatrice persisted. 
 
 "That only means that the Almighty does not
 
 242 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 gauge man as man does. I give a rich man def 
 erence willingly, so long as he behaves as a rich 
 man should. I salaam profoundly to a prince, if 
 he behaves as a prince should. A gentleman 
 may be as poor as ' Job's turkey ' ; I honor him as 
 much as the prince, if he lives up to his blood. 
 Now, the general rule is to pay deference to the 
 money and the title, and to pass over the poverty- 
 stricken gentleman. This is to respect persons. 
 Don't you see that more is required of a 
 prince, and living up to his station he does more 
 than a rich man who is only a rich man can 
 possibly do it if he lives up to every responsi 
 bility ? Obversely, if a prince fails, he deserves 
 to be kicked out to a much greater distance than 
 the rich citizen would." 
 
 " But the poor creature who lives in the slums ? 
 Everybody in his class of life is wicked and dirty ; 
 so all that you could ask of him would be to stay 
 wicked and dirty?" 
 
 "Your logic terrifies me! " Claude said, laugh 
 ing. "But you are right. A creature who is 
 content in the gutter deserves nothing better, 
 save the penitentiary." 
 
 " There ! " and she stopped and faced him 
 again ; " that is what hurts me that is what I 
 mean ; it is a hardness that could become cruelty. 
 Father and John think as you do about station, 
 but they said that the higher one is, the more one 
 ought to try to help up lower people." 
 
 " Shall I ask my tailor to dinner? "
 
 JOHN PA GET. 243 
 
 " I did not mean socially I meant in a Chris 
 tian way." 
 
 " My child, the Christian way is grand in theory; 
 practically, where it meets the social question, 
 it shades off into social Pharisaism. ' I should 
 like to save your soul, but I can't give you a seat 
 in my pew or ask you to dinner ! ' Now the so 
 cialist comes to anarchy, and the humanitarian 
 makes charity into a science that leaves the hu 
 manity of the pauper out of account, because it 
 leaves love out of account. Mine is the only 
 logical position ; live up to the requirements of 
 your station, and be comfortable in believing that 
 the law of ' the survival of the fittest ' is the 
 greatest regulator and adjuster possible." 
 
 " That is so unmerciful." 
 
 " Is Nature unmerciful ? It is her chief law." 
 
 " I wish I knew enough to argue further, but 
 if you would only be less logical and more mer 
 ciful, I think it would be better." 
 
 "If you will love me I will be anything" lay 
 ing his hands on her shoulders. 
 
 Something in his eyes made her look falter, 
 and she drew away from him. 
 
 " I do love you," she said slowly. 
 
 "How do you love me?" Putting his hands 
 in the pockets of his sack-coat, and looking 
 down on her much as a cannibal might have 
 done. 
 
 "With all my heart," she answered simply; 
 "just as I love John."
 
 244 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Do you love me enough to give yourself to 
 me ?" he went on. 
 
 " Do you mean to marry you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You should ask Aunt Claudia that," with an 
 access of dignity; "she or John must de 
 cide." . 
 
 " Shall I ask them, then ? " and in spite of him 
 self he smiled. " And if they give you to me will 
 you come?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "And love me better than you love John?" 
 
 "I do not know if I can promise that." 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 " I have loved John all my life, you see." 
 
 " But it is wicked to love anyone more than 
 you love your husband." 
 
 "Oh! but many girls love their father and 
 mother better than their husbands,'^ and she 
 looked curiously at Glaude, who, equally divided 
 between amusement and annoyance, was pulling 
 his mustache rather savagely. " Sister The"rese 
 told "me so ; and when I asked the Mother she 
 said that if I respected my husband, that would 
 be all that any well-brought-up girl could do at 
 first that the love would come afterward." 
 
 "And if it did not?" 
 
 " There would be the respect." 
 
 " Suppose that after you were married you 
 should meet someone you loved better than your 
 husband?"
 
 JOHN PAG7\ 245 
 
 " That would be impossible it would be 
 wrong." 
 
 " And wrong is impossible to you ? " 
 
 " It would be impossible deliberately to choose 
 wrong, I think ; just as jumping off that cliff 
 would be impossible unless I lost my mind." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 They walked on in silence for a little while, 
 then Claude said, "I will ask for you, then." 
 
 "Do you really want me?" Looking up and 
 coloring like the inside of a sea-shell. 
 
 " I really want you," Claude answered quietly, 
 while the veins in his forehead stood out like 
 cords. 
 
 " I am so simple, Claude, and ignorant I am 
 so young I am afraid you will grow weary." 
 
 " Will you come to me ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And after awhile you will love me better than 
 all the world?" 
 
 " Of course ; and you are so good to me, it will 
 not take long." 
 
 Claude stopped still ; he longed to shout with 
 laughter; he almost wished that Marjorie were 
 there to see the humorous side of the position he 
 longed to snatch up the girl and rush away with 
 her to the ends of the world. Instead, he said : 
 
 "I asked the mater for you long ago, dear, and 
 she said yes ; but I wanted to win you for myself, 
 so I did not tell you. I asked the very first 
 evening after dinner."
 
 246 JOHN FACET. 
 
 Beatrice's eyes grew wide with wonder. " Be 
 fore I knew anything, or had any good clothes?" 
 
 "Before you had been in the house twelve 
 hours. But I wanted to win you have I ? " 
 
 She turned her face away, looking out to sea. 
 All the while he had loved her! How kind, how 
 gentle, how patient he had been ; how he had 
 watched over her! In all her life, no better 
 thing had come to her no better thing could 
 come to her. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, looking up into his shin 
 ing eyes " yes, you have won me." 
 
 He drew her close to him and laid his cheek 
 against her little wet face. "You will never be 
 sorry?" he asked "never lose your mind and 
 want to jump over the cliff?" 
 
 "Never, I think."
 
 XIX. 
 
 " An unaccomplished destiny 
 Struck cold his forehead, it may be." 
 
 I come in, mother?" And Claude ham- 
 mered impatiently on Mrs. Van Kuyster's 
 dressing room door. 
 
 " Yes, come in. My dear boy, you are soaking 
 wet ! " 
 
 " Only fog ; we have been out walking, Beatrice 
 and I." 
 
 " Instructing her as to amphibious animals, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Anything you like. But do you know how 
 nuns conduct betrothals ? " 
 
 " Claude ! " 
 
 " I am in earnest. I have proposed to Bea 
 trice." 
 
 " Of course " 
 
 "There was no 'of course' in the matter," 
 Claude interrupted ; " she was as proper and as 
 simple as possible ; but I see that if this thing is 
 not done formally, as the Reverend Mother would 
 do it, she will not be satisfied. A finished co 
 quette could not have tormented a man into a 
 finer frenzy than she did me." 
 
 ' How charming ! I wish I had been there,"
 
 248 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " I wish you had. I longed for someone to 
 enjoy it with me. I love her a thousand times 
 better for it." 
 
 " You are positively beside yourself." 
 
 " Of course I am. When a girl defers the 
 whole matter to her guardian, saying coolly that 
 once married it will not take her very long to 
 love that anything else would not be correct 
 it is enough to put a man beside himself." 
 
 " How remarkable ! " Mrs. Van Kuyster said. 
 " Unconsciously that child has managed you as 
 no wisdom could have done." 
 
 " True ; she binds me hand and foot by her 
 simple passivity. If you should say no, I believe 
 she would resign me cheerfully because it would 
 be right." 
 
 " I told you so." 
 
 "Yes. But can you make this thing formal 
 and solemn, as the Mother would ? " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. " I can only send 
 for the child and tell her how glad I am." Ring 
 ing the bell. " I am glad, since you seem really 
 to love her." 
 
 " Seem ! " Claude repeated as Mrs. Van Kuys 
 ter spoke to the maid. "You do not under 
 stand." 
 
 " Perhaps I do not perhaps that is why I am 
 so contented and happy no wrenching emo 
 tions." 
 
 The door opened and Beatrice came in. "You 
 sent for me ? "
 
 JOHN PA GET. 249 
 
 " Yes, dear " turning and holding out her hand 
 to the girl. " Claude has just told me that he 
 has spoken to you. I gave my consent on the 
 first day of your arrival." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but " and her voice seemed to 
 fail her. 
 
 " I think you will make him very happy," Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster went on, laying the little hand she 
 held in^Claude's. " I am glad to give you into his 
 keeping. We will not make it public yet, how 
 ever, you are so young. And now I must dismiss 
 you both ; I must dress for dinner." 
 
 Beatrice paused a moment, then looked up 
 wistfully. " Won't you kiss me, Aunt Claudia," 
 she asked, " and say ' God bless you ? ' ' 
 
 " Of course, child," kissing her gently, " and 
 God will bless you, you are so good." 
 
 Christine, the maid, entered, and Claude drew 
 the girl away. In the dusky hall he paused, and 
 took the little face between his hands. "You are 
 mine now," he said, " and must come to me for 
 all your love and blessings." 
 
 " Yes, I will ; but I had hoped that Aunt 
 Claudia loved me a little." 
 
 "She does; but the mater either used up all 
 her power for loving long years ago, or she has 
 none, I cannot decide which. But I love you 
 enough for two, dear ; will not that satisfy 
 you ? " 
 
 " You are very kind." 
 
 " But it does not satisfy you ? "
 
 250 JOHN- PA GET. 
 
 " Of course. I should be ungrateful indeed if 
 I were not satisfied. I wish old Angela were 
 here, or John. I will write to John will not 
 you ? " 
 
 "Yes. Good-by until after dinner," and he 
 kissed her gravely. She baffled him; perhaps she 
 really meant it when she said she would have to 
 learn to love him. She did not seem to love him 
 now. 
 
 Writing to John was almost a sort of vivisec 
 tion. Yet, John had not raised a finger to stop 
 him, and he must have seen what was going on. 
 He would simply announce the fact the shorter 
 the better ; but it was hot a pleasant job. And 
 yet, if John knew, as he was beginning to realize 
 painfully, how elusive was the prize, would he 
 find much to envy ? That Beatrice was capable 
 of a great and absorbing passion of devotion he 
 was absolutely certain. Why had not he wakened 
 it? She was undoubtedly fond of him he 
 made her happy she would miss him if he were 
 gone, and yet, she eluded him at every turn. 
 Was it the spiritual side of her the religious, 
 fetish-worshiping side of her that evaded him ? 
 She was not satisfied, herself ; the blessing she 
 had asked for, the wish for the old servant and 
 for John, showed it. When John came, would 
 she turn to him and find the vacuum filled? 
 Claude swore a little under his breath. He must 
 keep John away until he had won the girl en 
 tirely.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 251 
 
 This view of John's relations with Beatrice 
 made the letter an easier thing to compose. 
 
 John found the letters on the hall table after a 
 long day's work. The woman left in charge had 
 lighted the lamps in the study and in the hall, 
 but this evening he seemed to realize all the 
 darkness in the great still house. In the day he 
 did not think of his loneliness ; his work, as as 
 sistant in a down-town mission, occupied him 
 fully, and his meals were taken in a restaurant, 
 but this evening he was unusually tired, and 
 things seemed dreary. 
 
 He had begun to think that the sufferings of 
 the poor were as great, if not greater, in summer 
 than in winter. The heat was so intense ; the 
 crowded tenements were so insufferable. Why 
 did not all die men, women, and children ? 
 
 He had buried two little children that day he 
 was always glad to do it to feel that they were 
 at rest. The mothers did not regret it, either 
 "They are better off," was the formula. And 
 now he was really glad of the property his aunt 
 had settled on him, for there was so much to be 
 done. Work enough to fill hundreds \>f lives ; 
 and to do it properly the lives ought to be un- 
 trammeled. Nothing to hold one back, nothing 
 to tempt one, not even sympathy that would say: 
 "You are overworked ; you have done more than 
 your share " or " Your work is so noble, so 
 high!" Human nature was too weak even for
 
 252 JOHN FACET. 
 
 this encouraging praise. The only way was to 
 lose self ; to forget if one were tired or hungry ; to 
 forget whether others worked or idled ; to forget 
 that praise or blame existed. That was the only 
 way. Never to loosen rein ; never to lessen the 
 spur ; to drop in the race, and die on the roadside 
 this was to live. And he, feeling himself weaker 
 than most men, must drive himself without 
 mercy, must never look either to the right or to 
 the left. He was too weak to dare the happy 
 mean. 
 
 He leaned back wearily in the deep chair, his 
 letters held loosely. Only one thing haunted 
 him a doubt as to his duty. Had he not tram 
 meled himself in the past ? Those old ties that, 
 in his early zeal for a purer life, he had broken so 
 relentlessly; had he had a right to break them? 
 Legally, yes, in the letter he was free, but the 
 spirit ? He closed his eyes, and the face of Eliza 
 beth rose up before him. She had left him abso 
 lutely free, and he had used his freedom to drop 
 her out of his life. She had made no motion 
 to recall or to reproach him she had never sent 
 him even a message. Could he have been as 
 strong as that ? It was almost grand, for he knew 
 that she loved him. 
 
 He had never questioned his action with regard 
 to Elizabeth until he found that he loved Bea 
 trice. 
 
 At the thought of the girl, a relaxing despair 
 seemed to sweep over him, and his head drooped
 
 JOHN PA GET. 253 
 
 on his breast. He had never known what love 
 was until now, and now he knew how Elizabeth 
 had suffered; and was suffering still, perhaps; 
 for Elizabeth would not forget. Was it his duty 
 to search her out ? It could not be ; it would de 
 stroy him heart and soul. He would never try to 
 win Beatrice, or any woman, but he could not 
 go back to the remnants of those days he had 
 learned to loathe. The Prodigal had not gone 
 back to the husks and the swine. 
 
 How hard he tried to deceive himself he knew 
 Elizabeth was not that. 
 
 He drew himself together. This struggle beset 
 him whenever a quiet moment came beset him 
 in his devotions in his sleep. He was weary, 
 and looked at his letters. One from Claude one 
 from Beatrice. Did it mean anything, their coming 
 together? Any letter might tell him the thing 
 he dreaded to hear. Day after day he told him 
 self : " It is only a matter of time" but he shrank 
 from it as he would shrink from putting a red-hot 
 iron into an open wound ! 
 
 He read Claude's letter first. It was a plain, 
 clear statement of the fact that Beatrice had 
 accepted him, and he hoped that John, as co- 
 guardian with Mrs. Van Kuyster, would approve. 
 Then he went on to name the most liberal settle 
 ment a fortune, in short. 
 
 John read it through. A good letter from an 
 honorable gentleman ; what more could any 
 guardian ask? He opened Beatrice's note,
 
 254 JOHN FACET. 
 
 DEAR JOHN : 
 
 I am to marry Claude. He asked Aunt Claudia long ago, 
 and she consented, but he did not tell me, because he wanted 
 to win me himself. Do you like it ? Claude is very good to 
 me, and gives me all I can possibly want, except you, and 
 I want to see you very much. You do not seem to care for 
 me now as you used to do at home. You seemed to be fond 
 of me then ; now you have put me to one side, and only your 
 work interests you. I am not jealous of the work, but I am 
 homesick. I was happy and contented until I found that Aunt 
 Claudia had given me away, but that has made things so 
 irrevocable. I cannot keep house for you now as you prom 
 ised. Do not think that I am unhappy ; I am not, and I love 
 Claude very much, but Claude is not you, and there is no 
 place like our shabby little home in Corpus. Why did we 
 ever come away ? When Aunt Claudia gave me to Claude 
 she did not kiss me nor bless me until I asked her ; and then 
 she kissed me on the cheek and said she was sure that God 
 would bless me because I was good. I longed for father or 
 you, or even old Angela for somebody who loved me really. 
 Have you not time to come down ? 
 
 Lovingly, 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 John folded it carefully, returned it to its en 
 velope, and laid it on the table. An involuntary 
 thrill of exultation went over him. Claude had 
 not won the girl yet ! Dear little thing so pure 
 so gentle. What a paradise he could make for 
 her, now that he understood her! He had been 
 mistaken in trying to train her ; she needed no 
 training, only love ; for her heart would always be 
 a child's heart, trusting and unquestioningly faith 
 ful. She had keen observation, but never any 
 harsh judgment. Evil puzzled her, and always
 
 JOHN- PA GET. 255 
 
 would. Claude had read her more quickly than 
 he, and of course would win her unless ! John 
 covered his face with his hands. How base he 
 was ! He must not try to win her ; he had decided 
 that ; and he must even refuse her little prayer 
 to come to her. She had better believe him to 
 be selfishly absorbed in his work. Claude was 
 her future, and surely it was a good future. He 
 turned to the table ; he would write at once and 
 destroy the temptation. God would help him to 
 find peace, once he had put this thing aside. 1 
 
 A short note to Claude, and to Beatrice a long 
 letter. He sent his sympathy and blessing, and 
 showed her how bright her future could be. Then 
 he described his work, and told of the suffering 
 he witnessed day after day of the sick and 
 dying, who needed him. " This is my work that 
 God has given me to do," he finished, " and I 
 must not leave it, even for you whom I love far 
 better than any except God. You must not 
 think for a moment that I have forgotten you ; 
 your welfare lives in my heart ; your work in life 
 will be to make the lives of those about you 
 brighter and happier ^by simply living and being 
 yourself. I only ask you to add to this work 
 some thoughts and prayers for your brother, that 
 I may be strong to resist temptation, and that, 
 however weak and sinful I have been or may be, 
 God will forgive me, and bless my work to my 
 fellows. I ask for nothing but work His work. 
 When I go back to the South, wherever I may
 
 25 6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 be stationed, you and Claude will come to me. 
 In spite of all the ease and luxury you find here 
 I think you will never cease to love the South 
 and your brother John." 
 
 He inclosed this letter in Claude's. It made 
 a formidable looking missive, and Claude felt a 
 little uneasy as he opened it. What in the world 
 had John to say to him, that would require such 
 a volume ? 
 
 " From Jack," he said, as he tore it open. 
 Marjorie looked up quickly. The engagement 
 was no surprise to her, but she wondered a little 
 how John would take it, and she looked with in 
 terest at the thick letter that Claude was opening. 
 The thickness was all due to an inner, unsealed 
 envelope. Claude turned it over. 
 
 " For you, Beatrice," he said. " I have only a 
 note." 
 
 It was very short ; but as Claude read his face 
 changed. How he had mistaken this man in 
 judging him by worldly standards. How 
 ashamed he felt of the thought he had entertained 
 that he must take Beatrice farther away. John 
 was grand. He handed the note to Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster. " It is the letter of an anxious father," 
 he said lightly, feeling obliged to say something 
 for his own relief. " You read it also, Marjie, then 
 maybe Beatrice will let me have a look at hers." 
 
 Beatrice started and looked up ; there was a sus 
 picious moisture in her eyes. " May I read it first 
 by myself?" she asked.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 257 
 
 " Of course ! " Claude answered. " I was only 
 joking, dear" and rising, he held the door open 
 for her. 
 
 " John loves her better than you do," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster said when Claude returned to his seat. 
 
 " He cannot, my dear mother." 
 
 " He must ; he is a better man." 
 
 " Oh ! that sort of better ; I grant you that ; 
 John is too good ; he is going to make hash out of 
 his life. He had a far better chance for Beatrice 
 than I had, and why he did not take it I cannot 
 imagine. Some religious fad, as I told you from 
 the beginning. He has lived a wild life on the 
 border, in his early youth, and his one idea seems 
 to be to atone for it ; or, he might have ties we 
 know nothing of." 
 
 " For shame ! " Marjorie cried ; " I have never 
 heard you make a really mean speech before, 
 Claude." 
 
 " My dear Marjorie, you are hasty ; you have 
 lost some of your civilization lately. Listen : 
 a man as chimerically conscientious as John 
 would make ties out of words and actions that 
 a man of the world your humble servant 
 would not so much as remember; and I do not 
 doubt but that some ridiculous youthful folly is 
 the rock on which he will shipwreck his life. 
 Now repent your attack on my innocent self ! " 
 
 " Mr. Paget is the noblest man I have ever 
 met," Marjorie said, " and I do not see where 
 the line of conscientiousness can be drawn. It
 
 258 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 seems to me that, logically, it is all or nothing. 
 The lines of right and wrong, of duty and obli 
 gation, have got to be clear-cut and rigid." 
 
 " Whew ! My cousin, my comrade, my chum, 
 have I lost you ! " 
 
 " I'm afraid not," Marjorie said. " I realize it, 
 but I cannot live up to it. Whether I would or 
 not, habits, follies, weaknesses, have grown too 
 strong for me. The low standards of my youth 
 hold me away from the really high. I am even 
 sorry that I have seen it." 
 
 " My dear Marjorie," Mrs. Van Kuyster said, 
 "you have been always such a comfortable per 
 son, I beg that you will not grow morbid and 
 moody. Really you are one of my chief depend 
 ences in life." 
 
 " Am I, Cousin? I am glad to know that. I 
 am afraid that you may depend on me still; 
 once I have confessed my sins, I will not change. 
 We shall have to make a compact like the blind 
 man and the deaf man ; we will supplement each 
 other and hobble through life as best we can." 
 
 Claude walked to the window impatiently. 
 " I am sorry that John and Beatrice ever 
 came," he said ; " we were quite comfortable be 
 fore, and now we are upset with all sorts of 
 motives, and stupid introspection and moral 
 indigestions and probings ; and I turn hot and 
 cold a dozen times a day because of a child who 
 asks uncomfortable questions and has a hectic 
 conscience. My dear Marjorie, come to your
 
 JOHN PA GET. 259 
 
 senses. Life is as good as ever it was ; we ' have 
 our nuts and teeth to crack them' and nothing 
 special to repent of. I used to think that I 
 yearned for earnestness that if I could find a 
 thoroughly conscientious Christian, I would per 
 mit myself to be convinced, and throw in my lot 
 with his. Now, I begin to appreciate old Rat- 
 cliffe. He told me once that I was mistaken, 
 that I and the whole parish would rather be 
 comfortable. He was right ; I will make a 
 motion to increase his salary. If earnest, con 
 scientious, consistent Christianity means John's ^j, \ 
 way of doing things John's standard of self- 
 abnegation, John's rigid scrupulousness, I am 
 
 not in it. I cannot rise to that height, and I will 
 
 not try." 
 
 " ' Fish we are that love the mud,' " Mrs. Van 
 
 Kuyster quoted. 
 
 "Anything you please," Claude answered; 
 
 " and my work in life will be to make Beatrice 
 
 think that the mud is the sward of Paradise." 
 " You will never do it," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 
 said ; " I told you so long ago." 
 
 "God forbid that you should!" Marjorie 
 
 added. " It would be an awful sin. You must 
 
 leave her in her own world, Claude, and save her 
 
 happiness from shipwreck by never allowing her 
 
 to realize your world." 
 
 " You speak as if I lived in the depths of 
 
 degradation." 
 
 " Worse than that," Marjorie answered, " you
 
 260 JOHN FACET. 
 
 \ do not live at all you exist in the lifeless desert I 
 of critical negation. Nothing sweet nor true ^ 
 can live there ; nothing high can breathe there. 
 It would kill Beatrice." 
 
 "By Jove! I must go until you people have 
 recovered your tempers. I advise a mint julep 
 to pull you together" and he went out hastily. 
 
 " I told you that all would break their hearts 
 their own way," Mrs. Van Kuyster said, as she 
 threaded her needle. " Nothing else ever satis 
 fies humanity." 
 
 " I do not call Claude's a heart," Marjorie 
 answered ; " it is a bundle of selfish desires and 
 expediencies. I think that he loves Beatrice as 
 much as he can love, but he cannot touch her on 
 the spiritual side, for Claude has no spiritual side ; 
 it died of starvation. Whether one holds the 
 Scripture divine or not, one must hold it as wise, 
 and two things it says that I have watched work 
 ing out in Claude ; one is that spiritual things are 
 spiritually discerned so it is that Claude under 
 stands neither Beatrice nor Mr. Paget the other 
 is, that there is a spiritual death." 
 
 " Perhaps," Mrs. Van Kuyster answered. " But 
 which shade shall I vein this leaf with?" hold 
 ing up her embroidery. "Light or dark? my 
 needle is threaded with dark." 
 
 " Light, then," Marjorie answered. " To un 
 thread your needle puts a little bit of work into 
 your life." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyste laughed. " You are saucy,"
 
 JOHN PA GET. 261 
 
 she said ; " I will repay you by repeating to you 
 what I have been telling Claude ; that he would 
 be happier with you, if he could get you, than 
 with Beatrice." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 " He agreed with me entirely, but is infatuated 
 with Beatrice. I have always hoped that you 
 and he would make a match. I care for you 
 more than for anyone else." 
 
 "Thank you, dear. He might have, if Bea 
 trice and John had not come." 
 
 "John?" 
 
 " I only mean that, until I knew Mr. Paget, 
 Claude was the best I had found. Not that I 
 am breaking my bundle of expediencies over 
 Mr. Paget; only that, relatively, my opinion of 
 Claude has lowered." 
 
 " It may come about yet," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 went on. " For if John lifts a ringer, Beatrice 
 would obey." 
 
 " I do not agree with you. John is now pos 
 ing in Beatrice's mind as a fleeting blessing, and 
 so she imagines him to be the greatest good in 
 life. But in reality, Claude is more necessary to 
 her. One thing I am sure of, however: if she 
 realizes Claude's religious position, she will look 
 on him with horror. I must warn Claude." 
 
 " I think that he has found it out for himself," 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster answered. 
 
 " He says, nevertheless, that Beatrice must be 
 won gradually to think with him."
 
 262 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Still, he told me that what I had said about 
 the girl was true that her belief was in her flesh 
 and blood." 
 
 " It is ; and in Mr. Paget's too. When Chris 
 tianity comes to me as theological science, it is 
 no more to me than any other science ; but 
 when I see it incarnated, as Felix saw it in Paul, 
 I tremble." 
 
 " My dear Marjorie, you are a clever woman ; 
 you talk extremely well, but I prefer gossip to 
 reasoning, and embroidery to feeling. I stopped 
 thinking and feeling some time ago ; and when 
 you harangue me on these subjects, I have a 
 pre-existent sensation, as it were ; just as they say 
 that after a man's leg has been cut off, he can 
 still feel it, and have a shadowy rheumatism in 
 it. It is not a pleasant sensation, and I see no 
 wisdom in subjecting myself to it." 
 
 "You shall not have any pre-existent rheuma 
 tism, my dear," and Marjorie patted Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster's hand gently ; " you have had your 
 share of the real thing, and if ossification has en 
 sued, why, so much the better. I will serve up 
 Mrs. De Loren and her fascinating cousin Dick. 
 Mr. De Loren left in his yacht last week, you 
 know, for a year's cruise, and immediately Dick 
 arrives from South Africa, via Paris, where he had 
 paused to have all sorts of claws and teeth and 
 tails set and trimmed with gold and diamonds; 
 and last night at the ball the fair De Loren looked 
 like a Fiji idol decorated with votive offerings.
 
 JOHN FACET. 263 
 
 Newport is divided between envy and amuse 
 ment." 
 
 " Delicious ! I must have them here ; how can 
 I manage it?" and Mrs. Van Kuyster leaned for 
 ward in an interested way. " It is such a bore, 
 half mourning ; the laws for it are so sketchy. But 
 I must see them together. Dick has always been 
 a favorite of mine, and now that he has made a 
 fortune, he must be charming his poverty made 
 him melancholy." 
 
 " He asked after you last night. Had heard 
 of all the changes in the family, of Claude's in 
 fatuation and Beatrice's beauty, and is coming 
 over at once. Why not have a lilac lunch ? It 
 would be subdued and lovely ; have a man for 
 every woman not many of any kind, and all 
 clever. It would be charming. I could design 
 exquisite costumes for the three of us, and it 
 would pull me out of theology and slums more 
 than anything else. Indeed, the memory of 
 these, my latest fads, will season most charmingly 
 the racy list I will make up." 
 
 " By all means," Mrs. Van Kuyster said. " You 
 are yourself once more. Claude is right ; we 
 used to be most comfortable before John 
 came." 
 
 " And I," Marjorie answered, " feel ' swept and 
 garnished,' and ready to house seven other spirits 
 worse than myself. We will head the list with 
 Ted Dennis ; he is the wisest, wittiest, worst, and 
 most charming man I know. I had best realize
 
 264 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 my limitations as Claude has done. I cannot 
 attain to Mr. Paget's heights, so I will not 
 try." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster smiled. " It is warmer 
 down on the levels with the rest of humanity," 
 she said.
 
 XX. 
 
 ' ' Be not mocked ! 
 
 Life which ye prize is long drawn agony : 
 Only its pains abide ; its pleasures are 
 As birds which light and fly. 
 
 Ache of the birth, ache of the helpless days, 
 Ache of hot youth, and ache of manhood's prime 
 
 Ache of the chill gray years and choking death, 
 These fill your piteous time." 
 
 1 A HE summer was a trying one, hot and damp ; 
 and all through the length and breadth of the 
 land people found fault with it. Even in New 
 port it was "steamy," and extremely detrimental 
 to crisp summer finery. Marjorie declared that 
 never in her life before had she spent so much 
 money on clothes ; and Beatrice wondered more 
 than once at the succession of costumes provided 
 for her. Claude kept a very critical eye on her 
 wardrobe, and Billings and the dressmaker had 
 much to do to please him. 
 
 "You make me feel like a doll," she said one 
 day, when Claude, after changing the flowers in 
 her belt, rearranged the bows of her sash. "A 
 useless puppet to be decorated at will." 
 
 " Did not Jack tell you in that letter that your 
 work in life was to be lovely? " Claude retorted, 
 " and is not my effort to keep you ' trimmed and 
 
 265
 
 266 JOHN PAGET 
 
 burning ' a worthy one ? You are the light of 
 my world, and I cannot allow your brilliancy to 
 be dimmed by crooked bows or ill-chosen flowers. 
 You must let me have my will in this." 
 
 " Of course, but I think so often of the differ 
 ence between us and John ; his life is so high 
 and noble." 
 
 " Do you remember my parable of the lion 
 and the butterfly? You are the flower, I am the 
 butterfly; can we help it? It is fate, dear. Jack 
 cannot flutter, I cannot roar. We had better 
 acknowledge our limitations and be happy. I 
 am free to say, however, that I prefer being the 
 butterfly, with my sweet flower to make life one 
 long joy." 
 
 " It is not right tolove a creature so," Beatrice 
 said gently. " God will not bless idolatrous love." 
 
 "A jealous God?" 
 
 " The Mother said that meant watchful over us." 
 
 " The Mother has a long head, and if I could 
 be converted, you and the Mother would do it." 
 
 " How do you mean converted? You seem very 
 good to me." 
 
 " This world is full of puzzling things, my dear, 
 and of fine distinctions. There are moral men and 
 spiritual men ; and the typical moral man is 
 seldom spiritual, being sufficient unto himself ; 
 and the typical spiritual man is not always moral, 
 being mystically dependent on something out 
 side of himself, that does not seem always to 
 make him toe the mark. I consider myself a
 
 JOHN PA GET. 267 
 
 moral man, but not typical ; and not feeling suf 
 ficient unto myself, I pray to the fetish of blood 
 and station to keep me straight. Now to con 
 vert me would be to make me into a spiritual 
 man. Maybe you will, in time ; so you can sat 
 isfy your little conscience by looking on me as 
 a missionary jurisdiction. I will get a little mitre 
 for you, and a little pastoral staff ; and I will go 
 so far as to say ' baa ' sometimes." 
 
 " You frighten me, Claude," laying her hand 
 on his arm and looking up wistfully. " If I did 
 not know the truth from your own lips, that you 
 are religious, I should think sometimes that you 
 were not a Christian. Do not be offended, " try 
 ing to look into his face that he had turned away. 
 " I know better ; I see how kind and gentle you 
 are, and how you give so much to help the poor, 
 and how you go to church. Of course I know 
 that it is only for argument and for fun that 
 you talk sometimes. You see I have been ac 
 customed to only one kind of people serious 
 people like father and John ; and you are so 
 different that I have to learn you. And now 
 and then a sort of terror comes over me 'suppose 
 Claude means all he says' but I know that you 
 do not. Won't you look at me?" putting her 
 hand on his cheek to turn his face to hers. " I 
 beg your pardon I am sorry I blunder so." 
 
 Claude put her two hands together in his, 
 " Could you love me in spite of everything ? " he 
 asked, looking straight into her eyes,
 
 268 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 i 
 
 " I must love you always." 
 
 " But suppose I should set you free, and tell 
 you that I am a false, wicked man." 
 
 " I should not believe you." 
 
 " Suppose John proved it to you ? " 
 
 " Willfully wicked refusing the right ? " 
 
 " In John's eyes, yes." 
 
 " It would break my heart, and I should 
 die." 
 
 " You love me, then ? better than you did when 
 you were given to me ? " 
 
 " Infinitely." 
 
 " Better than John?" 
 
 " Differently." 
 
 " How do you love John ?" 
 
 " As you would love a saint to whom you could 
 pray. I used to be bored when John would talk to 
 me of the Christian life, for I had not learned to 
 think then ; but now now I think it is the only 
 life. I sit and think sometimes of all the Mother 
 taught me of father of John. What high lives ! 
 I could adore them so, I love John. " 
 
 " And I am different; on a lower level not 
 adored not looked up to ?" 
 
 " You are unkind." 
 
 " Then truth is unkind." 
 
 " But you can be high and noble." 
 
 " What is it to be noble? I do not lie, nor 
 cheat, nor traduce my neighbor. I am not 
 stingy nor low in my tastes." 
 
 " You are like the young man in the Bible ; who
 
 JOHN FACET. 269 
 
 kept all the law, but let the spirit of love go he""") 
 did not give himself. The Mother said that the^/ 
 only true life was the life lived for others self- 
 abnegation is true nobility. I think the reason 
 that I am realizing it now is that I love you. To 
 love anything better than one's self seems to make 
 one understand so many things to see so much 
 more clearly." 
 
 Claude dropped her hands and turned away. 
 Beatrice watched him with a pained look grow 
 ing in her eyes. "Claude!" she called softly. 
 "Claude, I beg your pardon." 
 
 He turned quickly and came toward her. " Beg 
 my pardon, child? I have nothing to forgive. I 
 went away because " 
 
 " I had hurt you ? " 
 
 " Because I felt so unworthy." 
 
 " If you let me go I will die," she said. " My 
 life seemed all to go out of me when you turned 
 away." 
 
 Claude drew her close to him. " You shall not 
 die," he said ; " but remember, I have confessed 
 to you. I am not noble ; my aims and my life 
 are not high as you count high ; I am of the 
 earth, earthy, and in loving me you come down to 
 the earth." 
 
 " Claude ! " Mrs. Van Kuyster called, and Claude 
 went to her, where she was in the study across the 
 hall. She handed him a letter. " From Martin 
 Kinsey," she said. 
 
 " Martin Kinsey? Is Jack ill ? " Then he rca.d ;
 
 2 ?0 JOHN FACET. 
 
 I take the liberty of writing to you, my dear Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster, because I think your nephew needs some good 
 advice and some care. He is overworking himself. I have 
 been away for a little while, and returning find the weather 
 stifling and Paget working as if it were midwinter. This 
 is not the worst. He hears rumors of fever in the South, 
 and says that he will go if it be declared epidemic. I think 
 that this resolution is partly due to his being run down and 
 morbid. Send Claude after him. When you see him, you 
 will forgive my interference. 
 
 " I shall fetch him myself," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 said. " It will have more weight, I think, than 
 your going." 
 
 " I agree with you," Claude answered, folding 
 the letter slowly. " What nonsense, to go South 
 in case of fever ! These very good people are so 
 uncomfortable. When will you go? " 
 
 " To-night. I shall not tell Beatrice or anyone ; 
 I am simply going fora day on business. It an 
 noys me. As you say, there is such a thing as 
 being too good." 
 
 The change from Newport to New York seemed 
 dreadful to Mrs. Van Kuyster. It was many 
 years since she had spent even an hour in the city 
 at this season, and she felt it a great hardship. 
 
 She drove first to the down-town mission and 
 left a note for John ; then, taking an early lunch 
 at a restaurant, went to the house. How the bell 
 echoed through the empty place ; how desolate 
 it seemed, and how very long the woman took to 
 come! Inside, it seemed worse, for everything 
 was packed up and dusty. It must be very
 
 JOHN PA GET. 271 
 
 dreary for John, she thought. The woman 
 opened the study windows and asked if Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster had come to stay. "Air my bedroom 
 and some linen ; I may spend the night; but you 
 need not cook anything for me, I will go to a 
 restaurant." The woman dismissed, Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster looked about her while she took off her 
 gloves and bonnet. 
 
 The table seemed not to have been touched 
 since John had left it. The inkstand was un 
 covered, the stampbox open, and spread out on 
 the blotting book was a letter in Beatrice's hand 
 writing. It was unmistakable. Was it so he con 
 quered himself? 
 
 She folded it and put it in its envelope ; it 
 would hurt him to find that he had left it open, 
 and, if put away, he would at least be uncertain 
 about it. Why had he not striven against 
 Claude could there be anything in Claude's 
 suggestion of former ties? Not a book was out 
 of place not a magazine or newspaper in sight. 
 Did he spend his time beating himself down with 
 that letter as an instrument of torture? This 
 was to be righteous ! Would she ever have been 
 righteous, even if she had married Carter Wil 
 ton been a conscientious, self-sacrificing, devoted 
 Christian like John ? A clergyman's wife, over 
 worked, badly dressed, tired out ! Patching, 
 turning, drudging an upper servant, in short, 
 with a lot of children at her heels. Dreadful ! 
 She would never have known how painfuTanother
 
 272 JOHN PA GST. 
 
 kind of life could be, and would always have 
 deemed herself something of a martyr. It was 
 better as it was ; things generally were better as 
 they were "might-have-beens " were delusions. 
 She would not give up her experience, her suffer 
 ing, for anything; for that would be to give up 
 her development. Some people might not like 
 the thing she had developed into, but that did not 
 hurt her. She could have no deeper sensations 
 now than annoyance, or perfect comfort ; any 
 thing more poignant she was incapable of feel 
 ing. "The string o'erstretched breaks" all the 
 strings that used to vibrate to acute joy or sor 
 row had snapped, and she was glad. Acute joy ? 
 There was one verse in the Psalms that seemed to 
 her the most exquisite description of joy: 
 
 Then were we like to them that dream ; 
 Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue 
 with joy. 
 
 Carter had read it to her long ago before she 
 knew anything but him. She had been perfectly 
 happy once, and that ought to satisfy any creature 
 who looked about with intelligent eyes. She had 
 thought over every possible sorrow that could 
 come to her, and there was not anything that 
 could bring more than discomfort. Physical suf 
 fering might come, but there were narcotics that 
 would let her sleep her life away, and she would 
 use them. The thing that could annoy her most 
 would be the dying out of the name of Paget, and
 
 JOHN FACET. 273 
 
 that did not seem probable, for besides John, 
 Claude had declared that his second son should 
 take the name of Paget. And even if the name 
 should die : what then ? 
 
 She would try to persuade John back to New 
 port with her, and avert this possible unpleas 
 antness of his risking his life in the fever. He 
 could torture himself more effectually at New 
 port, seeing Claude and Beatrice together. She 
 would suggest it. According to John's code, 
 it would be a good way of strengthening his 
 spiritual muscles. How silly humanity was ! 
 even Claude had been betrayed into exaggerated 
 feeling. She wondered what he would do if 
 Beatrice should ever turn from him. It was not 
 an impossible thing ; she was quite capable of 
 throwing over all the wealth and happiness for 
 religious scruples. Under such circumstances 
 Claude would be a study. 
 
 She heard the click of a latchkey, a step in 
 the hall, and rose as John entered. 
 
 " Dear Aunt Claudia ! How nice to see you ! " 
 And he kissed her more than once. She did not 
 move from the circle of his arm, but looking up 
 she laid her hand on his cheek. 
 
 " Do you love me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Aunt Claudia, you know that I do ! You 
 know that I look up to you, depend on you, and 
 think you altogether lovely. You are the nearest 
 thing to a mother that I have ever known. Often 
 I have wished that you were dependent on me ;
 
 274 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 as it is, nobody really needs me, not even the 
 slummites, for there is always somebody to take 
 one's place." 
 
 " I need you," Mrs. Van Kuyster said, and 
 there was a tone in her voice that John had never 
 heard since her first recognition of him a ring 
 of somethinglike despair. " I have come for you," 
 she went on ; " I cannot leave you here any longer. 
 I know that it will hurt you" looking him 
 straight in the eyes " but the best cure for a burn 
 is to hold the burnt spot close to the fire." 
 
 John led her to a chair. " Perhaps you are 
 right," he said. 
 
 " We will pack your things, then, and you will 
 come home with me to-night." 
 
 " Not to-night. There are two people dying 
 down in a stifling tenement a blind, deserted 
 old woman, and a young girl dying of wrong and 
 neglect. Both are afraid to die, and I must not 
 leave them. When they are gone, I will come to 
 you. But you have not told me yet what brought 
 you here? " 
 
 " Martin Kinsey wrote to me about you." 
 
 "And you came entirely on my account?" 
 
 " Perhaps. Martin wrote that there was a 
 rumor of fever in the South ; yellow fever, of 
 course." 
 
 " Yes. Did Martin tell any more tales ? " 
 
 "That you would go if it were declared epi 
 demic." 
 
 " Of course."
 
 JOHN PAGET. 275 
 
 " I see no ' of course ' in it. If you were down 
 there as a clergyman or a physician, then it would 
 be your duty; but you have positively no ties 
 there, and I cannot see how it is your duty to go 
 any more that it is mine." 
 
 " Except to humanity at large, I have no ties 
 anywhere, Aunt Claudia; so that I am the one of 
 all others to go. But there is no epidemic yet, 
 so we will not discuss it, and I will come to you 
 as soon as possible. You think that Beatrice 
 and Claude are doing the right thing?" 
 
 " I think Beatrice would have been happier 
 with you. Marjorie does not agree with me ; 
 she thinks that Claude is necessary to Beatrice's 
 happiness." 
 
 " Then they will be happy ; my only fear is that 
 the girl is so young and undeveloped, and one 
 cannot say certainly of a girl of her temperament 
 that she will be this or that. Of course, with 
 Claude always beside her, her development is apt 
 to take place along such lines as he lays down for 
 her." 
 
 "Claude is a selfish man," Mrs. Van Kuy- 
 ster said, "and seeing him with Beatrice, I realize 
 that he has never really cared for any creature be 
 fore. He really loves Beatrice, however, and it is 
 doing him good. Save for creature comforts, 
 Claude has been absolutely careless all his life, 
 and until now he has never wanted anything ex 
 cept what money could buy. I half way wish 
 that he could be deprived of Beatrice."
 
 *7& JOHN PA GET. 
 
 "Aunt Claudia!" 
 
 "I mean it. It is a wonderful revelation to 
 people such as we are, to find how powerless 
 money is to procure the realities. Life would be 
 a new thing to Claude. The effect would be 
 curious." 
 
 " And you would study him in his pain ? " 
 
 " What else have I to do in life save study my 
 fellows and embroider tea-cloths ? " 
 
 " And the world so full of sorrow and sin ! " 
 
 " Would you send a leper out as a sick nurse ? 
 I am absolutely selfish, and selfishness is the very 
 germ and root of sin." 
 
 " Is your religion nothing to you ?" 
 
 ''What is my religion? That it is not the 
 same as yours is the only thing I am sure 
 of." 
 
 "I do not believe you." 
 
 ' It is true, nevertheless." 
 
 " Don't say that ! I pray that you will not talk 
 in that way ; you may convince yourself in time. 
 Won't you rouse yourself do something for some 
 body ? " 
 
 " My dear boy, I do not want to. For many 
 
 years I have been striving to reach what Claude 
 
 calls the height of civilization, which is to be 
 
 /absolutely without feeling. I can still be dis- 
 
 [turbed by an ill-fitting dress or a badly served 
 
 dinner, but not much." 
 
 John walked to the window and stood looking 
 out for a moment. "If this is so," he said at last,
 
 JOtttf FACET. a ? 7 
 
 < l why should you care if I work myself to death, 
 or die of fever in the South ? " 
 
 " You are the last of the Pagets," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster answered. 
 
 " You asked me a moment ago if I loved you/' 
 turning on her quickly ; " what did you mean ? " 
 
 " Exactly what I said. I want you to love me, 
 for then you will fulfill my wishes. I want you 
 to marry Marjorie Van Kuyster and re-establish 
 the family." 
 
 John turned again to the window, a frown on 
 his brow. He felt baffled, hurt. To fight this 
 worldliness and unbelief was like fighting shad 
 ows. Life seemed one great negation. The 
 poor wretches down in the slums were higher 
 than this. He would hate these people presently ; 
 this superiority to everything genuine was mad 
 dening. Claude was right about his world; it 
 was cheerfully cold and critical almost bloodless. 
 If these were the results of civilization, he would 
 rather be a border barbarian. 
 
 " Marjorie is above the average in many ways," 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster continued, " and has sense 
 enough to- know that her happiness will be in 
 throwing herself into your work. She has not 
 crystallized yet ; she still has enthusiasms and im 
 pulses, but she can control them, which is an 
 added charm. I wish you would think of it." 
 
 John turned from the window and began to 
 walk up and down the room with his hands 
 clasped behind him. " I scarcely think that you
 
 27^ JOHN PAGET. 
 
 have the right to use Miss Van Kuyster s name 
 in this way," he said gravely. " I admire her ex 
 tremely, but she has done nothing to give you 
 the right to speak as if she were simply waiting 
 for a proposal from me." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster leaned back with a smile 
 creeping about her lips, and a look of amusement 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " Miss Van Kuyster has been kind and pleasant 
 to me," John went on. " She has been interested 
 in my work, but I understood perfectly that it 
 was only because it was a new sensation. If you 
 had been with us on our expeditions, you would 
 have understood this too ; and you must excuse 
 me, but I cannot permit you to speak of Miss 
 Van Kuyster in this way." 
 
 " My dear John, you are a survival, and you 
 must excuse my being amused. I had no idea 
 of answering for Marjorie, nor of suggesting that 
 she had said 'snap ' before you had said ' snip.' 
 Marjorie, however, is a child of this world, and, 
 if she ever had the youthful, romantic notions 
 of love has outlived them. In short, she is ra 
 tional. You are handsome, you have position and 
 some money. Marjorie has position and a great 
 deal of money. All these things weigh with a 
 rational being, and I have no doubt that if you 
 have sense enough to ask her, she will have sense 
 enough to accept you, and make you very happy." 
 
 John stopped in front of her. " Unless you 
 withdraw all this, Aunt Claudia," he said, " I
 
 JOHN PA GET. 279 
 
 cannot come to Newport while Miss Van Kuy- 
 ster is there." 
 
 " My dear John ! " 
 
 " I am in earnest." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked up at him a moment. 
 " I withdraw it all, my dear. Please consider it 
 all unsaid, and the thought shall never cross my 
 mind again. In return, you must promise that 
 as soon as your inconvenient paupers die you 
 will come down. You really look ill ; and if you 
 have any idea of indulging in a Southern epidemic 
 you had better get a little strength in order to 
 die comfortably. Now, where shall we go for 
 dinner?" 
 
 The return to Newport was very flat to Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster, and she felt irritated with herself 
 because she had indulged in an impulse. She 
 had taken a tiresome journey, and spent a hot 
 day in the city for nothing, for John would have 
 come eventually with only a letter for persuasion. 
 To add to her annoyance, she found that during 
 her absence a disagreement had arisen between 
 Claude and Miss Grigsby, the governess, which 
 she was expected to arbitrate. 
 
 " Miss Grigsby is meddlesome," Claude said, 
 having sought Mrs. Van Kuyster in the sacred 
 solitude of her dressing room. " I would send 
 her off to-morrow but for Beatrice." 
 
 " Does Beatrice object ?" 
 
 " I have said nothing to her about it; if I did
 
 280 JOHN FACET. 
 
 she might ask inconvenient questions. She is 
 actually fond of the old person." 
 
 " I am a little in the dark," Mrs. Van Ktiyster 
 said. " What has Miss Grigsby done ? " 
 
 " Well, Miss Grigsby sought a private interview 
 with me yesterday, and had the impertinence to 
 tell me that I was undermining Miss Wilton's 
 Christian faith, and that as a Christian she thought 
 it her duty to remonstrate." 
 
 " And are you not ? " 
 
 " If I am, it is none of her business. 
 
 " She will not agree with you there." 
 
 " She does not agree with me there. When I 
 told her that seeing that Beatrice's future be 
 longed to me, I had a right to train her to suit 
 myself, she answered coolly that before Beatrice 
 was my wife she was an immortal soul for whom 
 she herself was in part responsible, and that she 
 would leave no stone unturned to destroy my in 
 fluence. It is no laughing matter," he went on 
 more crossly, seeing a smile on Mrs. Van Kuyster's 
 lips," and I cannot see how it amuses you." 
 
 " My dear Claude, you amuse me. You have 
 always posed as one who could not be moved or 
 disturbed by any turn of fate, and here, at the very 
 first opposition of your whole life, you are totally 
 routed. It is rather unique, too, that the first per 
 son who tries to teach you the ' uses of adversity ' 
 should be an insignificant, poverty-stricken little 
 old woman, without influence anywhere in the 
 world, "
 
 JOHN PA GET. 281 
 
 " I am glad that I furnish you entertainment." 
 Claude answered, after a moment's silence, 
 "though in seeking you I had no such amiable 
 intention. I want you to dismiss Miss Grigsby. " 
 
 " I cannot without just cause and due warning." 
 
 " Pay her a quarter's salary, and let her go." 
 
 " You have yet to learn, Claude, that money is 
 not all-powerful. Miss Grigsby is a lady, and be 
 cause of her poverty is more sensitively proud 
 than you are. She would not accept it." 
 
 Claude walked up and down the room im 
 patiently. 
 
 ''And surely," Mrs. Van Kuyster went on, "you 
 can hold your own against her for the little while 
 we are going to be here?" 
 
 " If she should tell Beatrice that I am what she 
 calls an infidel, I could not hold my own for a 
 moment unless I lied." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I cannot lie." 
 
 " To one who professes to hold everything in 
 solution, truth must be a fluid where lines cannot 
 be drawn, and to which bonds cannot be set." 
 
 " That is nonsense ! " 
 
 "On the contrary, it is a logical deduction. 
 Remember that to assume the truth of your own 
 existence even, is to plunge yourself into endless 
 difficulties; so to make two assumptions, first 
 that Claude Van Kuyster is, and further, is an 
 agnostic, is rash in the extreme. I think that in 
 stead of losing my temper with Miss Grigsby, I
 
 282 JOHN FACET. 
 
 would explain my difficulties to her, and ask her 
 to convert me." 
 
 " What has become of your morality ? " 
 
 "I am logical, and keep that in solution too; 
 but it seems to me that you have lost your head 
 in this matter ; and for a man who believes in 
 nothing but intellect who relegates all emotions, 
 both spiritual and moral, to the domain of the 
 liver for such a man to lose his head is ruin." 
 
 "You will not dismiss her, then?" 
 
 " I cannot, any more than you can lie." 
 
 Here the maid brought a request from Miss 
 Grisby for an interview. 
 
 Lifting a porttire, Claude stepped into the 
 next room, while Mrs. Van Kuyster smiled ; then 
 she sighed and said, " Bring her in, and as soon 
 as she is gone, Christine, bring me a cup of tea. 
 Tell Johnson I want the carriage at, half after five. 
 Ask Miss Van Kuyster and Miss Wilton to drive 
 with me if they have no other plans." 
 
 Then Miss Grigsby came in. 
 
 " Please find yourself a comfortable chair, Miss 
 Grigsby," Mrs. Van Kuyster said, looking about 
 as if comfortable chairs were rare. 
 
 " Thank you, madam" and Miss Grigsby took 
 her seat on the edge of the straightest chair she 
 could find. 
 
 " Do you wish to see me about anything impor 
 tant? " Mrs. Van Kuyster went on. " Has Bea 
 trice been rebelling ? " 
 
 " I consider it very important, Mrs. Van Kuy-
 
 JOHN FACET. 283 
 
 ster, it concerns Miss Wilton vitally; and as I am 
 partially responsible for her as her governess, I 
 hold it my duty to speak to you, her guardian, 
 on this subject. I do not know that you realize 
 it, but Mr. Van Kuysteris a confirmed skeptic " 
 pausing expectantly. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster bowed slightly. 
 
 "And is undermining, systematically, Miss 
 Wilton's faith." 
 
 "You think that Miss Wilton is giving up her 
 belief consciously?" 
 
 " Not consciously ; Mr. Van Kuyster's attacks 
 are too subtle for her to understand the force of 
 them ; but I see the leaven working, and it is a 
 cruel sin," her voice trembling. 
 
 " You know, I suppose, that with my free con 
 sent Miss Wilton is to marry Mr. Van Kuy 
 ster ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 " And that a woman is very apt to think with 
 her husband? If Miss Wilton falls in with his 
 views unconsciously, it will not be sin for her." 
 
 " With all due respect, Mrs. Van Kuyster, 
 permit me to say that I cannot comprehend 
 your attitude in this matter " and Miss Grigsby's 
 faded eyes were flashing. 
 
 " My experience, Miss Grigsby, has taught me 
 that it is dangerous to dogmatize that there is 
 generally another view of everything than the 
 view we may take. In this case there are many 
 things to be considered. Miss Wilton loves Mr,
 
 284 JOHN FACET. 
 
 Van Kuyster, and I believe that her happiness de 
 pends very much on her spending her life with 
 him. Point out to her his skepticism, and you 
 risk all her happiness ; leave her alone, and she 
 will probably never find it out. And grant that 
 she drifts into his mode of thought, she will do it 
 unconsciously, and as I have just said, that will 
 not be sin to her." 
 
 " And you feel no responsibility for yourself 
 in this, Mrs. Van Kuyster? " 
 
 " It is not often I permit myself to be ques 
 tioned as to my feelings, Miss Grigsby, but in this 
 case I will answer you that I do not feel very 
 much about it in any way. Further, I think that 
 a great deal of what Christians call conscientious 
 remonstrance, is in common parlance, meddling; 
 in ecclesiastical language it might be called 
 ' works of supererogation.' I do not think that 
 I shall interfere nor shall I permit you to inter 
 fere." 
 
 Miss Grigsby rose, a dull color creeping up her 
 withered cheeks. " I am sorry that I disturbed 
 you, Mrs. Van Kuyster," she said, "and as I will 
 not mention the subject to you again, I consider 
 it my duty to warn you of my intentions. I can 
 not permit my conscience to be stifled. I can 
 not think for one moment that any happiness 
 which Miss Wilton may enjoy as Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 can compare in value to the least spiritual loss. 
 She has a pure and lovely spirit she has a beau 
 tiful childlike faith she is as a little child, and
 
 JOHN PA GET. 285 
 
 so, fit for the kingdom. I am always remember 
 ing the words of the Master, ' Whoso shall of 
 fend one of these little ones which believe in me, 
 it were better that a millstone were hanged about 
 his neck, and he were drowned in the depths of 
 the sea.' As a Christian I must interfere. I can 
 not see a soul wrecked, even unconsciously, and 
 not put out a hand to save it. The sin of the 
 loss would be mine, mine ! " her voice breaking, 
 and her eyes filling with tears "and I love the 
 child." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster looked away out to sea. The 
 little old woman in her straight black frock was 
 touching the sublime. What a power it gave one 
 to believe absolutely in anything ! How could 
 this insignificant person dare to run the risk of 
 wrecking two lives. 
 
 " I should scarcely value the love that would 
 wreck my life for me," she said, turning her face 
 again to Miss Grigsby's. 
 
 " What she thinks of me, or feels towads me 
 must not matter, Mrs. Van Kuyster. Nothing 
 should come between a Christian and his duty." 
 
 " And will you go to the child and tell her this 
 thing that I warn you will break her heart can 
 you do this ? Miss Wilton is extremely frail, and 
 the consequences may be serious." 
 
 The little lady laid her hand that was like a 
 bird's claw, on the back of a chair she was 
 trembling from head to foot. 
 
 " I cannot say how I will do it," she answered,
 
 286 JOHN FACET. 
 
 "and I cannot at all weigh the suffering that it 
 will cause me, but it must be done. I pray that 
 I will be guided. I beg that you will pardon my 
 intrusion, Mrs. Van Kuyster, and will now accept 
 my thanks for the consideration with which I 
 have been treated in your house. I say this now, 
 for I may feel it my duty to leave your service 
 of that, however, I will give you due warning. I 
 bid you good-afternoon." Near the door she 
 paused. " I have forgotten to tell you that I have 
 warned Mr. Van Kuyster, and that I may deter- 
 nine to appeal to Mr. Paget though I have no 
 wish to put the onus of this interference on any 
 one else. But I feel sure that Mr. Paget will act 
 entirely for Miss Wilton's best interests her 
 spiritual interests." 
 
 " That will be to make things very disagreeable, 
 Miss Grigsby. Mr. Paget is Mr. Van Kuyster's 
 brother, and to make strife between brothers 
 would not be true Christianity, would it ? " 
 
 "'I came not to bring peace, but a sword/" 
 the little woman quoted sadly, then shut the 
 door. 
 
 In a moment Claude entered from the next 
 room, followed by Christine and the tea-tray. 
 While the table was being arranged near Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster's chair, he walked up and down the 
 room impatiently. 
 
 " You heard it all," Mrs. Van Kuyster said when 
 the servant was gone. 
 
 " Of course."
 
 JOHN PA GET. , 287 
 
 " And you realize that to dismiss her would be 
 only to precipitate matters?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Is not discretion the better part of valor? 
 Why not go to Miss Grigsby and assure her that 
 you have no intention of tampering with Bea 
 trice's faith? I have told you many times that it 
 will be useless for you to try to make Beatrice as 
 you are. Why not compromise, and avoid this 
 disagreeable fracas, that may possibly work much 
 ill to you both? I think Miss Grigsby would be 
 lieve you if you promised." 
 
 Claude stirred his tea sullenly. " I should 
 much prefer killing the little viper," he said. 
 
 " I have an infinite respect for Miss Grigsby," 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster answered. " As she stood 
 there she looked a relentless little Fate, ready to 
 clip the thread of any number of lives." 
 
 " Damn her ! " 
 
 " My dear Claude, do not descend so low as to 
 fight the inevitable, and to use bad language ; 
 recover your temper and judgment, and compro 
 mise. Take a little run off somewhere, and think 
 it over. If you are gone, Miss Grigsby will let 
 matters rest for a little while. Think of the com 
 plication if she rouses John. It would be a curi 
 ous study." 
 
 " You would make a study of it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster smiled as she remembered 
 that she had aroused John on this same point, and 
 she answered in the same words : " What else
 
 288 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 have I to do in life save to study my fellows and 
 embroider tea-cloths ! " 
 
 ; " Good God ! when a woman lets go, how far 
 out she swings! " 
 
 "Quite true; it is all or nothing. The femi 
 nine nature is essentially concrete ; drive it to the 
 abstract, and it is lost. To keep its balance it 
 must hold on to something. I have, as you say, 
 let go. Life had to beat on my hands a long time 
 before they loosed their hold. You helped to do 
 it, and dealt your strokes most skillfully." 
 
 " And you hate me for it ? " 
 
 "No ; it is you who seem to disapprove of me. 
 You see you have learned to love of late, and that 
 changes every relation in life, and throws a new 
 light on every person, and thing, and thought." 
 
 Claude looked at her curiously, sipping his tea 
 slowly from the spoon. " Your life must have 
 been slow torture," he said, dropping the spoon 
 in the saucer, "and I have added to it I see it 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. " Tears and spilled 
 milk are an abortive mixture," she said, "and as 
 I am thoroughly comfortable on my desert island 
 of life, you need not worry yourself with posthu 
 mous sympathy. Love is making you maudlin." 
 
 Claude rose. " I will take your advice," he 
 said, " and go away for a few days." Then he left 
 the room.
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves 
 Who touched on this same isle preached him and Christ ; 
 And (as I gathered from a bystander) 
 Their doctrine could be held by no sane man." 
 
 LITTLE Miss Grigsby's frame of mind was not 
 enviable. She had never trusted Claude, and 
 had combated his influence from the first, hoping 
 that something would occur to divert him from 
 his fancy for Beatrice. To her dismay, however, 
 she saw Claude's influence growing, then was 
 asked to give her best wishes for the engagement. 
 Day by day she seemed to see the girl drifting 
 further and further away from the teachings of 
 her childhood, and becoming more and more 
 absorbed in the life about her. Miss Grigsby 
 would have deemed herself presumptuous if she 
 had called the life of this favored class pointless. 
 Since it was permitted, it must be of some use in 
 the universal plan ; but she did not hesitate to 
 say that it was far from being a high life. 
 
 Claude had said to her one day : " You would 
 not treat us with so much contempt, Miss Grigsby, 
 if you would reflect that there must be results as 
 well as purposes we are a result ; just as the 
 foam on top the wave is a result. You could
 
 29 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 not have the foam without the wave, nor the wave 
 without the foam. Be a little more tolerant." 
 He was so plausible and handsome, he was so 
 courteous, that it was a great temptation to let 
 things be. Who could say that it was her busi 
 ness to interfere ? Only her own conscience, which 
 through all her straitened life she had obeyed 
 without question. No pain to herself could have 
 made her hesitate for a moment ; but before she 
 brought pain on others, she must weigh matters 
 well. Her wrestlings had ended in her appeal 
 to Claude, which he treated as an impertinence. 
 She then went to Mrs. Van Kuyster, and retreat 
 ing baffled, she cast about for some better plan. 
 John Paget was her last hope, save the girl her 
 self. He was a clergyman, and from what she 
 could gather, was considered by this family to 
 be absurdly strict, and morbidly conscientious. 
 After a fashion he was Beatrice's guardian, and an 
 appeal to him might result in something defi 
 nite. 
 
 She lay awake most of the night after her inter 
 view with Mrs. Van Kuyster, trying to settle on 
 some plan. That John was coming down later, 
 she had heard them say. Should she wait, or 
 should she write ? And morning came .before 
 she had reached any decision. 
 
 Early in the day, Beatrice came to her to say 
 that as Claude was leaving in the afternoon to be 
 gone some time, she would not have any lessons 
 at all, but drive with him instead.
 
 JOHN FACET. 29! 
 
 " Will Mr. Paget be here soon ? " Miss Grigsby 
 asked. 
 
 " I hope so," the girl answered ; " he is just 
 waiting for an old pauper woman to die." 
 
 Miss Grigsby gave a little shiver; she was an 
 old pauper woman herself. " He must be a 
 noble man," she said, " to wait to help an old 
 pauper." 
 
 " Noble?" the girl repeated, her face lighting 
 up. " No one can know how noble he is." 
 
 " You love him very much ? " 
 
 " As one does a saint." 
 
 " And would heed his advice ? " 
 
 " I would heed his least look. But you shall 
 know him when he comes." Then she went 
 away. 
 
 Claude's absence, and the hope of John's com 
 ing, was a reprieve to Miss Grigsby, and she 
 composed herself for a little rest. 
 
 When Claude went away that day he was 
 very far from a compromise, and his last word 
 with Mrs. Van Kuyster was that he saw no 
 reason against an immediate marriage ; and Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster answered wisely that she would 
 think about it. 
 
 " Cannot you take a little tour, Marjorie ? " 
 she said later, " and persuade Miss Grigsby to 
 go as your companion ? " 
 
 " You wish to get rid of her, Cousin? " 
 
 " Claude does." 
 
 "Claude is afraid of her, is he?" Marjorie
 
 29 2 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 asked. " He may well be ; she is keen and ob 
 stinate, and I am afraid that under the circum 
 stances nothing will persuade her away. I will 
 try, however." 
 
 She was as good as her word, and, telling Miss 
 Grigsby that she had given her own companion 
 holiday for the summer, asked her to go with 
 her to Mount Desert for a little while. 
 
 Miss Grigsby gave her a keen look, which 
 Marjorie answered by saying: 
 
 " I will be willing to give you whatever you 
 may think it worth to you." 
 
 A dull color crept into Miss Grigsby's face. 
 " I do not doubt that for a moment, " she said, 
 '' but there are other considerations. Miss 
 Wilton." 
 
 " Of course I have not asked you without my 
 cousin's knowledge, " Marjorie answered, " and 
 she is quite willing." 
 
 An obstinate look came over Miss Grigsby's 
 face. " My own conscience is involved, " she said. 
 " Perhaps you have not heard, Miss Van Kuyster, 
 that I have appealed against Mr. Van Kuyster's 
 influence over Miss Wilton." 
 
 "Yes, I have heard it, and considered your duty 
 in the matter done. Besides Claude does not in 
 tend to interfere with her faith." 
 
 " He has done it already." 
 
 " If this is so, you have warned him." 
 
 " He laughed me to scorn." 
 
 " Only because no man likes to seem to take
 
 JOHN PAGET. 293 
 
 advice, especially from a woman ; besides, he was 
 angry." 
 
 " I think he was determined, too." 
 
 Marjorie looked out of the window for a 
 moment. Miss Grigsby was irritating. She 
 could understand perfectly how she had worked 
 Claude into a rage. 
 
 After a moment, Marjorie went on : 
 
 " You know that Mr. Paget is perfectly aware 
 of Mr. Van Kuyster's religious position, Miss 
 Grigsby, and yet gave his free consent to the 
 marriage. Surely it is more his affair than 
 yours? " 
 
 " I cannot believe that Mr. Paget realizes the 
 state of things." 
 
 " But Mrs. Van Kuyster does." 
 
 " She seems to be of her son's way of thinking." 
 
 Marjorie rose. " If you will not go, you will 
 not," she said coldly. " I thought that I was giv 
 ing you an opportunity of ending your engagement 
 here pleasantly, and possibly of making another 
 among my friends at Mount Desert." 
 
 " You are very kind, Miss Van Kuyster ; my 
 engagement here can be ended any day that 
 suits my employers, and I have saved a little 
 money." 
 
 " You think I meant to bribe you?" Marjorie 
 said hotly. " I assure you I had not such a thought. 
 I appreciate your scruples, and feel very sorry for 
 all parties. My disinterested advice is that you 
 come with me, and leave things to Mr. Paget."
 
 294 JOfttf PA GET. 
 
 Miss Grigsby held out her hand. " Please 
 shake hands with me, Miss Van Kuyster, and for 
 give my momentary misjudgment. If you will al 
 low me, I will give you my answer to-morrow." 
 
 " I am afraid we have made a bad move," 
 Marjorie said, when a little later she and Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster drove down to the shops to match 
 some embroidery silks. 
 
 " I do not 'think so," Mrs. Van Kuyster an 
 swered. " I am sure she will go with you." 
 
 " When does Claude return ? " 
 
 " Not for a week or ten days, I hope. I 
 wish he had compromised with Miss Grigsby 
 before he left, but she had irritated him too 
 much." 
 
 " Being thwarted is a new sensation to Claude. 
 How strange it is that insignificant little Miss 
 Grigsby should grow to so great importance." 
 
 " It is the strength of fanaticism ; I have met 
 it before. If I am not mistaken, John has a great 
 deal of it, and I want very much to prevent a 
 meeting between him and Miss Grigsby. We 
 stand some chance of managing either one alone, 
 but allied, I do not know what may not happen. 
 When will you leave if Miss Grigsby agrees to go 
 with you ? " 
 
 " By Friday, certainly. This is Tuesday ; won't 
 that do?" 
 
 " It must do. I cannot understand," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster went on, " why I have permitted myself
 
 JOHN PA GET. 295 
 
 to become involved in this affair. I suppose be 
 cause there is an element of intrigue in it." 
 
 " And because you love them a little ? " 
 
 " I am not so sure about that. Claude has 
 never cared for my love, Beatrice has never got 
 further than my pity and it would not be safe to 
 love John; he would be always allowing his duty 
 to trample on me, and expect me to enjoy it. 
 No constitution could stand that, you know. I 
 believe you are the best thing in my world, 
 Marjorie ; you are satisfied to give and accept a 
 rational affection." 
 
 Marjorie laughed. " It is the best I can get," 
 she said, "I must be satisfied." 
 
 " It is the best that anyone can get," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster answered ; " desperation does riot pay." 
 
 After a moment, Marjorie said : " Do you 
 know, I think it will be wiser for me to tell Miss 
 Grigsby the state of things between Claude and 
 Mr. Paget : she might write to Mr. Paget." 
 
 " Scarcely, Marjorie ; she would not presume." 
 
 " There can be no presumption in writing to a 
 clergyman, you know, and she is very determined 
 about this thing. I think I will tell her on my 
 own responsibilty ; it will at least save Mr. Paget 
 from a painful position. If she writes to him, he 
 can scarcely help investigating, and loving Bea 
 trice as he does, how will it look for him to inter 
 fere ? It would be agony to him." 
 
 " Doubtless ; but in saving John, you expose 
 Beatrice. Miss Grigsby has already appealed to
 
 296 JOHN FACET. 
 
 me and to Claude. If you tell her not to go to 
 John, the only person left is Beatrice. If Beatrice 
 only had a little strength of mind just enough 
 to pass the thing over there would be no trouble. 
 But her training and her blood are against it. I 
 am afraid that, at the first intimation, she will 
 look on Claude as a lost soul." 
 
 " Claude's soul is dead to the higher things," 
 Marjorie answered, " so is yours and mine. Do 
 you remember reading how Darwin lost all his 
 love and appreciation for poetry? That was a 
 sort of spiritual death. The law is inevitable 
 that which is not cultivated and used, dies." 
 
 " You will soon induce an attack of that pre- 
 existent rheumatism of which I told you the other 
 day, Marjie; pray change the subject, and tell 
 Miss Grigsby anything you please." 
 
 Reaching home, Marjorie went straight to Miss 
 Grigsby's room, and found her writing. 
 
 " In speaking to you about Miss Wilton," 
 Marjorie began at once, " I suggested that you 
 should f leave the matter to Mr. Paget. Thinking 
 it over, I became afraid that you might have 
 taken my words to mean that you should tell 
 Mr. Paget I did not mean that." 
 
 " I am writing to Mr. Paget now," Miss Grigsby 
 answered. 
 
 " Then I am just in time. I want to tell you 
 that Mr. Paget is much more in love with Beatrice 
 than Mr. Van Kuyster is, and that this is known 
 to everyone except Beatrice. If you write to
 
 JOHN PA GET. 297 
 
 him and compel him to interfere, you will give 
 him untold pain. You will not want to do this ?" 
 
 Miss Grigsby was silent. 
 
 " Have you ever loved anyone, Miss Grigsby ? 
 Can you realize for one moment the dreadful 
 position of having to break the heart of the 
 creature you love best in the world ? One would 
 far rather break one's own heart. And yet this 
 is what you may drive Mr. Paget into doing." 
 Again Miss Grigsby made no answer. 
 
 " Mr. Paget will not dare to comfort the child ; 
 he cannot take her away, he cannot avoid the 
 enmity of his brother. Think of all this pain you 
 will make him suffer." 
 
 "Someone must suffer it." 
 
 "If Claude should promise you that he would 
 not influence Beatrice ?" 
 
 " I could not believe him." 
 
 " Miss Grigsby ! " 
 
 " I do not mean that Mr. Van Kuyster would 
 break his word willfully, for I believe the only 
 creed he has is that a gentleman cannot lie nor 
 steal I have heard him say so ; but I mean that 
 he is so absolutely without faith of any kind that 
 it seems silly to him, and he cannot help laughing 
 at it, and leading Miss Wilton with him. He 
 cannot be trusted, and she must be warned. No 
 one regrets it more than I do, Miss Van Kuyster." 
 
 They were silent for a little time after this, 
 while Marjorie was asking herself if she could 
 undertake the horrid task. Should she alienate
 
 298 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 these only friends and kinsfolk she had, in order to 
 save John Paget ? Claude would hate her for 
 ever, and John would never understand why she 
 had done it. She could not plead principle as a 
 reason she could not say, ' I did it to save Mr. 
 Paget.' No one would understand, and yet some 
 would think that they understood, and smile. The 
 color burned in her face this was self-abnegation! 
 
 She looked up and found Miss Grigsby watch 
 ing her. 
 
 "Will you trust me to do it, Miss Grigsby?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "I would trust you most implicitly, Miss Van 
 Kuyster, " Miss Grigsby answered quickly, " but 
 you would be misunderstood all round. In ap 
 pealing to Mr. and Mrs. Van Kuyster, and to Mr. 
 Paget, I have only thought of saving Beatrice; as 
 between Beatrice and Mr. Paget the simplest and 
 least painful way is to tell the girl herself ; how 
 ever it comes, it will hurt her, and I see no rea 
 son to hurt Mr. Paget by the way. As for me, 
 pain should not matter to old people " and tak 
 ing up the letter she had been writing, she tore it 
 into small pieces and dropped it into the waste 
 basket. 
 
 " And are you determined, Miss Grigsby, " 
 Marjorie said, making a last appeal, "determined 
 to plunge us all into this pain that we cannot 
 possibly gauge beforehand ? " 
 
 " I can only obey my conscience, Miss Van 
 Kuyster, and leave the rest to God. I have seen
 
 JOHN PA GET. 299 
 
 a great deal of Mr. Van Kuyster ; he is often pres 
 ent at Miss Wilton's recitations, and is directing 
 her private reading into dangerous channels. If 
 my faith is anything to me if my Christianity 
 is worth anything at all, I must strive to save 
 this child. I love her, no one knows how dearly. 
 My heart was very cold and lonely when she came 
 into it, and by some instinct she seems always to 
 divine just the kind of sympathy I need. I love 
 her too much to let her drift into spiritual death. 
 Whom our Heavenly Father loves, he chastens ; 
 perhaps this necessity I am in to wound this love 
 that is so sweet to me is a part of my chastening ; 
 perhaps the pain I will give Beatrice is a part of 
 her chastening. She will believe me when I tell 
 her that God sends it for her good ; she will nail 
 this worldly love to the cross when I tell her that 
 the Master asks the sacrifice ; she will know that 
 those wounded hands will lead her, and bring her 
 peace at the last. In hesitating to tell the girl 
 myself, my faith faltered. It is a just punishment 
 to me, that you, who do not believe in the power 
 of this faith, should have witnessed my weakness. 
 I will not falter again." 
 
 Marjorie rose and left the room. 
 
 The next morning Miss Grigsby sought her. 
 " I will not be able to go with you to Mount 
 Desert," she said. "I think it my duty to stay 
 here and bear the results of my action until Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster sees fit to dismiss me. I thank 
 you very much for your offer."
 
 3o JOHN FACET. 
 
 "When will you tell Beatrice, Miss Grigsby?" 
 
 " I do not know, I shall await an opening." 
 Then she went away, and Mrs. Van" Kuyster, 
 coming in, found Marjorie sitting there alone, with 
 her face hidden on her arms that were crossed on 
 the table. 
 
 " Marjorie ! " she called from the doorway, 
 " Marjorie, are you ill ? " 
 
 Marjorie lifted her head slowly. " No, Cousin," 
 she answered, " it is only Miss Grigsby. It seems 
 to me that I am waiting for the ax to fall that 
 I am waiting to see the thread of that young 
 life cut. I am so anxious, I am so nervous, it 
 seems like a horrid dream ! I do not even know 
 when she will do it. Will Beatrice come to us 
 and tell us will she hate Miss Grigsby and defy 
 her? I should, but then I am not a Christian. 
 I used to think I was, but not now." 
 
 "Take a dose of aromatic ammonia, my dear, 
 and when Beatrice comes in, we will give her a 
 dose, and in addition a dose of common sense. 
 I shall ask for Miss Grigsby's resignation at once ; 
 she is too irritating," and Mrs. Van Kuyster rang 
 the bell. When Christine came she gave her 
 orders promptly. " Bring me a dose of aromatic 
 ammonia," she said. "Tell Johnson I want the 
 carriage at once. Tell Waters to put up a lunch 
 for six, with champagne and the tea-kettle. Tell 
 Miss Wilton that she will not go to Miss Grigsby 
 at all this morning, but will prepare at once to 
 go out with me. Give the messages to the men ;
 
 JOHN PA GET. , 3 01 
 
 then look after Miss Wilton yourself. We go to 
 the country for the day." Then she took her 
 seat at the writing table. 
 
 Marjorie had not spoken, but was leaning back 
 looking quite pale ; and when Christine brought 
 the ammonia, she drank it silently. 
 
 " Now prepare for the picnic," Mrs. Van Kuy- 
 ster said, " and it will help you as much as the 
 lilac lunch did. We will stop for Ted Dennis, and 
 tell Dick and the fair De Loren to follow," and 
 taking the note she had written, she went away 
 to her own room. 
 
 Very soon she heard the carriage drive round 
 to the front, and Beatrice and Marjorie question 
 ing Waters as to the contents of the hamper. She 
 only waited long enough to inclose a check in 
 the note she had written, and giving it to Chris 
 tine told her that as soon as they were gone, she 
 must give it to Miss Grigsby. She was also to 
 tell Waters that Miss Grigsby was to leave for 
 New York that day, and he must see to her com 
 fort and pay all expenses. He was to order a cab 
 for her and go with her himself to the station or 
 the boat, whichever she preferred. 
 
 " And if she gives you or Waters any note or 
 message for Miss Van Kuyster or for Miss Wilton, 
 you are to bring it to me." 
 
 She went downstairs, smiling, and they drove 
 away.
 
 XXII. 
 
 " They told me she was sad that day 
 (Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay 
 Sooner than they, did register), 
 And my heart leapt and wept to her, 
 And yet I did not speak nor stir." 
 
 THE picnic was a grand success. Marjorie was 
 restored to her usual cheerful self, and Bea 
 trice declared that she never had had such a 
 pleasant time before in her life. 
 
 "Once you are married to Claude, your life 
 will be one long picnic," Marjorie said in answer 
 to Beatrice's ecstasies. " Claude is having a 
 brand-new steam yacht built ; it is a secret, but 
 I tz\\ you. It is to be named the Jackdaw, and 
 we will cruise all over the world, next year." 
 
 Beatrice's eyes sparkled. " After the jackdaws 
 in Corpus ! how good Claude is to me" and she 
 ran away upstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster's first question to Christine 
 was : 
 
 " Did Miss Grigsby leave any note? " 
 
 "She did not go, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster frowned and looked at the 
 clock. She had barely time to dress for dinner, 
 to which four or five friends were bidden. She
 
 JOHN- PA GET. 303" 
 
 could not see Miss Grigsby now, and to lay any 
 command on her not to see Beatrice would be as 
 useful as to tell the wind not to blow ; besides, in 
 any event, Miss Grigsby could make her revela 
 tions by letter. After a moment's thought she 
 said : " Go and tell Billings not to leave Miss 
 Wilton alone for one moment until she comes 
 down to dinner." 
 
 It was all she could do, and Billings, who had 
 not been rung for yet, put down her paper in a 
 leisurely way, and went in search of her charge. 
 
 As Beatrice ran upstairs, she met Miss Grigsby. 
 
 " I wish to speak to you in the schoolroom for 
 a few minutes," she said. 
 
 " Before I dress for dinner, Miss Grigsby ? There 
 is such a little while." 
 
 " Immediately. I will not keep you ten min 
 utes." And leading the way into the room she 
 closed the door. The lamps were not lighted, and 
 Beatrice walked to an open window. 
 
 " I asked you to come," Miss Grigsby said, "be 
 cause I must leave in the early morning train, 
 and will not be able to see you. Mrs. Van Kuy- 
 ster does not need my services any longer. In 
 deed, I begin to feel that her bringing me down 
 at all was a piece of charity." 
 
 " I assure you, Miss Grigsby " 
 
 " I know all that you would say, my dear," 
 Miss Grigsby interrupted. " And you must not 
 think that I have not the kindest appreciation of 
 you, for you have made my life very pleasant to
 
 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 me, and I trust that you have learned to care for 
 me a little." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Grigsby," catching the little 
 lady's hand impulsively, " I have grown very 
 fond of you, and Claude says that you may live 
 with me always if you will, just to read with me." 
 
 Miss Grigsby shook her head. " Mr. Van 
 Kuyster does not want me now," she said ; " we 
 have had a very serious difference, and it is this 
 that I wish to tell you about. Mr. Van Kuyster 
 is an infidel, and hopes before long to persuade 
 you to think as he does. I have combated his 
 influence as well as I could, hoping that his fancy 
 for you would fade. It has not, and all I can do 
 is to warn you. To Mr. Van Kuyster there is 
 no hereafter ; this world is all that he believes 
 in, or wishes to believe in. He has no code of 
 morals except what is proper or improper for a 
 gentleman. He is selfish through and through, 
 and gives his money to the poor only to save 
 himself from being bored. To him," pausing a 
 second, " Jesus Christ is a self-deceived man ! " 
 Her voice was low and tense; her hands were 
 locked together, and even in the dusk light Bea 
 trice could see how her eyes were burning. 
 "They have done everything to keep me from 
 telling you they took you away to-day, and dis 
 missed me in order that I should not speak with 
 you. But I trampled underfoot all my sense 
 of delicacy I risk all your affection everything, 
 in order to frustrate their schemes and warn you.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 35 
 
 I could not see your soul destroyed and lift no 
 hand to save it. By your trust in the holy 
 woman who trained you by the memory of 
 your dead father by the love and suffering of 
 Jesus Christ, I beseech you to nail this unholy 
 love to the cross to turn from this death-in-life 
 before it is too late. Farewell ! " and she left the 
 room swiftly. 
 
 The blackness of darkness seemed to have fallen 
 on Beatrice, and through it came the sullen thun 
 der of the waves. 
 
 "You have only fifteen minutes before dinner, 
 Miss Wilton," and Billings stood in the doorway. 
 Beatrice started ; this at least was real Billings 
 at least was sane ; and she went immediately to 
 her room. 
 
 The guests were already assembled when Bea 
 trice entered, looking lovelier than usual, for her 
 cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining 
 with a startled look in them. An abyss of plots 
 and counterplots and falseness seemed to have 
 opened at her feet. All that had seemed simple 
 had become complex all whom she had trusted 
 had failed her. Or had Miss Grigsby lost her 
 mind ? 
 
 " I think Miss Wilton is one of the most beau 
 tiful girls I have ever seen," Ted Dennis said to 
 Marjorie, " and this evening she has just that 
 touch of brilliancy which she needs to make her 
 perfect. Van Kuyster is lucky." 
 
 Marjorie looked at the girl critically, then gave
 
 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 one quick glance at Mrs. Van Kuyster, who an 
 swered it with the slightest possible movement of 
 one shoulder. Mr. Dennis smiled. " Has she 
 put on the wrong gown," he said, "that you 
 telegraph Mrs. Van Kuyster ? " 
 
 " No, only the wrong mood," Marjorie answered 
 with a laugh ; " see how preoccupied she is. She 
 is such an absent-minded child." 
 
 The whole evening seemed a dream to Beatrice, 
 and that night, when she laid her head on her 
 pillow, the only conclusion that had drifted up 
 and lay stranded on her consciousness was that, if 
 Miss Grigsby were not crazy, and had told the 
 truth, everybody in her world was banded to 
 gether to take away her faith, and she must trust 
 no one. She had not realized any consequences 
 yet, and had come to only one determination: she 
 would write to John the first thing in the morn 
 ing. 
 
 After that one communication which Ted 
 Dennis had detected, Mrs. Van Kuyster and Mar 
 jorie had no opportunity for a word together 
 until the guests were gone, and after a quiet 
 good-night Beatrice had left them looking at 
 each other in a state of foiled vexation. 
 
 "Shall we telegraph for Claude?" Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster asked. 
 
 " What good will that do ? " 
 
 " His presence will counteract Miss Grigsby's 
 revelations." 
 
 " Would it not be better for us to keep the
 
 JOHN FACET. 307 
 
 girl amused, and let the revelations grow dim 
 before Claude returns ? " Marjorie suggested. 
 " Let her come out a little more ; drop the farce of 
 half-mourning ; immerse her in a round of gayety, 
 and drown the disagreeable impressions." 
 
 " Perhaps ; at least I will try the experiment, 
 though I have little faith in its efficacy. Beatrice 
 is morbid by nature and introspective by train 
 ing, and it will all come to the front now. I look 
 for developments that will seem very extraor 
 dinary to civilized people. She has taken the 
 first news quietly, however, and your morning's 
 apprehension of a furious tragedy was a useless 
 strain on your nerves." 
 
 " I think I am more afraid of the quiet," Mar 
 jorie answered, " but do you think she will say 
 anything to us, Cousin ? " 
 
 " Scarcely ; she will take it out in probing 
 Claude through and through. I am curious to 
 see how'he will stand it ; whether his temper or 
 his civilization will triumph." 
 
 The next morning Beatrice wrote to John : 
 
 DEAR JOHN : 
 
 Something very strange has happened : Miss Grigsby has 
 been dismissed, and before she left she told me that Claude 
 is an infidel ; that he is trying to destroy my faith, and that 
 she was being sent away because she had threatened to 
 warn me. Do you think it can be true ? You have said 
 that I might marry Claude, and surely you would not let me 
 marry an unbeliever who looks on the Christ as a self- 
 deceived man ! I have never heard such an awful thing 
 before. Sometimes Claude has said strange things, but
 
 38 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 I thought that it was for argument's sake. O John, it 
 seems too awful! The Mother said that the sin of Judas 
 was unbelief. Do you think Miss Grigsby can be crazy? 
 Cannot you come down ? Everyone else is in league against 
 me, Miss Grigsby said, so I cannot talk to them. Please 
 come ; it is your duty to help me. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 As she wrote, things seemed to become clearer, 
 and the truth of MissGrigsby's assertions seemed 
 borne in on her. Presently, the question of her 
 duty loomed up, and one after another, like the 
 waves on the shore, the possible consequences. 
 
 " Some gentlemen have called, and Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster says, please to come down, Miss Wilton." 
 
 Beatrice looked up in surprise. " I will be 
 down in a moment," she said, " and please see 
 that this letter goes at once." 
 
 Was this being called down a sign that her 
 schooldays were done? Was she to be a young 
 lady now? Having lost much of her timidity, 
 she felt a little thrill of pleasure. Miss Grigsby 
 must be crazy. 
 
 John was going down town ; he was a little late, 
 and in his hurry he almost ran over a woman at 
 the foot of the steps. 
 
 " You scarcely remember me, Mr. Paget," she 
 said ; " my name is Grigsby ; I was Miss Wilton's 
 governess." 
 
 " Why, of course I remember you. Have you 
 just come up from Newport ? "
 
 JOHtf PAGET. 3 6 9 
 
 " Yes. I have left Mrs. Van Kuyster's service, 
 and if you can spare me a few moments in the 
 house, I should like to tell you why." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 John led the way up the steps, and open 
 ing the door with his latchkey, ushered Miss 
 Grigsby into the study. He placed a chair for 
 her, then, sitting down opposite, waited for her to 
 speak. 
 
 " Of course you are aware of Miss Wilton's en 
 gagement to your brother," she began rather 
 tremulously, " but I do not think that you can 
 know that Mr. Van Kuyster is trying to under 
 mine her faith. I thought this before I left New 
 York, but was not sure enough to speak. In 
 Newport I became sure, and warned Mr. Van 
 Kuyster that I would interfere. He treated my 
 warning as an impertinence. I appealed to Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster, who declined to have anything to 
 do with the matter. My next thought was you, 
 but I was afraid of making a difficulty between 
 brothers, so I went to Miss Wilton and told her 
 the whole truth." 
 
 After the first moment of surprise John sat 
 perfectly still, looking down into the waste basket. 
 There were some pieces of a very ugly yellow 
 envelope on top, and some bits of a blue bill 
 then the page of a sermon torn in half. He 
 would remember the appearance of that waste 
 basket to the end of his days. Presently he be 
 came conscious that his companion had ceased
 
 310 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 speaking, and looking up found her eyes fixed on 
 him. 
 
 "You warned Miss Wilton yourself?" he said 
 hastily. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And what did she say ? " 
 
 " I had no time to wait for an answer." 
 
 " And what do you want me to do ? " 
 
 " Whatever your conscience directs " rising. 
 " In warning Miss Wilton of Mr. Van Kuyster's 
 views and intentions, and of her danger, I feel 
 that I have done all my duty in the matter. She 
 will doubtless appeal to you for advice." 
 
 "And you think I should advise her not to 
 marry my brother? " 
 
 " As you would forbid her marrying a savage 
 African or a leper," her eyes flashing. " Tell her 
 to turn away from this false life, and to nail this 
 unrighteous love to the Cross ! " 
 
 John sighed deeply. " I must wait until she 
 appeals to me," he said ; then looking suddenly 
 at his companion he asked : " Do you believe 
 that a man should crucify his own life in order to 
 live up to a promise made in his wicked youth?" 
 
 " Not if it be a wicked promise." 
 
 " It was not wicked but it was not a promise 
 in the letter either, only in the spirit." 
 
 " Keep it, then, at all costs." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 At the door Miss Grigsby paused. " Remem 
 ber, I leave Miss Wilton in your hands." Then
 
 JOHN FACET. 311 
 
 she was gone, and John not remembering to open 
 nor to close doors for her, or to say good-by, sat 
 holding fast to the arms of his chair, with his 
 head bowed on his breast. 
 
 Why had Elizabeth's face come up before him 
 in that moment of wicked joy looked at him 
 from the ctibris of the waste basket so distinctly 
 that he almost spoke to her. And that woman, 
 that ugly little woman, had said that he must 
 keep his promise at all costs. It was no busi 
 ness of hers. Beatrice would not marry Claude 
 now, he felt sure of it. He had not connected 
 Claude's unbelief with her before he should 
 haye done it ; he should have taken better care 
 of the child. God forgive him ! 
 
 But in any case he could not marry Beatrice ; 
 he must go and hunt for Elizabeth and marry 
 her ! Perhaps she was dead. 
 
 He rose quickly ; until now he had never 
 dreamed how vile he was. And he had never 
 really made any promise to Elizabeth. 
 
 His work was waiting, he must go. All 
 through the long sultry day he worked and 
 fought. Beatrice would turn to him for advice, 
 for comfort ; how cruel ! Perhaps she would 
 not ; she might disregard the advice of Miss 
 Grigsby then what would be his duty? 
 
 Before these developments, things had seemed 
 hard enough ; now they seemed impossible. 
 Who could have dreamed that Claude was a 
 traitor? Yet, nothing was true to him how
 
 312 JOHN FACET. 
 
 could anything be false ! He was going to marry 
 the girl, and it would be extremely inconvenient 
 to be obliged to consider her prejudices in favor 
 of Christianity to have to live up to a standard 
 that meant nothing to him, and that yet would 
 involve a good deal of personal comfort. But 
 how awful to take away the faith of a child ! and 
 she, poor clinging thing, could not live without 
 it. To drift into unbelief one's self was one 
 thing, but to persuade a child's soul away from 
 the truth how awful ! And these people in this 
 gilded world were consuming with moral dry rot 
 their hearts were worm-eaten, and they did not 
 realize it. Spiritually dead, what a farce their 
 religion was ! why did they not throw off the 
 mask and come out in their true light ? The 
 vagrants in the slums were better material the 
 wickedness out on the border was more hopeful. 
 Yet, until he had kept his promise as that ugly 
 little woman had told him he must, how much 
 better was he than this world he affected to de 
 spise ? By being false, had he not sapped the 
 foundations of faith more surely than could be 
 done by any teaching ? 
 
 He must go in search of Elizabeth go at once. 
 But what should he do about Beatrice ? How 
 was it that he had not foreseen just this state of 
 things? The answer was simple enough he had 
 been too much occupied with himself, and a 
 stranger had had to lay the truth before her. 
 
 How long the day was, and how hot ! He was
 
 JOHN FACET. 313 
 
 so tired he was not fit to think or to decide any 
 thing. The old woman he had been caring for 
 had died two days before ; the young girl -died 
 this hot afternoon. He had prayed with her 
 had heard her say she forgave all who had 
 harmed her had stood silent under her gratitude 
 and blessings. He seemed to be able to look at 
 himself as at another person, and to loathe this 
 other man as false as a hypocrite as self-de 
 ceived and self-righteous. How had he dared to 
 criticise ; dared to despise ; dared to pray or to 
 teach ! would God forgive him ? 
 
 He took a cab up to the house, and found 
 Beatrice's letter ; he read it, and put it in his 
 pocket. He wrote a letter to the mission spent 
 a half hour over a railway guide, then packed .a 
 valise, and told the woman that he was going 
 away for a few days. 
 
 He was going to a little place he had never 
 heard of before ; but it was by the sea, and far to 
 the north. It would be quiet and cool. 
 
 He had better not decide anything until he 
 had rested and changed his environment.
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " A little while a little love 
 
 The hour yet bears for thee and me 
 Who have not drawn the veil to see 
 
 If still our heaven be lit above. 
 
 Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, 
 Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone ; 
 
 And I have heard the night wind cry 
 And deemed its speech mine own. 
 
 " A little while a little love 
 
 May yet be ours who have not said 
 The word it makes our eyes afraid 
 
 To know that each is thinking of. 
 
 Not yet the end : be our lips dumb 
 In smiles a little season yet ; 
 
 I'll tell thee, when the end is come, 
 How we may best forget." 
 
 "HOLLOWING Marjorie's advice, Mrs. Van 
 1 Kuyster put aside her half mourning, and 
 though it was the very end of the season she 
 opened her house gradually to larger companies, 
 and Beatrice was brought forward imperceptibly. 
 But however gay the day the night would always 
 come, and with it to Beatrice the memory of Miss 
 Grigsby's last words. Claude had not come back 
 yet, and from John she had had only a note, 
 dated at a little place far up on the coast of 
 Maine. He had gone there for a few days' per-
 
 JOHN PA GET. 315 
 
 feet rest and quiet thought, and from there would 
 come to Newport and talk with her. She had 
 never spoken to Marjorie or Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 about Miss Grigsby, although they had led up to 
 the subject by talking of the ex-governess and 
 her peculiarities. She remembered Miss Grigs- 
 by's warning, and would not discuss anything. 
 They might overpersuade her, or, all Miss Grigsby 
 had said might have been her imagination, 
 and so need not be mentioned. She broke the 
 Mother's command, however, not to write to her, 
 and poured out all her troubles. She was not at 
 all sure that the Mother would answer, for letters 
 except in the strictest business sense were against 
 the rules of her order. She had written to the 
 Mother on the same day that she had written 
 to John, quite a week ago ; but it was so far, and 
 such an out-of-the-way place, that it would take 
 a fortnight and more, to hear. In her letters to 
 Claude she had made no allMsion to anything, 
 except to say that Miss Grigsby had gone. She 
 had begun to dread his return, and to hope that 
 John would come first. Often she felt a deep 
 anger against Miss Grigsby that she had not let 
 things alone ; they had been so happy. Yet why 
 was it necessary that this interference should 
 make any difference? She need not think with 
 Claude ; surely she could hold her own faith and 
 maybe convert him ; and she would hug this 
 thought to her heart, and fight valiantly against 
 other conclusions.
 
 316 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Meanwhile she made friends with Mr. Den 
 nis; he was of Claude's world, and she turned him 
 into a moral effigy of Claude, asking him numer 
 ous and unusual questions, so that he voted her 
 not only beautiful, but piquante. 
 
 "You are not a Christian, are you ? " she asked 
 him quite frankly, and he answered with equal 
 frankness : 
 
 " Of course not. What made you think so ? " 
 
 " Nothing. But would you marry a Chris 
 tian ? " 
 
 " If she were very pretty, and would not bore 
 me with religion, I would not mind much." 
 
 " And you would allow her to continue a Chris 
 tian ? " 
 
 " I do not think I would bother my head about 
 it, one way or the other." 
 
 " Are you afraid to die ? " 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 " And what do you think comes after death ? " 
 
 " I have never thought about it ; and as nobody 
 has ever come back to tell us, nobody can know." 
 
 " Jesus Christ came back again ; and the Bible 
 is full of the happiness and glory of the future." 
 
 "So!" 
 
 " I believe it " looking up wistfully. 
 
 "Then you must be very happy." 
 
 She shook her head. " I ought to be," she 
 said. 
 
 " But you are troubled about those who do 
 not believe? "
 
 JOHN PA GET. 317 
 
 She nodded assent. 
 
 " I don't think that is your concern." 
 
 " It must be my concern about those I love. 
 And don't you see how it would be if your wife 
 were a Christian? She could not help talking to 
 you about it ; and it would break her heart if you 
 did not believe. On the other hand, if you per 
 suaded her over to your way of thinking, she would 
 die of misery and remorse. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 Dennis looked at her curiously. " If she were 
 your kind of Christian, she would," he said ; " but 
 Miss Van Kuyster would not mind much, do you 
 think?" 
 
 " I do not know. I do not know if she be a 
 Christian at all ; is she ? " 
 
 " Upon my word, I don't know, either. As far 
 as I can see, we all do the same things we all 
 seem to be pretty much alike. You see it is not 
 a general topic of conversation, and one cannot 
 tell. Charity organizations, now, are boringly the 
 thing ; but that has come to be a science, and 
 science and religion are opposed, are they not ? " 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 "And are you miserable about Claude's soul? " 
 
 She looked up quickly. " Is he " she 
 
 stopped. " Do not tell me anything I must ask 
 Claude himself. But you are very good to let me 
 talk to you as I please." 
 
 "You may say whatever you like," Dennis 
 answered kindly, "and be sure I shall always 
 understand you."
 
 318 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Thank you. Now tell me honestly, what 
 would you think of a Christian who would marry 
 an unbeliever? " 
 
 " You must tell me first how Christians regard 
 unbelievers." 
 
 She drew a long sigh that caught like a sob. 
 " Don't ask me that," she pleaded, and her voice 
 was so low he could scarcely distinguish the 
 words. " What we must think of them seems so 
 awful. Won't you please believe ? " 
 
 " I cannot, any more than you can let it go. 
 But do not let us be so gloomy; come, take a 
 turn at tennis. I see Dick Leveret and Miss Van 
 Kuyster idling about the court." She acquiesced 
 gently, and Dennis, looking at her critically, 
 thought that she grew more fragile and pathetic 
 every day. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster and Marjorie, also, saw that 
 Beatrice grew paler and more languid, else she 
 was unusually gay and with a brilliant color. 
 But the calm, childlike happiness that had a smile 
 always ready, that made her songs and laughter 
 involuntary, and movement a pleasure that had 
 gone. 
 
 " I have followed your advice, Marjorie," Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster said one day when they were driv 
 ing, " but the revelations of Miss Grigsby are not 
 fading from Beatrice's mind. I shall write for 
 Claude, and speak to her." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be as well," Marjorie an 
 swered. " She has taken it quite differently to
 
 JOHN PA GET. 319 
 
 what I expected, and keeps me at a distance with 
 the ease of an old worldling." 
 
 " Her father had that faculty of impassable 
 silence ; I shall find difficulty in breaking it 
 down." 
 
 She wrote to Claude, advising his return, but 
 she put off from day to day the talk with 
 Beatrice. She had no fancy for the possible 
 storm, and as it was Claude's affair, thought that 
 he might just as well be there to bear the brunt 
 of it. 
 
 In his turn Claude began to feel averse to 
 meeting Beatrice. He knew that she would 
 question him unerringly, and that it would be all 
 but impossible to turn her aside. He had almost 
 determined not to try, but to declare his position 
 openly and depend on her love. He dreaded 
 this test, however, and, like Beatrice, was willing 
 to defer the evil day. For Miss Grigsby he had 
 only the most condemnatory words in three 
 languages, and agreed with himself that if ever 
 there were an honest hatred in the world, it was 
 his for that ugly, meddlesome little woman. In 
 short, things were becoming decidedly difficult, 
 and he felt provoked and impatient. Why in the 
 world was Beatrice such a bigot ! she should be 
 more considerate. Then he would remember a 
 tone a look a touch and a great gulf would 
 open in his life. He would swear ten thousand 
 oaths not to touch her faith ! 
 
 One day a letter came from John.
 
 320 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 MY DEAR CLAUDE : 
 
 I inclose a note from Beatrice to me, which will explain 
 itself. When will you return to Newport ? I do not wish 
 to be there before you, and yet I feel that I must go very 
 soon. I am going South shortly, and wish to see Beatrice 
 first. There is no need to tell you what Beatrice is to me, 
 nor yet what the Faith is to me you can see how, to a 
 certain extent, my hands have always been tied, and still are. 
 Heretofore I have looked on your unbelief as negative 
 certainly not as positive and proselytizing. I have not 
 touched on the question with Beatrice ; she has been care 
 fully trained in religious matters, and the question is one 
 that only she can decide ; but I am afraid that the breach is 
 irremediable. Please let me know as soon as possible when 
 you will go to Newport. 
 
 Claude read this letter twice. It seemed im 
 possible that he should ever gauge either John or 
 Beatrice, or foresee at all what they would do 
 under any circumstances. Six months ago he 
 would have expected John to rush to Newport, 
 and snatch Beatrice as a brand from the burning ; 
 he would have said that Beatrice would fill her 
 letters with pleadings and persuasions. Now, 
 John left the matter in Beatrice's own hands, 
 trusting to her training ; and in her letters Bea 
 trice avoided the subject. It was strange. But 
 one thing was certain, the time had come for 
 action ; and he telegraphed both John and Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster. 
 
 " Claude comes to-morrow," said Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster as she handed the message to Beatrice. 
 
 They were having afternoon tea, and, as usual
 
 JOHN PA GET. 3 21 
 
 of late, Ted Dennis was with them. He saw 
 Beatrice start a little as Mrs. Van Kuystcr spoke, 
 then watched the color rise and fade, and a pa 
 thetic look come into her eyes. This was surely 
 not the look of a girl expecting her lover; were 
 they putting force on the child ? The engage 
 ment had not been formally announced, but a 
 few understood it, and until now, he had never 
 seen a happier looking girl, especially when she 
 was with Claude. Did those very candid re 
 ligious questions she had put to him have any 
 bearing on the case ? 
 
 That night was the worst that Beatrice had 
 had, and morning found her very pale and lan 
 guid. After breakfast, out on the veranda, Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster said : 
 
 " I hope you will be happier, now that Claude 
 is coming, Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice looked at her gravely. " I hope that 
 I may be, Aunt Claudia," she answered, "but I 
 do not know ; I must try before I can tell. It 
 seems to me now that we have drifted very far 
 apart." 
 
 " Is it possible, Beatrice, that you will allow 
 Miss Grigsby's sensational reports to influence 
 you?" 
 
 " That is what I cannot tell. I must wait until 
 I see Claude. I am so weak, you see, and I love 
 Claude so much, that I would almost surely come 
 to think with him after a while, and that would 
 be death, Aunt Claudia. You are strong, you
 
 322 K JOHN FACET. 
 
 see, and so can live with unbelievers and still 
 keep your faith. I am afraid of myself." 
 
 "So you believe Miss Grigsby?" 
 
 " Sometimes I have been wicked enough to 
 hope that she was false or crazy, Aunt Claudia, 
 but Miss Grigsby was so settled in her ways, and 
 so good, that I am afraid she was right. I must 
 ask Claude." 
 
 "And if what she told you be true? " Marjorie 
 asked. 
 
 Beatrice looked out to sea. " Then I will 
 have to decide what I can do," she said. 
 
 Marjorie moved quickly to the steps where the 
 girl was, and sitting down beside her put her 
 arms about her. 
 
 " Will you break our hearts, child ? " she pleaded 
 "ruin Claude's life and destroy our happy cir 
 cle? Have we not loved you have we not been 
 tender and gentle to you have we persuaded 
 you to any wrong word, or thought, or deed ? " 
 
 Beatrice was still as a stone in her arms. 
 
 "Can you leave us leave Claude and all his 
 loving care? His eyes are always on you, his 
 voice cannot be soft enough for you, his love 
 spreads all over your path to make every step 
 smooth. Don't you love him?" 
 
 "Yes." The voice was very tense and low, 
 and a tremor ran through the girl. Marjorie 
 drew her closer. 
 
 " Are we so wicked that you cannot live with 
 us will contact with us wreck your soul ?"
 
 JOHN PA GET. 323 
 
 Beatrice drew away a little so as to look into 
 Marjorie's eyes. 
 
 " That is not it," she said. " That is not it 
 not my soul, but my loyalty, my honor ! How 
 can I live with those who would have laughed 
 the Christ to scorn who would have betrayed 
 and crucified him?" 
 
 A look of wonder grew in Marjorie's eyes. Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster rose. " I hear Claude," she said ; 
 "he has come by the early boat." 
 
 In a moment Claude stood among them, fair 
 and handsome, with a new light in his shadowy 
 blue eyes that were hunting for Beatrice. 
 
 "Well, mother; well, Marjorie " kissing them 
 lightly. Then he put his arm about Beatrice. 
 " Are you glad to see me ?" he said, " and must I 
 charge this pale face to the account of that brier 
 of a woman, Miss Grigsby ? Could not you and 
 Marjorie have taken better care, mother ?" draw 
 ing Beatrice to him, and turning to them with his 
 eyes full of pain. , 
 
 . Beatrice laid her hands on his lips. " Every 
 body has been very good to me, Claude," she said, 
 " even to Mr. Leveret and Mr. Dennis." 
 
 "The mischief!" laughing delightedly at the 
 turn of her speech, "what have they to do with 
 you? " 
 
 " She and Ted Dennis have become tremen 
 dous chums," Marjorie said; "you will have to 
 look to it." 
 
 " I will, indeed. Just wait until I have had my
 
 3 2 4 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 bath and breakfast don't run off, Beatrice." 
 Then he went away, and they heard him going 
 upstairs three steps at a time. 
 
 Picking up a hat, Beatrice stepped down on 
 the lawn and walked toward the lower end that 
 stopped abruptly on the cliffs. There was a brisk 
 wind, and a booming high tide, and the great 
 waves were racing toward the land in gigantic 
 glee dashing against the stolid cliffs, and fling 
 ing themselves toward the sky in glittering 
 showers of spray. The sky was blue, the sun 
 was bright ; a bed of mignonette near sent up a 
 faint perfume. What a wonderful world and life 
 these people had ! she thought ; at the Convent 
 the sky and the water were just as blue the wind 
 as fresh, the flowers as sweet the love as true. 
 But nothing would seem the same. 
 
 Claude had said, " You have listened to the hum 
 of the world you have heard far off the cry of 
 pain that has no answer the echo of problems 
 that none can solve you have put your lips to 
 the cup of life and nothing will seem the same." 
 Of course nothing would be the same. Could 
 she play with her doll again ? Could Marie and 
 Antoinette understand so much as one word of 
 her story the words she would say to them 
 would seem like a strange language. " The cry of 
 pain that has no answer." It had come close to 
 her close. Her heart joined in it. Why had 
 they not left her to be a nun ? She would never 
 have known anything ; she would have been only
 
 JOHN PA GET. 3 2 5 
 
 a grown-up child. But the fruit of the tree of 
 knowledge was always pain, the Mother had said, 
 even though the flower might be joy. She had 
 gathered the flowers and held them to her breast, 
 and the thorns had pricked the blood from her 
 heart ; and the fruit was bitter on her lips. The 
 waves were not satisfied until they dashed them 
 selves to pieces on the rocks. The flowers were 
 not satisfied until the sun had burned the life out 
 of them. The heart could not be satisfied save 
 by the knowledge of death. Faith satisfied it 
 religion? This was the only one of the Mother's 
 lessons that had failed her. Nothing could sat 
 isfy her now save love or death ! 
 
 She clasped her hands until they hurt her. 
 Had she lost her faith, that it could not satisfy 
 her ? Then why not take love that came to her 
 in such beautiful guise? 
 
 She got up hurriedly. She must go to her 
 room, where she could fight this temptation on 
 her knees, as she had been trained to fight all 
 her little trials. And her training had been 
 good. 
 
 In the hall she was stopped by Claude, who 
 drew her into the unoccupied study, closing the 
 door. " I have millions of words to say to you, 
 dear," he said, " and I want to begin, for fear 
 that life will not be long enough to say them all 
 unless I begin at once. This divan is comfort 
 able, we will sit here," drawing her down beside 
 him. " First, you are pale ; second, you are
 
 326 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 sad ; third, you are silent. Render an account. 
 You need not look at- me while you confess your 
 sins you may hide your face here close under 
 mine; but you must confess. You have gone 
 away to nothing but eyes, and your hands are like 
 two little icebergs. Talk, don't sigh like a high- 
 pressure engine. I wish I had followed my im 
 pulse the day that little viper came to me, and 
 strangled her ; but her throat was all in strings, 
 don't you know, and I did not like to touch it. 
 I assure you that was the only thing that re 
 strained me. If I had thought, I might have 
 broken her up with my walking-stick she looks 
 brittle." He lifted Beatrice's face. "Cannot 
 you raise even the ghost of a smile, sweetheart ? 
 You used to laugh at all my nonsense. I would 
 not hurt the little Grigsby for the world ; I will 
 endow her if you say so ; I really feel grateful to 
 her. That fetches you, does it ? Why you are 
 blushing you are almost as red as a piece of 
 mother-o'-pearl ! You may hide your face again 
 now, for I see that you are going to speak." 
 " Why are you grateful to Miss Grigsby? " 
 " Because she has opened the way for me to 
 say some things that I wanted, yet dreaded, to 
 say. I was afraid to touch my happiness ; but 
 since she has made an explanation imperative, I 
 arn glad to speak, for it will only make my happi 
 ness secure. You know that my education has 
 been altogether different from yours and John's. 
 Mr. Van Kuyster was an atheist, and mother was
 
 JOHN FACET. 327 
 
 not permitted to have any influence over me. 
 Do you see how I was trained ? " 
 
 Beatrice raised his hand to her lips, and the 
 mute gesture seemed to make the whole world 
 spin about him. " I had no Christian training," 
 he went on, drawing a long breath, " and I would 
 not become an atheist, so the best I could do 
 was to hold all things in solution. I hold them 
 so still, dear ; will not you crystallize them for me ? 
 You are the highest I have known ; will you not 
 lift me up ? I will never say a word or think a 
 thought against your faith ; until I can rise to it, 
 I will reverence it. Will you not trust me ? " 
 
 Beatrice made a motion to draw away, and his 
 arms dropped from about her. She looked into 
 his eyes that did not flicker looked until her 
 own grew dim. 
 
 " It is I who am weak and wicked," she whis 
 pered at last, putting her hands each side his 
 face, " I who love you more than I love God ! " 
 Then she broke into convulsive sobs. 
 
 "That's right," drawing out his handkerchief, 
 " we will cry it out and be done with it. Put 
 your head down and sob as much as you like. 
 This handkerchief is not meant as a preventive, 
 dear, but only as a sort of breakwater. I think 
 I heard a little smile then ? You must forgive 
 my nonsense ; it is born of hilarity, which in its 
 turn comes of the immense relief of hearing that 
 you, and not I, are the chief sinner in this matter, 
 and that the sin is what it is. But love like yours
 
 328 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 is never a sin, my darling, no matter where it is 
 placed. And even Calvin's God would not hurt 
 you. I think you must have been an ' elect infant,' 
 little one ; what do you think? Here comes the 
 mother " looking up, " Come in, mother, we have 
 told all our secrets, and Beatrice is going to bathe 
 her face, then help me with my breakfast." 
 
 " Oh, how hungry you must be ! " 
 
 " It is truly awful," putting her hand in his 
 arm, and leading her into the hall ; " but I thought 
 that I would have to vituperate the little Grigsby, 
 and I could have done it better hungry, don't 
 you know ; as it was, I had to use a good deal of 
 self-control not to eat you." Then Beatrice went 
 upstairs, and Claude and Mrs. Van Kuyster into 
 the dining room. 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 " Well ! " And taking his seat at table, Claude 
 leaned back wearily. " I have been having a 
 beastly time, and it is not quite over." Then to 
 Waters, who was leaving the room, " I want every 
 thing you have in the shape of food ; I have not 
 had anything decently served or cooked since I 
 went away. As for me," turning again to Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster, " I have come to the conclusion 
 that you are the wisest woman I know ; and after 
 much thought and introspection, which have been 
 a useless bore, I have taken your advice. I have 
 sworn a thousand oaths not to touch the faith of 
 anybody, not even a twenty-wived Mormon ; and 
 further, I am willing and ready to have my latent
 
 JOHN PA GET. 329 
 
 faith developed, and my fluid hypotheses crys 
 tallized into immovable beliefs. In short, I am 
 waiting to be converted." 
 
 "If it can be done" and Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 smiled. 
 
 " That goes without saying. My conversion 
 will be good spiritual exercise for Beatrice." 
 
 " You will get very tired of that." 
 
 " She will get tired first, I fancy. The next 
 trial will be Jack : he is going South the fever, 
 I suppose but will come here first." 
 
 " You think he will be difficult about Beatrice ? " 
 
 "No; he is consistently Protestant and leaves 
 the decision to her private judgment ; and beyond 
 that, he may be as easy to convince of my amena 
 bility to religion as you are." 
 
 " I am nearer feeling contempt for you, Claude, 
 than ever in my life before." 
 
 " Thank you ; in a mild degree I am enjoying 
 the same feeling myself. Yet, I have not done 
 anything intrinsically false or illogical. I profess 
 to hold only what can be proved absolutely; and 
 on careful examination I find that I cannot prove 
 so much as my own existence. And as an un- 
 provable existence cannot give bond for the exist 
 ence of anything else, there is no truth hence 
 there can be nothing false. And it will be hard 
 to sustain a solid contempt for a fluid nothing 
 nicht wahr? " 
 
 " What was Marjorie's fine phrase about you 
 the other day? "
 
 33 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Marjorie has been using so many fine phrases 
 since Jack has become the inspiration of her life, 
 that I cannot possibly remember any special one." 
 
 "That you do not live," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 went on calmly, " but only exist in a lifeless desert 
 of critical negation it was good." 
 
 " Marjorie says a great many things that are 
 good according to the modern standard that is, 
 introspective analytical things. I am tired of 
 them: I should like to be transported back into 
 the good old days when squires of high degree 
 could neither read nor write, and ladies became 
 excited over tapestry work ; when knights rode 
 forth and killed anybody who did not agree with 
 them. By which token I am going to reread Sir 
 Walter and Fielding. There is no science or 
 religion there, thank God. Nothing but good old 
 stories where black was black, and white was 
 white, and introspection an unknown word. I am 
 worn out with modern infinitesimalness." 
 
 " Literature has taken a wide sweep," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster answered, " but we are coming back to 
 stories. Presently the machinery of introspection 
 will be kept out of sight, and only the results 
 given in the action, this action being most deli 
 cately adjusted, and every word necessary." 
 
 " Why do not you write a novel ? " 
 
 " Why do not you go out as a day laborer ? " 
 
 " That answer is the result of concealed in 
 trospection, I suppose, and you would call it 
 delicately adjusted."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 331 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. "As you like," 
 she said ; " but you are answered." 
 
 " Granted. What have you on hand for to 
 day?" 
 
 "The usual round of rides, and drives, and 
 tennis; a few people to dinner this evening, 
 and to-night, cards. By Marjorie's advice I 
 have been bringing Beatrice forward, in order to 
 divert her thoughts from Miss Grigsby's revela 
 tions." 
 
 " Good ; has it succeeded at all ? " 
 
 " We cannot tell ; she has never opened her 
 lips on the subject until we put the direct ques 
 tion to her this morning. Marjorie asked her 
 what she would do if she found what Miss 
 Grigsby said of you to be true ; and she answered 
 that she did not know, she would have to try 
 herself and see." 
 
 Claude stirred his coffee reflectively. " She is 
 all right now," he said, " but I dread Jack a little. 
 He wrote that it was a question that Beatrice 
 must decide for herself still " 
 
 " You are afraid ? " 
 
 " A little ; Jack seemed so sure that Beatrice 
 would be true to her training." 
 
 " I am sure of it, too." 
 
 "I wish I had obeyed my instincts and dis 
 missed Miss Grigsby long ago." 
 
 " Do not blame Miss Grigsby too much, Claude ; 
 if she had not made the mischief, time would 
 have ; and it is better for it to come before things
 
 33 2 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 are irremediable. You will suffer, but neither 
 long nor deeply." 
 
 " In the name of common sense, what do you 
 mean ! " he said, and his eyes were flashing. 
 "Do you dream for one moment that I will be 
 defrauded of Beatrice ? to keep her I will sacrifice 
 everything truth honor all ! " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster helped herself to a bunch 
 of grapes. " The only trouble is that with all 
 your sacrificesyou will not be able to deceive her," 
 she answered quietly ; "absolute truth is an un 
 failing touchstone. Have not you observed how 
 in the person of John it has touched all our 
 motives and lives to their infinite detriment? 
 Have we not felt ourselves ' sounding brass and 
 tinkling cymbals ' beside him? Your protesta 
 tions may shine like the silver of truth, but they 
 will turn black when tested. I am not making 
 myself agreeable, I know, but I want you to take 
 hold of yourself in time, and look at this thing in 
 a calm way. I do not want you to let go the 
 only thing you have that is worth having your 
 self-respect. You have no faith outside of your 
 self, therefore you must be self-centered, and the 
 core of your life is your self-respect. If you let 
 go ' truth honor all,' as you threaten, you will 
 have to despise yourself and be miserable. You 
 believe in nothing, therefore there is nothing to 
 which you can make confession that can absolve 
 and reinstate you. Christianity turns even sins 
 to account trampling them into steps on which
 
 JOHN FACET. 333 
 
 to rise. Your only hope is to trample your 
 desires underfoot, and be what you call civilized. 
 In short, refuse to feel ; it is all you can do. It 
 is the same process as petrifaction, and it hurts, 
 but not as losing your self-respect would hurt. 
 Here is Beatrice come in, dear."
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " The Bird of Time has but a little way 
 To flutter and the Bird is on the wing." 
 
 IN a few days John arrived, meeting the family 
 first as they came down to dinner. After 
 dinner Beatrice slipped her hand into his. 
 
 " Sit by me on this sofa," she whispered, and 
 John obeying her, she still clung to his hand. 
 " I feel as if I had been all by myself in the dark," 
 she said, " and I am so relieved to find you." 
 
 John smiled kindly. " I am glad to find you 
 too, dear, but it is not quite the thing for me to 
 keep your hand in this roomful of strangers, 
 even if they cannot see it." 
 
 " It cannot matter with one's brother," she 
 said; "can it, Claude?" Turning to him as he 
 approached, " Is it wrong to hold one's brother's 
 hand in company ? " 
 
 Claude looked at John and smiled. " It is 
 wrong to hold one's grandmother's hand in com 
 pany," he said ; " don't you think so, Jack ? " 
 
 " Just what I have been telling her," John 
 answered, giving her hand a little pressure, then 
 letting it go. " And Aunt Claudia is signaling 
 me see ! " 
 
 The light died out of Beatrice's eyes as he 
 
 334
 
 JOHN PA GET. 335 
 
 went away, and the color from her cheeks; and 
 as Claude slipped into John's place, she rose 
 quickly. 
 
 " Let us play cards," she said. " I do not want 
 to think, please, Claude." 
 
 " Very well, we'll never think again, if you say 
 so; but before we agree to stop, let me express 
 one thought, dear that I make a better return 
 for your affection than Jack does." 
 
 " You are looking worn," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 said, as John drew a chair near hers ; "you make 
 life too much of a struggle." 
 
 " I do," he answered. " I should long ago 
 have reached that point where doing my duty 
 would not be an effort." 
 
 " You know very well that I did not mean that. 
 I think that you do too much duty. What is 
 this I hear about your going South ? " 
 
 " Only that I am going. The fever is epi 
 demic, though not yet declared so." 
 
 " And this is the duty that requires effort ? " 
 
 " Not at all, I am glad to go." 
 
 "John!" 
 
 "It is true: I am sinfully glad to go; my 
 death there would be almost a case of suicide. I 
 am so tired." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster was silent, opening and 
 shutting her fan slowly. 
 
 " Beatrice held my hand and called me 
 brother," John went on.
 
 336 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster's fan shut with a snap. 
 " How do you think she is looking ? " she asked. 
 
 "Pale. She seems troubled, too. Miss Grigsby 
 came to see me." 
 
 " And what will you do ? " 
 
 " That depends on what Beatrice does. She 
 has been carefully trained, and Miss Grigsby 
 warned her. She should decide for herself ; but if 
 she appeals to me, I must tell her what I think." 
 
 " That it would be a sin to marry a skeptic ? " 
 
 " That I should be afraid to trust myself to do 
 it. But I did not dream that Claude's unbelief 
 was positive." 
 
 " It has grown with his growth ; but he will 
 not touch Beatrice's faith." 
 
 " There is great analogy between faith and 
 '. muscle. A prize-fighter, for instance, has to live 
 \ very carefully ; so has a Christian : and a prize 
 fighter would never dream of living in a bad 
 : atmosphere." 
 
 " You are too good, John ; it is not practicable." 
 
 " My dear aunt, I ought to be kicked. If it 
 would do any good, I would confess my sins to 
 you." 
 
 " Beatrice holds you a saint, and adores you 
 accordingly." 
 
 " That hurts me more than I can tell. If I 
 could only reveal myself could make people 
 realize me as I am, it would be a marvelous 
 relief. Just as the Ancient Mariner told his 
 story everywhere."
 
 JOHN PAGET. 337 
 
 " And the world would ' beat its breast ' and 
 vote you a bore. I assure you that the world 
 only cares for results it prefers to make its own 
 estimates, and is not in the least grateful for 
 revelations unless they be spicy. That the roots 
 of the vine were wrapped around forgotten bones, 
 does not matter if the fruit be sweet and the wine 
 strong. And if the world, grubbing about, found 
 the bones found even the sunken headstone 
 saying that its faithful friend Smith lay there, 
 the world would drink his health and say ' Smith 
 succeeded better as a vine than as a man ! ' ' 
 
 John laughed. " I have no intention of put 
 ting the dry bones of my past on exhibition," he 
 said, " but I have a perfect loathing for shams." 
 
 " Rest quite sure, my dear, that you will get 
 your deserts. The world never overestimates 
 an honest man, though she sometimes wor 
 ships brute beasts. Moses might have been 
 inspired, but he was mistaken in thinking that he 
 had destroyed the golden calf." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then John 
 asked, "Where does Claude stand religiously?" 
 
 " Nowhere." 
 
 " Is he open to conviction ? " 
 
 "About as much as you are to carefully pre 
 meditated sin." 
 
 " Aunt Claudia," looking at her earnestly, 
 "how do you live? how can you do without 
 hope without the comfort and strength that 
 Christianity gives one ? How can you bear to
 
 33$ JOHN PA GET. 
 
 have your horizon bounded from winter to sum 
 mer, from New York to Newport ? " 
 
 "We go to the Adirondacks sometimes," she 
 answered, smiling. " We meditate a trip there in 
 a week or ten days. Then Claude is having a 
 new steam yacht built, and after his marriage we 
 will go on a long cruise. Our horizon will be 
 immensely widened, don't you see?" 
 
 "Yes," John answered quietly; but he was 
 pale down to his lips, and his eyes were flashing. 
 
 "Are you bent on going South?" Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster went on. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How soon?" 
 
 "As soon as possible." 
 
 "Your living without common sense is as 
 enigmatical to v me as my living without faith 
 and hope is to you." 
 
 " Let us hope that we misjudge each other," 
 John answered, "and while I think of it, I want 
 to ask you a question : In case I never marry, 
 how would you like the Paget property left?" 
 
 " Claude's second son is to take the name, he 
 says." 
 
 " Leave it in trust to Claude, then." 
 
 "Don't you think it would be better for you to 
 marry ? " 
 
 " I may be married very soon," John answered. 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster leaned forward. "You have 
 someone in view?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes; in the South."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 339 
 
 "Good blood, John?" 
 
 " Her father is an Englishman with a coat of 
 arms; and she is the strongest woman I know." 
 
 "Are you engaged to her?" 
 
 " No, but I intend to give her the opportunity 
 of accepting me." 
 
 "Will you tell me her name?" 
 
 "Yes, when we announce our engagement." 
 
 " Meanwhile, you are bent on committing 
 suicide in a fever epidemic. I would not accept 
 you." 
 
 "Until I have made other duties for myself, I 
 consider that all humanity is my duty." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster leaned back in her chair. 
 
 "I repeat that your ability to live without 
 common sense is an enigma," she said. 
 
 "Is this the gray gauze fan you let me select 
 for you last spring?" John asked, taking her fan 
 from her. 
 
 "Yes, on the one occasion that you instituted 
 yourself errand boy for the family." 
 
 John laughed. "I must make a confession 
 about that," he said ; " I had broken one of 
 your paper knives and wanted to replace it be 
 fore you knew I was afraid of you. This is 
 honest." 
 
 " It is too ridiculous to believe." 
 
 " Nevertheless it is true." 
 
 " I never understood that freak ; as you never 
 repeated it, it seemed a freak." 
 
 " I never broke any more paper knives. Do
 
 34 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 you think Miss Van Kuyster will ever accept 
 Kinsey ? He is a fine fellow." 
 
 " I think Marjorie will marry Claude." 
 
 " Aunt Claudia ! " 
 
 " I really think so ; I have not the remotest 
 expectation of Beatrice's doing it." 
 
 " Then what will become of the child ? " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster shook her head. " I cannot 
 tell I cannot even surmise. Do you think it 
 right to go and kill yourself first, and marry a 
 stranger afterward? Do you owe no duty to 
 Beatrice ? " 
 
 John's face had a grayish look, and his eyes 
 that were turned on Mrs. Van Kuyster were filled 
 with despair. " Surely she loves Claude," he said 
 in a low voice ; " surely you will not let her heart 
 be broken." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster shrugged her shoulders. 
 " What can anyone do but wait, and watch, and 
 help gather up the fragments?" she said. "We 
 are never satisfied until we have broken our hearts 
 and maimed our lives in our own way. I tell you 
 that nothing else satisfies humanity. Save people 
 against their wills, and they hate you forever; 
 the mirage you held them from takes ever more 
 and more beautiful colors, and you grow ever 
 more and more obnoxious. Beatrice and Claude 
 fancy that their love is a life-and-death matter ; 
 but this question of religion will make shipwreck 
 of it all. What can I do ? Only wait, and watch, 
 and help gather up the fragments. This is life."
 
 JOHN PAGET. $41 
 
 " It is not ! " John said. " We may maim 
 our lives, we may break our hearts, we may de 
 scend into the blackest sin, yet even of sin we 
 can make steps on which to rise. I will not 
 think but that there is glory and joy in life. I may 
 not reach it that is my fault ; but it is there 
 for those who live aright ; and whatever befalls, I 
 will not let go my hope, my faith. The God- 
 Christ lives and loves us, and is with us ; do not 
 dream that I doubt it for one second no, not 
 even if you find that I touch the lowest depths 
 of degradation." Then he left her. As he 
 passed around the card tables, he paused a mo 
 ment beside Beatrice because he had caught a 
 wistful look. Mrs. Van Kuyster watched him as 
 he stooped a little to see her hand ; how deathly 
 white he was ! He smiled and nodded, and went 
 his way out into the brilliant night ; the only 
 comfort for his pain was to be where none could 
 see. 
 
 The moon was touching every shrub and tree 
 into light ; the wind was laden with the perfume 
 of flowers, and every wave was turned to silver as 
 it came. It was a help, this tumultuous sea ; its 
 movement seemed to still him as he walked on 
 slowly, thinking of the problems that lay about 
 him. 
 
 Somehow this gilded luxury, the highest reach 
 of civilization, touched hands in its effects with 
 the brutalizing slums. Both extremes seemed to 
 smother heart and soul ; but in these higher
 
 342 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 ranks the death seemed more complete, for the 
 death was so slow and so sweet. Down yonder 
 they fought it, for the death was bitter. 
 
 Must he leave Beatrice to this slow, sweet death ? 
 It would surely come to her, that or the bitterest 
 struggle of all. What was his duty to Beatrice? 
 
 He sat down on a rock and covered his face 
 with his hands. Must he tell Claude all his hu 
 miliation of the past as well as the pain of the 
 present in order to convince him that there was 
 no selfish motive at the root of his interference, 
 if he must interfere ? 
 
 He rose and walked on hastily. Even this he 
 would do, if necessary. A little humiliation more 
 or less, what did it matter in the light of what he 
 had already suffered and might avert from others? 
 After a time pain numbs one. 
 
 He turned again to the house. It was well 
 this trial had come into his life, to show him 
 what a coward and hypocrite he was. 
 
 They were still playing cards, and he drew a 
 chair near to Beatrice. 
 
 Her face lighted up. " Do you know how ? " 
 she whispered. 
 
 "Yes, but I must not advise." 
 
 Watching him, Marjorie felt her heart ache, 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster analyzed his pluck, and Claude 
 grew uneasy. The sooner he made his position 
 clear to John, the better; there was no counting 
 on these conscientious scruples, or what they 
 might persuade a fanatic into doing.
 
 JOHN FACET. 343 
 
 " Are you going South ? " Claude asked, when, 
 the guests having gone, they were standing 
 about preparatory to separating for the night. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " South, John ? " and coming close to him Bea 
 trice laid her hands on his arm, and lifted a dis 
 tressed face to his. " What for when ? " 
 
 " To my work, child, and now." 
 
 "You promised, John," she faltered. 
 
 " That I would never go without your full 
 knowledge, and that I was sure you would let me 
 do my duty you will ? " taking her hands and 
 holding them together in his. " And remember," 
 he went on, " that things have changed since then. 
 Then you belonged to me, in a measure ; now you 
 belong to Claude." Turning to his brother, " I 
 have never ceded my guardianship formally ; will 
 you let me give it up now ? " And he put the girl's 
 hands into Claude's. " Remember, it is a soul you 
 take, not my little sister only." 
 
 " It is twelve o'clock ! " And Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 held out her hand to John. " Come, help me up 
 stairs, I am so tired. And, Claude, do not take 
 too long to realize Beatrice's soul ; the child looks 
 pale." 
 
 " I am coming too," Beatrice said quickly. 
 "Wait for me?" 
 
 " One moment " and Claude detained her. " I 
 promise not to keep you long." 
 
 She looked at him appealingly. " Not to 
 night, Claude," she whispered, " not to-night."
 
 344 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " Yes, to-night : it is a secret I want to tell 
 you." 
 
 By this time they were alone, and letting Bea 
 trice's hands go, Claude put his own in his pockets, 
 and stood facing her. 
 
 " What I am going to say, Beatrice, must be 
 absolutely sacred will you promise?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You know that you are my faith my re 
 ligion my life ; that apart from you I have no 
 hope. You told me three days ago that you 
 loved me more than you did your God. To-night 
 you have avoided me, and turned to John. 
 Have you deceived me ? Have you, a Christian, 
 told me, an unbeliever, an untruth ? This is not 
 polite, is it ? It is even a little brutal I should 
 be more civil and say ' Have you been mistaken in 
 your feelings ? ' But when a man's whole life is 
 at stake, he cannot mince matters. I do not 
 want an answer now, you are not fit to give it' 
 you are trembling and angry because I have hurt 
 you ; but I want you to think it over calmly and 
 carefully, and tell me to-morrow. My darling ! " 
 drawing her close to him ; " be careful, do not 
 fasten your affections on John, it would only 
 annoy him. Will you forgive me this plain 
 speaking?" 
 
 Beatrice's eyes were flashing, and she tried to 
 push him away ; but he took her hands and 
 clasped them fast in one of his, and with his 
 other arm he held her still.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 345 
 
 " Do you think I will let you stand off and 
 quarrel with me?" he said, and his voice was 
 wonderfully sweet. "You must speak where you 
 are where you can feel each throb of my heart, 
 and use them to punctuate your words. I have 
 hurt you." 
 
 "Cruelly! how could you hurt me more than 
 to think that I have told you an untruth that I 
 would love John against his will that I could 
 love him save as a brother ! I almost hate you for 
 it ; and you must let me go." 
 
 " Not yet ; not until I have told you one more 
 thing. I know that I am not worthy to approach 
 you that you are far above me in every way 
 in all the best things in life but I know, too, that 
 no being in all the universe can love you as I love 
 you. There is no wrong you could do no sin 
 you could commit that I would not forgive ; and 
 loving you in this way a sinful way, you think 
 I will yet rather set you free, than cause you one 
 moment's annoyance, even. In short I lay my 
 life down before you what will you do with 
 it ?" Beatrice's head had drooped, and her hands 
 were clinging to his now, instead of being held. 
 
 "What will you do with it, dear?" he went 
 on. " Will you drop it in the roadside dust to 
 perish ? " 
 
 " O Claude, you know that what I told you 
 the other day is true ! It is my love that is sin 
 ful ; and that is why it is a pain that is why I 
 can find no rest in it."
 
 346 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 "How is it sinful?" 
 
 "It is not true to my Faith. Loving you, how 
 could I also love your bitter enemy and give him 
 my life ? You are Christ's enemy, and I am not 
 loyal. All the time I feel that there is a bar be 
 tween us that there is something missing from 
 you and your love. It troubles me, it pains me; 
 and John is the only one I could have asked 
 about it." 
 
 " If John should tell you to give me up, what 
 would you do?" 
 
 "I should die." 
 
 " And what good would that do, save to make 
 me a castaway? " 
 
 "You could solve it all by simply saying I be 
 lieve." 
 
 " I believe," Claude said quietly. 
 
 The girl's whole being seemed to stand still as 
 he spoke ; her hands grew cold in his, and he 
 could not feel that she even breathed. 
 
 " I believe," he repeated. 
 
 She pushed him from her, " Honest unbelief 
 is better than blasphemy ! " she said, while her 
 eyes flashed. 
 
 Claude smiled. " I only wanted to ' solve 
 it all' for you, dear," he said, " in order that 
 you might sleep. I take it back, and am an 
 honest unbeliever still. You must go to bed 
 now. You will remember all that I have said, 
 and will you forgive me sufficiently to say good 
 night ? "
 
 JOHN FACET. 347 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Good-night, then." And ringing for the ser 
 vants, he led her to the foot of the steps. 
 
 "Good-night," she said gently, but her hands 
 and her lips were as cold as ice, and her eyes 
 looked faraway.
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 
 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. 
 How little do we know that which we are ! 
 
 How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 
 Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
 
 Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
 Lashed from the foam of ages." 
 
 CLAUDE had put an insuperable barrier be 
 tween Beatrice and John, and John now 
 waited in vain for any appeal from the girl. He 
 had written her in answer to her letter that he 
 would come, and that she then could talk to him 
 of her troubles, but she sought no interview. In 
 stead, Claude came to him and said that all had 
 been arranged ; that he had no intention what 
 ever of touching Beatrice's faith, and that if he 
 took any steps in the matter, it would be in the 
 direction of Christianity. 
 
 " You may trust her to me," he finished, " feel 
 ing that you have left her to do missionary 
 work." 
 
 And John did not answer. 
 
 Very gradually it dawned on Beatrice that 
 John's sudden move South was to meet an epi 
 demic. She had heard the talk of fever as in a 
 dream at first; then she began to read the papers 
 
 348
 
 JOHN PA GET. 349 
 
 and connect it with John. The reports were very 
 meager, and the hope was that, beginning so late, 
 it would not do much harm. But her eyes once 
 opened, she went to Marjorie. 
 
 " Is John going South on account of the fever ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " He thinks that he may go to offer his services, 
 that is, if anyone is needed," Marjorie answered 
 cautiously. 
 
 " That must be what he is going for," Beatrice 
 insisted ; " because he did not intend going South 
 until he had been ordained priest." 
 
 " He may prefer being ordained in his own 
 diocese," Marjorie suggested. " But why do you 
 not ask him ? " She followed this advice, and at 
 lunch that day she asked John when he would go. 
 
 " On next Wednesday," he answered. " I have 
 agreed to wait and go with the family from here 
 to New York, on your way to the Adirondacks. 
 Aunt Claudia thinks that she must see to my 
 outfit herself." 
 
 "And are you going because of the fever?" 
 looking him straight in the eyes. 
 
 By tacit consent they had kept this from her, 
 and there was a moment's pause before John 
 answered : 
 " "Yes, Beatrice." 
 
 " Not truly, Mr. Paget?" And Ted Dennis, who 
 was there at lunch, looked up in surprise. 
 
 " Fever does not seem so bad to a Southern 
 man as it does to you, Mr, Dennis," John an-
 
 35 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 swered ; " but I do not know that I would feel so 
 careless about your diseases of diphtheria and 
 pneumonia. They seem quite awful to me." 
 
 "Are your family down there?" 
 
 "All the people I have in this world are at this 
 table," John answered, " save some distant cou 
 sins, and they are not in the fever district." 
 
 " I think he is very foolish," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 said. " I see no duty in it." 
 
 " Save the duty of helping my fellow-creatures. 
 My ties are so slight, my duties so few, that I am 
 the very one who ought to go. I have given no 
 hostages to fortune, you see." 
 
 " Still, life is rather a nice thing to have," Ted 
 Dennis suggested. 
 
 " I count it a great blessing," John answered. 
 
 "And yet you throw yours away?" Marjorie 
 said. 
 
 "Not necessarily; and even if I succumb, you 
 could not say that it was thrown away, Miss Van 
 Kuyster. Life is a loan that we ought to use for 
 the benefit of our fellow-creatures, and if we let 
 it go in the service of humanity, then it has been 
 honestly spent. To look on it as a thing that be 
 longs to us as a thing to be only enjoyed, and 
 to be spent only as we like, is a great mistake. 
 For me, I am strong to help the sufferers phys 
 ically, and commissioned to help them spiritually. 
 I have no one dependent on me. There is no 
 glory in my going, for I can see no escape for 
 myself. Now, Kinsey "
 
 JOHN FACET. 351 
 
 " Does he want to go ? " Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 asked. 
 
 " Very much indeed, but I have persuaded him 
 that it is not his duty. He is responsible for a 
 great deal, and must look to it. An epidemic in 
 the tenement district, now, would be his duty." 
 
 " And mine? " Claude asked, raising his eye 
 brows. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You think my life has been lent to me to be 
 spent on the scum of foreign nations ? " 
 
 "They are human immortal." 
 
 "They may be all that, but not my duty; and 
 I think I should go to the Adirondacks all the 
 same. I would have ties, you know." 
 
 " It puts matrimony in quite a new light," Ted 
 Dennis said; " I must think it over." 
 
 " It gives a new meaning to the name ' a man 
 of the world,'" John suggested. "You belong 
 to the world, Mr. Dennis." 
 
 " Thanks ; I think I must hunt up a Mrs. Den 
 nis, and belong to her. Anything, even matri 
 mony, is better than epidemics and slums. And 
 you, Miss Van Kuyster, they'll be roping you 
 in next ; will you not turn in the direction of 
 matrimony? " 
 
 Marjorie laughed. "Knowing men, I believe 
 I prefer slums and epidemics," she said. "There 
 is a certain amount of glory in fighting death ; 
 and if you die, there is peace ; neither of these ob 
 tain in matrimony, for I have watched carefully."
 
 35 2 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " I do not believe that I yearn for glory," 
 Dennis answered ; " and, for peace, there is the 
 club." 
 
 "Does your brother mean what he says?" 
 Dennis asked of Claude later. 
 
 " Every word." 
 
 " No hereditary ansinity ? " 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 "Money?" 
 
 " Plenty of it, and a beautiful place in the South." 
 
 " What has made him so peculiar ? " 
 
 " He is a clergyman." 
 
 " I saw that; but clergymen, even, do not 
 usually kill themselves in this wild way." 
 
 " My brother is either a survival or a new 
 type." 
 
 " God forbid ! " Dennis said earnestly. " I could 
 stand one a survival ; but to have a new type like 
 that to come into the nineteenth century it 
 would be well, it would be unusual. You know 
 what I mean, Van Kuyster that it would inter 
 fere with a great many pleasant things, don't you 
 know ? " 
 
 " No one better." 
 
 " Think of Martin Kinsey wanting to go South," 
 Marjorie said, as she and John and Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster took their seats on one of the broad 
 verandas. 
 
 " He is a fine fellow," John answered. "And
 
 JOHN PA GET. 353 
 
 you cannot know him all in a moment ; there are 
 depths in Kinsey that surprise one." 
 
 " I think that you have developed him," Mar- 
 jorie said ; "he was only a kind-hearted crank 
 when you took hold of him." 
 
 " I do not agree to that, Miss Van Kuyster ; 
 still, if it were so, it is in his favor that he allows 
 himself to be influenced ; not many people will go 
 even that far, especially if it means the least self- 
 denial." 
 
 " Granted !" And Marjorie held up her hands, 
 laughing. " I would not argue with you for the 
 world, Mr. Paget. You destroy the most carefully 
 arranged and comfortable systems by some quix 
 otic thrust that no one expects. Things that we 
 weak mortals think essential, you ask us without 
 the least hesitation to put aside. Fancy living on 
 the plan that life is lent us simply for the benefit 
 of others why it would destroy the very founda 
 tions of social life. If you should bring me to be 
 lieve that, I should return the loan immediately 
 from the top of Brooklyn bridge." 
 
 John looked at her for a moment. " I think you 
 could be trusted to lend your life out," he said, 
 " and that without any interest. If you will for 
 give me, I will say that I think you could be very 
 noble. I have found you to be unselfish, you 
 see ; and that is a rare quality to come to one 
 naturally." 
 
 " Thank you, but you do not know me," Mar 
 jorie answered, while the blood crept up her
 
 354 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 cheeks. " I am good on a spurt I might even 
 get excitement out of the danger and work of an 
 epidemic ; I might even nurse lepers, if the world 
 looked on ; but to sacrifice myself day after day 
 to plod through a level round of uninteresting 
 duties without any audience ; to live what might 
 be called a gray life a monotonous life I could 
 not do that ; a month of it would send me to the 
 bridge. Therefore, you see, I am neither unself 
 ish or noble even potentially." 
 
 " A gray life would be the hardest to live," 
 John said ; " but I have faith that you could do it. 
 A gray day has a very brilliant close, some 
 times." 
 
 " That is poetry," Mrs. Van Kuyster said ; " the 
 actual thing is prose dismal prose. For me, I 
 would not dream of attempting anything of the 
 kind. I see no use in it ; I see no use in any of 
 this hunting for work, these humanitarian fads. 
 What I cannot get out of doing, that I accept as 
 a duty ; but nothing short of necessity can make 
 me do it." 
 
 " I may be very rude, Aunt Claudia, but I do 
 not believe you. I will insist that you always do 
 your duty as you see it ; I will not allow you to 
 destroy my ideal aunt, who is as good as she 
 is beautiful "and leaning over, John raised her 
 hand to his lips. 
 
 " It is well you have only four days more with 
 your ideal," Mrs. Van Kuyster answered. " I may 
 keep up the illusion for that length of time."
 
 JOHN PAGET. 355 
 
 " Four days," Marjorie repeated. "I am sorry 
 to go I love the sea." 
 
 " You have said that you love the Adirondacks 
 too." 
 
 " Yes ; but it will be bad to think of Mr. Paget 
 down in the heat, fighting a pestilence," Mar 
 jorie answered. " It will make us feel so poor, 
 and mean, and low ; even the prospect makes me 
 uncomfortable." 
 
 "John is positively unkind," and Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster rose hastily, spilling all her embroidery 
 things ; " where is the Christianity in making 
 one's whole family miserable?" 
 
 John picked up her things putting them care 
 fully into the little silken-lined basket, then 
 looked after her vanishing figure sadly. 
 
 " She loves you," Marjorie said, as if in excuse. 
 
 " She knows perfectly well that I go gladly," 
 John answered. " It is no sacrifice to me ; I want, 
 to go. I will confess to you" looking straight 
 into Marjorie's eyes " I am running away from 
 the gray life, and this epidemic is my Brooklyn 
 bridge. Do not think of me as a martyr, but 
 pray that, if it be God's will that I live, I may 
 live up to what I know to be my duty. You 
 believe me ? " 
 
 Marjorie shook her head. 
 
 "You ought to," John went on ; "you opened 
 my eyes." 
 
 " And was a fool for my pains." 
 
 " On the contrary, I shall always be grateful
 
 35 6 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 to you. And you will love Beatrice and be kind 
 to her, and you will put some love into Aunt 
 Claudia's life; her heart is starved, that is what 
 ails her. And above all, do not think of me and 
 the epidemic. I am sorry Beatrice found it 
 out." 
 
 " So am I ; I am afraid she will do something 
 desperate." 
 
 John shook his head. " She is too timid and 
 sensitive for that. I think she could stand still 
 and die without one plea for mercy, but she would 
 never dare Brooklyn bridge. However, we are 
 taking trouble on trust. She loves Claude, and 
 my letters shall be disarmingly cheerful, and care 
 fully fumigated. Don't be afraid." 
 
 Beatrice, meanwhile, sat alone in the deserted 
 schoolroom, with her hands locked together, look 
 ing straight out to sea. 
 
 " I think it a good idea, our going away to 
 gether," Mrs. Van Kuyster said to Claude when 
 they were settled on the boat. " To have told 
 John good-by in cold blood, here, would have 
 been most uncomfortable." 
 
 " You put it mildly," Claude said. " I have 
 come to the conclusion, however, that in order to 
 live in peace there must be similarity all must 
 be Christian, or all must be heathen. There was 
 a most comfortable and rational unanimity among 
 us and our circle of friends, until this eruption of 
 early Christians. Marjorie and I were drifting
 
 JOHN PA GET. 357 
 
 into a placid alliance, when I fell violently 
 in love, and she had a new standard of excel 
 lence set up before her that made it necessary for 
 her to reacPjust all her valuations. It was un 
 fortunate."" 
 
 " You are still violently in love, however? " 
 
 "Of course; but moods are difficult religious 
 moods impossible. Grant Christanity one propo 
 sition less than that, one possibility and death 
 is the only thing that will end the turmoil and 
 struggle into which one is plunged." 
 
 " Are you struggling ? " 
 
 " Only with Beatrice. God forbid that I should 
 touch Christianity. Beatrice by her lone self is 
 enough to keep me busy for years. Damn Miss 
 Grigsby ! " 
 
 " I hope that this change will help Beatrice to 
 settle down to common sense once more," Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster said with a yawn. " I must confess 
 that for me the play has not been worth the 
 candle." 
 
 " My life would be a dreadful blank without 
 the child," Claude answered, pulling his mustache 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Do you contemplate letting her go ?" 
 "Not for a moment, actually; but she eludes 
 me now : I suppose I must say, spiritually. She 
 has never, since I have known her, looked at me 
 without a question of doubt in her eyes." 
 
 "At all events, it has been a valuable ex 
 perience," Mrs. Van Kuyster said.
 
 358 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " As valuable as a sword-cut given to teach you 
 how a wound feels." 
 
 New York was not very hot, but it was dusty, 
 and the fashionable part of it, being still unin 
 habited, looked dreary. Nobody said so, but the 
 whole party felt immensely depressed. 
 
 For the few days that they were to be there, 
 Marjorie was to stay at Mrs. Van Kuyster's, and 
 at Claude's request she made it her business 
 to keep Beatrice employed, and if possible, 
 interested. Claude went so far as to suggest an 
 immediate marriage, but Beatrice looked so 
 distressed and terrified that he withdrew the 
 proposition instantly. 
 
 John's outfit was of course the great object, as 
 he was taking all sorts of supplies ; and the talk 
 was all about those who were going, for both 
 Protestant and Roman Catholic Sisters were 
 under orders to go, besides several nurses. Mar 
 tin Kinsey followed John morning, noon, and 
 night, in a faithful, doglike way that was touch 
 ing, and that was encouraged by John, as his 
 presence prevented any possibility of confidential 
 talk with anyone. But in spite of all precautions, 
 the last of the three days of preparation was a 
 great strain, and John and Claude agreed that 
 the farewell should be brief to the verge of neg 
 lect. The plan was simple. Instead of leaving 
 by the night train as he had intended, John 
 would leave by the afternoon train, and go from 
 the lunch table without telling of the change in
 
 JOHN FACET. 359 
 
 his plans. It was carried out, and Claude came 
 back with the news that John had been obliged 
 to go without coming home again. It was a lit 
 tle blank, but Mrs. Van Kuyster and Marjorie 
 agreed privately that the arrangement was 
 wise. 
 
 " I have caught the enthusiasm at last," Mar 
 jorie said to Martin Kinsey, who had breakfasted 
 with them the morning after John left. " I am 
 almost longing to follow Mr. Paget's example." 
 
 " It is much harder for me to stay here," Kin 
 sey answered simply. 
 
 " Let us go," Beatrice said quietly ; " do not 
 let us ask anyone, but just go I am sure we 
 could help." 
 
 " You bad child," Marjorie said, laughing. 
 "Could you reconcile it to your strict little con 
 science to run away? " 
 
 " I do not know I might." 
 
 " I think it would be very wrong," Kinsey said 
 gravely. Waters entered with a letter for Bea 
 trice. 
 
 " What a portentous looking missive " and 
 Marjorie took it from the waiter. " What a lot 
 of purple wax is in the seal of it ! " 
 
 For an instant Beatrice looked at the letter 
 without touching it. "From the Mother !" she 
 said in a breathless undertone. 
 
 " Do not you want it ? " Marjorie asked, " or 
 is the honor enough ? " 
 
 Beatrice sprang up. " It is more than life
 
 360 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 to me," she said, and taking it quickly, she left 
 the room. 
 
 Locking her door, she knelt down by the bed 
 and laid the letter down in front of her. She 
 clasped her hands, and lifting her face she prayed : 
 
 " Father, give me strength to obey, and patience 
 to endure, for the sake of Jesus, Thy Son." 
 
 Then she laid her face down on the letter, and 
 sobbed as if her heart would break. She knew 
 that the Mother had sent a decision. 
 
 The sobs ceased gradually, and still on her 
 knees she opened the letter. It was very short. 
 
 MY CHILD : for whom I have never ceased to pray, in the 
 name of God I command you to flee from temptation from 
 certain spiritual death. Have all my love and teaching gone 
 for nothing, that you hesitate ? Will your life be lonely 
 think of Christ in the desert. Will you suffer think of 
 Christ on the cross. Would you give your life to an unbe 
 liever ? would you commit the sin of Judas and betray your 
 Master ? My child, come to me ; your place is here in my 
 heart. The dove has no safety among the eagles of the 
 world ; birds of prey have no mercy. Oh, little dove, come 
 home ! Here is love, and peace, and life eternal. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 The girl stretched her arms out across the bed 
 and laid her face down on the open letter. " You 
 have listened to the hum of the world," she 
 whispered. " You have heard far off the cry of 
 pain that has no answer, the echo of problems 
 that none can solve you have put your lips to 
 the cup of life, nothing will be the same."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 361 
 
 The whisper ceased. She seemed to be look 
 ing into Claude's shadowy blue eyes. 
 
 At lunch Beatrice asked many questions about 
 John's route about when they could hear from 
 him, and many other things of which she had 
 never seemed to think before ; and after lunch, 
 when Claude had gone to make some final pur 
 chases for the Adirondacks, she asked Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster if she might go for a walk with Billings. 
 
 " Of course, my dear," and Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 looked at her in a relieved way ; she was taking 
 John's going so quietly. " And, Billfngs," to the 
 woman, " when Miss Wilton seems tired call a 
 cab ; do not be out later than six o'clock." 
 
 " We will go to the bank," Beatrice said when 
 they were in the street. At the bank they took 
 a cab and drove down to the shops ; here Beatrice 
 gave Billings some money. 
 
 "You said that you needed aprons, Billings; 
 you had better get them here, for we go away 
 the day after to-morrow, you know," and Billings 
 being occupied, Beatrice made her own pur 
 chases and had them put into the cab. Next they 
 stopped at a bric-a-brac shop near the junction 
 of Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third Street; and 
 Beatrice told the woman that she need not get 
 out. Once in the shop, Beatrice walked through 
 to Broadway and into a railway ticket office. 
 She asked many questions, and bought a ticket 
 and sleeping berth for the next evening's train. 
 If her ticket's time ran out before the end of her
 
 362 JOHN FACET. 
 
 journey, she could pay the rest of the way. She 
 hurried back to Billings. 
 
 After dinner, she seemed to Claude to have 
 gone back to her old self of the days before Miss 
 Grigsby's revelations, and he felt that with John's 
 departure all trouble had ceased. Mrs. Van Kuy- 
 ster had been mistaken in thinking that Beatrice's 
 creed was in her flesh and blood and he had 
 been right in thinking that love would hold her. 
 
 " If I should die, Claude, would you think that 
 I had been annihilated?" she asked, as they sat 
 together in the study. 
 
 " I would rather think that than anything else, 
 dear." 
 
 " But it would hurt me if you thought that," 
 she went on ; " for then you would not know that 
 sometimes I might be near you. I should ask to 
 come back as your guardian angel ; and whenever 
 you did a good deed I should be happy." 
 
 " I will believe that, then," he answered ; " any 
 thing in the world to make you happy." 
 
 " And your unbelief is honest, Claude ? " 
 
 " Perfectly honest, dear." 
 
 "Then God will 'find some way to give you 
 light. After all, to be true is the great thing." 
 Then more slowly, " You said once that I had 
 some .money have I spent it all? I drew a lot 
 this afternoon. Were you in earnest about its 
 being really mine? " 
 
 " In the soberest kind of earnest." 
 
 "Have I as much as one thousand dollars ayear?"
 
 JOHN PA GET. 363 
 
 " Much more than that." 
 
 " May I give Miss Grigsby a thousand dollars 
 every Thanksgiving Day ? You said that you 
 would endow her " moving so as to look into his 
 face " but she would not take it from you, you 
 know ; may I do it ? " 
 
 " Of course, my darling, anything in the world 
 to make you happy." 
 
 "And may I give a little, whatever you think, 
 to the nurseries ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Thank you. You have always been so good 
 to me, and have made me so happy." She was 
 silent for a moment, then she said as if to herself, 
 " God will forgive me for loving an unbeliever, 
 for I did not know it." 
 
 " Child," and Claude lifted her face to look in 
 it, " it is foolish to think that you have sinned in 
 loving me ; if your God is a God, he himself 
 must love me, for he made me." 
 
 "Of course he loves you ; but that is quite dif 
 ferent from my having loved you better than him." 
 
 " ' Having loved,' " Claude repeated ; " is your 
 love for me in the past ? " 
 
 " I am afraid not ; but God will forgive me if 
 I do my best to yield it up to him." 
 
 Claude drew a long breath. "We will talk it 
 all over, dear," he said, " and I will do my best to 
 think with you ; " but in the sacred recesses of 
 his own room he said more than once, " Damn 
 Miss Grigsby !"
 
 JOHN FACET. 
 
 All night long Beatrice was busy; at dawn she 
 went to bed, and when Billings came she was 
 sleeping like a little child. All day she went 
 about as usual, save that she sought Claude more 
 than she had done of late, much to his content 
 ment. Then in the dusk, when Waters and 
 Buttons were busy in the pantry, when Bil 
 lings and Christine were gossiping until they 
 should be rung for, when Marjorie and Mrs. 
 Van Kuyster were taking a little rest before 
 dressing for dinner, and Claude smoking quietly 
 in the club a nun stole down the broad stair 
 way and out of the front door. The bag she car 
 ried seemed rather heavy, but at the corner she 
 got a cab, and gave the order, " Desbrosses Street 
 Ferry." 
 
 Christine was putting the finishing touches to 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster's hair, when Billings appeared 
 with a sealed note. 
 
 " I found this on Miss Wilton's table, Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster," she said. 
 
 "The catastrophe has come," was Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster's instantaneous thought but she 
 opened the note quietly. 
 
 DEAR AUNT CLAUDIA : 
 
 The Mother wrote me that I must come away. My own 
 conscience said the same. I am safe ; do not hunt for 
 me do not let any trouble be made. In the late mail 
 Claude will get a letter. 
 
 BEATRICE,
 
 JOHN PA GET. 3 6 5 
 
 She put the note back into the envelope, then 
 looked at herself critically in the glass. 
 
 " This puff of my hair is a little too high, Chris 
 tine," she said. Then as she sat down that the 
 defect might be remedied, she said to Billings : 
 u Finish Miss Wilton's packing, and bring me 
 her keys. After dinner Waters will pay you up 
 to date, and one month's wages extra, for I will 
 not need your services after to-night." 
 
 Downstairs she found Claude alone in the 
 study, and gave him the note to read. 
 
 " She has done it as quietly as possible," she 
 said, "and there must be no talk. She has gone 
 to the Convent, of course." 
 
 " She has gone to John " 
 
 " Hush ! she must be gone to the Convent she 
 is our kinswoman."
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
 Henceforward in thy shadow. Never more 
 Alone upon the threshold of my door 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
 Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
 Without the sense of that which I forbore, 
 Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
 Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What I do 
 And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
 Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
 God for myself, he hears that name of thine, 
 And sees within my eyes the tears of two." 
 
 DOWN in the desolation of the fever-stricken 
 city, when in the dead silence a footfall 
 sounded like the tramp of doom, and the rum 
 ble of the dead-wagons echoed ceaselessly, a 
 little band fought desperately, hand to hand 
 with Death. Through the burning days when 
 the arching sky looked hard as adamant, and 
 the round, red sun glared down without the 
 shadow of a cloud through the long, close 
 nights made lurid with the light of cleansing 
 fires, those faithful men and women strove 
 against relentless death. Now and again one 
 dropped, and another paused to dig the hasty 
 grave ; then without a word the ranks closed up, 
 
 366
 
 JOHN PA GET. 367 
 
 and the awful war went on. Shoulder to shoul 
 der they fought and died, bound close by a com 
 mon cause, led on by a cross held high in 
 wounded hands. 
 
 How small and far away the world seemed 
 now, when a day stretched into a lifetime, and 
 the murky nights were endless, and the angel of 
 death so busy ! 
 
 In the dusk of the evening, on a doorstep near 
 one of the red tar fires built up and down the 
 empty streets, a woman was seated. She was 
 known in the city as the " Gray Sister," because of 
 the dress she wore. By her side crouched a large 
 red setter, who watched her with brown, wistful 
 eyes, begging with his paw on her knee, some 
 times, or licking her tired hands. She looked 
 very weary as she leaned against the railing of 
 the steps, with the gray hood of her cloak fallen 
 back from her head, and her strong white hands 
 dropped at her sides. 
 
 A long way off she heard a step approaching 
 quick, decided. How strange it seemed that any 
 one lived in this death-hole who was not worn 
 and weary. It must be one of the newcomers. 
 Did she know that step ? Surely something in it 
 spoke to her as it came nearer and nearer, echo 
 ing up and down in the empty cellars, thrown 
 back and forth by the desolate houses. She was 
 too tired to turn and look ; if the step was seek 
 ing her it would find her. 
 
 It was close beside her now ; it stopped, and
 
 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 the dog growled. She must turn and see who it 
 was that she felt staring at her in the flaring 
 light of the tar fire. 
 
 As her look traveled up she saw that it was a 
 clergyman ; then her eyes met the eyes looking 
 down on her. 
 
 " Elizabeth ! " 
 
 Her look did not waver. " John Paget," she 
 said, and rose. John steadied himself with one 
 .hand on the railing of the step, and put out the 
 other to stop the woman, who seemed to be mov 
 ing away. 
 
 "Wait, Elizabeth." 
 
 " Not now, I am too weary." 
 
 " Where shall we meet again ? " 
 
 " If you have come to fight this death," 
 she said, " we shall meet everywhere. Come, 
 Wamba." 
 
 " Wamba ? " 
 
 "Yes, the faithful fool." Then she went away, 
 and John stood and watched her until the 
 shadows swallowed her up. 
 
 Swiftly and surely the struggle absorbed the 
 newcomers ; no change from day to night was 
 heeded, and time seemed to cease. There were 
 headquarters for food and coffins, and lodgings 
 where the workers slept whenever a spare mo 
 ment could be taken. A young physician shared 
 John's quarters, a kindly fellow, who would pur 
 sue John and drag him in for a little rest, and 
 brew for him tea or coffee.
 
 JOHK PA GET. 369 
 
 " It is all very well to help the poor creatures," 
 he said, " but I doubt if there is one in the whole 
 city who is worth your dying for. If you are 
 anxious for a job, however, there is an awful 
 case at 210 Fourteenth Street," he went on as he 
 poured John's coffee into a tin cup and gave him 
 a crust of bread to stir it with. " It is hopeless, 
 and I left him raving and blaspheming. I 
 promised Father O'Bryan I'd send help ; he is 
 worn out. You go, and I will hunt for the Gray 
 Sister; she has a wonderfully quieting way with 
 her." 
 
 "You call her the Gray Sister; does she belong 
 to any order?" 
 
 " No, she explained that she did not ; but as 
 she has never registered any name, and as she 
 dresses in gray, everybody calls her the Gray 
 Sister. She came alone, and if she died this 
 minute her grave would be nameless. She is 
 wonderful. She has the care of half a dozen 
 orphan children whose parents have died in the 
 epidemic, and who cannot be sent out of the city 
 now. I have never even found out where she lives. 
 I begged her to tell me in case she should fall 
 sick, but she would not. She has a big dog, and 
 this is all that anyone knows ; so she goes by the 
 name of the ' Gray Sister.' " 
 
 In the midnight John knelt by the dying man. 
 He had had a struggle to keep the poor creature 
 from self-destruction, and now with his hands 
 gripped hard by the hands made strong by fever
 
 37 JOHN FACET. 
 
 and death, he felt almost too weary to say the 
 prayers that had been asked for. The words 
 came slowly, and with staring eyes the dying 
 man watched him, and now and then repeated a 
 word. The door opened, and looking up John 
 saw Elizabeth. 
 
 "You are worn out," she said. "I will finish 
 this," and loosing John's hands, she raised the 
 sick man so that he breathed more easily. 
 
 John stood aside and watched her. What skill 
 and tenderness and strength she showed, and 
 how gentle her voice and words ! 
 
 " His soul is passing," she said " is gone." 
 
 She closed his eyes, and folded his hands, and 
 straightened the bed. "Somebody in the world 
 has loved him best," she murmured, "God com 
 fort them." One moment she stood looking 
 down on the dead face. " So often I watch 
 them," she said; "no muscle moves; there is not 
 the twitching of a nerve even, yet a change 
 comes. Sometimes a light comes as if they saw 
 a vision. So often I watch them, I know it is 
 only this body that dies and its woes die with- 
 it." She turned to John. " Is it not true?" 
 
 " God grant it ! " he answered. 
 
 She drew the sheet up over the dead man's 
 face. 
 
 " Will you report this death, or shall I ? " 
 
 " We will go together." 
 
 Outside the door Wamba joined them. " It is 
 a dreary life you lead now, old dog," she said, as
 
 JOHN PA GET. 371 
 
 he shoved his head under her hand, " always 
 waiting and watching for death." 
 
 For some time they walked in silence, then 
 near one of the tar fires John paused. 
 
 " I have much to say to you," he said; "will 
 you come to my lodgings, or take me to your 
 place? " 
 
 " Neither; we will sit here on these steps. 
 There is no need to report that death until 
 daylight." 
 
 She took her seat, leaning herhead back wearily 
 against the railing, as when John first found her, 
 and fixed her eyes on the leaping flames. John 
 sat facing her, lower down, with his elbow on the 
 step above him, and his forehead on his hand. If 
 Elizabeth looked down, his face would be shaded 
 from her eyes. " You remember the night that I 
 tried to kill Manuel," he began, " and you made the 
 boys tie me ? " 
 
 " Yes, I remember ; it was for my sake you 
 tried to kill him." 
 
 " And afterward I told you that I was ill, and 
 in the morning you rode with me to the edge of 
 the town to see that no harm befell me? I did 
 not want to leave you then, Elizabeth, and you 
 made me. You said that there were no com 
 forts, and that it would ruin my character to be 
 found in your father's house. You sent me 
 away Elizabeth." 
 
 " And it broke your heart ? " 
 
 John looked up, but her eyes were still on the
 
 372 JOHN FACET. 
 
 fire, and her lips were shut close as he remembered 
 them so often of old. What a strong face it was ! 
 Too strong for a woman, and handsomer than he 
 remembered it. "You were good to me," he 
 went on ; " nobody in all the world has ever been 
 as unselfishly kind to me; and for strength of 
 mind and character, I admire you more than any 
 woman I have ever seen. Don't think for one 
 moment that I have forgotten any of your good 
 ness, Elizabeth, nor your strength under tempta 
 tions. It lives, and will ever live in my heart." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " I left New York to come and hunt for you, 
 and I am telling you all this because it is a new 
 realization to me. I Elizabeth, I left " 
 
 " Let me tell it to you," Elizabeth interrupted, 
 her eyes still fixed on the fire. " Let me be kind 
 to you once more ; you will not like to say the 
 disagreeable things that must needs be said. 
 You left me at the edge of the town with a scant 
 good-by because your head ached, you said. I 
 did not heed that much, for my whole life had 
 been scant ; but I watched you go, knowing by 
 some strange prescience that you were gone. You 
 were ill for weeks ; you stood at the gates of 
 death. I stood with you, for I went there as a 
 nurse ; it was well, for you called on me incess 
 antly. I waited outside your door during the 
 sleep that meant life or death : you waked to life, 
 and I left you. In the sight of God you were | 
 mine, but I loved you. I left you to a pure life
 
 JOHN PA GET. 373 
 
 under the influence of Mr. Wilton. So strong 
 he was, so true, that only to know that he believed, 
 saved me from shipwreck. God keep him ! From 
 behind the hedge I watched you the first day you 
 came out to lie in the hammock under the trees. 
 I saw Mr. Wilton sitting near you, and suddenly 
 you reached out your hand to him and he took it. 
 You remembered me and the old life in which you 
 had thought you loved me, with loathing then. 
 I could almost hear you abjure that pitiful past. 
 You looked quite different after that, and you 
 were always with Mr. Wilton. You looked a 
 Pharisee then, Jack." 
 
 John's head sank a little, but he made no 
 answer. 
 
 " I watched you riding and boating," she con 
 tinued, "always alone, and always with the look 
 that I am sure the Prodigal Son had when, hav 
 ing left the swine and the harlots, he was com 
 fortably reinstated. But your old face had been 
 honester and truer, Jack, even when you tried to 
 murder Manuel Planco. Of course you were 
 right, I knew that right to live a higher, better 
 life, even if built on the foundations of a broken 
 faith. It was only a faith, you know ; there was 
 no promise. But you did not trust me enough to 
 tell me. I watched you for three years. Your 
 cousin came home from the Convent. She was 
 beautiful, and I saw you with her constantly. 
 You used to ride with her to a certain bluff 
 there was a view there and hidden in the cha-
 
 374 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 parral, I heard you trying to train that simple 
 child. I laughed, for I knew that you would 
 never win her in that way. You loved her; but 
 you did not know it. I used to see you reason 
 ing with yourself. You sitting inside with a 
 book, and close under the lamp, as if you studied ; 
 I outside in the darkness, watching through the 
 open window. I used to read your very soul, for 
 it all shone out when you thought you were 
 alone. ' I have made Elizabeth no promise/ you 
 would say, ' it would be impossible to marry her ; 
 all would think me a fool. We are worlds apart, 
 and she would not let her people go. I cannot 
 fall so low again. Her people are debauched ; 
 and her own past who can vouch for that ? I 
 have sinned ; I have been low and debauched 
 myself; I must turn and repent; God will for 
 give me.' You were in earnest, Jack, for your 
 nature is essentially true ; and you suffered. It 
 was the strength of the reaction that made you 
 loathe me. I was there when you were ordained 
 deacon, and I thought how much that white robe 
 covered. I laughed to think of the one doctrine 
 of which you had convinced me. We used to 
 have theological discussions sometimes, do you 
 remember? and because of my father and his 
 sins I had let go what I had learned of eternal 
 punishment. You used to argue with me on this 
 point. After that you put me in hell. That was 
 your first doctrinal teaching. 
 
 " Mr. Wilton died. That was a grief to me.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 375 
 
 I went in at the study window and saw him dead. 
 His face spoke to me, and I promised to live as 
 he would have me live. God keep him ! I kept 
 that vigil with you the night that he lay in his 
 coffin. I was close to you in the shadow ; if you 
 had loved me, you would have felt my presence. 
 
 " You and your cousin came away with a beau 
 tiful woman. I saw her I saw her at the funeral, 
 and again the day you left. I was at the station 
 the day you came away ; I was dressed as a boy, 
 and stood quite close to you. You gave me a 
 half-dollar for putting your things in the train. 
 As the train moved I said, ' Good-by, Jack." You 
 turned your head, and your face went quite white. 
 You thought it was a ghost. 
 
 "I wanted to follow you and watch how the 
 rich, luxurious world would lay hold on you 
 watch how you would strive to make that child 
 love you. I knew she never would. I could not 
 go, for I could not leave my father. He had got 
 shot in a mail robbery, and was crippled for life. 
 He is dead now. Of my two half-brothers, George 
 is dead ; Jim disappeared in Mexico. My step 
 mother and Manuel took the place. Have I told 
 your share truly ? " looking at John for the first 
 time. 
 
 John's eyes met hers, and he laid his hand on 
 hers. " It is all true," he said ; " I was a Phar 
 isee. Now I will finish the story. I loved my 
 cousin ; but, as you say, I did not realize it ; not 
 until I realized that my brother loved her.
 
 376 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Women call Claude beautiful, and he is ; and the 
 child became fond of him at once ; he was kind 
 and gentle to her, and did not try to train her. 
 At the moment that I realized my love for Bea 
 trice, you stood before me, and looked straight 
 into my eyes. I could not even try to win the 
 girl. Day after day I realized more and more 
 what I had made you suffer ; realized the wrong 
 I had done you, and loathed myself. There is 
 no pain in life, Elizabeth, like the loss of self- 
 respect. I lived in misery, trying to help my fel 
 lows. One day a dying girl, a pauper, said to 
 me ; ' My death has been caused by falseness and 
 desertion ; I hated all humanity until you showed 
 me what a true man could be. God will bless 
 you for it.' And I so false ! So I came away to 
 hunt for you " Elizabeth laid her hand on Wam- 
 ba's head " you who had let me go without 
 one reproach whose unselfishness has made me 
 selfish whose gentleness had let me be cruel." 
 
 " And in the eagerness of your quest you stop 
 by the roadside to play with Death? " 
 
 " Elizabeth ! " 
 
 " It is true, Jack, and you know it ; but you 
 are honest in it all brutally honest. Let me 
 read you to yourself once more ? Your cousin is 
 debarred you forever; you are too true to preach 
 truth, having been false, without attempting res 
 titution ; you know at last what you made me 
 suffer, and you think I am suffering still. Love 
 has clear eyes to read, Jack, and, loving you, I
 
 JOHN FACET. 377 
 
 read you. Remember, I love you ; whatever I 
 may say, I love you ; so it seems to me that in 
 my turn I can be brutally honest, and with a bet 
 ter grace than you. Having argued it all out 
 with yourself, you come to the conclusion that 
 the nearest thing to happiness that you can at 
 tain is the restoration of your self-respect. You 
 must seek me, restore to me my faith in human 
 ity, my self-respect, soothe my broken heart, 
 and convince yourself of your own sincerity by 
 sacrificing your life to me. You set out on your 
 quest honestly determined to carry it out to the 
 bitter end. Still, you counted two chances. I 
 might have died, or in this epidemic death might 
 find you. If you lived, you would seek me ; if ! 
 you died, a death died for others must be suf 
 ficient atonement. But you did not want to find 
 me ; I saw that in your face the other night. 
 Still, I count what you have done as more than 
 sufficient atonement, for not one man in a thou 
 sand would ever have remembered a woman in 
 Elizabeth Marsden's position. And you made 
 me no promise." 
 
 " No, but I won your love deliberately and 
 intentionally ; I took it all ; I took your life, 
 then dropped it in the roadside dust because I 
 had become so good, and had such high and holy 
 work to do ! " 
 
 There was silence for a moment ; then Eliz 
 abeth said : " It was a natural reaction. If I 
 had been as true to you as I should have been, J
 
 37 8 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 would have sent you away before. But my life 
 was so empty ! Nor does that past seem sin to 
 me. By keeping true to it, it is true and pure to 
 me still. And my life is not so spoiled but that 
 the Crucified will use it. There are plenty of 
 people down in the mire who will not mind if a 
 little mud be on the stepping stone that helps 
 them on to higher ground. You have done all 
 you can ; you have found me, and would offer 
 me your name and protection ; a man can do no 
 more. It is I who have refused restitution have 
 refused to be the altar on which you sacrifice 
 your life. And in refusing, I give you back that 
 life, and free you of that past forever." She 
 rose and held out her hand to him. " May we 
 meet and work together many times as friends, 
 and whenever my love or my life can help you in 
 your work for the Master, remember that they 
 are yours. Good-by." 
 
 John laid his brow on her hand for a moment, 
 then she turned and went away.
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Hast thou not sung ? and is not song enough ? 
 Hast thou not loved ? and is not loving all ? 
 Art thou not weary of the wayfare rough, 
 Or is there aught in life thou wouldst recall ? 
 
 Ah, no! ah, no! 
 The life came sweetly sweetly let it go! " 
 
 IN the dusk one evening Elizabeth went to the 
 train to get a package of clothing that had 
 been sent for the little children. Waiting at the 
 door of the office until the one overworked man 
 could serve her, she felt her cloak pulled gently, 
 and turned to find a nun at her elbow. Some 
 thing in the face made her feel faint, as if an old 
 wound had been opened afresh and her life were 
 ebbing away. Then swiftly it came to her who 
 this nun was. That beautiful face was painted 
 in lines of fire on her heart ; and now how came 
 she here looking so pale and worn ? 
 
 " Will you help me to lodgings for the night ? " 
 the nun asked. 
 
 " Yes," Elizabeth answered, " you may come 
 with me," and taking the bundle the man 
 handed her, she led the way out of the station. 
 
 Presently she slackened her pace. 
 
 " I go too fast for you," she said. 
 
 "No, I like to walk fast."
 
 3^0 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " Then your bag is too heavy ; here " And 
 
 giving to Wamba the bundle she carried, Eliza 
 beth took the nun's bag. 
 
 " Indeed, I am quite able." 
 
 " No, you are not, and Wamba likes to be use 
 ful. You are too delicate for this sort of work." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that ! I can fan sick people 
 at least, and in the papers I read of the little 
 children left desolate. I can mind them." 
 
 " Yes," Elizabeth answered, " you can do that. 
 But who let you come to this death-hole? " 
 
 There was a moment's pause, then the little 
 nun looked up wistfully. 
 
 " I ran away," she said. 
 
 " Is there anyone here whom you know ? " 
 Elizabeth went on, " whom you have come to 
 join ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! That is, there is someone here 
 I know, my cousin ; but I would not have him 
 see me for the world ! " 
 
 " What is he here for ? " 
 
 " He is a clergyman ; he has come to help to 
 give his life. He is so good ; so wonderfully good 
 and strong; so far above me that he would de 
 spise me if he could know how deeply I have 
 sinned." 
 
 " Sinned, child ? " 
 
 " Yes, sinned." Then laying her hand on 
 Elizabeth's arm : " You look a sort of Sister your 
 self ; you look so kind and strong ; I will tell you 
 all my story if you will help me ? "
 
 JOHN PA GET. 3 Sl 
 
 " I will," Elizabeth answered, and turning into 
 a new street where the houses stood far apart 
 with dismal empty lots between, she went up the 
 steps and opened the door of one that seemed 
 never to have been opened until now. 
 
 As they entered they heard children's voices, 
 and cries of "Elizabeth Elizabeth!" Then 
 down the narrow, barren hall where the walls 
 were of a new and ghastly whiteness, and the 
 floor still stained with lime, came pattering feet. 
 Seven little children in all, watched over during 
 Elizabeth's absences by the eldest of them, a 
 child of ten with the expression of a woman of 
 fifty. They all crowded round Elizabeth now 
 all save one that was too young to walk, but was 
 creeping with all its little strength to meet 
 her. 
 
 She put down the bag and lifted the child from 
 the floor, and as the little arms stole round her 
 neck, and the little head nestled close to hers, 
 a light like sunshine came over her face. The 
 other children retreated behind Wamba who, 
 having put down his bundle, licked their faces 
 with indiscriminate patronage looked with some 
 awe at Elizabeth's companion, and took her out 
 stretched hand very carefully. 
 
 " She has come to take care of you," Elizabeth 
 said " ask her what you must call her ? " 
 
 " My name is Beatrice," the little nun said, 
 "but you must call me Sister." 
 
 " Say it," Elizabeth ordered, " say ' Sister,' '
 
 382 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 " Sister ! " came in chorus, and the less timid 
 ones left the shelter of Wamba's broad back, and 
 began a closer examination of the newcomer. 
 
 " If you will take off your cloak and hood," 
 Elizabeth said as she removed her own, " they 
 will be more friendly." Then as Beatrice obeyed, 
 taking off her cap as well, Elizabeth smiled scorn 
 fully at herself, because the girl's beauty struck 
 her heart to pain. 
 
 Had she been such a fool as to let her heart 
 stir? 
 
 After this, Elizabeth, with the child still on her 
 arm, busied herself about supper. Bread and 
 milk was all, but that was as much as a feast 
 would have been at any other place or time ; for 
 the milk alone was " above rubies." For herself 
 and Beatrice there was hot tea in addition, and 
 for Wamba a bone saved from dinner. Elizabeth 
 patted him gently ; he was growing very gaunt. 
 
 Beatrice helped to put the little ones to bed, 
 and when all were safe, save the child that was 
 asleep in Elizabeth's arms, Elizabeth said to 
 Beatrice, " Will you tell me your story now, or 
 to-morrow ? I have until eleven o'clock to rest ; 
 after that I shall be gone for the nigh't." 
 
 " I will tell you now," Beatrice answered, " but 
 may I not put that child down for you ? He will 
 tire you." 
 
 " No; it rests me to hold him, I think. He is 
 the first one that came to me, and I believe I love 
 him. I shall have to send him away before long,
 
 JOHN PA GET. 383 
 
 when the fever is done, to his grandmother. 
 Meanwhile I am a little foolish about him. But 
 suppose you put some of those blocks on the fire 
 before we begin. It is healthy to have a little 
 fire, you know ; besides it is cheerful." 
 
 If a fire could be dismal, that little fire was. 
 It was made of bits of laths and boards left from 
 the building of the house, and built on the hearth 
 where as yet there was no grate. 
 
 Beatrice went to work carefully, not being an 
 adept, and Wamba, watching, signified his ap 
 proval when she was done by stretching himself 
 before the blaze. 
 
 Then, without moving from where she knelt, 
 Beatrice began. 
 
 She told of her childhood at the Convent, and 
 of the Mother, with a lingering love as if she did 
 not wish to leave that peaceful time then her 
 life at home, her father's death, and the removal 
 to New York. 
 
 She told it very simply, as a child might, and 
 Elizabeth saw that the thought of John, except as 
 a brother, had not entered the girl's mind up to 
 this point. Over the life in New York, however, 
 she hesitated a little, while Elizabeth watched 
 every shade of expression, and listened to every 
 doubtful tone. 
 
 Was John coming in now ; was she going to 
 hear now, how, that, deceiving everyone, even 
 John himself, the girl yet loved him enough to 
 follow him to death ?.
 
 3&4 JOHN FACET. 
 
 But presently like a pent-up flame the truth 
 burst forth. " Claude ! oh, I loved him so ! " and 
 there was a catch in her voice like a sob. " Oh, 
 yes ; I loved him more than life more than God ! 
 That was my sin. I told you I had sinned ; but 
 I did not realize it. Life was like a dream then, 
 such a beautiful dream. Have you ever loved 
 anyone, Elizabeth ? Loved him loved enough 
 to sin ? You look too strong. I beg your par 
 don, it was a wrong question almost an insult. 
 But I am so weak, you see. Then Claude went 
 away for a few days, and while he was gone my 
 governess told me dreadful things about him. 
 She said he was an infidel ; that it was sin for me 
 to love him ; that I must nail my love to the 
 Cross, and leave Claude. 
 
 " I was so wicked, Elizabeth, that I tried to 
 persuade myself that Miss Grigsby had told lies; 
 then I hoped that she was crazy. Do you think 
 God will forgive me ? Then I wrote to the 
 Mother, and I wrote to John and begged him to 
 come and help me." 
 
 Elizabeth's eyes had a far-away look in them, 
 and she drew the sleeping child close to her 
 breast. 
 
 " And did John come ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not for a long time. I asked him to come in 
 my joy, and I asked him to come in my sorrow, 
 and he did not come either time. He was ab 
 sorbed in his work, you see, and my joys and sor 
 rows could not seem much to him."
 
 JOHN FACET. 38$ 
 
 Elizabeth sighed. " But of course he loved 
 you ? " 
 
 " I think he thought me rather weak and fool 
 ish ; and Claude said that my affection would 
 annoy him. When Claude came back," she went 
 on, " there seemed to be a mist between us. We 
 had an explanation, and he said that he would try 
 to think as I did ; but still the mist was there. 
 At last John came. O Elizabeth, John is so 
 high ! He is so strong, so noble ; he seemed so 
 far away from me always, and he dwarfs everyone 
 who comes near him. He did not tell me ; I found 
 out that he was coming to this dreadful place to 
 work, to suffer, perhaps to die for the love of his 
 fellows. And we were going to the Adirondacks 
 for love of ourselves. All the time I seemed to 
 see the face of the Christ on the Cross, and to 
 hear him say ' Father, forgive them, for they know 
 not what they do ! ' Claude, who does not be 
 lieve in Him, did not know ; and all who were 
 going in search of pleasure did not care. Only 
 John was going to pain and death for Christ's sake. 
 But / knew, and the Christ would not ask forgive 
 ness for me if I did not care ; if I stayed willfully 
 for love of one who was Christ's enemy. Know 
 ing all this, I longed to stay ; I tried to stay ; and 
 hated Miss Grigsby for telling me, and John for 
 coming away. You see how wicked I was ; how 
 I sinned, Elizabeth ! " 
 
 Elizabeth stooped and kissed her brow. " But 
 you came away," she said.
 
 3^6 JOHN PAGET. 
 
 "Not of my own will. John came, and I took 
 his departure as quietly as a brute ; then, after he 
 left, I got a letter from the Mother. She said I 
 was committing the sin of Judas, and betraying 
 the Master afresh ; that I must leave all, and 
 come to her at the Convent. As I read, I faced 
 my sin fully. I had known it all along, but had 
 turned my back on it. In my heart I had been 
 more false than Judas, and I knew that I must 
 try to atone. So I came here. God knows how 
 my life is bound up in Claude, and maybe God 
 will forgive me, now that I have come away to 
 this awful place to show my willingness to follow 
 Him. In my letter that I left for Claude, I did 
 not tell him once that I loved him. I wrote a 
 cold, calm letter, and told him I was coming here 
 to help. It was very hard, for I knew that it 
 would hurt him. So often he asked : ' Do you 
 love me better than John ? ' Now he will think 
 that I love John best. It was the hardest thing 
 I could think of to do, for it hurt Claude, and 
 made him think ill of me, too. You think God 
 will forgive me now, Elizabeth?" 
 
 " There is no doubt of it, child, even without 
 your coming here to die. Will you not tell 
 John?" 
 
 " Oh, never never ! I must not tell John, for 
 that would make it easier for me. Besides, I 
 promised Claude that John should not know 
 that I was here ; I wrote him that in my letter; 
 but I did not say that I did not love John best.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 387 
 
 He will think that I would rather die for John 
 than live for him. If I live, I will go on to the 
 Mother. If I die, Elizabeth, I will leave a letter 
 for you to send to Claude, and this last farewell 
 will tell him how I loved him all the while. When 
 I am dead there will be no harm in comforting 
 him. And you can tell John why I came, and 
 tell him to pray for my soul." 
 
 " I think your cousin ought to know of your 
 being here at once," Elizabeth said. " I know 
 him, and I think I ought to tell him." 
 
 Beatrice sprang up. "You promised you 
 would not." 
 
 " I promised I would help you," Elizabeth 
 answered. " If you should die, he could hold me 
 to account." 
 
 "And you are afraid of a little responsibil 
 ity?" 
 
 Elizabeth smiled. " No, I'm not afraid, but it 
 would not be right. Do you not see that you 
 are almost committing suicide ? You ought to 
 be sent away from this place ; and your cousin 
 would do it." 
 
 Beatrice stood looking down into the fire. 
 
 " Where could I go ? " she asked at last. " Who 
 would receive me now?" 
 
 "There are stations outside where you could 
 be taken care of until it would be safe for you to 
 go on." 
 
 "And if I die there?" 
 
 "There is no reason why you should die."
 
 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 "Yes, my heart is broken. I feel life going 
 from me every hour." 
 
 Elizabeth looked up quickly, and once more 
 was struck with the frail, worn appearance of the 
 girl. 
 
 " My mother died of nothing," Beatrice went 
 on, "and so will I; old Angela told me so." 
 Once more she knelt by Elizabeth. " I am safer 
 with you than anywhere else," she said ; " why not 
 leave me in peace ? Already I love you and the 
 little children. If you insist on telling John, I 
 must go away and hide even from you." 
 
 " I do not insist," Elizabeth answered, " but I 
 must think about it before I can make you any 
 promise. Now I must sleep, and you must, too. 
 See, it is eight o'clock ; by eleven I must be gone. 
 Sleep quietly for to-night, and I will tell you my 
 decision in the morning." 
 
 She showed the girl a bed in the next room, 
 and Beatrice took her bag and her wraps from 
 where they hung, and carried them with her. 
 
 Presently she came back half undressed, and 
 with a pair of scissors in her hand. 
 
 " Will you cut off my hair?" she asked ; " it is 
 so hard to get under my cap." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at her a moment. " No," 
 she said, " I will plait it very tight for you in 
 stead." 
 
 Beatrice sighed. " Nobody believes that I am 
 dead to my past ! " But this was all her protest, 
 and she sat quite still while Elizabeth brushed
 
 JOHN PA GET. 3 8 9 
 
 and braided her hair. When it was done, she 
 took Elizabeth's hand. 
 
 "You have been very kind to me, Elizabeth, 
 and I thank you very much. Would you mind 
 kissing me for good-night?" 
 
 And Elizabeth kissed her. " Sleep well," she 
 said ; "you need it sadly." 
 
 But when Elizabeth looked in at eleven 
 o'clockj the room was empty. While she slept 
 the heavy sleep of exhaustion, the girl had 
 gone. On the table there was a letter sealed and 
 stamped, addressed to Claude Van Kuyster, and 
 a note to Elizabeth begging her to mail this let 
 ter when the fever was done. " It will not make 
 any difference then for him to know how much I 
 loved him, for I shall be dead, or in the Convent. 
 You will not see me again, nor will John. Good- 
 by. God bless you." 
 
 Putting the note and letter away, Elizabeth 
 hurried out. She must find John at once. At 
 the bread depot she found several calls awaiting 
 her, but could get no news of John. Mr. Paget 
 had not been in for twenty-four hours, and no 
 one could say where he was. 
 
 Elizabeth left a note for him with several ad 
 dresses where he might find her, her own first, 
 and begged him to come to her at once. She 
 then went on to her night's work a family of 
 four, all ill, and two dying. In the morning she 
 went again to the supply office, and from there 
 to John's lodgings ; but he had not been in the
 
 39 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 office since the morning before, and his lodgings 
 were locked tight. Her only resource was to 
 slip a little twisted note into the keyhole. 
 
 She did not wish to institute any systematic 
 search for Beatrice, even if it were feasible, but 
 she looked for her herself ; asking for her at the 
 houses of both Protestant and Roman Catholic 
 Sisters, without success. The girl seemed to 
 have vanished. 
 
 It was useless to regret that she had told Bea 
 trice her intentions, for she would in no case 
 have acted without Beatrice's knowledge ; and 
 she could not blame herself for the girl's rash 
 ness ; but she was deeply troubled. She might 
 be in some empty house there were many 
 such, emptied by fever where it would be cer 
 tain death. She might be working beyond her 
 frail strength ; she might fall into other serious 
 dangers, she was so beautiful and simple. 
 
 At her own lodgings that evening the chil 
 dren gave her a note, and said the Sister had left 
 it. It was only a line " I am safe." 
 
 Again Elizabeth went out on her night rounds. 
 She had done her best by the girl, and until she 
 could see John, she could do no more. 
 
 Toward dawn her charge for that night died, 
 and she was taking her way slowly homeward, 
 when a voice called her : 
 
 " Elizabeth ! " By the light of the fires John 
 recognized the dog across the street, and came 
 over to her. He took both her hands.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 39 * 
 
 " You want me, Elizabeth ? " he said. " I have 
 your notes and have been hunting for you. I 
 am so glad that you want me." 
 
 The voice, the words, the strong grasp of his 
 hands, shook her as no pleading could have done. 
 The calm that had come after years of struggle 
 was swept away, and she trembled like a leaf in 
 the wind. Some words she had read once came 
 back to her " There is no love so tender as an 
 old love renewed." 
 
 "What is it?" John asked, looking down into 
 her eyes. 
 
 She drew a long breath. " I am so tired," she 
 said, "that I believe my mind is leaving me." 
 
 " Please take care of yourself, Elizabeth ; you 
 are one of the people we cannot spare from this 
 world." 
 
 "Hush!" she answered quickly, "I do not 
 matter ; but there is someone here who needs 
 your care, and it is for that I sent for you ; your 
 cousin." 
 
 Then she stood alone in the dead world. Her 
 brain, her heart stopped ; even the fire hardened 
 into one tall flame as she watched the man 
 before her. 
 
 " You mean " 
 
 " Beatrice. She has run away, and is here 
 disguised as a Sister of Mercy." 
 
 " Beatrice ! " he whispered. 
 
 Elizabeth turned to see if the growing day had 
 yet risen over the house-tops to touch his face.
 
 39 2 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " Beatrice ! " he said again. 
 
 "I met her at the station by chance," Eliza 
 beth went on, smoothing one hand over the other 
 as if to smooth away the marks of the grasp in 
 which they had been held. " I took her home 
 , with me. I intended to keep her there with the 
 children, but I told her what I thought you 
 ought" she stopped abruptly, then after a sec 
 ond went on, "You would send her back to her 
 friends. When I looked into her room again, 
 she was gone." 
 
 " When was that ? " 
 
 " Night before last before this one." 
 
 " Nearly forty-eight hours ! What shall we 
 do what must we do, Elizabeth ? She is so 
 young, so frail, so beautiful! Can you not help 
 me, Elizabeth ? " laying his hands on her shoul 
 ders. "Can you not help me? She will die! 
 And she loves me. She would not have come 
 else; would she, Elizabeth?" 
 
 " I have hunted for her already," Elizabeth 
 answered, turning her eyes away from his. " We 
 must describe her at the offices, and ask everyone 
 to keep a lookout for her. It is all we can do." 
 
 A step approached, and both turned. It was 
 the young physician who stayed with John. 
 
 " Tell him," John said. 
 
 So Elizabeth described Beatrice. 
 
 " I parted with her an hour ago," Dr. Rogers 
 answered. "A woman had died, and the nun, 
 Sister Dolores she called herself, took away the
 
 JOHN FACET. 393 
 
 little child. She said that she knew where it 
 would be safe." 
 
 Elizabeth stretched out her hand to John. 
 
 " She will bring it to me, Jack ; come ! " 
 
 Rogers watched them away in silence, too 
 surprised to ask a question. 
 
 In the dusk of the day that was dawn when 
 they parted, John and Rogers met at their lodg 
 ings. 
 
 "You did not find Sister Dolores?" Rogers 
 said. 
 
 "No, but she had left the child there. 
 
 Rogers lighted the spirit-lamp and put on the 
 little kettle ; he brought out some bread and 
 cold meat, and from his coat pocket a bottle of 
 milk. 
 
 " I met the Gray Sister," he said. " She told 
 me, and gave me this milk." 
 
 John did not seem to hear him. 
 
 " You know the Gray Sister," Rogers went 
 on. 
 
 " Elizabeth? Yes ; but I have not seen her in 
 nearly five years." 
 
 " She is wonderful ! " 
 
 John turned and looked at Rogers curiously. 
 
 " If for nothing else, she would be a wonder 
 of physical endurance ; but to-day she looks 
 worn out ; quite as if she might break down. 
 In twelve hours she has changed dreadfully." 
 
 "She is worried about Beatrice," John said, 
 just as if Rogers knew it all.
 
 394 JOHN FACET. 
 
 " Does she love this Beatrice very much ? 
 
 "Elizabeth love Beatrice?" John repeated 
 slowly. " No I think not. No." 
 
 " Then I wish Beatrice, with her pretty baby 
 face, had kept away from here " 
 
 John rose quickly. 
 
 " I mean no offense. I know nothing of this 
 young woman or her relations to you," Rogers 
 went on ; " only I adore the one you call Eliza 
 beth. She is worth a stack of ordinary women, 
 and this young person seems to have broken her 
 all up." 
 
 " Beatrice Miss Wilton is my cousin," John 
 said, " and I must find her." He picked up his 
 hat. 
 
 " You won't go until you have had your supper, 
 however," and Rogers locked the door and put 
 the key in his pocket. " Pull yourself together, 
 Paget ; remember, you will need strength. The 
 Gray Sister and I are hunting, too ; street by 
 street we go : and two friends of mine are on 
 the watch. I think that Father O'Bryan knows 
 more than he will tell." 
 
 John's eyes were gleaming. " She was 
 educated in a Convent," he said quickly, " and 
 if the Romanists get her " ^ 
 
 " Shall I offer to help build Father O'Bryan's 
 new church ? " Rogers asked. 
 
 " To any extent." 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and Rogers 
 unlocking it, Elizabeth entered.
 
 JOHX PA GET. 395 
 
 " Just in time for supper," Rogers said. 
 " And you can help me manage Paget, too." 
 
 " I came to ask if you have heard anything," 
 Elizabeth answered. " I have had my supper." 
 
 " Another cup of tea will not hurt you ; and 
 if you will help us consume this beef, your dog 
 here, shall have the bone. As a physician I pre 
 scribe this second supper; sit down comfortably, 
 and in twenty-four hours we will have Miss 
 Wilton safely locked up." 
 
 Elizabeth obeyed him, so did John, and both 
 felt it a good thing that he rattled on cheer 
 fully without waiting for an answer to anything 
 he said. When supper was over, Rogers gave 
 John a list of names. 
 
 " I do not think that any of those people will 
 live until morning," he said, "and all want to 
 see a clergyman. I have numbered them ; the 
 highest numbers having the longest chance of 
 life. At seven o'clock in the morning we will 
 meet here. For you," turning to Elizabeth, " I 
 have three moderate cases, which please make 
 comfortable before you go on to the fourth case, 
 which is very bad. This fourth case will need 
 all the time you can spare. I will send relief to 
 you at six in the morning, however, and you can 
 be here by seven. Of course we will search as 
 we go, and at any moment we may meet Sister 
 Dolores." 
 
 After this they said good-night and went their 
 several ways.
 
 39 6 JOHN FACET. 
 
 But morning found them unsuccessful still, and 
 night and morning, and yet another evening, 
 found them without word or token. 
 
 The children were all in bed save the one 
 Elizabeth loved most, and he lay asleep in her 
 arms where she sat by the little fire. It seemed 
 a month since Beatrice had knelt there telling 
 her story ; such a pitiful, innocent story as it 
 was. She would have been wiser to grant the 
 girl's prayer not to tell John, but she could not 
 have foreseen the sequel. Her own sympathies 
 were all with Claude ; his case seemed so hard. 
 
 That morning she had mailed the letter to him 
 which Beatrice had left, inclosed in a note from 
 herself, telling him the story of Beatrice's meeting 
 with her, and the reason why she had again run 
 away. She finished with a promise to telegraph 
 him as soon as Beatrice was found. It was all 
 she could do for him, and having done it, she 
 felt more at rest. No one could know better 
 than she how much he needed comfort. John 
 was happy in thinking that Beatrice had come 
 for love of him ; happy even through the misery 
 of not finding her, and Elizabeth did not un 
 deceive him. She could not help admiring the 
 faithful way in which he did his work in spite of 
 everything. He never flagged, but his whole 
 being seemed ever on the alert ; he seemed to 
 be always looking and listening, and turned to 
 Elizabeth for sympathy and help as confidently 
 as a child would turn to its mother.
 
 JOHN FACET. 397 
 
 " You taught me to depend on you long ago, 
 Elizabeth," he said one day, " and so it seems 
 natural to come and ask you to help me bear my 
 burden. Do you think me very weak ? " 
 
 "No," she had answered, " men were born to 
 strive and to suffer ; women to sympathize. 
 At least that is the theory which men have 
 formulated." 
 
 She had done her best to help him. For her 
 self, she was too tired to feel anything save a 
 vague pity for all. 
 
 While she sat by the fire thinking wearily over 
 the same course her mind had followed for days, 
 there was a knock at the door, and opening it 
 she found young Rogers. In the hunt for Bea 
 trice she had given him her address in case of 
 news. 
 
 "I have come for you," he said. "Father 
 O'Bryan is down. I do not think there is much 
 hope for the old chap ; and as I strongly suspect 
 that he knows where Miss Wilton is, I want you 
 to be with him. I found him sick in the street, 
 so carried him where I pleased." 
 
 Elizabeth put the child in his bed ; made the 
 fire and the lights safe, then, buttoning on her 
 cloak, followed the young man. It was a long 
 walk, all across the town, and when they arrived 
 the priest was unconscious. 
 
 " He may come out of this just at the last," 
 Rogers said ; " watch by him." 
 
 So all night long Elizabeth watched, and to-
 
 39 8 JOHN FACET. 
 
 ward morning she was startled from a doze by. 
 the voice of the priest. 
 
 " Tell Rogers," he whispered, " that the girl is 
 at the Sacred Heart, sick. She is always calling 
 for Cladide. Is Rogers' name Claude ? " 
 
 Elizabeth raised him quickly, but there was 
 only a gasp then he was dead. 
 
 It had rained a little in the night, and the 
 morning was cold and damp, and Elizabeth 
 shivered as the outer air struck her. The change 
 would kill all the sick, she feared. She must find 
 Rogers and John, and tell them at once where 
 Beatrice was. 
 
 The clouds were flying low, and the rising day 
 touched them to exquisite opal tints. Even in 
 her haste she looked up more than once to the 
 growing light and beauty, and drank in gratefully 
 the freshened air. It was so sweet after the close 
 room of death. 
 
 A sharp bark arrested her, and she turned to 
 see Wamba, who had been with her the moment 
 before, standing on the steps leading up to a re 
 cessed porch. She called to him because she 
 was in haste, but he did not come. She turned 
 away, and he whined. She turned back toward 
 the steps ; then Wamba retreated into the porch, 
 still whining. 
 
 He had found something ; a forsaken child, 
 maybe, and she mounted the steps with a little 
 curiosity. But it was not a child ; a woman in 
 black was lying there. Her feet and the hem
 
 JOHN FACET. 399 
 
 of her dress were wet with the rain that had 
 driven in. 
 
 Elizabeth paused, overcome by an unaccount 
 able dread. The feet looked so dead. 
 
 Wamba whined appealingly, then broke into a 
 long, low howl. She could not move ; that cry 
 of unreasoning misery seemed to have frozen 
 eve-ry drop of blood in her body. How long it 
 was ! how it reverberated in the desolation ! 
 
 Again the dog lifted up his head, and the long, 
 low howl longer and lower it seemed this time 
 crept through the silence. 
 
 A shudder passed over Elizabeth, but she 
 could not move. She heard a step approaching, 
 and struggled with herself as a person in a night 
 mare. 
 
 " Somebody sick up there? " 
 
 It was Rogers' voice, and his step that came 
 up quickly. " What is it? Your hands are like 
 ice; are you ill ? Don't stare so!" shaking her 
 slightly. 
 
 " Thank you," Elizabeth gasped. " See there, 
 it is Beatrice, and she is dead. I knew it the 
 
 moment I saw the little wet feet " and she 
 
 moved toward the prostrate figure. 
 
 "Good God !" 
 
 "Father O'Bryan said that she was ill at the 
 Sacred Heart, crying for Claude. She must have 
 slipped away." She raised the girl in her arms. 
 " How lovely she is look," pushing back the 
 disguising veil and bands from the brow.
 
 4 JOHN PA GET. 
 
 Rogers stooped over them. " Is there no sign 
 of life ? " 
 
 For answer, Elizabeth lifted Beatrice's hand 
 and let it fall. Rogers drew back. 
 
 " Paget is just behind me," he said, " we were 
 going to his lodgings to meet you for news. I 
 must stop him and prepare him ; or take her 
 away." . 
 
 " It is too late," Elizabeth answered, " he is 
 here." 
 
 " Rogers ? " and John came quickly up the 
 steps. " Oh, God ! " he said" oh, God ! " and 
 Wamba's howl seemed to finish the wail. 
 
 One moment he stood quite still; Elizabeth, 
 worn and white, looking up at him, and on her 
 breast Beatrice's dead face, smiling like a child 
 in its sleep. 
 
 "She is mine," he said in a low voice, as if to 
 himself. "At last she is mine mine! Give her 
 to me give her to me. How dare you keep 
 her touch her ! You ! ^ Mine mine ! " lifting 
 his hands to heaven. " At last she is mine ! " 
 
 He took the girl from Elizabeth's unresisting 
 arms, and folding her close to his breast, he laid 
 her head on his shoulder, and drew her cloak and 
 veil about her. 
 
 "You know she is mine, Elizabeth; she came 
 because she loved me. How dare you try to 
 hold her from me? Mine mine. No one must 
 touch her now ; go away ! " 
 
 " Paget ! "
 
 JOHN PA GET. 461 
 
 " Go away ! Death has given her into my 
 arms. Go, leave me with my dead. You will 
 not? Then I will go. Do not follow do not 
 follow ! " 
 
 And as he went away from them Elizabeth, 
 still kneeling on the wet stones of the porch, 
 looked up into Rogers' face, while something 
 like a smile crept round her white lips. 
 
 " He loved me once," she said, "and now I go 
 to send a message to the man she loved."
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one 
 
 by one, 
 Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as 
 
 well undone, 
 Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see 
 
 the sun." 
 
 Y all that is pleasant, how came you here, 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster ? " 
 
 " By ship and by rail," Mrs. Van Kuyster 
 answered, holding out her hand to Ted Dennis, 
 who leaned over the carriage door. It was in 
 the Corso in Rome, and Mrs. Van Kuyster's 
 carriage was waiting for Marjorie, who was shop 
 ping. 
 
 " Is Claude with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is in there with Marjorie." 
 
 " You had not planned this when I left you in 
 the Adirondacks last autumn, had you ? " 
 
 "No; I think your coming over made us 
 think of it ; and Claude was rather upset about 
 his cousin, you know." 
 
 "Little Miss Wilton; she still sticks to her 
 Convent, I suppose? It was hard on Claude, but 
 she would have tried him dreadfully, I think." 
 
 " Of course ; their training and views of life were 
 so different." 
 
 403
 
 JOHN PAGET. 403 
 
 " Her training was very bad." 
 " Bad ? Surely, Mr. Dennis- 
 
 " You misunderstand me. I only meant so 
 hopelessly religious, don't you know." 
 
 " Yes, what you say is true ; it was hopeless to 
 expect her to adapt herself to our mode of living 
 or thinking. Life was a very serious business to 
 her." 
 
 " Did she have any effect on Claude ? I mean, 
 her taking it so seriously as to leave everything 
 that was pleasant and worth having, to go into a 
 Convent ? " 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster paused a moment. " He 
 has never talked to me about her once but he 
 says that his children shall be Christians that, 
 if he will, his brother shall train them." 
 
 " My word ! " and Dennis pulled his mustache 
 reflectively. " His brother that very striking 
 looking fellow who went down to the fever ? Do 
 you know I really thought for a little while that 
 he was wrong in his head a fellow like him 
 throwing his life away so utterly. What has be 
 come of him?" 
 
 " He is quite well now, I hope. He is on his 
 plantation in the South, resting. He had a 
 dreadful time in the epidemic, and was desperately 
 ill, but he had a good nurse and physician, and so 
 pulled through. Claude actually wanted to go 
 down to him, but both the nurse and the physi 
 cian wrote him not to think^f such a thing, that 
 he would only do harm. I was very thankful
 
 44 JOHN FACET. 
 
 that they had so much common sense. The 
 physician ordered six months' rest for John, be 
 fore he took any work. Claude sent his yacht 
 down for him, and he has cruised about a little, I 
 believe. The physician is with him, and Martin 
 Kinsey. Martin wrote me that John was in 
 every way the most perfect man he had ever 
 known. His hair has gone quite white, he says. 
 Martin is such an enthusiast! " 
 
 " Yes, he is another incomprehensible. I 
 always thought that he and Miss Van Kuyster 
 would make it up." 
 
 ".Oh, no! I have quite other views for 
 Marjie. Just between us, remember, not a word 
 to a living soul about it ! I have always thought 
 that she and Claude were made for each 
 other." 
 
 Dennis looked up quickly. " So? You give me 
 light. That is what reconciled you so readily 
 to the Convent scheme. I wondered, last au 
 tumn, at your taking it so easily. You remem 
 ber I happened to go down to New York with 
 Claude just a few days after Miss Wilton left 
 you, and you had settled in the Adirondacks; 
 well, he found a letter at the Club that seemed 
 to tear him limb from limb, as it were, and he 
 dragged me about in a frantic way to lawyers and 
 things, to get a little old woman endowed. She 
 was to get a thousand dollars every Thanksgiving 
 Day from Beatrice Wilton. She had been Miss 
 Wilton's governess ; I had to witness the papers,
 
 JOHN FACET. 45 
 
 you know. It was a horrid wet day. I made 
 him pay up, however, by rushing over town with 
 me ; I was to sail that afternoon, you know I 
 actually dragged him down to the steamer. But 
 honestly" lowering his voice "he frightened 
 me. Claude is usually such a quiet fellow, you 
 know, but about three hours after he got the 
 letter, we had just finished lunch at the Club, 
 when a telegram was handed him. He looked at 
 me a minute and said: 'Would you believe it, 
 Dennis, she is dead ! ' That was all ; he would 
 not say another word. He was very quiet, but 
 I was afraid to leave him, so I took him to the 
 ship, and at the last I turned him over to Tilly, 
 who promised to see him safely back to you. 
 Tilly joined me two weeks later in Paris ; he said 
 that you and Miss Van Kuyster had taken it very 
 quietly, and he supposed it only meant that the 
 girl had taken the veil. He wondered a little, 
 but now I understand." 
 
 Mrs. Van Kuyster nodded. " Claude was 
 4 hard hit' as you men say, but he seems quite 
 right now, poor fellow. And soon it will be 
 with him as it is with all of us; this episode 
 will fade into a lovely 'might have been,' to 
 dream over when he smokes his after-dinner 
 cigar. Meanwhile, Marjie will see that the said 
 dinner will produce only dreams, and not night 
 mares. Voyez ? " 
 
 "Capital! Ah, how do you do, Miss Van 
 Kuyster," lifting his hat and shaking hands, " and
 
 4<>6 jOtttf PA GET, 
 
 Claude, my dear fellow, it is balm to weary eyes 
 to see you." 
 
 " Thanks. Where have you dropped from ? " 
 
 " I have just come back from the East. Been 
 reading ' Omar Khayyam ' under a palm tree in 
 a garden of roses delicious, don't you know." 
 
 "It sounds well. Jump in, we are driving to 
 ' the hill of gardens,' will you come ? " 
 
 " I will ; old friends are a boon. You ought to 
 go to the East, though, Claude. Things are so 
 slow and easy over there, every day is a little 
 eternity." 
 
 " I believe time is enough for me," Claude 
 answered. 
 
 " In this part of the world, quite enough ; but 
 houris, hookhas, palms, and roses make a very 
 good perspective for eternity." 
 
 "And yet, you have come back," Marjorie 
 said. 
 
 "Well, a winter of eternities is quite an addi 
 tion to a man's life, don't you think?" 
 
 " Quite " and Mrs. Van Kuyster laughed. 
 
 They stopped at the bank for letters. Claude 
 brought out a bundle, which he distributed as 
 they drove. 
 
 "A half dozen from your 'dearest friends,' 
 Marjie," handing her several. " Yours, mother, 
 are from Jack and Kinsey. Mine is from Miss 
 Grigsby ; thanking me for the furs, I suppose. 
 Will you read it and answer it, Marjie? " And he 
 handed it to her.
 
 JOHN PA GET. 4 7 
 
 He took very little part in the talk for the rest 
 of the drive, and his shadowy eyes seemed 
 deeper, and the lines in his face more hopeless as 
 he looked out over the magnificent view that 
 spreads below the watcher on the Pincian Hill. 
 
 It was not the fashionable hour, and the place 
 was still, save for some children playing near, 
 and a peasant leaning against a tree in the sun 
 shine, thrumming on a guitar. He hummed in a 
 rich low voice the gay fandango he played, with 
 its pathetic minor falls and broken chords. 
 
 A woman passed with a basket of roses ; Claude 
 bought them all. And the roses and the music 
 swept him away from the immortal scene before 
 him to commonplace New York to a con- 
 servatery full of forced flowers. " In a garden 
 they would be nodding," he heard her say, " here 
 they stand still and dream like the pine tree 
 that dreamed of the palm. Does everything 
 dream and long, Claude ?" Away to a sullen 
 gray sea, breaking against gray cliffs to trailing 
 mist clouds and a little wet cheek pressed close 
 to his, and a low voice whispering, "Yes, you 
 have won me." 
 
 " That guitar is dreadfully twangy," Mrs. Van 
 Kuyster said. "Drive on." 
 
 Claude leaned out and gave the musician a 
 gold piece.
 
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