HE ULTIMATE 
 
 MOMENT 
 
 BY WILLIAM 
 
 R, • LIGHTON 
 
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MAYBE THE LAST TIME, HE SAID, SOFTLY 
 
THE 
 
 ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM R. LIGHTON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 A. I. KELLER 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 HARPER 6r BROTHERS 
 
 PUBLISHERS * MCMIII 
 
Copyright, 1903, by Harpkr & Brothers. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 Published October, 1903. 
 
TO 
 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
 M5iai53 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 'MAYBE THE LAST TIME,' HE SAID, SOFTLY" Frontispiece 
 
 "YES, THERE'S MY OWN DAUGHTER,' HE 
 
 ECHOED" Facing p. 114 
 
 "KEEP it up! I ain't listenin"" .... 126 
 
 'HIS BIG HAND CAUGHT BRONSON's COLLAR" . 154 
 
 "OH, PLEASE TAKE ME AWAY !' " 204 
 
 'WITH A DESPAIRING CRY DAVID THREW HIMSELF 
 
 DOWN UPON THE WALL " 22 ° 
 
 'WATSON DID NOT ANSWER; HE ONLY SAT AS 
 
 IF STUNNED" 2 62 
 
 "I BELIEVE YOU LIE,' HE SAID, WITH SLOW 
 
 EMPHASIS" 2 7° 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 IT was mid - October in the Elkhorn valley of 
 Nebraska. Through the long summer the 
 round, full breasts of the hills had faithfully 
 suckled a big family of crops; but now the ma- 
 tured grain had gone away to begin its own ca- 
 reer, leaving the mother-prairie alone. She seem- 
 ed to feel the release from responsibility without 
 quite knowing whether to be glad or sorry to sur- 
 render it. The look of the burden-bearer was 
 gone from her face; she was even showing some 
 furtive tokens of the jocund humors of a belated 
 youth, such as patient women show whose first 
 real enjoyment of personal freedom comes only 
 after the long cares of maternity. She was rest- 
 ing at ease, indolently amusing herself with a 
 big lapful of sunshine, while insisting by every 
 means in her power that she had not lost 
 strength or purpose. She was ruled by a de- 
 sire that may not be reconciled with itself — 
 the desire for a long life without old age. 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 From appearances none would have cared to 
 say that her vigor was gone. She had come to 
 October, as one comes to the sweet hours of even- 
 ing after a weary day, with spirit rekindled and 
 eager. The sky was as unfathomable as in June, 
 the air as odorous and vital. The sun had lost 
 the heat of passionate summer, to be sure, but 
 the loss was a gain in cheer and comfort. The 
 cornfields had put off their workaday dress of 
 plain, serviceable green, and had made an ex- 
 quisite toilet from the clinging fabric of wild 
 morning-glory vines. The meadow -lands that 
 had been brown and dull in the drought of 
 August had bloomed afresh after the Septem- 
 ber rains, and were thickly flecked with purple 
 and golden glory — asters and thoroughwort, sen- 
 sitive pea and golden -rod. The uplands were 
 treeless; but in the deep heart of the valley the 
 Elkhorn wound its leisurely way among heavy 
 masses of elm, cotton-wood, and box-elder, whose 
 leafage showed no blight of frost upon its lusty 
 green. Even the birds seemed confused about 
 the season. On their feeding - ground in the 
 wheat - stubble meadow - larks and goldfinches 
 gurgled and choked with sheer ecstasy; a flock 
 of jays swung through the high air, screaming in 
 a madness of demoniac delight; the melancholy 
 crows, who dared not openly affront the day 
 with their grouchy temper, gorged themselves 
 in silence. Far as the senses could reach, the 
 land was holding carnival of joyous abandon. 
 
 2 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 David Boughton had been hard at work since 
 early dawn, ploughing in the "hill eighty"; but 
 now the last furrow was turned, and he let the 
 tired horses stand for a time, while he leaned 
 against the plough-handles, pushing back his hat 
 so that the slow south wind might touch his 
 forehead, wet with sweat. As he stood looking 
 with something like artistic satisfaction over the 
 freshly turned, black surface of the field, and then 
 at the fair breadth of prospect beyond, he felt 
 himself a part of the day, his heart and mind 
 firmly linked to every token of its beauty. At 
 their best those moments come only to the 
 worker; and David had done a man's day's 
 work, whose tangible result lay outspread before 
 him. 
 
 A quail called from the thicket of weeds that 
 grew along the fence, and David answered with a 
 shrill, imitative whistle, again and again, until 
 he had seduced the bird into a response; then, 
 with practised lips, he took a broader part in 
 the riotous symphony that swelled around him, 
 whistling with the larks, the bobolinks, and the 
 finches; but at the clanging, defiant note of the 
 jay. he stopped. 
 
 "No," he said, aloud. "I know how you feel, 
 old boy, but I'm not up to it yet. Maybe I 
 shall be, some day." He settled his hat more 
 firmly, giving to its brim an impudent upward 
 tilt. " See that, Mr. Jay?" he laughed. " That's 
 the way / feel. I'm just as good a man as you 
 
 3 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 are, even if I can't make the same kind of a 
 racket." 
 
 After a moment he glanced askance at the 
 westering sun. "Half-past four!" he said, still 
 aloud, in the manner of one long used to soli- 
 tary association with his own simple, wholesome 
 thoughts. "Is that all? I'll bet a dollar it's 
 later than that. I'm hungry as a hound pup. 
 I reckon there won't be much supper to-night, 
 either, till pretty late." 
 
 He drove the team to the rude gate in the field 
 fence, and there loosed the beasts from the plough. 
 As he struggled with the clumsy fastening of the 
 gate, he paused, as though upon unexpected im- 
 pulse, and his face was sobered. 
 
 " Maybe the last time," he said, softly. He set 
 his elbows upon the gate-post, his chin supported 
 in his open palms, and his eyes wandered again, 
 but more seriously and with keener perception, 
 over the familiar landscape. Here and there 
 other workers were engaged as he had been, and 
 the surface of the prairie was checkered with 
 patches of new earth — a mammoth board laid out 
 ready for the great game of Industry. At wider 
 intervals lazy clouds of blue smoke hung above 
 fields of burning stubble, melting high in air into 
 a mellow haze. Scores of sleek cattle were dotted 
 about in their pastures,, grazing. In the shelter- 
 ed nooks among the hills were many farm-yards, 
 holding big, red barns and small, white dwellings 
 — homes of content in a land of plenty. It was a 
 
 4 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 beautiful picture, and David's glance clung to it 
 fondly. The horses, left to their own whims, had 
 strayed far before he aroused himself and hurried 
 to overtake them. He straightened the disar- 
 ranged harness, caught the trailing lines into one 
 firm hand, and set off towards the barn- yard that 
 lay a half-mile below at the bottom of the valley. 
 
 His soberer mood held him for a time. " Lord !' ' 
 he said, quietly. "It's mighty strange how a man 
 learns to love one particular little patch of dirt 
 more than all the rest of the world just because 
 he's learned to call it home." 
 
 But there is an irrepressible buoyancy in the 
 very sorrows of robust, red-blooded youth. In 
 another moment his blue eyes were quickened, 
 alert, and his lips surrendered to a smile as he 
 chirruped to the horses, urging them to mend 
 their plodding steps. 
 
 "Hike, there!" he called. "Hike, Jenny! Joe! 
 What are you slouching for? Lift your feet!" 
 
 For himself, he moved with the loose, free, 
 rolling stride of the man whose legs are used to 
 ploughed ground. He was tall, with the yielding 
 straightness of strong, unconfined muscles whose 
 every fibre was alive. His head was firmly set 
 upon a stalwart, sun-browned neck, and was held 
 high, as though to allow him to look squarely into 
 the face of things. His shoulders, beneath his 
 loose-fitting shirt of gray flannel, had that in- 
 describable elastic lift which gives assurance of 
 virility. His whole body swung in lithe harmony 
 
 5 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 with his step. That gait loses its fine grace upon 
 the harsh pavements of a city's streets, but in the 
 fields, its birthplace, it is the perfection of human 
 movement. 
 
 " Glory, but it's a great day!" he cried, and his 
 deep lungs sucked greedily at the rich air. A 
 grasshopper lifted itself with a rattle of wings 
 from the matted weeds at his feet, and he watched 
 its long, easy flight with genuine sympathy. A 
 striped snake, roused from a sun-bath, moved 
 indolently out of his path, stopping now and again 
 to poise its head in defiance and to mock with 
 its flickering, scarlet tongue. Instinctively David 
 stooped and picked up a clod of earth; but he 
 checked his hand with a little gesture of re- 
 nunciation. 
 
 " Not to-day! You may thank your stars, you 
 belly-crawler, that I'm going away. I couldn't 
 kill a thing on the place — the last day." 
 
 He passed from the field into a winding lane 
 formed by a double row of giant cotton- woods, 
 their tops interlocked far overhead, and presently 
 he came to the barred gate of the pasture-lot. A 
 half-dozen cows stood just beyond the fence, 
 waiting for the bars to be lowered, and a queer 
 little old man was puttering over this easy task, 
 making it seem vastly hard. 
 
 "Hello, Uncle Billy!" David called. "Do you 
 let your cows quit work this time o' day?" 
 
 The other paused in his effort, straightening 
 the stiff kinks from his bent back, wheezing 
 
 6 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 under the distressful aches of rheumatic mus- 
 cles. 
 
 "Yep," he answered, shortly. Then, as he 
 found a comfortable posture: " By 'Mighty, young 
 feller, I'll be glad when you git away. I don't 
 like this thing of choppin' off a day's work right 
 in the middle; an' seems as if every livin' critter 
 about the place has felt free to loaf this last two- 
 three days. Why don't you go, if you're goin', 
 an' be done with it?" But a broad grin offset the 
 rigor of his words, and his glance rested kindly 
 upon the sturdy young figure. 
 
 David let down the bars and turned the cows 
 into the lane, then stood leaning against the 
 fence, finding the cool shade of the cotton- woods 
 very grateful. 
 
 "How you feeling, anyway, Uncle Billy?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Fine — fine!" the old man answered, stoutly. 
 "Feelin' just as young an' hearty as I ever did. 
 What's the sense feelin' any other way?" 
 
 But, despite this assurance, he was plainly much 
 in debt to age — a well-dried little man, who ap- 
 peared to have been made in the beginning of his 
 life out of indifferent material, full of knots and 
 tough places. His body was weazened and mis- 
 shapen, his hands gnarled, his shrunken cheeks 
 seamed and cross-seamed and stained with the in- 
 eradicable rust of years. A mantle of white hair 
 fell about his shoulders, and beneath his chin was 
 a thin fringe of wiry white beard — as though the 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 skeleton hand of Age was gripping him visibly 
 by the throat. He limped painfully, resting his 
 light weight upon a crutch which his own hand 
 had fashioned from an elm-branch. Yet, over 
 all this, his eyes were very clear and lively be- 
 neath their thatch of snowy brows, and were alight 
 with the assurance that he loved life with un- 
 diminished ardor. 
 
 "What have you been doing all day, Uncle 
 Billy?" David asked, laying his hand almost 
 caressingly upon the bent old shoulder. 
 
 " Oh, I been patchin' up the hog fence," the old 
 fellow returned. "When there ain't nothin' else 
 to do, there's always that." His sunken eyes 
 sparkled with a glint of humor. " I reckon you 
 'ain't learnt yet what curious critters hogs is. 
 It takes till a man's old to learn that, an' then he 
 don't know it all. I just been figurin' it out: I 
 fenced in that hog lot twenty-two year ago last 
 May, an' I been spendin' all my spare time on it 
 ever since, patchin' it up." The spark of humor 
 flickered into a smile. "The theory's all right. 
 It's plum easy to build a hog -tight fence; but 
 'tain't no manner o' use tryin' to keep the hogs 
 from gettin' through it. Ever thought about how 
 
 that is?" 
 
 David laughed, lightly, easily, with the reck- 
 lessness of one who draws upon an inexhaustible 
 fund of good-humor. " Just like folks, ain't they, 
 
 Uncle Billy?" 
 
 " That's a true word ! More like folks than any 
 8 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 livin' critters there is. A man can understand a 
 hog. Nobody knows what a horse or a cow or a 
 hen thinks ; but you know what a hog thinks, just 
 from lookin' at him. He thinks, ' I will if I want 
 to, an' if I don't I won't.' Ain't that human?" 
 
 " That's me, to the life !" David returned. " I'm 
 so like, I reckon I ought to be shut up in the lot 
 with 'em, oughtn't I?" 
 
 Uncle Billy made an inarticulate sound in his 
 throat. "Time you been down to Omaha for a 
 spell, you'll think a hog lot ain't such a bad 
 place as it might be, mebbe." Then, after a 
 moment, his quavering voice almost querulous: 
 " Name o' sense, Dave, I can't make out why you 
 want to quit us here. Seems too dummed bad 
 that you should be the one to get these here high- 
 mighty notions about goin' up to town." 
 
 "I'm going to get rich," said David, lightly 
 parrying the old man's threat of oppressive 
 seriousness. "Just think, Uncle Billy, how nice 
 it '11 be. By the time you get to be ninety or a 
 hundred, I'll have a fat old wad put away in the 
 bank, and then you can quit work." 
 
 Uncle Billy worked his crutch into position 
 beneath his arm, gathering his poor muscles for 
 action. " When the Lord wants me to quit work 
 He'll strike me blind an' deef an' dumb, an' crip- 
 ple both my legs, and knot my hands up so's I 
 can't wiggle my fingers. He 'ain't done none o' 
 them things yet ; so I reckon He means me to keep 
 on like I been doin . I m willin'. I've always 
 
 9 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 been one o' the workin' kind. To hell with your 
 wad!" The little oath was so earnest that it 
 seemed no more than a continuation of the pious 
 sentiment that had gone before. He stumped 
 sturdily down the lane, David keeping at his side, 
 and presently they came to the barn -yard — an 
 acre of bare, trampled earth, strewn with a clean 
 litter of straw and fodder. In the middle of the 
 yard stood one of those vast red barns that dot the 
 grain-growing West, its doors yawning wide, upon 
 a cool, sweet-scented interior. Around it were 
 many sheds, bins, and cribs, as though the mother- 
 structure had given birth to a numerous brood of 
 young. Within was fat abundance; racks, mow, 
 and bins bulged to the point of bursting overflow. 
 As David drove in his team, a dozen six-weeks 
 pigs, black and plump as crickets, that were feed- 
 ing upon the spilled grain, scuttled away in a 
 squealing chorus of alarm. Every nook in the 
 great building was alive with poultry, gorged to 
 repletion, yet loath to leave off picking at the 
 luscious tidbits. 
 
 David stripped off the harness and cared for the 
 horses, filling the feed-boxes with lavish hand; 
 then stood for a little time, looking upon the fa- 
 miliar scene, listening to the confusion of familiar 
 sounds — the chuttering of the plethoric hens, the 
 crunching of the horses' jaws, the comfortable 
 swish of their tails, and the saucy twittering of 
 myriad sparrows in the rafters overhead. It was 
 all commonplace enough, but he felt a sudden and 
 
 10 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 strong accession of fondness for its every par- 
 ticular. 
 
 In the yard was the same aspect of plenty and 
 content. Close against the barn a bevy of hens 
 lay prone, nestled into hollows they had fashioned 
 in the warm dust. Pigeons were everywhere, 
 clean, trim, full -breasted, golden -eyed — aristo- 
 crats of the air come down to levy contribution. 
 Around the windmill tanks, in one corner of the 
 fence, was a broad puddle made by overflow; 
 and there were pigs and ducks taking their ease in 
 the black mud. The cows were gathered around 
 the feed-racks near by, pulling at their fodder and 
 yielding their full udders to the hand of Uncle 
 Billy. 
 
 David moved to the old man's side. "Aren't 
 you going to let me help you milk, Uncle Billy?" 
 he asked. 
 
 The old fellow turned a leering face. "Time 
 you come back again you won't want to 'sociate 
 with anything so common as a milch-cow, unless 
 they got silk fringe to their ears an' gilt tassels to 
 their tails. Git out! You don't know how to 
 milk, nohow. You run along an' git you slicked 
 up for the party. When I was your age, it used 
 to take me two-three hours to git me fixed out 
 in my things, when I knowed my girl was goin' 
 to look at me." 
 
 The allusion brought a quick flush to David's 
 face; but he was not abashed. "Have you seen 
 my girl to-day, Uncle Billy?" he asked. 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 The old man clucked his tongue, waggishly. 
 "By 'Mighty! You'll need to put on all the 
 fixin's you got in your bureau, if you're goin' 
 to play with her. Seen her! Have I seen her? 
 Well, I guess so ! Seen her buggy-ridin' with a fel- 
 ler. She cert'nly was havin' a good time, too. I 
 could hear her laughin' a quarter of a mile off. She 
 cert'nly has got a good, hearty laugh, Maggie has." 
 
 "Maggie!" David scoffed, with his light laugh. 
 "I wasn't asking about Maggie Ritter." 
 
 "Oh-h!" Uncle Billy chuckled. " I thought she 
 was the one. She used to be, the last time I 
 took notice." 
 
 "You haven't been noticing for quite a while, 
 then." 
 
 "'Mighty! 'Ain't I got enough to do, without 
 havin' to keep track o' your changes o' heart 
 about the girls? 'Twould take all a man's time 
 to do that. Git along with you, now. These 
 cattle don't like to have children around 'em 
 milkin'-time. Makes 'em skittish." 
 
 David swung towards the gate that opened 
 from the barn-yard into the garden-plot. As his 
 hand lay upon the latch, a cracked voice called 
 after him : 
 
 "Dave! Oh, Dave!" Uncle Billy was leaning 
 sidewise on his stool, squinting around the tail 
 of his cow. "Say, if you was to happen to see 
 that girl they call Ruth — you know : that fat girl, 
 with the apple-face — you tell her Uncle Billy's all 
 right, will you?" 
 
 12 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 David's shoulders were straightened and his 
 eyes eager. 
 
 " I don't know any fat girl with an apple-face," 
 he said. "Is she here?" But the old man had 
 gone into eclipse behind his cow. 
 
II 
 
 THERE was a new zest in the boy's thoughts, 
 a new light in his eyes, a new spring in his 
 step, as he hurried down the path towards the 
 house. The garden had yielded its fruits long 
 ago, and was lying in a fallow tangle of wild 
 growths, which spread into every corner and 
 cranny. A thick strand of bindweed, reaching 
 out across the path, caught at his feet ; a luxuriant 
 mass of foxtail held him for a moment by the 
 knees. The checks made him curiously im- 
 patient, as though he had been buttonholed for 
 a tedious argument. 
 
 But when he reached the broad landing before 
 the door of the kitchen he hung back a little, 
 pulling his neckerchief into a tidier knot and 
 brushing his hand over his tumbled hair. Then 
 he moved to the open doorway, leaning against 
 the frame and looking eagerly within. 
 
 The kitchen was a wide, low - ceiled room, 
 wholly given over to utility. There was little 
 attempt at adornment; every article of furniture 
 was of the plainest; it might have suggested 
 emotional poverty but for the unmistakable air 
 of comfortable plenty that pervaded it. The big 
 
 14 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 cooking-range was alive with a roaring wood fire, 
 and self-importantly excited, its top covered thick 
 with steaming kettles and pots, while on the 
 hearth and pipe-shelf were many pans filled with 
 mysteries wrought in dough, ready for the oven. 
 The room seemed to swarm with delicious odors 
 that vied with one another for supremacy. 
 
 A woman stood leaning over the work-table, 
 her back towards the door. In every contour 
 of her figure jollity was written large. She had 
 a jolly, round breadth of hip and waist and 
 shoulder, a jolly, full outline of cheek and neck. 
 Her arms were bared, disclosing a wealth of jolly 
 dimples about the plump elbows. Her hair, 
 streaked somewhat with gray, had been gathered 
 into a tight knot at the back of her head; but 
 from the mass some unruly strands had escaped, 
 making a row of jolly little curls from nape to 
 temples, that bobbed about in a jolly flutter as 
 she bent briskly to her work. A heart toughened 
 by constitutional misanthropy must have felt a 
 thrill of warmth in that presence. David re- 
 garded her for a time in smiling silence. 
 
 "Well, mother," he said at last, "seems to me 
 you're busy." 
 
 She turned quickly, showing a face quite in 
 keeping with the aspect of her figure. It was the 
 face of an elderly woman, to be sure, lined some- 
 what by years, and with the flesh drooping a 
 little about cheeks and chin ; yet there was in it a 
 fair pledge of that youth which does not succumb 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 to time alone. Time had done no more than to 
 ease the rigor of early tension. Her lips were as 
 full and red as those of a girl ; a flush of rosy color 
 tinged her clear skin; her gray eyes shone with 
 lambent lights. At sight of David she smiled 
 brightly, and her voice in greeting was resonant 
 and full. 
 
 "Is that you, son? I didn't hear you come 
 up. You aren't through already, are you?" 
 
 "That's what I am," he answered, with satis- 
 faction. " The hill eighty is ready for the harrow. 
 Oh, I can hustle when I've a mind to." 
 
 While he talked he was looking furtively around 
 the kitchen. His glance came to rest as it found 
 what it sought — a small, jaunty hat of gray 
 straw, with a gray ribbon and a scarlet flower, 
 flung down carelessly upon the window-shelf. He 
 would have relished a glimpse of the face that 
 pertained to the hat; but that would come in 
 good time. The suspense was not unendurable — 
 only a whetting of desire. The main point was 
 settled to his liking : she was somewhere near by. 
 
 "Are you hungry?" his mother asked. "I 
 suppose that isn't a sensible question, though. 
 Of course you are. You'd better get you a little 
 bite, if you think you can't wait till supper. 
 There's fresh rusk on the pantry shelf, and a dish 
 of apple-butter; and there's a pot of coffee on the 
 back of the stove. That '11 be enough to take the 
 edge off your appetite, till company comes." 
 
 He set out his simple meal upon a corner of the 
 16 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 table, and ate with hearty relish, talking between 
 whiles of the little matters of home interest. 
 
 " Wheat's bound to do well, next year," he said. 
 "The ground never was in better shape. The 
 crop ought to run ahead of any we've had since 
 I've been in the fields." 
 
 "Yes?" she queried, contentedly. "Well, that's 
 good. A good wheat crop is what makes the 
 world go round. I've thought of that, many a 
 time, when I've been cooking. We'd have a 
 slim supper to-night if it wasn't for wheat. It's 
 a blessed thing the Lord sees fit to give us what 
 we couldn't get along without." 
 
 " We'd sure be in a bad fix if He didn't," David 
 laughed. 
 
 " Why, yes. And yet we take it all the time, 
 year after year, just as if it wasn't anything of a 
 miracle. Dear knows, we don't deserve it." 
 
 "Oh yes, we do," David said, with easy con- 
 fidence. " If we do the work that makes a crop, 
 we deserve it. Sure! We deserve every grain 
 we get — more, too, counting in the drought years. 
 If you count the droughts, that we aren't to blame 
 for, doesn't that leave Providence in debt to us?" 
 
 If there was heresy in the argument, his mother 
 gave it no heed ; she was concerned just then with 
 the weightier matter of taking from the oven a 
 big panful of custard-puffs. She set one upon 
 David's plate, and, as he dipped his spoon into its 
 smooth, golden heart, he, too, forgot the point at 
 issue. 
 
 17 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "That's good!" he sighed, when the last flaky- 
 crumb was gone. " I guess I'll be able to hold 
 out a while now. I think I'll go up and dress. 
 Don't worry about anything else, mother, so 
 you'll be all tired out. You've surely got enough 
 cooked. Can't you quit for a while now?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm going to, just as soon as this ham's 
 ready to take off the stove, so I can set it by to 
 cool. I'll slice it after while. That's all there is 
 left to do, except these cookies and another pan 
 of puffs. Don't you fret about me. I'm not a 
 mite tired." 
 
 He stood for a moment in indecision; then he 
 asked, abruptly: 
 
 "Where's Ruth?" 
 
 His mother righted her posture, setting her 
 floury hands upon her hips and regarding him 
 with twinkling eyes. 
 
 "Ruth!" she echoed. "Ruth! Well, I'll be 
 blessed!" She broke into a broad, rolling laugh, 
 very rich and pleasant to hear. "'Where's 
 Ruth?'" she bantered. "Where should she be, 
 do you think, but up-stairs in front of the looking- 
 glass. She got through helping me an hour ago, 
 and I sent her away to dress. You won't see 
 Ruth, let me tell you, till the time comes; so it's 
 no use for you to be hanging around here." 
 
 18 
 
Ill 
 
 BEFORE the shadows of the cotton - woods, 
 creeping hungrily forward, had licked up the 
 last of the sunshine that lay upon the broad lawn, 
 the household had put the final touches to its 
 "company" appearance, and was awaiting the 
 first of its guests. In the simple-hearted friend- 
 liness of a country neighborhood, one hour is 
 almost as good as another for even the most 
 exacting of ceremonies. Half -past seven found 
 the house filled with a score of young people. 
 
 It was a democratic gathering. The sons and 
 daughters of wealthy farmers met on a perfect 
 equality of rank and understanding with field- 
 hands and dairy-maids. No one was embarrassed, 
 because no one stopped to think of artificial gra- 
 dations; social worth was fixed by the one easy 
 condition of youth, and that primitive, spontane- 
 ous honesty of thought and motive which per- 
 tains to the life of the farm. For the most part 
 these boys and girls had grown up together from 
 their first years of innocence ; and in growing up 
 they had not grown apart, but into a closer and 
 closer intimacy. In heart and soul they were still 
 mostly children ; for them life was still but a lim- 
 
 19 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 pid deep, shot through and through with golden 
 light. Their minds were placid, sweet-tempered, 
 wrought to no high, grim tension by struggles for 
 place and preferment; on every face were tokens 
 of a tranquil freshness of spirit — a clear depth in 
 the eyes, a ruddy tone in the cheeks — not wholly 
 due to the mere physical effect of sun and air. 
 
 Despite their e very-day relationship, there was 
 upon them now an air of bashful diffidence. The 
 first shyness of meeting at a "party" had not 
 yet worn away. The girls were gathered by 
 themselves in two or three knots, on the stairs and 
 in the hallway, giggling, whispering, daring one 
 another to make the first overture to the boys. 
 They were a buxom lot, fresh-colored, full-bosom- 
 ed, running over with animal vitality and with a 
 frank, inoffensive vanity — the sort that are called 
 "good" girls; at once satisfying and disappoint- 
 ing — capable of much, yet contenting themselves 
 with doing very little ; intensely human, and there- 
 fore intensely lovable. 
 
 The young men were in the same mood of 
 wistful reluctance, sitting in a stiff row around the 
 walls of the parlor, perspiring, uncomfortable, 
 voiceless, their necks clasped in unaccustomed 
 bands of starched linen, their deeply tanned 
 cheeks making a strong contrast with the clear 
 white of their foreheads. Theirs was. only the 
 awkwardness of being out of place, with nothing 
 to fix attention upon. Idleness of the muscles 
 meant a relaxing of the mind, a drooping of the 
 
 20 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 plumes of purpose. Their eyes were restless; 
 their hard, red hands hung open between their 
 knees. Seen thus, they were like roughly sketch- 
 ed studies of men, containing all a man's vital 
 parts, but with the outlines imperfectly filled in. 
 
 David came in from the barn, where he had 
 been playing a hostly part. It was in the barn- 
 yard that he had received most of his guests. 
 He stood for a moment in the hall, looking about, 
 his eyes dancing with appreciation of what he saw. 
 
 "Come, come!" he laughed. "This won't do. 
 Can't you make it go, girls ? What's the trouble ?' ' 
 
 "It ain't our fault," one of the girls declared. 
 "If they'd rather sit in there and crack their 
 knuckles than come out here and be sociable, we 
 don't care." 
 
 " I think they're afraid," another asserted from 
 the shadows of the stairway. 
 
 "Who said that?" David questioned. "Was 
 that Bess Woodruff? Where's Dan? Where's 
 that brother of mine ? Isn't he somewhere about ? 
 Oh, Dan! Bess says you're a coward." 
 
 "Why, David Boughton!" she protested. "I 
 never said any such thing. You story! I think 
 you're just horrid!" 
 
 "That yearlin'!" a deep voice answered from 
 the parlor. " If she'll come where I am, I'll show 
 her." 
 
 " Oh, you come out here!" the girl called, gayly. 
 "You don't dast, for all you're so brave." 
 
 A sturdy figure stepped into the hall. " Where 
 21 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 is she?" the voice menaced. "Just let me get 
 hold of her!" With a stifled shriek, half dismay 
 and half eager anticipation, the girl fled up-stairs, 
 the man at her heels, the company following in a 
 clamorous chorus. The farther end of the hall 
 was in darkness, and thither the chase tended, 
 ending in a scream and a scuffle. 
 
 "I've got her!" Dan cried. "Now, you little 
 minx, do you know what I'm going to do to you? 
 A coward, am I? Bring a light, Dave, so every- 
 body can see. Hold it up high. Now, Miss Bess 
 Woodruff, you're going to be kissed, right before 
 all these folks." 
 
 "Dan Boughton!" she shrilled. "Don't you 
 dare ! Let go of my hands ! If you don't let go, 
 I'll slap you!" 
 
 "Oh, you will?" he taunted, bringing his face 
 close to hers. "It's no use fighting, my lady; 
 you might just as well stop it, and pucker up 
 your mouth." 
 
 Struggling, she slipped to the floor ; but he raised 
 her to her feet, pinioning her arms. She ducked 
 her head against his breast; but he passed one 
 powerful arm about her, holding her helpless, 
 while with his free hand he turned her face to the 
 light, stooped with deliberation and laid a sound- 
 ing kiss upon her lips; then released her, breath- 
 less, crimsoned, dishevelled, her eyes glowing, as- 
 suming an air of mortal offence — a pretty bit of 
 affectation that deceived nobody. There was a 
 noisy outbreak of shouts and laughter. 
 
 22 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "My!" David cried. "Isn't there some girl 
 that wants to call me a coward?" The ice was 
 broken then, and the evening's pleasure auspi- 
 ciously begun. 
 
 Still David was not quite content. Among the 
 bevy of rosy beauties he looked for one face — 
 the face for which his eyes had been hungering 
 since he came from the field. Ruth was not there, 
 and in her absence he was oppressed by a sense 
 of loss and denial. Watching his chance, he 
 slipped quietly out to the kitchen; and as he 
 pushed open the door his thoughts were brought 
 speedily back into tune. 
 
 With his mother, busy over the details of the 
 supper, was a girl clad in a gown of some soft, 
 pale-blue stuff, the loose sleeves pushed back, a 
 snowy apron hanging from her neck to the floor. 
 But, though its drapery was so ample, it could not 
 hide the lines of her splendid young figure — the 
 wealth of her breast, the rich abundance of her 
 arms and shoulders, the long, sweeping curves of 
 waist and hips. She was tall, almost as tall as he, 
 yet with an exquisite symmetry and grace that 
 amounted to airy lightness. Upon her well-poised 
 head was coiled a mass of brown hair, that shim- 
 mered in the lamplight with a golden lustre, and 
 caught in the coils was a bunch of late violets. 
 
 "Ruth! Why, Ruth!" David cried. She stood 
 erect above her work, revealing a face beautifully 
 formed on a fine, free model — a face whose per- 
 fection was not in classic lines or delicate sculptur- 
 
 23 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ing of features, but in the spiritual sweetness that 
 shone through, making mere form seem wholly- 
 secondary. It was a face of the type that be- 
 longs peculiarly to the American girl of composite 
 lineage; its every feature was eloquent of the 
 survival of the fittest things in womanly charm 
 gathered from many sources. The artist has been 
 at great pains to establish his little dicta pre- 
 scribing an abstract perfection of outline and 
 coloring, but now and then a living face will 
 confront him, brilliant, radiant, setting his rules 
 at defiance, and sending his complaisance into a 
 tottering decline. Such a face was Ruth Mil- 
 ford's, from the tip of the round, firm chin to the 
 first wave of hair over the low, white forehead. 
 She looked at David with wide, gray eyes — eyes 
 that were strangers to any trick of art or artifice 
 — and her smile of greeting was full of the same 
 lovable assurance of innocence. Hers was a 
 wholesome, sane, serene presence, the presence 
 of one who had never encountered doubt or dis- 
 may or weakness — one who had travelled none 
 but the fair, green paths that lead to the attain- 
 ment of simple and pure desires. 
 
 "Well, I think it's time you're remembering 
 your manners," she said. Her voice was soft, yet 
 vibrant and vital. "I've been here since two 
 o'clock, and you haven't taken any more notice 
 of me than if I were on the shady side of the 
 moon. And I've been slaving and slaving over 
 your old supper till my head's whirling with it. 
 
 24 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 1 Who made you?' The cook. ' Of what are you 
 made?' Victuals and drink. 'What's the chief 
 end of man?' Fried chicken and ham sandwiches 
 and doughnuts and pineapple sherbet and pie and 
 sweet cider — " 
 
 Mrs. Boughton broke in with her jolly laugh. 
 "All that's enough to be the end of any man, in 
 or out of the Catechism. Has everybody come, 
 David?" 
 
 But he did not hear. He was looking at Ruth. 
 He stepped to her side, where she bent over a huge 
 platter filled with brown bits of chicken, and his 
 hand covertly sought hers, closing firmly upon it. 
 
 " David !" she expostulated. " Let go. I want 
 to put that necktie straight for you. You're a 
 very untidy person. Come over here to the light. 
 Now, hold your chin up. Up, I said. That's up, 
 towards the ceiling." 
 
 " But it strains my eyes to look at you that 
 way," he objected, " and I'd rather wear my neck- 
 tie crooked all the rest of my days than miss one 
 good, square look at you. ' ' And his chin persisted 
 in rebellion against her authority, so that her 
 task took a long time. 
 
 "There, that will do now," she said, when the 
 bow was tied to her liking. " Don't you know 
 this is my busy day? You run along to your 
 play. It sounds as if they needed some one to 
 look after them in there." 
 
 A gale of laughter and noisy applause swept 
 from the front of the house. David reluctantly 
 
 25 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 left the kitchen and returned to his post, where 
 he found his guests deep in a game of "clap in 
 and clap out." Other amusements of that hardy- 
 old school followed, and then succeeded a round 
 of conundrums loaded with light charges of ar- 
 chaic humor — a gauzy amusement, but doing am- 
 ple service in a company that was bound to be 
 merry. 
 
 Uncle Billy came in from his last chores while 
 this sport was at its height. He was in stocking 
 feet, carrying his shoes in his hand. At the foot 
 of the stairway he paused for a little time, lis- 
 tening. 
 
 "Lord!" he interjected, presently. "Some o' 
 them jokes was nigh dead of old age when I had 
 my first breeches on. Why don't you let 'em 
 have their rest? It's too much like grave-robbin' 
 to be diggin' 'em up. Git some new ones, why 
 can't you? I'll tell you one, bran' -new. I made 
 it myself yeste'day mornin' at breakfast. It's a 
 good one, too. Now you boys keep still while I 
 ask it, an' don't tell 'em what the answer is. This 
 is it : If a piece of boiled wienerwurst — what they 
 give you with cabbage down to the hotel at 
 Waterloo — if one o' them wienerwursts could talk, 
 what 'd be the first thing it 'd say? You ain't 
 never goin' to guess that one. Don't you tell 'em 
 the gag, boys; that wouldn't be fair." 
 
 A hush fell upon the company. Uncle Billy 
 limped slowly up the stairs, holding to the 
 balustrade, grinning over his shoulder. " Better 
 
 26 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 give it up," he challenged. "The' ain't brains 
 enough in the whole crowd to guess it. This is 
 what it 'd say : It 'd say, ' Bow-wow !' " 
 
 He had his reward. An applauding outcry 
 went up from the general throat, and he collapsed 
 upon the landing exulting over his easy victory. 
 When he sought to rise the effort was ineffectual . 
 
 "You'll have to come an' gim me a lift, Dave," 
 he called ; and, leaning his weight upon the strong, 
 young arm, he gained the upper hallway and went 
 to his room. 
 
 "I'll help you off with your clothes, Uncle 
 Billy," David volunteered. " You must be pretty 
 well tired out with the extra work to-night. But 
 I wish you'd felt like staying up a while, till 
 supper's ready." 
 
 "Nope," the old fellow returned. "Bed's a 
 pretty good place after sundown. I had some 
 supper, though. That girl Ruth looked after me 
 in the kitchen." He sat in silence for a moment 
 on the edge of his bed, his eyes ruminant. "I 
 don't blame you a mite, Dave, for settin' a heap 
 by her. She's as fine as they make 'em; they 
 don't git none finer nowhere. Think o' her goin' 
 down on her knees on the kitchen floor in her 
 party dress an' takin' off a crippled old hired 
 man's shoes for him! That's what she done. 
 She's a lady; that's what she is. Now, you go 
 along, boy. I'll take care o' myself the rest, if 
 you'll just blow out the light for me. Good- 
 night. Enjoy yourself." 
 
 27 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 Then came the supper — a riot of good feeling. 
 The dining-room — wide, cheery, hospitable — was 
 massed with foliage and flowers from garden, 
 woodland, and meadow. A dozen paper lanterns 
 swung on strings from the low ceiling, and be- 
 neath was the table, bowed under a surfeit of all 
 that country cookery could accomplish. The hale 
 appetites of the young folks set willingly to the 
 hopeless task of disposing of the good things, 
 eating until stayed by complete satiety. 
 
 After the supper the company gathered once 
 again in hall and parlor, and made a pretence of 
 resuming the earlier gayety ; but the springy alert- 
 ness of mind and limb was abated for a time, 
 giving place to drowsy content. Speech went on 
 somewhat, but only fitfully, with long intervals 
 of silence. The night was of summery warmth, 
 and the doors and windows stood open, admitting 
 the sweet air. A belated whippoorwill called in- 
 sistently from the grove by the river; a little 
 brown owl hooted in the boughs of a door-yard 
 elm ; myriad insects hummed and chirped in the 
 matted blue-grass under the nearer trees. David 
 sat by a window, listening, his thoughts suffused 
 with tender satisfaction. He would soon say 
 good-bye to all this, and he was suddenly real- 
 izing how clean and gracious his life at home had 
 been. 
 
 By-and-by one of the girls disturbed the quiet 
 with a cry: 
 
 "Why, there's Mr. Keller! Why didn't you 
 28 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 come sooner? You've missed all the good things 
 to eat." 
 
 The new - comer had approached quietly and 
 stood leaning against a porch column, where the 
 glow of the lamps threw his figure into relief 
 against the black background of the night. In 
 face and form he offered a striking contrast to the 
 dominant type in the company. He was above 
 middle height, but slender ; sinewy rather than 
 muscular. A thick, curling, brown beard covered 
 his cheeks and chin, giving him an air of vigorous 
 maturity, though he was hardly past the age of 
 thirty-five. His eyes, brown and clear, held an 
 odd, whimsical expression, as though he was ac- 
 customed to looking on at life from outside the 
 procession and got much quiet enjoyment out 
 of the spectacle. His dress, too, set him apart ; 
 it was modest yet modish, and was worn with an 
 air of distinction that hardly pertained to the life 
 of that simple neighborhood. 
 
 David stepped out quickly to greet him, grasp- 
 ing his hand heartily. 
 
 " Is it really you, Joe? I'm mighty glad you've 
 come. I was afraid you'd forgotten, or made up 
 your mind it wouldn't be worth while. Come in. 
 Don't let these folks discourage you; I'll get you 
 some supper." 
 
 The other held his response in abeyance for a 
 little while, holding David's hand in his with a 
 detaining pressure, his glance lingering upon the 
 happy young face. 
 
 29 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "No," he said, "I think I'll not go in. I'm 
 smoking, and, besides, I have only a few minutes 
 to stay. I don't care for anything to eat. Can't 
 you come outside with me? I must get back to 
 my work pretty soon, but I want to talk to you a 
 bit. I sha'n't keep you long away from your 
 guests." 
 
 David called to those in the house: "Go on 
 with your fun; I'll be back again right away." 
 Then with his friend he descended the steps, and 
 they walked through the shadows to the roadway 
 beyond. There Keller leaped lightly to a seat 
 upon one of the flat - topped gate - posts, while 
 David stood near by, resting his arms upon the 
 fence, waiting for the tide of speech to flow. 
 
IV 
 
 ALTHOUGH Keller had said that time was 
 i\ pressing, he seemed in no hurry to speak. 
 He knocked the dottle from his pipe, filled it 
 afresh, and sat for a time calmly smoking. When 
 words came by-and-by they were directed to no 
 practical point. 
 
 "If it weren't for night-time we'd all go into 
 spiritual bankruptcy. A look at a sky full of 
 stars is the best of all ways for renewing the soul's 
 youth." 
 
 David's native tendency to laugh asserted it- 
 self, but the laugh died quickly away. "Yes, 
 Joe, I know. No wonder you poets like the 
 night-time; it's good raw material for the best 
 kind of poetry ; all you have to do is to write it. 
 Sometimes, on nights like this, I've felt fit to make 
 some of the finest stuff that ever was sent through 
 the mails, but then, when I sit down beside a lamp 
 and try to do it, it's no go. I reckon that's most 
 of the difference between a real genius and the 
 rest of folks — the genius can stand the test of 
 kerosene." 
 
 Keller suffered the remark to pass. He had 
 mental occupation enough in puffing comfortably 
 
 3i 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 at his pipe and in following the lazy smoke- 
 clouds as they drifted away upon the slow air. 
 
 "I remember one summer night, six years 
 ago," he said, presently, "when I came to tell 
 you good-bye before you went to the university. 
 I sat on this very post then, and we had a long 
 talk about things. You haven't forgotten?" 
 
 "No, I haven't forgotten," David answered, 
 slowly, his memory busy. An interval of medi- 
 tation followed upon that. They had long since 
 got out of the way of hurrying each other in 
 these times of intercourse. When a word was 
 ready it would come; and they understood and 
 knew how to use the silences. Often their talk 
 would have appeared to an outsider as piece- 
 meal, without sequence or order, but for them it 
 was held together by what they were able to take 
 for granted. 
 
 "So you're going to try the law," Keller re- 
 marked, finally. " Well, you know I wish you well, 
 David; but I can't say I congratulate you. It's 
 pleasant to think of seeing something of the other 
 side of life, but this is the best side. I know what 
 will happen to you: you'll lose a lot of happy 
 illusions." 
 
 " But I'm not a child any longer to be amused 
 with illusions," David suggested. "I'm twenty- 
 six years old. I think I'm entitled to call myself 
 a man. If they are illusions, isn't it better that 
 I should give them up?" 
 
 " That would be good argument," Keller agreed, 
 
 3 2 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "if you were sure of getting hold of realities in 
 their stead. But what you'll get will be only 
 another lot of illusions, less lovely than these. 
 It seems to me that you're risking a great deal 
 more than you can afford to lose." 
 
 There was another silence. " Joe," David said, 
 abruptly, "I've wondered a hundred times what 
 it is that keeps you here. It isn't necessity; 
 you've never known the meaning of that word 
 as the rest of us know it — money - necessity, 
 I mean. You've got money to feed to the 
 birds." 
 
 "More than they could possibly eat with com- 
 fort," Keller assented. "It's indigestible stuff." 
 
 "Yes. And you have a name as a poet — a 
 name that people are passing around the dinner- 
 tables back East. I should think you'd want 
 to be where they're interested in you. Who 
 knows anything about your work here? They 
 know you write poetry, and they feel sorry for 
 you; that's about the amount of it. I've been 
 expecting for years that you'd go where you can 
 be tasting your fame." 
 
 Keller waited in his turn, drumming with his 
 heels upon the post, and whistling softly. " No," 
 he said, "I don't care what folks say about me; 
 I don't want to hear it. It's the work only that I 
 want. I'm one of the blessed, Dave, because I've 
 found my place and my work. Nothing could 
 tempt me away from here." 
 
 David stood erect, gathering himself for argu- 
 3 33 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ment. "Then it's just because you're contented 
 that you stay here?" 
 
 "Just because I'm wholly, absolutely, perfectly 
 contented. Don't you think that's a pretty good 
 reason?" 
 
 " No," David answered, stoutly. " If it is, then 
 I'm all wrong, for that's exactly the reason why 
 I'm going away. I'm afraid to stay. I don't 
 want to be contented with this." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Oh, it isn't because I'm above it, or anything 
 of that sort. I'm not such a fool as to think I'm 
 too good for farming. But I want to try myself. 
 I want a bigger, freer field for a while, so that I 
 can find out what my man's strength is. You 
 know what I mean." 
 
 "Oh yes; I know what you mean. And what 
 / mean is that this is field enough for any man 
 who isn't insane with the silly forms of ambition, 
 such as you've been expecting me to show — am- 
 bition to make a stir in the world and to hear 
 folks screaming about it. You'll never find a 
 better place than this for showing your man's 
 strength, if that's really all you want." 
 
 "It's a dead level, this life here," David con- 
 tended. 
 
 "Yes, it's a dead level of peace and goodness 
 and health and all the conditions that go to make 
 up human happiness. What do you expect to get 
 that will better it?" 
 
 "Don't misunderstand me, Joe. I'm not dis- 
 34 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 satisfied with what this life gives me. The trouble 
 is that it gives me too much. I'd like to do more 
 to earn what I get. I can plough and plant and 
 reap, and do it all honestly, but, after all, the 
 harvest is really none of my making. It's clear 
 outside of me, almost like an outright gratuity. 
 I want to take hold of something with my own 
 powers and beat it into shape without any help 
 at all, so that by-and-by I can enjoy one supreme 
 and ultimate moment of personal victory. Don't 
 you see? Can't you understand what that feeling 
 is?" 
 
 "Ah!" Keller responded, gently. "Are you 
 really in earnest? An ultimate moment!" In 
 the pause that ensued David felt that the words 
 were in some sort an accusation against his in- 
 tellectual integrity. "That's an old, old idea, my 
 friend, and not a very healthy one. It's ruined 
 more men than it's saved, a thousand times over. 
 Look here!" He blew a strong breath through 
 his pipe-stem, sending a fountain of red sparks 
 into the darkness. "That was the ultimate mo- 
 ment for every one of those." 
 
 There was a lack of assurance in David's un- 
 failing answering laugh, as though, rather against 
 his will, he caught the force of the suggestion. 
 Keller emptied his pipe again and put it away in 
 his pocket, then dropped to the ground, coming 
 close and laying his hand upon David's shoulder. 
 "Don't let me influence you too much. A man 
 must follow his own convictions, and I want you 
 
 35 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 to follow yours. I'm simply following mine when 
 I say that there is no ultimate moment for any 
 of us except the present. We must find our 
 joys in our work and not in the thought of a 
 far-off reward. It's so easy to miss the good of 
 to-day by waiting for that time by-and-by that's 
 to witness our resurrection and crowning. Any 
 day may be the resurrection-day, if we choose. 
 You mustn't bank too much in the future, for the 
 future's an ugly, dark, damp hole, full of moths 
 and rust." 
 
 "But, Joe, suppose everybody lived according 
 to that; what sort of a world would this be?" 
 
 ' ' I wonder !' ' Keller returned, calmly. ' ' Would 
 it be so much worse than it is, do you think?" 
 
 David went about on another tack. "Don't 
 misjudge me, old man. God knows I love this 
 life and all that's in it. But I've been listening 
 to-night to the talk among those folks in the 
 house. There isn't one large interest among them 
 all — nothing but a stolid complacency. They 
 haven't an idea above wondering what old man 
 Boynton will plant on his bottom-land next year, 
 and how many hogs Clark lost from the cholera. 
 Heavens, Joe, that isn't a big life! What's the 
 use of arguing about it. It's not much short of 
 inane." 
 
 "Yes," Keller conceded, " the life is primitive 
 enough in its mental attitudes. No one would 
 think of consulting these people on any of the 
 great world-theories. They aren't trying to con- 
 
 36 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 found the world with any subtle 'views,' or such 
 like. They mostly talk nothing but palpable non- 
 sense ; but they act sense. Don't lose sight of that. 
 The gift of wise speech is very rare, and I'll ad- 
 mit you won't find it here in the Elkhorn valley. 
 I've often been struck by it, that their talk is a 
 good deal like picking with one unskilful finger 
 on a single unmusical string. But in action they 
 sweep the whole gamut of harmony. They can't 
 explain their motives, I know; perhaps it never 
 occurs to them to think about such things as 
 motives. That's really their salvation. A man's 
 in a bad way when he stops to puzzle over his 
 work, trying to make out what it's all about." 
 He interrupted his own earnestness with a short 
 laugh. "Oh, I know the talk. These folks are 
 simple and rude and unlovely to look at; they 
 don't know the first principles of politeness ; they 
 don't fulfil the most elementary requirements of 
 art. Art ! That's the word that's responsible for 
 most of our idiocy. It's been made to appear that 
 we ought to consider the ulterior aims of life, 
 strike philosophic attitudes, and struggle for ar- 
 tistic effects. Fudge! When I was travelling, 
 I used to hear that sort of nonsense till it turned 
 my stomach. It was paradise to come back here 
 and mix again with men who were throwing 
 heart and soul into the pure joy of living, never 
 dreaming of attitudes or effects." 
 
 "Come, now," David broke in, impatiently. 
 "Would you have every man stay with his 
 
 37 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 plough, just because he happens to be born on a 
 farm?" 
 
 "I'd have him think well before he quits it for 
 something else," Keller answered, promptly. "I 
 know what's on your mind. You want to be 
 somebody. All right; go ahead and try it, and 
 God bless you. No, I don't ask you to stay at 
 your plough. But I do say this : A sweaty, earth- 
 stained man straining at his plough is a finer and 
 better figure than a posed Apollo, because he's 
 doing something. Suppose that in the interests 
 of art he drops his plough - handles and tries to 
 strike a pose; that doesn't make him an Apollo; 
 it only makes him ridiculous." 
 
 "Joe, suppose Lincoln had stayed at his rail- 
 splitting? Suppose Jesus had stayed at his car- 
 penter's bench?" 
 
 "Oh, that's another question entirely," Keller 
 returned, imperturbably. " If a man is intrusted 
 with a message, he must go and deliver it, of 
 course. If that's what's moving you, I'm sorry I 
 spoke as I did." 
 
 David met this speech honestly. "No, I'm 
 afraid I haven't any message in particular." 
 
 Keller swung the gate open and went out, then 
 turned and offered both his hands. 
 
 " Well, good-bye, and good luck ! You're as fine 
 a fellow as I know. I'll be as glad as yourself if 
 the thing turns out well with you. You mustn't 
 take what I've said too much to heart. When it 
 comes to a question of destiny, every man must 
 
 38 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 work it out for himself; all this pother of debate 
 doesn't affect it a bit, one way or the other. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 "Good-bye, Joe," David said, with real feeling; 
 and without more ado Keller strode away down 
 the road. 
 
WHEN he was in the house again David's 
 mind promptly shed its seriousness. The 
 cause was not far to seek. The work in the kitch- 
 en and dining-room had been finished, and Ruth 
 stood beneath the swinging lamp in the hall tak- 
 ing her share in the fun that was now revived and 
 in full glow. She had put aside her apron and had 
 given to her toilet some touches of final arrange- 
 ment, as daintily effective as they were mysteri- 
 ous. David was instantly aware of the change. 
 She was superbly beautiful. Just to behold her at 
 the distance of the hall's length gave him keen de- 
 light ; and this was deepened when the group about 
 her parted, in tacit understanding, making way 
 for him to approach. For the rest of the evening 
 he was hardly to be coaxed from her side; and 
 when the party broke up, near midnight, and he 
 listened to the frank, friendly, awkward words of 
 farewell, the occasion for such speech seemed to 
 him quite unreal and far away. His every other 
 thought had been lost in the simple ecstasy of 
 Ruth's presence and companionship. 
 
 When his guests had driven away, after the last 
 word of parting, he took his place at her side and 
 
 40 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 walked with her down the pathway towards the 
 road. As the gate closed behind them she rested 
 her hand lightly in the hollow of his arm, but that 
 did not fill the measure of his desire. 
 
 "Please, Ruth," he whispered, and the demure 
 hand crept forward along his arm until his fingers 
 could clasp hers. Then he was satisfied, until it 
 flashed upon him that with every step, however 
 slow, he was getting nearer the end. When they 
 came to the entrance to the lane that made a 
 short cut across the fields she offered to turn from 
 the road, but he drew her back. 
 
 " Let's go the long way," he pleaded. 
 
 " Oh, David!" she said, in gentle protest. " It's 
 half a mile farther." Nevertheless, she fell again 
 into step with him on the "long way." 
 
 "I wish it were half-way across the State," he 
 declared, in sudden audacity. 
 
 She laughed, a ringing peal of undisguised en- 
 joyment. "You'd miss your train in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Then in silence they moved slowly onward. 
 To other folk that would have appeared as only 
 a commonplace country road, dusty and weed- 
 grown, but to David it seemed a fair by-path in 
 paradise. The measures of distance and time 
 became all at once meaningless fictions; nothing 
 was real but the instant and its joy. The wide 
 night drew close, touching them, enfolding them. 
 Far away some of the young people, homeward 
 bound, were singing. The sound appeared to 
 
 4i 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 have no place — to come to them out of the upper 
 air. The slow, south wind lagged and loitered 
 under its heavy burden of sweet, wild odors. By- 
 and - by the moon crept above the rim of the 
 prairie, flooding the landscape with liquid silver, 
 turning that hour into the very climax of the 
 year's perfection. 
 
 No other word passed between them until they 
 stopped beneath the trees at the end of their walk. 
 Then David came back to earth with a sigh. 
 
 "Oh, Ruth, it's been too good to last!" He 
 took her hands in his, holding them with a firm 
 pressure; nor did she deny them to him. A 
 fleck of the moon's radiance sifted down through 
 the leafage and lay quivering upon her cheek, and 
 his heart leaped with desire. 
 
 "Dear Ruth," he whispered. "I never knew 
 that moonlight was a thing a man might long to 
 kiss." She did not try to escape from him; she 
 only bent her beautiful head in silence. He put 
 his arm about her and drew her close. "Ruth," 
 he cried, softly, "you have never kissed me." 
 
 She did not resist ; she turned her glorious face 
 to his in the tender light, and he bent and touch- 
 ed her lips with his. For an instant she yielded 
 herself to his arms; then, with an inarticulate, 
 startled cry, she broke from his clasp and ran 
 swiftly up the pathway towards the house ; and 
 he turned homeward, his heart singing to the 
 night. 
 
 An eerie quiet was in the hall, where so short a 
 42 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 time ago rollicking mirth had ruled. A lamp 
 had been left burning for him, but he turned it 
 out and went to his room in the moonlight. He 
 had no inclination for sleep; he made no prep- 
 aration for bed, but sat by the open window, 
 looking out. He heard a clock on the stair- 
 landing strike two, then three, then four. When 
 he arose at last and threw himself upon his bed 
 there was a look upon the face of the eastern 
 sky as though it was expecting the dawn. 
 
VI 
 
 DAVID had slept but a little while when he 
 started up, broad awake, tingling with life. 
 A jay was scolding in the elm before his window; 
 a cockerel flapped his wings in the yard below, 
 crowing lustily. The new day was well begun. 
 David stepped lightly into the hall and down the 
 stairs, meaning to do his usual share of the morn- 
 ing chores before the household should be aroused ; 
 but he found his mother moving about the kitchen, 
 busy with preparations for breakfast. 
 
 "Well, son!" she said, in composed greeting. 
 
 " Why, mother !" he returned. " I didn't think 
 you'd be up yet. Aren't you tired after all that 
 fuss?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right," she answered, easily. " You 
 mustn't think I need any pampering yet. I wish 
 you'd fetch me a basket of cobs and fix up the 
 fire a bit, and I'll have your breakfast ready in 
 five minutes." 
 
 He went out willingly upon his errand. There 
 was a tonic chill in the morning air; it refreshed 
 his senses; he breathed deep draughts of it into 
 his lungs, feeling it affecting him like wine. When 
 he had stuffed the stove with the light fuel, he 
 
 44 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 went out again to the pump in the yard and made 
 his toilet at the spout. On his return his mother 
 set before him on the table a steaming plate and 
 cup. 
 
 "You won't mind eating party - scraps, will 
 you?" she said. "There was such a lot left over. 
 I wish to goodness there was somebody to give it 
 to. If a tramp was to happen along this morn- 
 ing, I'd scare him to death giving him ice-cream 
 for his breakfast." 
 
 David's habitual laugh rang true and large. 
 " There's the tramp problem all settled ! Kill 'em 
 off with ice-cream for breakfast! I'll have to tell 
 that to Joe, and let him make a poem out of it. 
 It would be just about as sensible as some of his 
 sociological notions." 
 
 "Joe wasn't here, was he, last night?" she 
 questioned. 
 
 "Just for a minute — just to tell me good-bye. 
 He was too busy to stay." He sipped slowly 
 at his coffee, meditating upon the conference at 
 the gate, considering its points. " I like Joe," he 
 said, presently. "You'd have been tickled to 
 hear the way he talked to me last night — like a 
 Dutch uncle. He's afraid I'm going to fall 
 down." 
 
 The mother's face showed no sign of appre- 
 hension ; the mother's eyes were untroubled. 
 
 " I don't believe a son of mine will ever get a 
 very bad fall," she said, quietly. "I'd be will- 
 ing to trust my boys anywhere." She came and 
 
 45 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 stood beside him, stroking his hair with a fond, 
 light touch. "I've never preached much to my 
 children, as some mothers do. I haven't known 
 how. All I've tried to do has been to let them see 
 my ideas of right and wrong, and let them make 
 up their minds for themselves about things. It's 
 worked pretty well, too," she added, with a smile. 
 "I'm proud of my boys. I shouldn't be afraid of 
 either one of you falling out of any place you 
 climb to." 
 
 Uncle Billy came into the kitchen just then, 
 bearing a brimming milk-pail. He set his burden 
 down and stood by the stove warming his knotted 
 hands, grunting with the pain in his old joints. 
 Mrs. Boughton poured for him a cup of coffee, 
 and he sat at the table, emptying the cup into 
 its saucer and drinking with hissing gulps. 
 
 "That's the stuff," he said, gratefully. "Gim 
 me some hot coffee in the mornin', with plenty of 
 cream and sugar, an' the rest of you can have 
 all them fancy drinks. That's just one reason 
 why I ain't in no hurry to die an' git to be a sperrit. 
 I don't reckon a ghost could hold a drink o' 
 coffee, could he? It 'd all come drizzlin' out 
 through his pores." 
 
 "Now, Billy!" Mrs. Boughton cautioned. It 
 was one of the pleasant fictions of the household 
 that this childlike old man was a very demon of 
 irreverence, requiring constant check from steadier 
 and more pious souls. He was never so well 
 pleased as when he had called down upon himself 
 
 46 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 a word of reproof for some outbreak of spiritual 
 daring. 
 
 " That's what," he chuckled. 
 
 "Now, Billy!" Mrs. Boughton repeated; and 
 he hobbled away, wagging his gray head in self- 
 approval, leaving them to their last hour to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Be a good boy, David," the mother said, in 
 parting counsel — the mother-word since mother- 
 hood began. " If anything goes wrong with you, 
 I want you to tell me about it, first of all, so long 
 as I'm here. That's about all I'm staying for, 
 now, is just to help my children when they need 
 me." She walked with him through the hall, 
 clasping his arm between her hands, hanging to 
 him. At the door he threw his arms about her in 
 honest affection, kissing her again and again. 
 
 " It isn't as though I was going away to stay," 
 he said. " I'll be home every Sunday when I can, 
 and I'll write to you often between times. You're 
 the best little mother a man ever had, and I'm 
 going to do my best to make you happy." 
 
 With a wave of his hand, and a last laughing 
 call of farewell, he was off, swinging along the 
 prairie road with the bold step of one going to 
 certain victory. 
 
 When he came -to the mouth of the lane where 
 he had passed with Ruth the night before, he 
 paused and looked at his watch. If he made the 
 best of his time he would have twenty minutes 
 to spare. He quickened his pace and struck off 
 
 47 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 through the fields, hoping for a last glimpse of his 
 sweetheart. As he drew near the house his eyes 
 searched every place where she might be, but he 
 did not see her. There was no time to waste. He 
 laid his hand upon the gate, then hesitated, an 
 odd shyness possessing him. He did not know 
 what he would say to her if he met her now. It 
 was most likely that her mother would be present, 
 with some of the half -grown and curious-minded 
 children. Perhaps it was better to wait. He was 
 passing on when a voice hailed him from a corner 
 of the cornfield adjoining the house-lot: 
 
 "Hi, Dave! Don't be in such a rush. Don't 
 you want a hunk o' this?" 
 
 A boy sat upon the ground among the corn- 
 stalks, a freckled and tanned youngster of ten 
 years, lank of limb, unformed, with low, bulging 
 forehead and clear, impudent eyes. Between his 
 knees he held the half of a late watermelon, and 
 beside him upon the ground was a heap of broken 
 rind. His mouth and chin were dripping with the 
 juice; his faded calico waist was stained with it. 
 
 "I found this over in the patch yeste'day," he 
 said, " an' I hid it out till I could get a chance to 
 eat it 'thout havin' to whack up with all them 
 kids. They don't divide with me. I took an 
 apple away from Ben last night in bed, an' he 
 yelled bloody murder. If that little fyst wants 
 any melon, let him go trail one, like I done." 
 
 "Say, old man," David interrupted; "do you 
 know where your sister is?" 
 
 48 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Aw, I got four sisters," the boy returned, 
 with a touch of scorn. "Which one of 'em? 
 Ruth? She ain't here. She's gone down to the 
 creamery. She said / had to hitch up an' take 
 her; but Joe Keller come along in his buggy, an' 
 she went along with him." He blew out a spat- 
 tering shower of pulp and seeds, then sat up with 
 a hopeless sigh. "Gee! I can't stuff another 
 mouthful. I'm plum full, up to my neck. I 
 know what I'm goin' to do: I'm goin' to rub dirt 
 all over what's left, an' tell Ben to come out an' 
 look. Won't he throw a fit ! Nasty little beggar ! 
 He's been actin' too smart lately to suit me, just 
 because I dropped a little live toad down the 
 back of his neck th' other day. What's a toad, 
 to make such a fuss about? But he laid flat 
 down on the ground an' bellered like he was goin' 
 to die. If he don't watch out, me an' him's goin' 
 to have trouble one o' these days. An' that Joe 
 Keller, too! Do you like him? I don't. I don't 
 think he knows very much. He made me mad 
 this mornin'. He said he'd think I'd be scairt to 
 go out in a hard rain, for fear the rain-water 'd 
 run down my nose an' drown me. What's it to 
 him if my nose does turn up? Say, I don't like 
 any o' Ruth's fellers, only you. If she marries 
 any of 'em, now you bet I'll make him wonder 
 what kind of a family he's struck. You can 
 marry her, though, if you want to, an' I'll keep 
 my han's off ; you could marry every sister I got — 
 the whole bunch of 'em — if they was big enough." 
 4 49 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Thanks, Dick," David answered, gayly. "I'll 
 think about it, and maybe when I come back we 
 can fix up some kind of a deal. Good-bye." 
 
 When he was on his way again his eyes were 
 watchful ahead. Twice he made sure that he saw 
 Ruth in the distance, but each time it turned out 
 to be a stout, stolid, gingham-clad farmer's wife, 
 driving homeward from her marketing. He felt 
 for them a curious sense of pity, almost com- 
 miseration; they seemed so far removed from 
 romance, from every form of youthful exaltation. 
 Butter and eggs meant so much to them; and, 
 above all, they appeared not to comprehend their 
 low estate. Their fat faces and baggy shoulders 
 expressed nothing but dull placidity. Ruth 
 would never be like that! He longed to behold 
 her once again, if only to dispel the unreasoning 
 depression of spirit that followed his meeting with 
 these old wives. But he did not see her. The 
 creamery lay at some distance out of his way, and 
 he was forced to go on directly to the station. 
 
 His train whistled a warning of its approach 
 just as he had bought his ticket and seen that his 
 trunk was ready. He was glad of that ; he was in 
 no humor for meeting his acquaintances in Water- 
 loo ; h6 felt that they would grate upon him, with 
 their listless cheerfulness, their slow, level speech, 
 their narrow range of mood and sympathy. He 
 wanted to be alone, that he might think. In the 
 two or three minutes that passed, while the 
 baggage was being loaded into its car, he sat 
 
 5° 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 looking out through his window upon the tree- 
 lined, sunlit street, with its broken row of poor 
 frame buildings. Here and there was a farmer's 
 wagon standing before a shop, the heads of the 
 work-weary horses drooping. Sitting along the 
 edges of the walks were rows of dawdling loafers, 
 unkempt, ill - clad — poor hostages to destiny. 
 Others of their kind were gathered at the station, 
 leaning their backs against the wall, or squatting 
 about on the platform, watching the train with 
 eyes that betrayed no gleam of anything so vital 
 as interest. Nowhere in the village was there to 
 be seen a man in active motion ; the place seemed 
 in the thrall of inertia. Yes, he was glad to 
 leave it. Already he felt himself almost a 
 stranger to its people and their emotionless life. 
 He had no regret when the train got under way 
 and the dull picture slipped slowly backward out 
 of sight. As the train rumbled over the bridge 
 that spanned the Elkhorn he settled back against 
 the seat-cushion and set his thoughts upon the 
 future. 
 
 Ah, he would live now! He would know the 
 glory of achievement. He would know what it 
 means to swing forward out of the waiting re- 
 serve and into the battle-line, where the strongest 
 and bravest are massed thick — struggling, torn, 
 spent, blind with dust and blood and passion, 
 losing themselves in the great might of accom- 
 plishment, yet somehow held steadfast through it 
 all, while their straining eyes were set upon that 
 
 5i 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ancient landmark of man's desire — thought of 
 victory. Victory! The very word warmed his 
 heart, brought his soul to a white glow. His 
 vision was none the less real to him because it 
 had as yet no clearer form than a summer breeze. 
 He would give it form, once he had bent his 
 strength to it. He felt his strength to be illimit- 
 able. He had thought of that often. He had 
 heard the word failure whispered sometimes by 
 worn and tired folk, half under their breath ; but 
 it had meant nothing more to him than a sort of 
 shameless blasphemy against the god that dwells 
 in the will of a man, inspiring and guiding him. 
 He could not understand why any man should 
 fail of whatsoever attainment he might set his 
 heart upon; he could not believe that worthy 
 ambition, which would lead a man to dare the 
 vast accidents of life, could turn out at last an 
 evil lure, a grim, ironical illusion. Death was to 
 him a familiar fact, and not unreasonable; but 
 failure — no, he could not understand that. He 
 meant to win. Surely that was not a vain dream, 
 while he was held to his work by the ideals of 
 youth and by thought of Ruth — Ruth and the 
 golden splendor of love. 
 
 Throughout his life he had known nothing of 
 real care or perplexity; even his responsibilities 
 had been light, almost intangible, shared as they 
 were by nature's beneficent genii. Each spring- 
 time had come to him as a prophecy of good 
 things; each harvest season had followed as a 
 
 52 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 logical, an inevitable fulfilment of the pledge. 
 The vast labor of conquering the wilderness of the 
 prairie, in which his father had been a pioneer, 
 had been well over before his birth; from his 
 earliest youth there had been a comfortable 
 tranquillity, undisturbed by oppressing want. If 
 his desires had been merely plain and wholesome, 
 they had never been balked or thwarted. It was 
 but natural that he should have come to look 
 upon life as a thing of order — a magnificent cosmos 
 whose affairs moved duly forward in divinely ap- 
 pointed orbits. Under such conditions he could 
 not, if he would, have avoided a sublime con- 
 fidence in himself and his strength and in the 
 great scheme of things. 
 
 He was so lost in the mazes of his thoughts that 
 he gave no heed to what was passing around him 
 until the train slowed down at the outer limits 
 of the Omaha yards ; and soon it pulled up at the 
 station, panting from its long run, puffing out 
 great clouds of misty breath. 
 
VII 
 
 DAVID went out directly through the station 
 to the street and set off up-town on foot. He 
 preferred that way; he was eager for his first 
 contact with the crowds, of which he was now to 
 be a part. He wanted to refresh himself with 
 the odor of the asphalt and with the look on the 
 faces of the people. As he turned into Farnam 
 Street and bent his steps towards the towering 
 building on the hill where he was to begin his 
 work, every sound of the busy thoroughfare — the 
 hum of the motor cars, the clatter of horses' hoofs 
 on the pavements, the scuffle of hurrying feet on 
 the walks, the strident calling of newsboys and 
 fruit-peddlers — the whole inarticulate clamor of 
 the town's throng was to his ears an enthralling 
 harmony. It was the overture before the rise of 
 the curtain. 
 
 He entered the rotunda of the great building 
 and stepped into a waiting elevator cage. 
 
 " I want to go to Mr. Paul Watson's office," he 
 said to the uniformed conductor. " Eighth floor, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 The door clanged shut and he was whirled up 
 the dark shaft; then stepped out upon the tiled 
 
 54 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 floor of the corridor, where he found the door he 
 sought and pushed it open. 
 
 The room was large, facing the south, with a 
 wide outlook over the city. To his unaccustomed 
 eyes its elegant furnishings savored more of leisure 
 and luxury than of strenuous activity. A rich 
 rug lay in the centre of the floor, and upon it 
 stood a long library table, its top strewn with 
 newspapers, magazines, and some volumes of the 
 newest fiction. Beside the table were deep, allur- 
 ing easy-chairs. By the windows were growing 
 palms in jardinieres. The only symbol of in- 
 dustry in the room was a girl who sat before a 
 typewriter, her deft fingers picking lightly at the 
 keys. 
 
 She looked up from her work upon his entrance, 
 speaking a quiet word of formal greeting. 
 
 "Is Mr. Watson in?" David asked. 
 
 " He is engaged just now," she answered. " Will 
 you wait?" 
 
 "Thank you," he said; but he stood for a mo- 
 ment at her side, smiling down upon her. "My 
 name is David Boughton," he said, in tentative 
 introduction . "I am to read law in the office here . " 
 
 " Oh yes!" He saw that she gave him a closer 
 scrutiny then — a woman's glance, instantane- 
 ous, interested, comprehending. It was approv- 
 ing, too, though he had not enough of vanity to 
 let him see that. " Mr. Watson will be at liberty 
 soon, I think," she said. "Will you please be 
 seated?" 
 
 55 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 She turned again to her work, brisk, energetic, 
 and he stood by one of the windows, looking out. 
 The street, a hundred feet below, seemed very 
 remote; the hurrying figures of men and women 
 were mere crawling midgets. He felt curiously 
 estranged from them, in their unnatural, fore- 
 shortened aspect, as though they were creatures of 
 another sphere. But across the way, on a level 
 with his eyes, was the court-house — a big, square- 
 shouldered mass of gray, weather - soiled stone, 
 standing on a hill of its own, far above the pave- 
 ment, and reached by many tedious flights of 
 stone steps — making the seat of justice a place 
 difficult of attainment for the short-winded. It 
 was sordid and ugly enough; but to his imagina- 
 tion, still fresh and boyish, it was surrounded by a 
 nimbus of enchantment, as he stood looking at it, 
 thinking how it was to figure in the evolution of 
 his future. 
 
 By-and-by there came to him through the veil 
 of his preoccupation the sound of men's voices 
 from behind a closed door near at hand. One was 
 thin and high-pitched ; the other a huge, explosive 
 bass. He could distinguish no words; but he 
 amused himself with listening to the tones, trying 
 to gauge the shifting emotions of the speakers. 
 The contrasted accents gave a queer, jolting effect, 
 as though the conference was moving forward 
 over a rough road. As he listened, instinctively 
 he took sides with the robust bass against the 
 other. And the bass appeared to be having the 
 
 56 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 best of it ; it rose suddenly in a vigorous outburst, 
 every word a detonation. The door opened and 
 two men came out. The one in advance was 
 a lean, stooping fellow, mean - featured, meanly 
 fashioned throughout. The thin voice was his, 
 and he was using it in a parting word. 
 
 "All right, Watson; it's for you to say. He 
 sent me, and I came ; my responsibility ends when 
 I've given you his message. You'd better think 
 about it, though. He can make it worth your 
 while not to be too hard on him. You'd better 
 wait and think it over." 
 
 Watson followed close upon the other's heels. 
 His was a gigantic figure, heavy with flesh, full 
 of red blood, big-limbed, almost elephantine in 
 girth of waist and shoulders, with thick neck and a 
 massive, shaggy breadth of head. The lines of his 
 face all tended downward, but without flaccidity. 
 It was a stern, resolute face ; one of those faces 
 upon which a smile looks out of place and un- 
 comfortable. He held up his hand with a gesture 
 of dismissal. 
 
 "Boh!" he said, in an ominous rumble. "You 
 go back to your master and tell him I said he 
 needn't come whining to me for mercy with the 
 blood of his own helpless victims clotted on his 
 lips. I've got him under my foot, and I'm going 
 to crush him. That's all. Now, you go." 
 
 When his visitor was gone, he turned to David 
 and stood regarding him boldly, searchingly. The 
 girl at the desk looked up from her work. 
 
 57 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Mr. Watson, this is Mr. Boughton," she said. 
 
 "Boughton?" Watson echoed. "Boughton? Oh 
 yes, yes, of course!" He held out his hand and 
 stood waiting while David crossed the width of 
 the room to take it. It was a warm, firm hand, 
 with a tenacious grasp. "I'm glad to see you. 
 I didn't recognize the name at first — I suppose 
 because I expected to see a farmer's boy — one 
 of the raw sort. I was that kind when I left the 
 farm. Come in." And he led the way into his 
 private office. 
 
 Here was a greater refinement of luxury than in 
 the outer room. Every article of furniture was of 
 the best ; the pictures and decorations alone rep- 
 resented a poor man's fortune. Yet the room 
 was dominated by an air of classic simplicity — 
 strong, individual, reflecting taste of a high order. 
 A lawyer's library is usually a nondescript place, 
 with no rightful claim to beauty. This was 
 hardly beautiful, in any light, aesthetic sense 
 of the word, yet there was an unmistakable im- 
 pression of refinement in its solid, almost prim- 
 itive strength. The book -cases that lined ev- 
 ery available foot of the walls — plain, square 
 structures of mahogany, all of one pattern — 
 seemed an essential part of the effect. They 
 were glutted with books, and there were over- 
 flow deposits of odd volumes everywhere — on 
 desk, table, and window-ledges, and on the chairs 
 and floor. 
 
 Watson closed the door and sank heavily into 
 58 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 the chair before his desk, motioning David into 
 another that stood opposite. 
 
 "So, you've come," he said. "Well, I'm glad 
 of it. I'm glad of the chance to serve a son of 
 your mother. She's a fine woman. She was a 
 fine girl, too. She taught the first school I ever 
 went to, back in Ohio. I suppose she's told 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes," David answered, simply, perfunctorily. 
 He was heartily glad to have Watson talk, until 
 he could get his bearings. This was his first sight 
 of the man, and it was affecting him strangely. 
 He could not quite make it out, but for the first 
 time in his life he felt himself ill at ease, as though 
 his faculties were all turned blunt on the edges 
 in the presence of a masterful personality. It 
 was not the man's mere bulk of figure that awed 
 him, nor the thunderous voice, nor the ponderous 
 manner, nor the superabundance of vital energy; 
 it was something that looked out of the deep, 
 sombre eyes. Hidden away in that mountainous 
 mass of tissue was a splendid intellect, driven by 
 an unconquerable will. 
 
 "Yes," Watson went on; "she was good to me 
 in those days, and I haven't forgotten it. I need- 
 ed just the kind of help she gave me. I was 
 an unruly little devil. I never knew how she did 
 it; but she inspired me with a passion for decency. 
 Oh, I've done a power of evil in my time, of course ; 
 but I've done a few recreant scraps of good along 
 with the bad. I'd never have done that without 
 
 59 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 her. I'd never have amounted to a hill of beans 
 if it hadn't been for her." 
 
 He had taken a knife from the desk and was 
 caring for his nails, trimming and biting them 
 savagely, and speaking between times in jerky- 
 sentences. He was silent now for a little while, 
 his features drawn tense by memory. Then all 
 at once they relaxed, and he turned his seeing 
 eyes to David's. 
 
 " So you want to read law, do you?" he queried. 
 "Well, law is a good enough business if a man 
 knows how to use it. The secret of success is in 
 the man, though, and not in the law. The secret 
 of success is always in the man, in everything, 
 and in all times. For the weakling, all times are 
 hard times ; but for the strong man, the man who's 
 able, any time is a good time. I've heard young- 
 sters talk about getting 'grounded in the law,' as 
 if that was enough to shape their career. But 
 that isn't the groundwork. You'll have to begin 
 further back than that. What a man wants to 
 begin with is sense, then some law, and then more 
 sense on top of that — like the bread on both sides 
 of a sandwich. Do you see?" 
 
 "Yes," David returned, lightly, with an acces- 
 sion of composure. " But the law is at least the 
 meat in the sandwich, isn't it?" 
 
 "No," Watson said, with a shake of his burly 
 head. " No ; the law of the law-books is only the 
 mustard. You want to get rid, right away, of 
 any superstitious reverence for these tons of 
 
 60 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 books. They're false gods; they're a hopeless 
 tangle, and the tangle is getting worse every year. 
 We'll have to have another revolution after a 
 while and go back to the beginning and start 
 fresh. It's sense, more than any amount of 
 learning, that gives a man initiative genius. Law ! 
 Why, good Lord! A lawyer whose head isn't 
 furnished with anything but law will starve to 
 death. Read other things — all you can of good 
 books — fiction, history, biography — everything. 
 Get out and knock around with men, too. After 
 all, when you get down to the bottom of it, it's 
 men you'll have to handle, more than laws, if you 
 want to come out a winner. A little sure knowl- 
 edge of men is worth more than a million pages 
 of Kent or Chitty or Wharton, or anybody else 
 in the books. I don't mean that you want to 
 learn how to play on men's weaknesses. That's 
 a contemptible business. You want to know their 
 strength. It's the sheer, downright, native strength 
 of men that moves the world, and don't you let 
 yourself forget it for a minute." 
 
 They sat in serious colloquy until the whistles 
 and bells of the city raised the cry of noon. 
 Watson looked at his watch. 
 
 "Is it twelve already? I'd no idea it was so 
 late. And I've got a big afternoon's work, too, in 
 federal court. Say, have you found a stopping- 
 place? Well, I'll tell you what you do; sup- 
 pose you get yourself located this afternoon, and 
 come back here at five and go to dinner with me. 
 
 61 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 You'll do that, won't you? My daughter and I 
 are living in a hotel. It's a poor excuse for a 
 home; but we'll get some dinner, anyway, and 
 talk things over a bit, and then you'll be ready 
 to start fresh in the morning on this fool law 
 business." 
 
 David gave but little time to his quest for a 
 lodging-place. He took almost the first room he 
 saw. It was a narrow apartment, bare almost 
 to the point of poverty ; but it was near the office, 
 besides being perfectly clean and looking out 
 upon the street. He thought it would do very 
 well. He had never indulged any tendency tow- 
 ards extravagance; cleanliness was the most he 
 desired. When that was settled he returned to 
 the heart of the town, walking the streets and 
 looking about. 
 
 At its best, Omaha is not a beautiful city. It 
 is only a big, sprawling, swaggering example of 
 what the Middle West has done along the line of 
 crass "enterprise" — overgrown, arrogant, extrav- 
 agantly boastful over matters not worth boast- 
 ing about, while forgetful of most of those things 
 in which a city should take a reasoning pride; 
 vain of its show of wealth, without troubling it- 
 self about the means by which its wealth was got- 
 ten, nor about the use that is to be made of it; 
 vain of its miles of streets, without stopping to 
 reflect upon the deeper meanings of a street ; vain 
 of its hundred thousand people, without greatly 
 caring what their character and power of service 
 
 62 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 may be. It is a town that from the day of its 
 birth has never set for itself any worthy civic 
 ideal; it has had almost no motive above getting 
 on in material growth and making a dazzling 
 show of itself ; it has been content with the sordid 
 victory that lies in outstripping its neighboring 
 rivals in the insane struggle of amassing dollars 
 and inhabitants. Like most Western towns, it 
 is not to be judged by the bulk of its actual ac- 
 complishment, but rather by certain vague, half- 
 suspected tendencies that lie in the hearts of a 
 few — a very few — sane and sober men who have 
 as yet taken small part in affairs — men who are 
 nursing their thoughts in secret, waiting patiently 
 for a day to come when the noise and bluster of 
 foolish vanity will have spent itself. Like most 
 Western towns, its real strength is only the 
 strength to become. 
 
 But to David's untrained understanding power 
 of any sort was entrancing; his untrained senses 
 caught greedily at the flamboyant signs of ener- 
 gy at work, and he was satisfied. Through the 
 hours of the afternoon he moved about the main 
 thoroughfares, looking in at the shop - windows, 
 pushing himself into the thickest of the crowds, 
 listening to stray scraps of their speech, brushing 
 his shoulders against theirs, imagining that virtue 
 was passing into him from the contact. He was 
 in an intoxication of enthusiasm when at the 
 appointed time he went again to Watson's 
 office. 
 
 63 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 Watson was sitting idly in his chair, his big 
 hands folded behind his big head. He welcomed 
 David with a kindly calm. 
 
 "Sit down a minute and let me catch my 
 breath," he said. "I'm mortally tired. I've had 
 a hard afternoon's fight. It's a railroad bond 
 case. I've been working on it for three years in 
 this court, and now it's going to the Court of 
 Appeals. It '11 last ten years longer, likely. But 
 I've made up my mind to win, and that means 
 that I shall win in the end. The trouble is that 
 I can't get the other fellows to see it in that light." 
 His moody eyes warmed for a moment with an 
 expression that in another man would have been 
 a light of lively interest. " My hardest work is to 
 keep up enthusiasm. I used to have plenty of it, 
 but it seems to die out more or less as a man gets 
 along in years. Do you remember what Ste- 
 venson says : ' It is good to have been young 
 in youth, and then, as the years pass, to grow 
 older.' But to grow old; that's where the rub 
 comes. I'd give a great deal for an occasional 
 day of my first years of fire to stir up my blood. 
 The only way I can do that now is to get 
 angry once in a while — red hot! But that's a 
 poor substitute. That's one of the reasons why 
 I'm going to be glad to have you with me. 
 You haven't got past the point where the game 
 seems worth playing. I like to watch enthu- 
 siasm, even if I don't believe much in it any 
 more." 
 
 64 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 He arose laboriously, buttoning up his coat and 
 reaching for his hat. 
 
 "Come on; let's go. I want you to meet my 
 daughter before dinner.'' 
 s 
 
VIII 
 
 THE hotel was a pretentious structure in point 
 of size, but dark and depressing as a mauso- 
 leum. The vast, barnlike rotunda seemed more 
 a fit abiding-place for bats and owls than for com- 
 fort-loving human beings. None of the guests 
 who sat around in the stiff rows of chairs made 
 even a pretence of cheerfulness ; there was nothing 
 to be cheerful about. Most of them looked as 
 though they had had news of death, and the rest 
 looked as though they might be expecting it. 
 In that gloomy void they seemed afraid to speak 
 aloud ; speech went on in undertones, with a hol- 
 low echo against the distant roof. 
 
 Watson led the way to the parlor of a suite of 
 rooms on an upper floor. A lad in the livery of a 
 page was in waiting and took their hats and coats. 
 Watson spoke to him with a brusqueness that 
 amounted to distaste. 
 
 "Is your mistress here?" 
 
 "She is in her room, sir, dressing for dinner," 
 the boy answered, softly. 
 
 "All right. Go tell her I'm waiting for her; 
 and tell her I've brought a guest with me." 
 
 The lad slipped silently out of the room, and 
 66 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 Watson let himself down into a chair, puffing 
 out a deep breath. 
 
 " A silly notion, isn't it — that kid in buttons?" 
 he broke out. " I don't like servants, on general 
 principles ; I've never got used to 'em. If it wasn't 
 a physical impossibility, I'd fire my stenographer 
 and do my work with a good, old-fashioned pen. 
 Maybe I'm a fool, but I hate the thought of having 
 anybody do anything for me. Even if they're 
 paid for it, I always feel somehow as if they 
 owned me." 
 
 The boy returned with silent, gliding step. 
 
 "Miss Margaret says she will be in directly, 
 sir," he cooed. He stood apart from them, at a 
 respectful distance, straight, stiff, formal. His 
 presence appeared to check any desire Watson 
 might have had for discourse. David spoke now 
 and again in commonplace; but Watson gave no 
 more than a gruff, heedless assent to what was 
 said. The door opened presently and a lady en- 
 tered. 
 
 She was near David's own age — or that, at least, 
 was his instant impression. Her skin was dark, 
 with a rich, soft under-glow. Her features were 
 of that ineffable type which, in the ineffective 
 state of our power of definition, we have agreed to 
 call Grecian — a straight, delicate nose, pencilled 
 brows, and low, broad forehead. Her full, curv- 
 ing lips were of a vivid scarlet; the oval outline 
 of her face was perfect. There was in her pres- 
 ence a suggestion of stately height; yet when 
 
 67 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 David arose he found himself looking down upon 
 her as from a towering altitude. The semblance 
 of height may have been due to the fashion of her 
 hair, which was abundant and gathered in a 
 tasteful and simple mass above her head; or of 
 her dress, which was a dinner - gown of clinging, 
 wine-colored material, made with simple, sweep- 
 ing lines. Her only ornament was a string of 
 pearls, that lay pale against the clear dusk of her 
 neck and bosom. 
 
 Watson got ponderously to his feet, growling in 
 fleshy discomfort. 
 
 "Mr. Boughton, let me present you to my 
 daughter," he said; and then to the girl: "Mr. 
 Boughton is the man who will read law with 
 me. We'll be likely to see a good deal of him 
 here." 
 
 She made a slow and slight inclination of her 
 graceful body, while David advanced with hand 
 outstretched, in the country manner of greeting. 
 She did not smile; her eyes were grave, serious. 
 After an almost imperceptible instant of surprise 
 or timidity or reluctance — it might have been 
 any or all of these — she gave him the tips of her 
 slender fingers. It was a very intangible hand; 
 when he would have grasped it cordially it was 
 gone, he knew not how. She spoke his name 
 calmly, distinctly, then glanced with the same 
 imperturbable gravity at her father. 
 
 " Yes," he growled. " Let's go down. I'm one 
 of those animals that get hungry at meal-time, 
 
 68 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 Boughton. We can be getting acquainted at the 
 table." 
 
 The little page stole forward and opened the 
 door, closing it again noiselessly behind them. 
 In the hall, Watson relieved himself of something 
 very like a snort. 
 
 " Margy," he said, " I wish you'd keep that kid 
 out of my way in the evenings. I'll step on him 
 one of these times and break him." 
 
 There hovered about her lips for a moment a 
 faint promise of a smile, but the promise was not 
 fulfilled. Her manner was new and curious to 
 David ; it perturbed him ; he felt that he dared not 
 offer speech with her; so they kept silence until 
 they were seated at a table in a secluded corner 
 of the dining-room and Watson had given an 
 inclusive order. Then, while they waited, it was 
 the older man who spoke. 
 
 "I hope you can be comfortable in a hotel, 
 Boughton. I'm not. I detest it! Put a darky in 
 a dress suit, and stand him around some place 
 where I can see him, and you've got me queered." 
 For the first time since the morning's meeting 
 he indulged a laugh — a deep, booming rumble of 
 sound that seemed to fill the room. " I'll never 
 forget my first hotel dinner in a city. Chicago, it 
 was, over thirty years ago. I went to a hotel 
 there one night with a friend, desperately hungry, 
 and he ordered a dinner that sounded all right. 
 I never knew how it tasted, because there was one 
 of these swell darkies to wait on us — the first one 
 
 69 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 I'd ever seen. I was fascinated. I couldn't help 
 looking at him, and every time I did it he came 
 stalking up and stood at my elbow waiting for 
 orders. I couldn't eat; he wouldn't let me; and 
 all the time I was so famished I was ready to shed 
 tears. And at the end there was a bottle of wine. 
 I had to miss that, too, because I didn't dare 
 drink it on an empty stomach. Do you know 
 what I did? Just as soon as I decently could, 
 I got away and went out to a cheap chop-house 
 and climbed up on a high stool and ordered a 
 good, honest feed of corned-beef and cabbage. 
 I've had a grudge against niggers in frills ever 
 since." 
 
 The first course of the dinner came on then. 
 As the meal progressed Watson got into a glow 
 of good-humor, and in that mood he was a rare 
 talker. He divined what David's interests would 
 be; he told a score of stories concerning the 
 leaders at the bar of the State — stories that, 
 whether grave or gay, were invested with the 
 charm of an incisive wit. But he was not a 
 monopolist; he adroitly induced David to talk, 
 now and again, listening to his ingenuous, ex- 
 uberant speeches with quick sympathy. Some- 
 times other guests, on entering or leaving the 
 room, paused by their table for a friendly word ; 
 and with a punctilious courtesy Watson presented 
 them to David. 
 
 "Good people, all of them," he declared once. 
 "I've watched most of 'em come up from nothing 
 
 70 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 at all; and I've seen some of 'em fall down and 
 then get up again more than once. They're 
 fighters, these Western men; and I swear I do 
 like a good, courageous fighter. It's curious, too ; 
 I suppose you haven't found it out yet for your- 
 self, but there's nobody so just and generous and 
 merciful as the born fighter. If these fellows 
 have anything you want, all you've got to do is 
 to ask for it." 
 
 The girl took no part in the conversation, save 
 now and then a soft word or two of comment 
 upon her father's narratives. She did not once 
 speak to David directly. But she did not ignore 
 him ; she looked at him frequently, gravely, when 
 he was in the full swing of an enthusiastic sen- 
 tence. Her glances were never hurried, but de- 
 liberately calm and self-possessed, implying that 
 she was attending to what he said, finding it 
 worth attention. Her silence was not displeasing 
 to him ; he attributed it merely to maidenly shy- 
 ness in the presence of a stranger, a quality that 
 might be altogether admirable. 
 
 When the coffee came Watson leaned back in 
 his chair, playing with his cup, fixing David with 
 a level gaze. 
 
 "Come, now," he said, half in raillery, half in 
 earnest, "what are you going to do, Boughton? 
 What's your real reason for taking up law? Are 
 you going to stop with being a lawyer?" 
 
 David waited a moment for his answer to come 
 to him. " No," he said, slowly, thinking his way 
 
 7i 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 as he went. "No; I don't expect to practise 
 merely for the sake of practising and making a 
 living, if that's what you mean. I've been con- 
 sidering the best use I could make of myself — not 
 for myself alone, but for other people, too — and 
 I've thought the law ought to be my chance. 
 There's a lot of hard work to be done in the West, 
 one way and another, to bring our life up to the 
 mark. The law seems to me to be about the 
 best instrument a young man can lay his hand to 
 if he wants to help in working out the common 
 salvation." 
 
 When the answer was completed he felt a 
 pleased satisfaction in it, as though it had made 
 clear a not unworthy attitude. Watson, too, 
 seemed struck with it; he meditated upon it for 
 a time quite soberly ; then, with a quick gesture, 
 he pushed back his cup and squared his arms 
 upon the table. 
 
 "Eh?" he said, heavily. He was silent again, 
 and his eyes, though fixed upon David, were 
 unseeing. "M-m-m!" he breathed, huskily. "I 
 was just trying to think how long it's been since 
 I was nursing that notion myself. It's a good 
 while. But I used to have it. I used to think I 
 was going to be a sort of redeemer, and save 
 the world — or the best part of the western hemi- 
 sphere, anyway. It's a wonderfully easy role until 
 you've tried it ; but it gets harder then. I found 
 it so. At fifty-seven I'm just waiting around and 
 wondering who's going to come and save me." 
 
 72 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 It was spoken quietly; but there was in it a 
 note that David had never heard from the lips 
 of any man — a note of dull but passionate hope- 
 lessness. Throughout the hour the host had been 
 fairly radiant with geniality, the whole of his big 
 person fat with it. Now it appeared that that 
 had been only a mask. The glow had gone out of 
 his deep eyes; they had become as the eyes of 
 another self — a great, sad-hearted self, that had 
 drunk deep of bitter waters, and had learned to 
 set a light value upon the things that were to 
 David so priceless. 
 
 "Yes," he brooded, "I guess I'm about done 
 with that — with all the sharp desires, and throes, 
 and pangs, and such-like. I'm only asking now, 
 'Well, is there anything more expected of me?' 
 And I don't much care whether there is or not." 
 
 David was almost aghast. 
 
 "But you don't mean," he cried, "that your 
 work has had no good effect? Surely you don't 
 mean that." 
 
 " I don't know whether it has or not," Watson 
 answered, with stolid emphasis. " Who's going to 
 say? I've found out that the effects of a man's 
 life aren't for him to fix. The thing's too terribly 
 intricate. A man's lucky if he can go puttering 
 along over little things that seem real to him just 
 at the moment, and not find time to look for 
 effects. That's why I try to keep busy. I used 
 to think I'd sit down by -and -by and enjoy the 
 peace of a green old age, and all that sort of 
 
 73 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 thing, after I'd got through with my work. But 
 I wouldn't quit now for a million dollars. I 
 couldn't. I've got to keep at it, and just trust 
 to luck for effects. I swear I don't see any partic- 
 ular effects of my own life." 
 
 "Oh!" David cried, in quick expostulation. 
 
 "Yes," said Watson; "it's perfectly true. I'm 
 trying not to take it too hard. I hate a corn- 
 plainer. I'm trying to be satisfied with thinking 
 that that was the lesson life had for me, and that 
 I had to learn it, to have the conceit taken out of 
 me. But it's been an ungrateful learning." 
 
 David recovered his grasp of himself. " Maybe 
 the fault is with your own inability to see and 
 measure results. It can't be possible that there 
 are none. Why, if a man does his work, it's bound 
 to have an effect; nothing can stop it. Things 
 would go to smash if that weren't true." 
 
 "Maybe, maybe," Watson returned, wearily. 
 The confident declaration was so awesomely im- 
 mature, compared with the pain he had suffered 
 in his deeper probings of the unfathomable theme. 
 His interest in the question seemed suddenly 
 abated. With a determined effort he shook him- 
 self free of his moody aspect, as a dog shakes off 
 the water after a plunge. "There! Let's call 
 this thing off. What shall we do to-night ? Shall 
 we take in a theatre, or stay here?" 
 
 Before the question could be answered a waiter 
 leaned over Watson's shoulder and spoke quietly 
 in his ear, and he got up from his place. 
 
 74 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " Excuse me a minute," he said. " I'm wanted 
 at the telephone. You two wait here till I come 
 back."' 
 
 When he was gone, David glanced a little 
 timidly at the girl. She was toying with some 
 broken nut-shells on her plate, her eyes down- 
 cast, her features in repose. He wanted to speak 
 to her, but his mind had become a blank. Then, 
 while he looked at her, she made an impulsive 
 movement in her chair, turning towards him. 
 So far as he had made up his mind about her 
 he had thought her cold, but now her face was 
 brilliant with warmth of feeling, her eyes glo- 
 rious with a revelation of unsuspected emotional 
 capacity. It was a disclosure that dazzled 
 him. 
 
 "I have been interested," she said, her voice 
 thrilling with life. "The men I've known have 
 been all so intensely engrossed with such petty 
 concerns. It's unusual to meet one who has 
 taken time to dream big dreams. I wonder if 
 you will be able to make your dreams come true. 
 That's the real test of a man, isn't it?" 
 
 It was not a woman's speech; no other woman 
 of his acquaintance had ever said such a thing to 
 him. Yet it was full of a rare and subtle charm 
 of womanliness — a charm that lay less in the 
 saying itself than in the manner of it. Had a 
 man said it, it would have been only a common- 
 place postulate, inviting argument, yet hardly 
 worth the pains ; but coming from her it was like 
 
 75 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 a confession of the soul's faith — something that 
 must be regarded with reverence. 
 
 "Yes," he said, warmly; "that's the test. I 
 mean to try it, too. The trial ought to make life 
 worth while, even if I fail." 
 
 "Oh, but you mustn't fail!" she returned, with 
 frank directness. "Why, that would make you 
 no better than all the rest. I should like to know 
 one man who isn't afraid of himself or his task. 
 Do you want to know what I think? I think a 
 man is sent here by God, and appointed to do 
 the very best that's in him, and the deadliest 
 sin he can commit is to be afraid. A man is just 
 one of the pledges God makes to the world, and 
 it depends on the man to say whether the pledge 
 is to be kept. He can't keep it if he's afraid, 
 because fear makes his work at the best only a 
 cheap, shabby counterfeit." 
 
 She stopped as suddenly as she had begun. 
 Watson came lumbering up and stood by his 
 chair, and in his presence she became once more 
 the embodiment of impassivity. Watson hesitat- 
 ed an instant, as though to be sure he was not 
 interrupting. He had heard nothing; but what 
 he saw brought an odd, quizzical look into his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Shall we go up-stairs?" he suggested. "You're 
 through, aren't you? I want to sit down on 
 something of my own size. These rickety little 
 chairs keep me in mortal terror." 
 
 When they were again in the parlor, and the 
 76 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 page had been dismissed for the night, Watson 
 sank into his seat by the window, sighing with a 
 fair semblance of content. 
 
 "Margy," he said, "can't we have a little 
 music? Maybe Boughton would like it; and I 
 know I should, if the humor's on you." 
 
 She neither assented nor demurred, but crossed 
 to a recessed corner, drew aside a curtain and 
 disclosed a harp. 
 
 "Will you move this for me, Mr. Boughton?" 
 she asked; and when he had lifted it into the 
 room she seated herself before it, sweeping the 
 strings in a fragment of delicate, meditative im- 
 provisation; then, without a word, she played 
 Chopin's mazurka in F minor. It was rendered 
 with more than technical skill — with an artis- 
 tic sensibility and responsiveness which made the 
 harmonies come from herself rather than from 
 her instrument. At the end she waited for no 
 comment, but spoke quietly over her shoulder. 
 
 ' ' Have you any preferences ?' ' she asked. ' ' Per- 
 haps I can play something you like." 
 
 "No," he answered. "I shall like what you 
 play. I haven't even an amateur's knowledge of 
 music, except as life out-of-doors in the country 
 is a sort of musical education. I love it, without 
 knowing any of the rules for it." 
 
 "A lover is more appreciative than. an analyst," 
 she returned, her beautiful fingers weaving about 
 her words an elaborate tracery of airy sound. 
 "I've thought sometimes that music must have 
 
 77 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 been born out - of - doors. The gods never lived 
 in houses, did they? Some of the best things 
 I know are out-door music. Do you know this?" 
 She touched the first notes of Wehli's "Rivulet." 
 "Can't you feel it?" she cried, with a laugh 
 through the melody. " It's the clear water about 
 your bare feet, when you used to 'go in wadin'.' 
 Isn't it good?" She checked the gleeful measures 
 suddenly. "And this, too. I love this, because 
 it's what it pretends to be." It was Men- 
 delssohn's "Spring Song." "Yes," she said over 
 the last notes; " I like that better. It's a lighter 
 touch — more like air than water. And this be- 
 longs to out - doors, too, I suppose, because it's 
 too big for walls and roofs." She played, then, 
 Gottschalk's "Solitude." She saw his growing, 
 eager interest, and it seemed to awaken her. As 
 she rushed into the strange harmonies it was with 
 an almost rapturous abandon; the music was 
 no longer a thing of mechanism or performer, of 
 strings or fingers, but something apart, far above 
 the means. 
 
 "That's one of my comforts," she said at last. 
 "'Solitude'; yet solitude needn't be dreary, nor 
 pain hurtful, nor loss dreadful. Isn't that plain 
 enough?" A little strand of her hair had escaped 
 from the confining coils and lay lightly over her 
 forehead. She caught it back into place with a 
 quick gesture, then smiled into David's honestly 
 admiring eyes. 
 
 "I must play you something now that my 
 78 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 father likes," she said, and began Leopold de 
 Meyer's stately "Triumphal March," with its 
 robust rhythm of the tread of victorious feet. 
 
 Watson had been sitting indifferently by ; hear- 
 ing, perhaps, but only from the depths of apathy. 
 He was brought all at once to life ; he listened as a 
 man listens only to the momentous things of ex- 
 istence, his nerves tense, his eyes on fire. 
 
 "Ah, by God!" he cried, in his detonating voice. 
 "When I hear that I know why music was made. 
 It's to help us fight ! If it needed to justify itself, 
 it could do it with that one thing alone. Margy 
 talks about the gods! People always talk as if 
 they're creatures that dwell far off, in some 
 place unknown to us; but it isn't so. Why, I 
 used to know how it feels to be one, in the days 
 before I'd met my first defeat. I forget now, 
 though, except when something like that march 
 jogs my memory; then I remember perfectly." 
 
 The girl struck one resonant arpeggio that was 
 like a command for attention. 
 
 "But this is mine," she said to David. "It 
 doesn't make the gods known to me, but it helps 
 me to feel the joys of mortality, so that I cease to 
 envy the gods. Just listen." 
 
 There followed a marvellous rendering of the 
 adagio movement from Beethoven's Sonata, Opus 
 13, No. 8. She was as one inspired; she played 
 with a fervor, a depth and breadth of passion- 
 ate appreciation that, as he heard, seemed to lift 
 him to her own high level of understanding. He 
 
 79 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 did not know what she played ; but he knew that 
 his thoughts were irradiated as with the glories 
 of night and day. It was as though every worthy 
 impulse, every lofty desire he had ever known 
 came floating back to him upon the bosom of a 
 limpid, sunlit sea of sound. When she had fin- 
 ished he was upon his feet standing at her side, 
 meeting her upturned eyes with his. 
 
 She arose at once. "That is all," she said. 
 "Good -night." And before he quite realized it 
 she was gone. 
 
 Watson's heavy voice boomed rudely through 
 the silence that followed her departure. 
 
 "You aren't going yet? Sit down. It's only 
 half -past eight. I'm going to smoke now, if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 He was a hardy smoker. He made for himself 
 a thick, blue atmosphere, through which his bulk 
 loomed dimly, like a round hill through low-lying 
 mists. After a time he waved a rift through the 
 smoke and looked out with a new benignity. 
 
 "Well?" he said. "What do you think of 
 her?" 
 
 David had but one thought now ; all others had 
 been rendered obscure, wholly secondary, in com- 
 parison with the vividness of this new impression. 
 
 "She's very beautiful," he said. 
 
 "Of course!" Watson returned, heavily. 
 "That's part of her life, to be beautiful. I don't 
 mean that. I mean, how did she strike you? 
 She talked to you, didn't she, when I was gone? 
 
 80 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 What do you think about her, aside from her 
 beauty — her human side?" 
 
 David laughed in foolish embarrassment. "I 
 don't know," he said. " I'm not entitled to speak. 
 I don't understand women well enough." 
 
 There was a faint hint of weariness, almost of 
 repugnance, in the glance Watson gave him. 
 "You don't, eh? I wonder what sort of women 
 you've known. It's the off-side of womanhood 
 that makes men say that. Fiddle! It doesn't 
 take any great power of penetration to under- 
 stand an honest, right-hearted woman. There's 
 never any mystery about honesty, wherever you 
 find it. It's the dishonest ones that hide be- 
 hind buttresses of mystery. I reckon a dishon- 
 est woman can keep the devil guessing." 
 
 David was not minded to wander then through 
 the chill mazes of abstraction; his thoughts were 
 all concrete. " Is she your only child?" he asked. 
 
 "The only one living," Watson answered. 
 "There are two boys dead — years ago, when 
 they were little. Yes, she's all I've got." 
 
 " I don't remember that my mother ever spoke 
 of your wife," David pursued. "Has she been 
 dead long?" 
 
 Watson retired again behind his veil of smoke, 
 and answered from the safety of that fastness. 
 " She isn't dead, so far as I know," he said, dully. 
 
 "Oh!" David cried, in quick consternation. 
 " I beg your pardon. I didn't intend — " 
 
 "It's all right," Watson interrupted. "No 
 6 81 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 harm done. I'm not sore over it. I reckon it's 
 just as well you should know; it may save worse 
 confusion by-and-by. She went off, six or seven 
 years ago, with another man — a fellow who 
 pleased her better, I suppose. He could give her 
 more of what she wanted than I could — prestige 
 and place and power, and all that. She always 
 coveted exalted social standing, and now she's 
 got it. The fellow's filling a big hole in Wash- 
 ington, and she's in glory. I haven't heard a 
 word from her, one way or the other, since she 
 left me. That's all. It's nothing to feel strange 
 about. I never let it embarrass me with my 
 friends." 
 
 His manner was in keeping with his words. 
 He dropped the theme quite carelessly and offer- 
 ed another. But the talk lagged lamely in spite 
 of him, and David soon arose and took his leave. 
 
 "I'll be in in the morning, then," he said, in 
 parting. "I'm ready for work now." 
 
 "All right," the other answered, cordially. 
 "Here; better take my key. I suppose you're 
 used to being up and around before daylight; 
 but I don't get to the office till about nine. Just 
 make yourself at home, and when I come I'll hunt 
 out some books for you." 
 
 David walked through the streets like a man 
 who has drunk of old wine — floating, not thinking 
 of his steps. There were not many people abroad, 
 for Omaha is still soberly provincial in its amuse- 
 ments. The lights were put out, save in the 
 
 82 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 scattered restaurants and saloons. Here and 
 there a hack or coupe was drawn up against the 
 curb, waiting for chance patronage. The oc- 
 casional electric cars sped over thoroughfares 
 almost deserted. He gave no conscious heed to 
 these appearances; his thoughts were thickly 
 peopled with myriad images, belonging to the 
 new world that had been opened to him. 
 
 When he entered his boarding - house he went 
 up-stairs to his room and lit the single gas-jet that 
 swung from the wall above the cheap wash-stand. 
 It was ten o'clock, and he suddenly realized 
 weariness. He would go to bed and be fresh 
 for the morning. As he went about his prepara- 
 tions he caught a glimpse of his face reflected 
 in his mirror, and paused, looking into his own 
 eyes. They were not the placid eyes of home in 
 the country, but quickened, shining with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "Oh, it's been great!" he cried. "She's a 
 wonderful creature. I wish Ruth could know 
 her." The name brought a fond smile to his lips. 
 "Dear little Ruth!" he whispered, happily. He 
 took out his watch and snapped open the back 
 of the case, where a photograph lay hidden. 
 He held it close to the light and stood for a long 
 time gazing upon the tender, true face of his 
 sweetheart. He was not trying to analyze his 
 emotions; he had never practised that, for self- 
 scrutiny is always more or less morbid, while he 
 had known almost no mental habit save whole- 
 
 83 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 some, spontaneous impulse. His conclusion was 
 not thought out, but came freely of itself. 
 
 " She's a fine woman, little Ruth, and it would 
 do you good to know her. But I know a finer 
 one!" He held the picture to his lips before 
 putting it away; then he undressed, put out the 
 light and stretched himself in bed. In five min- 
 utes he was sleeping soundly 
 
IX 
 
 WHEN David reached the office in the morn- 
 ing, the building was not yet aroused to the 
 business of the day. The janitors were still busy 
 in the corridors and rooms with mop, broom, and 
 dust-brush. It was a place of echoes; his own 
 footfall upon the tiling sounded loud; and from 
 the floors below came the cheery tones of the 
 workers as they chaffed one another. 
 
 He let himself into the big, comfortable room 
 and sat down in the silence. It was just to his 
 liking, for he wanted to write the letter for which 
 he knew his mother would be waiting. He had 
 time to make a detailed story of his first day's 
 adventures; when it was finished and sealed it 
 made a thick packet, and he smiled as he imagined 
 the satisfaction of the mother's heart. All was 
 going well, he had told her. 
 
 Then he started a letter to Ruth ; but for some 
 undiscoverable reason that was not so easy to 
 write. He filled many sheets with various be- 
 ginnings, only to tear them impatiently into 
 strips, and stopping often between whiles, losing 
 himself in a tangle of thoughts and visions. 
 His first page was still unfinished when the 
 
 85 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 stenographer entered. She looked at him in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Good - morning !" he said, gayly. "A new 
 broom, you see. I wonder if I'll ever get used to 
 these hours, starting work in the middle of the 
 morning. If I were at home I'd have been at 
 the plough for the last three hours. I suppose it 
 doesn't strike you as a lazy life, though, does it? 
 That machine must get tiresome." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind it," she smiled. "It isn't 
 what one would choose for a whole life; but I'm 
 very glad to have the work." 
 
 The morning's mail was brought in then and 
 laid upon her desk, and she set to work opening 
 and sorting it. She was not much given to talk- 
 ing; she met David's friendly advances in smiling 
 good part; but the initiative was left mostly to 
 him. Soon she took her place at her desk, and 
 then the brisk staccato rattle of the typewriter 
 made his own letter-writing impossible. He lay 
 back in his chair, waiting, listening. The great 
 building was awakening at last ; feet were hurrying 
 through the halls, with the crass accompaniment 
 of men's voices, slamming doors, and the whine 
 of the elevator cables. 
 
 A man came in hurriedly — a small, swart fel- 
 low, aquiline, nervous, intense, with the restless, 
 hot eyes of one under strong excitement. 
 
 "Watson here?" he asked, sharply. "When 
 will he be here?" When the question was an- 
 swered he sat down bv the table, tossing the 
 
 86 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 piles of magazines about until he had found one 
 that suited him; but then he only flipped the 
 leaves back and forth idly, drumming upon the 
 table with his wiry fingers, fidgeting, twiddling 
 the heavy seals upon his watch-chain, over- 
 wrought and ill at ease. David felt a sense of 
 relief when a ponderous tread sounded in the 
 corridor and Watson entered. 
 
 The freshness of the morning had not affected 
 him outwardly; he was slow, burly, morose. He 
 spoke a brief, inclusive greeting, then glared in 
 quick anger at the visitor. 
 
 " You here? What do you want? I told Hicks 
 I wanted you to keep out of my way entirely. 
 Didn't he tell you?" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" the other answered, hastily. 
 "That's all right; he told me. It won't do, 
 though. You've got to talk to me. Come in 
 here a minute." He offered to pass into the 
 private office, but Watson's bulk was immovable 
 in the doorway. 
 
 "I don't want to talk to you," Watson said, 
 harshly. "It's no use. You contemptible 
 hound! I've been hating you and biding my 
 time for ten years, waiting to get a chance at 
 you to even things up. Do you imagine I'm go- 
 ing to let loose now, when my chance has come? 
 I told Hicks yesterday, and I tell you now, that 
 I'm going to crush you." 
 
 "For God's sake, Watson!" the little man 
 pleaded. "Come inside. I tell you you must 
 
 87 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 talk to me. I'll do what's right — there! I'll 
 let you dictate the terms — anything you want; 
 but, for God's sake, don't ruin me without giving 
 me a hearing. Come!" 
 
 Grudgingly, against his will, his big body yield- 
 ing part by part, Watson made way and the door 
 went shut after them. It was a stormy inter- 
 view, and long drawn out. An hour passed, and 
 they were still at it. Watson's voice led the way 
 at first, stern, inexorable, and the other followed 
 excitedly behind, like a little dog yapping at the 
 heels of a bellowing bull. But as the hour drew 
 near to its close the bellow grew less and less 
 insistent, and the smaller voice held on in long, 
 tense periods. At last there was silence; then 
 the door was flung open and the visitor hurried 
 out and down the corridor. 
 
 Watson was in an execrable humor. For a 
 long time he paced the floor of his room, mutter- 
 ing in his throat, raging at the things that got 
 in his way. By-and-by he called, rudely, " Come 
 in here, Bough ton, and sit down." But still he 
 kept on with his rolling walk, talking to himself 
 in incoherent snatches. The steam escaped with 
 a hiss around the valves of the radiator, and he 
 spoke in exasperation: "Shut off that damned 
 sizzle, will you?" A man was at work in the 
 hall outside, whistling shrilly. Watson broke 
 out in violent denunciation: "If I could get 
 hold of that idiot I'd put his mouth into a shape 
 that couldn't be reconciled to a whistle!" Then, 
 
 88 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 suddenly, he dropped into his chair and gave 
 way to a thunderous roll of titanic mirth. 
 
 "Oh, it's a funny proposition, this life!" he 
 said. " Boughton, I've played the fool. I'm not 
 fit to be trusted in a man's part. What do you 
 think I've done? That Bronson — that fellow that 
 was in here — you saw him. One of the most 
 unworthy scoundrels that ever breathed! He's 
 betrayed every man that ever put faith in him. 
 He betrayed me once — did me a cruel injury, 
 ten years ago; and I swore I'd be even if I gave 
 up my life to it. And now, just when I've got 
 him in the shambles, with the knife against his 
 throat, he comes in here and talks me out of it! 
 If I'd speak ten words of plain truth to the news- 
 papers here, he'd be ruined. And I meant to do 
 it, too. It would have been a service to the town. 
 Boh! It makes me sick!" His great body 
 heaved with emotion; he snorted with self-dis- 
 gust. Then the laugh asserted itself again. "Oh, 
 well; maybe it's just as well. Damn it all, I 
 ought to have taken his blood; but maybe he's 
 carrying all he can stand without that. Death '11 
 come soon enough, anyway, and square every- 
 thing — for him and me, too. I had my revenge, 
 anyway. I called him a Barmecide, and it stump- 
 ed him. He didn't know what it meant. I'll bet 
 he thought a Barmecide was some kind of a poi- 
 sonous drink!" 
 
 He was himself again after that, jovial, kindly, 
 almost light-hearted. 
 
 89 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "You want to begin your reading, don't you? 
 Well, look here; how will this strike you for a 
 school-room?" There was another room opening 
 from his own — a smaller, cosier place. A broad- 
 topped desk stood by the one window, and before 
 it was one of those enticing, deep chairs to which 
 Watson seemed so much attached. "You can use 
 this place, if you want. I don't need it often, and 
 you can be quieter here than any place else. If 
 you like it, I'll fix you with some books." 
 
 He came in presently, carrying a thick, calf- 
 bound volume. 
 
 " Here ; you might look over this for a few days, 
 and see how it agrees with your digestion. Then 
 we'll have a talk." 
 
 He went out, closing the door. With a long 
 sigh of satisfaction David sat down by the win- 
 dow, opened the book upon his knees, and his 
 mind bit hungrily at the first lines : 
 
 " A law is a rule of action, prescribed by the supreme 
 power of a State, commanding what is right and pro- 
 hibiting what is wrong." 
 
 He bent to his reading with the zest of one 
 whose mind, after long delay, has been admitted 
 to the presence of its mistress. From the first, 
 the law seemed the one thing for which his un- 
 derstanding had been - fashioned, and for which 
 he had been waiting. Every new page that he 
 turned in the ponderous volume was as a frag- 
 ment of the great mosaic of reason ; and the frag- 
 
 90 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ments fitted together as though the whole had 
 been contrived by divine will. It was a fair and 
 beautiful plan of human conduct; as it slowly 
 unrolled before him, he wondered that men 
 should find life puzzling or difficult when they 
 could have recourse to such a sure guide over 
 the paths of perplexity. He was moved to say 
 this to Watson at the end of his first week's 
 reading; but Watson only scoffed. 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! If every citizen of Omaha was 
 a Blackstone, we could fire all the judges off the 
 bench. But it's well to be modest. We haven't 
 more than three or four Blackstones at the bar 
 here, and they're all badly overworked. No, 
 Boughton ; it won't do. We've got far away from 
 that — from elementary right and wrong, and 
 justice and injustice ; we've got ourselves all ball- 
 ed up in law-making, and we've forgotten pretty 
 nearly everything about the old fashion of law- 
 giving. Why, you've known some members of 
 the Nebraska legislature, and I suppose you've 
 known a judge or two. Great stuff, aren't they? 
 Great! Well, they make our laws for us. Poli- 
 tics! That's the keyword these days; not right or 
 justice. The only way in which a man can get 
 himself raised to a position where he has au- 
 thority to decree right and justice is by going 
 head over heels in debt to politics and politicians. 
 I tell you, the best service I ever do for a client 
 of mine is to coax him to keep out of the courts. 
 I mostly tell him that if he'll do that, his chances 
 
 9i 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 of getting justice are fair to middling; but if he 
 insists on going to law, I won't be responsible 
 for what he gets. And yet it's the duty of every 
 good citizen to keep up a devout show of respect 
 for the institutions! Lord!" 
 
 "Is it so bad as that?" David laughed. He 
 had learned that the ingredients in a Watson 
 argument were usually about one-half thought 
 and the other half sheer momentum. Let that 
 big brain once get fairly started on the trail of 
 an idea, and it must bump against the end before 
 it could stop. He took this tirade as a mere 
 daring adventure of the intellect into an unfre- 
 quented and dangerous place. 
 
 "Yes, it is," Watson retorted. "The trouble 
 is, there are too many trying to make a living 
 at it. Omaha has three hundred of 'em — three 
 lawyers to every thousand men, women, and 
 children! It stands to reason they can't all live 
 honestly. We could kill off two hundred and 
 fifty, and still have more than enough to attend 
 to the legitimate business. Omaha is no worse 
 than the average, either. It's getting to be a 
 profession of craft and cunning more than of 
 learning. We're drowning spontaneous, manly 
 virtue in oceans of penal statutes; we're obscur- 
 ing justice and righteousness in a fog of opinions 
 and dicta and precedents. You know what Walt 
 Whitman says, talking about the courts estab- 
 lishing right — 'As if the right might be this or 
 that, according to decisions.' Old Walt's book of 
 
 92 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 crippled verse is a better text-book on justice and 
 equity than any volume of law that's been print- 
 ed in the last fifty years. It's a great sight more 
 practicable, too. Honestly, if I were in doubt on 
 a plain question of right and wrong, even in big 
 affairs, I'd sooner take counsel with some pious, 
 motherly old woman than with any lawyer I 
 know." 
 
 He was upon his feet, pacing back and forth 
 across the room, moved by an excitement that 
 was more than rhetorical. He paused before 
 David, squaring his massive shoulders, throwing 
 out his hands in an aggressive gesture. 
 
 "Why, you can't correct evil by making rules 
 for righteousness. You can't wipe out original 
 sin by an act of legislation or a decree. It's a 
 senseless piece of business. A State may have 
 tons of statutes and a system of jurisprudence 
 big enough to sink a ship, and still be rotten at 
 heart. No, sir; it's not law that counts, but 
 motives; and motives can't be set down in print. 
 The more you hedge an honest man about with 
 artificial rules of conduct, the more you hamper 
 him; and the more law you give a dishonest man, 
 the stronger the buttresses he'll build around his 
 iniquity. That's what you've got to learn, my 
 boy, before you'll be fit to practise law." 
 
 But David could not bring himself to accept 
 such gross logic, even though it assumed the 
 guise of a fiat. To his fresh understanding the 
 spirit of the law was as a pool of Bethesda, in 
 
 93 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 which a lame, halt, blind, and leprous society had 
 but to plunge and be healed. In his utter sim- 
 plicity he took it for granted that all men must 
 be like himself, creatures of right impulse, eager 
 to be cured of their infirmities, desiring nothing 
 so much as light. And every sentence of the 
 sturdy old commentator was a flash of clear, 
 white radiance. He could hardly wait to get 
 to the end of a page, so impatient was he for the 
 next. The days were all too short. More often 
 than not he took his book to his room in the 
 evenings; then after supper he would stretch 
 himself upon his bed, prop the volume against 
 his lifted knees, and read far into the night. 
 He could not get enough of it. 
 
 He had made no plans, had taken no thought 
 for anything save his studies ; this mental stimulus 
 was pleasure enough. With his abounding vigor 
 he felt no need of unbending. He had no desire 
 except to get on with his reading. When he was 
 hungry he ate, and when his senses grew weary 
 he slept. Those indulgences were all the relax- 
 ation he needed. He had almost no acquaint- 
 ances in town; social life would not be likely 
 to make any demands upon him, he thought. 
 He got so wholly engrossed that every fact and 
 relation which did not pertain to the law appear- 
 ed trivial, even unsubstantial. His mother, the 
 workers on the farm, even Ruth herself, were out 
 of his thoughts for most of the time; only when 
 his light was put out and he lay in the darkness, 
 
 94 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 waiting for sleep, did they come to him for a little 
 undivided attention; and then they appeared as 
 beings from another part of his existence. He 
 loved them dearly, and his love would never 
 abate; but it was written on another leaf of his 
 mind. He had to turn back to that leaf now 
 and again, to refresh the impression. It was not 
 like forgetfulness or heedlessness, but only single- 
 ness of purpose that possessed him — the charac- 
 ters on the new leaf before his eyes were absorb- 
 ing, enthralling. None but a man very much 
 alive and very much in earnest knows that in- 
 tense susceptibility to the present moment and 
 its interests. 
 
X 
 
 HE aroused after a few days to a guilty sense 
 of obliquity in having neglected his dinner 
 call. His life had held few of the responsibili- 
 ties of polite formality. In the country, men dis- 
 charge such duties in the intervals of convenience, 
 when weather or season suspends the labor of the 
 fields. A social debt incurred at " spring plough- 
 ing" may not fall due until the stress of corn- 
 husking is past. But he appreciated the new 
 relations; and one evening he dressed with care 
 and followed his card to Watson's parlor. 
 
 At the threshold he paused in sudden em- 
 barrassment. Three callers were ahead of him — 
 good-looking young fellows, of the conventional 
 dandy type. One was in evening dress; all were 
 carefully gotten up. Watson was not present, 
 but his daughter sat enthroned on a couch in the 
 midst of the group, a queen in her own right — 
 stately, composed, transcendently lovely. 
 
 Upon his entrance she arose at once and came 
 to greet him ; and this time her hand showed no 
 reluctance in meeting his* it was given freely. 
 
 " Mr. Boughton !" she said, cordially. " Really, 
 this is very good of you, to spare an evening to 
 
 96 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 me. My father has been telling me how busy 
 you are." She turned to the company and pre- 
 sented David with a fine grace of friendliness, 
 then made a place for him at her side. 
 
 The other men, who had been talking, had now 
 fallen silent. He knew that they were appraising 
 him ; and he knew, too, that, judged by their stand- 
 ards, he would be found wanting. His person and 
 dress set him quite apart from them. There is 
 no creature so disconcerting to a frank, friendly 
 country lad as the amateur gentleman ; and these 
 were all amateurs, brought up from obscure lev- 
 els by the lucky accidents that befall in a new 
 community — a timely turn in real estate, a strike 
 in the corn-market, or a deal in railway building. 
 They were dapper, studiously elegant, making 
 brave essays in manners; but it was very plain 
 that there had not been time since the days of 
 their rude sires for an ingraining of refinement. 
 They were too conscious, too watchful of them- 
 selves lest they make a slip ; at the same time they 
 were continually guilty of that worst of violations 
 of good - breeding, the assumption of an air of 
 lofty superiority to the very conditions which 
 had made their present life possible. Their con- 
 sciousness was infectious. For the first time in 
 his life David's thoughts dwelt upon himself and 
 his appearance, with an effect of disparagement. 
 Though he despised himself for it, it persisted. 
 His hands were broad, brown, muscular ; his heavy, 
 firm-fleshed legs seemed grossly prominent; and 
 7 97 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 when he tried to ease their posture of stubborn 
 strength, there was no result but a clumsy awk- 
 wardness. He felt, too, that his comfortable, 
 loose-fitting cutaway suit of gray cheviot was al- 
 most indecently conspicuous beside those politer 
 blacks. It was only with an effort that he shook 
 off this mood and gave his attention to the girl 
 at his side. 
 
 "I'm glad you've come," she smiled. "I've 
 been doing single combat for half an hour against 
 three, and I'd like to rest my sword-arm. I've 
 been defending an out-door poem. Won't you 
 help me? See! Read that." 
 
 She offered a copy of a new magazine, laying 
 her finger upon an eight-line scrap of verse that 
 was tucked away in modest seclusion at the 
 bottom of a page, where its end seemed utili- 
 tarian rather than literary — it was merely a stop- 
 gap. But David read with mind wide awake to 
 its witchery; and the name in small type after 
 the last line kindled in him a spark of personal 
 delight. 
 
 "Why, it's Joe Keller!" he cried. 
 
 "What?" the girl questioned. She bent over, 
 reading the name aloud. "'Joseph Standish 
 Keller.' Joe Keller? Why, Mr. Boughton, do 
 you know him?" 
 
 "Know him!" David laughed. "He's about 
 the best friend I have in the world. He's the one 
 man I do know, heart and soul. He lives out by 
 Waterloo, on the farm next to ours." 
 
 98 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "A Nebraska man?" she asked, with quickened 
 interest. "And you know him! Now isn't that 
 delicious ! Oh, I'm very glad you've come ! Won't 
 you tell us about him?" 
 
 "Yes, do," one of the young men seconded, 
 politely. " It would be interesting. One doesn't 
 think of poets as beings sustained by one's own 
 atmosphere — the very air that one breathes at 
 the daily grind. It's rather remarkable, isn't it, 
 that one man can eat bread and beef and suck in 
 oxygen and turn them into a poem, while an- 
 other can get nothing out of them but a sordid 
 capacity for operating a bank or a packing- 
 house?" 
 
 The saying was tossed off lightly, carelessly; 
 its dilettantism made it seem vapid, inane, and 
 aroused in David a feeling of dislike for the 
 speaker. The three laughed together over the 
 abortive trial at humor. Their laughter was like 
 their speech — tentative, conditional, as though 
 they nursed the fear that a genuine outburst of 
 mirth would be an altogether unwarranted emo- 
 tional excess, violating some mysterious dictum 
 of "good form." The vulgarian is always in ter- 
 ror of the unwritten laws of behavior, and his 
 terror is greatest when he is endeavoring to obey 
 them. 
 
 " I dare say we're too intensely practical in the 
 West," one of the others suggested. "The pork- 
 packer hires the poet to write verses extolling 
 the superior quality of his hams and lard, and 
 
 99 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 that's about the extent of his notion of encourag- 
 ing art. So soon as we see a spark of divine fire, 
 we want to catch it on a wire and turn it into 
 power for driving the wheels of business. It's 
 a profanation, of course; but, then, the pork- 
 packer's money keeps the poet's stomach filled 
 and keeps the spark alive; so perhaps — " 
 
 "Oh, spare us, please!" the girl interjected. 
 " I want Mr. Boughton to tell us of his friend." 
 
 The three fell at once into mild silence, regard- 
 ing David with a fair semblance of well-bred at- 
 tention. But their empty persiflage had ruffled 
 him. He had never learned the pretty trick of 
 altering his thoughts to meet the exigencies of 
 social conversation for the sake of making clever 
 effects; what he thought must be said outright 
 and candidly, or not at all. He determined that 
 he would not hold up his honest admiration of his 
 friend for the amusement of these smartlings. 
 
 " No, I can't tell you much about him," he said 
 to Margaret. "He's a splendid fellow, and I 
 know you'd like him. He'll be in Omaha some 
 time soon, and I'll bring him to see you, if you'll 
 let me." 
 
 " Indeed I'll let you !" she cried. " It would be 
 a real pleasure." 
 
 " It's a real pleasure to me to find you defending 
 his poem," he said, simply. "It's worth it, be- 
 cause he never writes anything he doesn't mean, 
 and that's not a common quality, in poets or any- 
 body else. He'll be glad to meet you, too. I've 
 
 ioo 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 written to him about you — about my first night 
 here, and your music." 
 
 " Ah !" one of the listeners broke in. " Has Miss 
 Margaret played for you, Mr. Boughton? You're 
 a fortunate man. She never plays for any of us ; 
 nothing would induce her. These artists have 
 their caprices, you know, and the man who's al- 
 lowed to profit by them ought to be grateful." 
 
 "It isn't always caprice," she said, with slow 
 calm. "Sometimes it's discernment." 
 
 "Oh, now!" the youth protested. "Don't be 
 too severe with a chap !" He arose in undisturbed 
 good-humor ; his mates followed his example, and 
 the three made a graceful exit. 
 
 When they were gone, Margaret returned to 
 her place on the couch at David's side, where she 
 sat leaning idly back against the cushions, regard- 
 ing him out of half-closed eyes, her face held in 
 inscrutable quiet. He met the look with won- 
 der, almost with distress, until, as on the former 
 meeting, by a transition too swift to be realized at 
 once, she flashed into animation, her wonderful 
 eyes, her scarlet lips, her hands, her very attitude 
 instinct with life. 
 
 "I was driving in the country all afternoon," 
 she said, brightly. "I wished more than once 
 that I had you with me, to interpret. There was 
 so much I didn't understand in the least. I'd 
 never noticed it before. I think it must have 
 been what you said the other evening about out- 
 door music that awakened me." 
 
 IOI 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 She appeared not to intend it, but there was in 
 her words a flattery delicate and elusive as the 
 perfume of her hair to his nostrils. She had been 
 keeping him in her thoughts. 
 
 "Isn't it strange," she went on, "how we can 
 look for a lifetime on nature, seeing only the 
 coarse shells of things, until something happens 
 to clear our vision? I've driven over the same 
 road a hundred times before, so that I knew every 
 field along the way, and almost every tree and 
 fence-post; but it never meant anything more to 
 me than so many acres of 'view.' I've seen a 
 hundred finer views, too — scenes that looked as 
 though they had been arranged by real masters 
 of the art. These low, round hills have always 
 seemed so conventional and tame, until I began 
 to-day to wonder whether they hadn't a meaning 
 all their own. Then I began to see. You can't 
 blame a pastorale because it isn't a fugue, can you? 
 Why isn't a stretch of rolling prairie as good as a 
 ragged mountain?" 
 
 She paused, smiling into his eyes, expecting a 
 reply. For a moment he could not collect his 
 thoughts clearly. Whether it was from the grace 
 of her idea, or the tacit invitation that he would 
 share in it, or the charm of her manner, or the 
 fascination of her physical presence, or all com- 
 bined, he felt himself stirred with a strange de- 
 light, vibrating as under the touch of a hand that 
 grasped the full range of his emotional powers. 
 
 "Yes," he answered at last, when he was com- 
 102 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 pelled to say something. " I suppose the prairies 
 mean really more than the mountains. They do 
 the world's work, and the mountains only loaf 
 and look magnificent." 
 
 "That's it!" she cried, with the pleased laugh 
 of a child. "A mountain signifies nothing but a 
 cataclysm, and the world couldn't live on cata- 
 clysms alone." 
 
 Then, with another of those sudden changes of 
 mood which characterized her, and which became 
 her so well, she fell again into her earlier calm. 
 
 "I saw something to-day that impressed me," 
 she said. " I went up to the woods above Flor- 
 ence, where you can look down over the river, and 
 I came on a great elm that had been killed by 
 lightning — all split and broken and twisted. I've 
 seen bare forests in winter, but they weren't half 
 so striking as that one dead tree standing solitary 
 in the heart of a wilderness of living green. I've 
 been trying to translate it into music. The motif 
 came to me while I was listening to the sound of 
 the wind in the soft leaves and in those leafless 
 branches. I shall play it for you some day, when 
 it's finished." 
 
 "Oh!" he said, with surprise and pleasure. 
 "Some work of your own? I didn't know you 
 had that gift. I suppose I ought to have known 
 it, though, by instinct." 
 
 Her evident satisfaction in his pleasure encour- 
 aged him, and he went on with his habitual frank 
 honesty. "I've thought that musical genius is. 
 
 103 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 the very highest of all ; the genius to create music, 
 I mean. It's finer than poetry, isn't it? Because 
 nature talks to us in music and not in words. If 
 you try to put a thing into words, there are so 
 many chances for getting it wrong; but music 
 seems always true." Then he thought of Keller, 
 with an odd sense of having been, somehow, un- 
 faithful to the genius of his friend. "Yet the one 
 poet I know is as true as any man could be," he 
 said, quickly. " I shall be impatient to have you 
 meet him. I know you'll like him ; I'm as sure of 
 that as I am that he'll like you. He's a musician, 
 too — a violinist. The people out around home 
 don't begin to understand him. They think he's 
 nothing but a freak. He's independently wealthy, 
 and could do anything he pleased; but he's built 
 himself a little, three -roomed log -house in the 
 woods over there beside the Elkhorn, and seems 
 just as happy as a squirrel in a hollow tree. I 
 don't believe he could be driven away by anything 
 short of artillery. Oh, I know you'll like him! 
 I'll bring him up the first time he comes to town. 
 Then you'll play your new music for both of us, 
 won't you?" 
 
 " Perhaps," she answered, a little absently. " I 
 sha'n't promise that, though. I can't play for 
 many people; I don't try to play unless every- 
 thing is right." 
 
 Soon the town-clocks sounded a chorus of warn- 
 ing, and he arose reluctantly. She gave him her 
 hand again in parting. Its touch was lingering, 
 
 104 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 not at all shy. His strong fingers closed upon 
 hers and held them firmly while he spoke his 
 good-bye. 
 
 "Come and see me whenever you like," she 
 said, gently. "This hotel life isn't much to in- 
 vite you to, but now and then you may meet 
 some pleasant people." 
 
 " You are good to me," he said. " People whom 
 you find enjoyable must be something out of the 
 ordinary." 
 
 She laughed at him with her eyes, though her 
 lips were held in check. " You are praising your- 
 self — just a little," she hinted. 
 
 Then, while he lingered, Watson's burly tread 
 came along the hall, and his burly form filled the 
 doorway. 
 
 "Hello, Boughton!" he said, cordially. "You 
 here? And those other fellows gone? I wish I'd 
 known it. I've been torturing myself for an hour, 
 walking around the billiard-table, poking with a 
 fool stick at a bunch of little fool balls. I detest 
 billiards, but not half so much as I detest those 
 crowing hens. Did you meet 'em? It's no secret 
 between Margy and me how thoroughly I abomi- 
 nate 'em. They always make me think of those 
 witticisms that must have their points printed in 
 italics or you lose 'em. There isn't blood enough 
 in a whole townful of such chaps to fill the veins 
 of a healthy monkey. Say, sit down a minute. 
 Don't go yet. I've got something to tell you." 
 
 He took his favorite seat, easing his bulk upon 
 i°5 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 the cushions; but then he was slow in making a 
 beginning. His brain held tenaciously to its last 
 theme ; it had a bull-doggish grip on everything — 
 the grip of the fighting intellect ; it was loath to let 
 go of an idea, however unimportant, until it had 
 been shaken into subjection. 
 
 " Those dudes !" he growled. " I mightn't think 
 so hard of 'em if I hadn't known their beginnings. 
 Their fathers were men who came across Iowa 
 in prairie-schooners forty-odd years ago — great, 
 big, coarse, honest fellows — men, every one of 
 'em, afraid of neither life nor death. They laid 
 the foundations of the West, and then brought 
 up families of sons to be ashamed of 'em. I've 
 seen that young Stone go across the street in the 
 middle of the block to avoid meeting his dad face 
 to face, just because the old man goes without 
 a collar and smokes a cob pipe in public. He's 
 worth a million of his son any day. He's got 
 brains, for one thing ; and all the brains the young 
 one ever had were painlessly extracted in college. 
 He hasn't character enough to stop a worm-hole 
 in a chestnut. He's one of the thin-blooded sort 
 who make misanthropy a fad. He never knew a 
 serious conviction in his life. He'll go dawdling 
 along through this world, just as he is now, with- 
 out a particle of manliness in his make-up; and 
 then he'll step into the next life in just about the 
 same way — finding paradise ' rawther pretty and 
 interesting, don't you know, for those who like 
 that sort of thing.' Faugh!" 
 
 106 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 He sat for a time fondling the creasy folds of 
 his big chin, glowering heavily ; then his face clear- 
 ed of its cynicism, settling into firm lines. 
 
 " Maybe the evening hasn't been lost," he said, 
 at last. "I've been talking with some fellows 
 down-stairs, and I've about made up my mind to 
 go into the senatorial fight this winter. What 
 would you think of that?" 
 
 "For yourself, do you mean?" David asked. 
 
 "Yes, of course; for myself. I've been think- 
 ing some about it, off and on, for the last fifteen 
 years, and now I think I'll try it. I reckon I can 
 make it. I've got a few good, stout friends, and 
 I've got plenty of just the right kind of foes to 
 help me along. Half the game is to be sure of 
 your enemies. I've always fought the machine 
 here, and this looks like an off year for machine 
 politics. That man Bronson would be against me, 
 for one. I wouldn't want anything better than a 
 chance to fight him to a stand-still. If I go into 
 it, I'll win. I was just trying to make up my 
 mind whether it's worth the pains." 
 
 " Worth the pains!" David cried. " To go into 
 the Senate ? Why, I thought any man in the West 
 was ready to sell his birthright for a place there." 
 
 " Yes," Watson answered, dully, " I guess that's 
 true of most of us. It was true of me once, when 
 I had a tighter hold on ambition. But I've got 
 past that. I'm not ambitious any longer. All 
 I'd expect to get out of this now would be some- 
 thing new to think about for a while." 
 
 107 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 David glanced at Margaret, who had been lis- 
 tening silently. What he saw in her diverted his 
 thoughts sharply from the subject in hand. She 
 sat erect, attentive, her hands knotted together 
 in her lap, her lips parted, her eyes ablaze. She 
 did not look at him ; she seemed quite oblivious to 
 his presence ; all the energy of her being was con- 
 centrated in the gaze she fixed upon her father's 
 face — eagerness, desire, rapt absorption of her 
 whole mind. 
 
 Watson's eyes followed the direction of David's 
 glance, and he gave a short, harsh laugh. 
 
 " What do you think, Mag?" he asked. " That 
 would suit you, wouldn't it?" 
 
 She relieved the rigor of her posture with a long, 
 stifled sigh, settling back with a palpable effort 
 into her usual placidity. Her voice was curiously 
 out of keeping with her recent manner ; it betrayed 
 no more than a casual interest in the theme. 
 
 " I should be glad, of course. It would mean a 
 great deal to win against Carruthers and Bronson, 
 and the rest. But I wonder if you would better 
 undertake it, after what Dr. Johnstone said." 
 
 " Oh !" Watson broke out, roughly. " Johnstone ! 
 What's that got to do with it ? A doctor's counsel 
 is all well enough when a man has leisure for cod- 
 dling; but it doesn't signify when there's anything 
 to be done. I'd rather die to-morrow in a fight 
 than live forever in my chair." 
 
 "Good!" David cried. He, too, loved the no- 
 tion of strife ; but his was only the swift, raptur- 
 
 108 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ous lust of youth. Though he thought himself at 
 one with Watson's temper, he would have been 
 terrified by a clear glimpse into the depths of the 
 older heart. "So you think you'll try it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " I guess so," Watson returned, slowly. " I 
 might as well, I reckon. I'm getting deadly tired 
 of this way of living. Nailing my soul to the 
 cross; and for what? Building a reputation as a 
 lawyer! What, in the name of God, do I care for 
 that? It's all very well for boys like you to play 
 with such pretty visions of fame and dignity ; but 
 they aren't for me. I've got to the time of life 
 when I must have something firmer to hold on to 
 — something a good deal more substantial than 
 the invertebrate pride of reputation. I've fought 
 here until there's nothing left worth fighting for. 
 I need a change of scene and air and enemies. I 
 want a chance to pit myself against some bigger 
 men. That's what will decide me, and not the 
 honor of position." 
 
 He got up and pulled open one of the long win- 
 dows that led out upon a small, iron-railed balcony 
 fastened against the brick wall of the building. 
 
 "It's too warm in here," he grumbled. " Come 
 outside a minute, Boughton." 
 
 As David arose, Margaret also stood up. 
 
 " I think I shall go to my room," she said, quiet- 
 ly. She was trembling ; her face had taken on an 
 ashen pallor, save for two burning flecks of red 
 in her cheeks; her eyes were feverishly brilliant. 
 
 109 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Good-night," she said; and with that she was 
 gone. 
 
 "Your daughter is ill," David said, anxiously; 
 but Watson dissented with a gesture. 
 
 "No; she's all right." They moved out to the 
 balcony and stood together, leaning over the rail, 
 looking down into the street. 
 
XI 
 
 IT was a quiet scene at that hour of the night — 
 quiet in its almost entire absence of movement ; 
 but there was about it still an atmosphere of rest- 
 lessness. The carbons in the swinging arc-lamp 
 directly below snapped and sputtered under their 
 high current; the motor on a passing car called 
 aloud in a voice full of the pain of tension; the 
 heels of the few passing pedestrians clicked sharp- 
 ly against the stones. Over these nearer allegro 
 notes rose the far largo roar and rumble of the 
 city's palpitant life — a life that was a stranger to 
 deep, healthy repose, knowing only the stealthy 
 quiet of a sleeping panther, ready to start awake 
 at a whisper. 
 
 Watson dropped his head heavily upon his 
 arms, that were lying across the railing, and his 
 great body shook under the stress of a stifled 
 groan. 
 
 "Oh, Lord God! I wish I had something or 
 somebody to tie to. I'm all adrift. I don't 
 know what's going to become of me." He started 
 suddenly erect, striking his hands together in a 
 burst of impotent passion. " Boughton, do you 
 know what it is I'm living for? It isn't the things 
 
 in 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 I'm doing, or hope to do, or to be, or to gain. To 
 hell with all that! I'd be glad to lay it all down 
 now, and to wander around all the rest of my 
 days a tattered, homeless, nameless vagabond, if 
 I could sit down for a single hour and talk with a 
 woman who's capable of unselfish genuineness — 
 one who's large enough to bear the sort of love 
 that doesn't wear a tag with its price marked on 
 it in plain figures. I don't want to possess her; I 
 only want to look at her just once, and hear her 
 speak, and have my opinion of womanhood re- 
 stored." His voice fell in a moment from its full- 
 toned intensity to the level of apathy; his lifted 
 shoulders settled and drooped, as though they 
 were adjusting themselves to a heavy load. " I 
 don't expect to find her," he said. " I don't be- 
 lieve she exists." 
 
 David turned upon him in shocked astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "What?" he cried. "You can't mean that, 
 Mr. Watson." 
 
 "Why not?" Watson demanded, raspingly. 
 
 " Because it isn't true. I know you wouldn't 
 say it if — if things hadn't happened wrong with 
 you. It isn't true." 
 
 ' ' Ah !' ' Watson breathed. ' ' I hope it may never 
 be true for you. It doesn't turn out true for all 
 men, apparently. I used to believe in women; 
 God knows I did. And God knows how much 
 that belief meant to me, before it was taken 
 away. Since then, all I've been trying to get 
 
 112 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 out of my life and my work has been forget- 
 fulness." He was speaking slowly, painfully, as 
 though his every word was a burning torture to 
 some raw wound in his soul. "I've been forced 
 to think that most of our failures and disappoint- 
 ments in this life come from a mistaken exal- 
 tation of sentiment. Our beliefs aim so much 
 higher than the facts warrant. Women aren't 
 different from men; it's only a piece of cheap 
 gallantry to say so — a mighty cheap, flimsy lie. 
 Given the right conditions, and every virtue we 
 possess, of men or women, comes tottering down 
 into the mud. You can't understand that — you 
 boy ! There was a time when I would have fought 
 the man who dared to say it in my hearing. Oh, 
 it was cruel — hellish cruel — to have the disillusion- 
 ing come to me through my own wife!" 
 
 He drooped forward again upon the rail and was 
 silent, brooding upon what his words had sug- 
 gested, leaving David for a time to his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 A man who has known nothing but perfect 
 health is quite unable to sympathize with the 
 ailing. David's normal soul stopped far short of 
 knowledge of the other's affliction; the sombre 
 words were to him nothing more than a naming 
 of morbid symptoms ; the real pain of the disease 
 was not to be communicated to him. He was 
 almost ready to be amused by Watson's dark 
 despair, as a sound and ruddy friend smiles at the 
 vagaries of an invalid. Surely these were only 
 s 113 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 the casual hallucinations of spiritual distemper. 
 David's ready imagination produced a picture of 
 Ruth; and if he had felt so much as a tremor of 
 misgiving, it sank to rest. By a quick associa- 
 tion of ideas, he thought of the girl who had just 
 left them; and with that he was easily satisfied. 
 Watson must have forgotten. 
 
 "There's your own daughter," David said. 
 
 Watson turned slowly about, bringing his face 
 into full view in the yellow light that shone from 
 the open window. It was a face not good to 
 look upon — stern, cold, granitic ; and its hard 
 rigidity yielded not a line at the suggestion. 
 
 "Yes, there's my own daughter," he echoed. 
 "I was thinking of her, too, when I spoke." 
 
 David's heart quickened its beat; his lips were 
 hot with a rising rebellion of words. " You don't 
 mean — " he began ; but Watson checked him with 
 uplifted hand. 
 
 "We won't talk about that, if you please," he 
 said. He waited a moment, continuing his steady 
 scrutiny of the young face; then he turned away 
 abruptly. " No. If the sort of woman I mean 
 exists at all, she's rare. Sometimes I compel my- 
 self to think that if I'd been another sort of man, 
 I'd have found her. But I'm mostly of the opin- 
 ion that she doesn't exist." 
 
 "Other men have found them," David cut in, 
 shortly. 
 
 " Other men have found what they have found. 
 I can't answer for them. They've taken what 
 
 114 
 
YES, THERE S MY OWN DAUGHTER, HE ECHOED 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 they could get, apparently, and have been satis- 
 fied to call it square, without prying too closely 
 into the roots of things. I guess it's just as well, 
 though," he said, with a long, dull sigh. " If you 
 want to match motives, I suppose there isn't one 
 man in a million who could bear the test of being 
 honestly loved by a woman who didn't want some- 
 thing from him. After all I've been through, and 
 all I've seen, I reckon the best thing that can 
 happen to the average man is just to take some 
 woman who's decently like his poor notions of a 
 wife, and live along with her in orderly domestici- 
 ty, if he can manage it, keeping himself faithful 
 to his home, being fond of the children he begets, 
 doing the best he can to provide for them, asking 
 no questions, and quitting it all at last in passion- 
 less quiet. If a man can get along with that, he's 
 lucky." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Watson!" David ventured, sincerely. 
 " I'm sorry to hear you say that. I'm always 
 sorry to hear any man speak lightly about women. 
 I've never known one — not one — who wasn't 
 worthy and honest and true. I don't believe I'm 
 alone in that, either." 
 
 For answer Watson broke into a deep, booming 
 laugh, that rolled thunderously back to them from 
 the walls across the street. "All right, boy," he 
 said. "We'll let it go at that. That was only a 
 side issue, anyway. The main point to - night is 
 that I'm going to the Senate. I rather like the 
 idea, too. Maybe it '11 give me a chance to be of 
 
 ii5 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 some service to the West. At any rate, you'll 
 be interested in the preliminaries. You'll see 
 some of the men who are the guardian angels of 
 Western destiny. They're a queer lot." 
 
 He began to smoke then, dropping into an 
 abstracted silence whose surface was only oc- 
 casionally ruffled by monosyllabic bubbles, stirred 
 up by David's attempts to interest him. It grew 
 into constraint by-and-by, and then David took 
 his leave. 
 
 It was late when he reached his room, and he 
 undressed at once and went to bed. But he 
 could not sleep. The events of the last few hours 
 lay hot upon his soul ; he could not put them aside. 
 Over all the other pictures that arose in his mind 
 was that of Watson's daughter as she had stood 
 before him when he first bade her good-bye, her 
 hand resting lightly in his, serene, poised, but all 
 alive and wondrously lovely. Then there follow- 
 ed another picture, blotting out the first — the 
 picture of her strange perturbation as she listened 
 to her father's declaration of his new purpose. 
 Watson's harsh words concerning her echoed in 
 his ears, giving him a boding uneasiness. He 
 could not make it out. 
 
XII 
 
 THE next day was Saturday, and David took 
 the afternoon train for Waterloo. As he dis- 
 mounted from his car and stood upon the narrow, 
 littered station platform, it was with an impression 
 of confusion. The little village, sprawling its lazy 
 width in the autumn sunlight, its air heavy with 
 somnolence, seemed at once familiar and strange ; 
 the shiftless creatures idling in the streets, almost 
 every one known to him for many years by name 
 and reputation, appeared now, after so short an 
 interval of absence and contrasted interests, like 
 figures that had suddenly stepped out of a dimly 
 remembered dream or story and been galvanized 
 into movement and a similitude of life. Even then 
 the illusion was hardly complete; he had seen 
 puppets in a Punch-and-Judy show more strenu- 
 ously alive than these. 
 
 He left the station and walked up the formless 
 road that made the centre of the town's in- 
 activity. Acquaintances recognized him, hailing 
 him listlessly from their easy postures along the 
 edges of the crumbling walks or in the shelter 
 of the wooden store-awnings. So long as fair 
 weather continued these sidewalk shows of in- 
 
 117 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 dolence would go on. It was a relief to come at 
 last upon a man who was on his feet and moving 
 along in a quick, free stride. 
 
 They halted as they encountered, and the vil- 
 lager held out a thin, full-yeined hand. "Well, 
 David?" he said, with a tone of mild inquiry. 
 
 He was a stooping, pallid man, with the air of 
 one who, if not yet aged, was still solicitously 
 watchful of the years. His beard was untrimmed, 
 dry, straggling; his rusty frock-coat, always so 
 inseparable from the figure of the cleric, had once 
 been a garment of ceremonious dignity, but was 
 now nothing more than a pitiable week-day ex- 
 pedient for the preservation of Sunday decency. 
 His black trousers were badly knee-sprung and 
 shiny upon the thighs; his hat, his very neckwear, 
 shared in the presentment of a cheap, close 
 poverty; his collar was yellow with age and un- 
 skilful home-laundering, and its saw-edge caught 
 irritatingly at the long, loose strands of his beard, 
 so that he had acquired an habitual, nervous, 
 sidewise jerk of the head in freeing his chin from 
 this fretting grasp. 
 
 David greeted him with the accents of hearty 
 liking. " I'm glad to see you, Mr. Kennedy. I 
 tried to get time to call on you before I went away ; 
 but there were so many things — " 
 
 "Yes, yes; of course; I know," the other in- 
 terrupted quickly, with a manner that savored 
 of propitiation. "It was good of you to think 
 about us. Maybe some time — " He left the 
 
 n8 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 sentence incomplete and struck into another. 
 " Do you find the change in your labors agreeable? 
 Or is it — " The question, too, came timidly to its 
 end in the middle, as though from a long- con- 
 tinued custom of holding individual opinions in 
 abeyance, even in trifles. He had passed his life 
 in the labor of the ministry in obscure country vil- 
 lages, where the only show of getting along de- 
 pended at bottom not so much upon spiritual zeal 
 or intellectual acumen as upon adroitness in fore- 
 casting and reconciling himself to the spiritual 
 and intellectual aberrations of a primitive people. 
 At best that is not an expansive life, nor one 
 calculated to stimulate individuality. No doubt 
 he had his own ideas; but they were usually shy 
 as rabbits, inclined to run to cover at the first 
 alarm of opposition and to cower tremblingly in 
 the thickets of formless speech. 
 
 "Oh yes," David answered to the implied 
 inquiry. "I'm getting along famously. One of 
 these days I'll turn out a credit to the Elkhorn 
 country, and you'll all be recalling stories showing 
 what a promising boy I was. How's your own 
 work, Mr. Kennedy?" he asked, with a return to 
 seriousness. " I should think you'd find it mighty 
 hard sometimes, and discouraging." 
 
 "Oh yes," the clergyman agreed, with a 
 stifled sigh. "Yes, that's true, in the moments 
 when I get impatient, you know — when I feel, as 
 most men do now and then, I suppose, that I'd 
 like to see some visible results of my work. But I 
 
 119 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 try not to be impatient. It's a bad habit to form, 
 don't you think so? — a little incongruous, per- 
 haps, to be working for eternity and still expecting 
 immediate returns on your work. I had some 
 large plans when I was a young man, but they've 
 rather — rather got away from me. I haven't 
 weakened — no, no! I don't mean that at all; but 
 I've quit making definite plans for myself. I'm 
 learning, instead, to adapt myself to every day, 
 and to trust that there's another hand than mine 
 that's laying out the plan. I think that's safest; 
 don't you? There's plenty to be done, without 
 any need for planning ahead. It saves a good 
 deal of disappointment, too. Well, you're in a 
 hurry, aren't you? Give our love to your mother, 
 and come and see us whenever you can." 
 
 David crossed the broad, sandy flat of common 
 and entered the office of the hotel — a bare, dingy 
 room, wanting in every attribute of cleanly de- 
 cency. Three or four tousled fellows were seated 
 around a broken table, playing a noisy game of 
 seven-up ; others of their kind stood around look- 
 ing on, their sallow, inert faces deformed by 
 quids of tobacco tucked into their cheeks. A 
 frowsy German sat humped over on the end of an 
 empty beer-cask, holding a wretched, lean kitten 
 helpless in the grasp of his great paws, amusing 
 himself by blowing pipe-smoke into its nose and 
 eyes, while an ugly, crop-eared bull-dog crouched 
 upon the floor before him, watching the torture 
 with quivers and growls of fellow-feeling. A 
 
 120 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 dilapidated barber's chair stood in one corner, 
 the floor for a yard around strewn with the week's 
 clippings from many heads. In the chair sat 
 Uncle Billy, submitting his snowy mane to the 
 perils of a trimming. 
 
 David stepped to the old man's side, laying an 
 affectionate hand upon his shoulder. " Hello, 
 Uncle Billy!" he said, with a laugh. "Well, by 
 Jupiter ! What does this mean ? Why, you look 
 like a born dude." 
 
 The old fellow screwed his head around, peering 
 up with twinkling eyes. He chose to ignore the 
 need for a greeting; he spoke as though they had 
 not been parted. 
 
 "Swell, ain't it? 'Mighty! Think you're the 
 only one? Watch out there, Sam; don't take off 
 too much. By jocks! it's so short now it 'most 
 makes me blush— like I didn't have nothin' on but 
 my flannels. Tell you what I'm a mind to do, 
 Dave: I'm a mind to raise me a mustache, an' 
 one o' these here goat- waggles to my chin. If 
 I was to, I don't b'lieve I'd have to go on a 
 crutch no more. I'd make some o' you young 
 colts take the sides o' the road, that's what I 
 would." He sat squinting at his image in the 
 cracked mirror, grinning, twisting his shrivelled 
 leathern neck for better views of himself, preening 
 with an innocent vanity. When the barber was 
 through with him, he paid his little reckoning and 
 limped from the chair. " Come on, boy," he said. 
 " I got the team all hitched, over back o' the 
 
 121 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 stable. We better be startin'. I got an ar'nd to 
 do, too." 
 
 When they were seated in the light road-wagon 
 and had got off the main street into a shady by- 
 way, David was content to keep his seat, looking 
 abroad at the opening vista of prairie landscape, 
 listening to the swift grind of the wheels upon the 
 sandy road-bed and to the guileless prattle of his 
 companion. 
 
 "We got the wheat all in," the old fellow said. 
 " We planted the hill eighty two-three days after 
 you left; an' we just finished the bottom quarter 
 yeste'd'y. Everything's been just right. Dan's 
 got a notion o' puttin' in an extra eighty where 
 the Alsike's been. I don't know but I would, too. 
 The clover's been there three years now; it ought 
 to raise better wheat than any o' the rest. Wheat's 
 always good prop'ty, too. A man ain't never in 
 danger o' the poor-house long's he's got a few 
 thousan' bushels o' winter wheat in his bins. 
 We're goin' to ship some hogs next week ; us an' 
 Stuart's folks together can make up a car-load — 
 fat as butter. I reckon we'll do it, if the price 
 don't go down too much before Tuesday." 
 
 They came presently to an avenue branching 
 from the section-road, and there Uncle Billy, with 
 a furtive glance at David, turned his horses aside. 
 " Got to stop at the creamery a minute," he said, 
 in explanation. " Been kind o' helpin' 'round 
 amongst the women folks a little, bringin' their 
 cream over for 'em, an' I got to go get some o' the 
 
 122 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 cans to take back." But an alert nervousness 
 was upon him ; he was not giving his mind entirely 
 to the team. The early dusk was settling, blur- 
 ring the details of the broad landscape, idealizing 
 it, as though it had received some finishing touches 
 from the brush of a Corot. Uncle Billy was study- 
 ing the prospect ahead with a curious interest, as 
 though he had conceived all at once something of 
 an artistic passion. At last he drew rein sharply, 
 breaking into a gleeful cackle. 
 
 " Here she is!" he cried. " Hop out, Dave, an' 
 help her up." 
 
 "Why, Ruth!" David called, to a shady figure 
 by the road-side. "Is that* really you?" He flung 
 himself to the ground with alacrity, stretching his 
 hands towards her in the semi-darkness. She met 
 him with a laugh mellow as the unrestrained song 
 of a lark. 
 
 "Really and truly!" she said, brightly. "Are 
 you in doubt about it? Help me put these away 
 some place, and then I'll argue it out with you." 
 
 She carried a pair of huge, empty milk-cans that 
 were tied together by the handles and swung over 
 her strong shoulders. David's heart warmed to 
 the pastoral simplicity of her aspect. In the soft 
 twilight, whose lingering glow suffused her buoy- 
 ant figure, she and her burden seemed to belong 
 to the free, wild prairie ; she was an essential part 
 of the scene; she could not have had a better 
 setting for her luscious beauty. 
 
 He stowed her cans away at the back of the 
 123 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 wagon and helped her to mount to the rear seat, 
 then climbed to the place at her side. Uncle Billy 
 affected a jealous dismay. 
 
 "Well, I like that! Shakin' the ol' man that- 
 a-way, to go set with the girls ! All right, young- 
 ster, you can set with her, if you want to; only 
 don't you let me ketch you tryin' to hold her 
 hand on the sly. I won't stand that. No, sir; 
 I'll make you get out an' walk. Jen! Ged ap, 
 Phil!" 
 
 David laughed again, exultantly. " Not on the 
 sly, Uncle Billy. It's going to be done fair and 
 honest, so anybody can see that wants to look." 
 But when he sought to take possession of her hand, 
 it was stoutly withdrawn and hidden in the folds 
 of her skirt. 
 
 "No, sir!" she said. " You must explain things 
 first. I want to know why you haven't written 
 to me?" 
 
 "Why, I did write," he retorted. "You know 
 I did. I wrote you two letters." 
 
 " They weren't letters," she scoffed. " Just two 
 teeny little notes, written big — just as big as could 
 be, on only one side of the sheet. No, sir; that 
 doesn't explain at all. I don't call a thing a real 
 letter unless it's written so fine I have to squint to 
 read it, on both sides, and all criss-crossed up and 
 down. That's a letter." 
 
 He hesitated a moment before attempting an 
 answer. Her chiding, though spoken half-mock- 
 ingly, touched a delinquency which had troubled 
 
 124 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 him not a little. He had meant to write exhaus- 
 tively, telling her everything about his new life, 
 and making daring excursions into the future that 
 was to be theirs in common ; he had counted much 
 upon the joy it would give him, and the steadfast- 
 ness of purpose he would gather from her sym- 
 pathy and understanding ; yet the days had slipped 
 by without adequate performance . They had part- 
 ed as lovers. No confession of love need have 
 been ampler than his, on that last night at home. 
 Nevertheless, when he would sit down at his desk, 
 with paper before him, he would find himself over- 
 whelmed by a curious sense of insecurity in his at- 
 titude towards her — an insecurity that could not 
 be stated in terms, but that was still real enough 
 to his mind. A score of times he wished devoutly 
 that he had asked her to be his wife when the 
 chance had been his ; then his doubts would have 
 been dispelled. But he could not bring himself 
 to take it for granted. Once he had started to 
 put the plain question into form on paper, but it 
 had eluded him — his ardor had suffered a distinct 
 loss, wandering about through the idle forms of 
 syntax and rhetoric. He had given up the effort. 
 He would wait a fit time and ask by word of 
 mouth, out under the stars. As he looked upon 
 it in his moments of tender retrospection, his 
 love seemed to belong to the soft, starlit prairie 
 nights, not to the garish city days; it was to be 
 declared in whispered syllables from warm, living 
 lips, not by the poor means of ink and pen and 
 
 125 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 paper. He had determined to wait; and in the 
 mean time letter -writing had appeared unavail- 
 ing, profitless. Now that he was in her presence 
 again, his irresolution seemed fantastic, unjus- 
 tifiable, and he put it aside with a feeling of grate- 
 ful relief. 
 
 "Wait till I go back," he said, "and I'll write 
 you a letter that '11 make talk in the post-office. 
 You'll see!" He felt for her hand in its hiding- 
 place, and this time he was suffered to find it and 
 to gather it into his own warm clasp. " Now tell 
 me about things. You haven't written to me at 
 all, not even a teeny little scrawl. How have you 
 been ? What' s been happening to you ? " 
 
 "Oh, piles and piles of things!" she cried. "I 
 can't begin to tell you. I've been awfully busy. 
 Ma hasn't been a bit well, and I've had to cook for 
 the men, and do most of the chores around the 
 house — splitting wood, and feeding the pigs, and 
 building a new brush-fence around the chicken- 
 yard, and looking after the milk, and bringing the 
 cream down to town, and — oh, everything! And 
 it's awfully funny, too. I used to think, when I 
 was a little girl and had to help ma, that when I 
 grew up I'd be bound / wouldn't do any of that 
 kind of work. I was going to sit on a cushion and 
 sew a fine seam — I was going to be a lady, and not 
 know a thing about work. But now that I have 
 it to do, I'm just as happy and satisfied as I can 
 be. Don't you think that's funny? I wouldn't 
 trade places with any queen I know." 
 
 126 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " Wouldn't you?" he asked. " Well, now, that's 
 what they call a coincidence. I was just think- 
 ing I wouldn't trade places this minute with any 
 king / know." 
 
 Uncle Billy spoke over his shoulder with clumsy 
 jocularity. "An' I wouldn't swap with any two- 
 spot in the whole dum deck. Keep it up ! I ain't 
 listenin'. You can say just what you're a mind 
 to, an' I won't never let on I hear a word." He 
 ducked forward on his seat, chuckling, wagging 
 his head in self -appreciation. The girl was in no 
 degree abashed by his pointedness ; such honesty 
 as hers was not to be easily frightened. 
 
 "Now you tell," she said to David. "What 
 have you been doing?" 
 
 "Oh, heaps and heaps of things," he answered, 
 in laughing imitation of her phrase. " I feel as if 
 I've got to be almost a man of the world already, 
 Ruth. It hasn't taken half as long as I thought 
 it would." For the rest of the way he beguiled 
 her with a lively rehearsal of his experiences in 
 office, boarding-house, and street. The one thing 
 above all others of which he had meant to tell 
 her was his meetings with Margaret; but now 
 that the chance had come he held back from 
 it. The story was not for the alert old ears on 
 the front seat, he told himself; he would keep it 
 for Ruth alone. He did not mention Margaret's 
 name. There was plenty besides to talk about, 
 for he was a good observer and a graphic narrator. 
 Ruth was a good listener, too, and Uncle Billy 
 
 127 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 more than once betrayed his own attention to the 
 story. 
 
 "Oh, you're a smart boy," he broke in, by- 
 and-by. "Next thing we know out here you'll 
 be learnin' to lie an' cheat an' all them kind o' 
 things. You'll be gettin' too high-toned for our 
 set." 
 
 " Don't you believe it," David returned. " I'll 
 come back to the farm when I see the first signs 
 of that." 
 
 " I hear you say so. I've heern lots of 'em say 
 so. I reckon everybody feels that-a-way, one 
 time or other, yit there's always a middlin' fair 
 crop o' liars. Tell you what I found out : I found 
 out that lyin's a good deal like chawin' tobacker — 
 don't taste right good at first, but you git after 
 while so you kind o' like the smart on your tongue, 
 an' then, pretty soon, first thing you know you 
 can't git along without it nohow." 
 
 "Yes," Ruth broke in, with eager irrelevance. 
 "And besides all I've told you, I've made myself 
 a new dress, too — a perfect beauty ! Every stitch 
 my own work. Now what do you think of that? 
 It's just as good as if I'd bought it and paid 
 twenty-five dollars for it, but it only cost me six 
 dollars. Isn't that thrifty? Oh, you've no idea 
 what a miserly person I'm getting to be! I'm 
 just terrible!" 
 
 With such talk the time sped on airy wings. 
 They came all too soon to the end. As he helped 
 her from the wagon before the gate at her home, 
 
 128 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 he held her hand for a moment between his own, 
 reckless of Uncle Billy's enjoying oversight. 
 
 "I'll come over to-morrow for a little while," 
 he said. "I must go back to Omaha on the af- 
 ternoon train. I sha'n't have much time. I'll 
 have to talk over some home business with Dan 
 in the morning — about the new quarter we're 
 buying — but I'll come over on my way down, 
 if it's only for an hour." 
 
XIII 
 
 HIS mother awaited him on the porch at home. 
 If Uncle Billy's welcome had lacked emotion, 
 hers more than atoned. She was as impatient 
 to get her arms about him as though his absence 
 had been long and full of peril. As she leaned 
 upon him, walking through the hall to the kitchen 
 — the family assembly-room — she was like a girl 
 in her unrestrained pleasure. 
 
 "It's good to have you back again!" she cried, 
 softly. "We've all been busy enough; but the 
 house always seems empty, even in the busiest 
 time, with any of my family gone away. I'm 
 glad you're home!" 
 
 "Dear little mother!" he whispered, his cheek 
 against her hair. " Do you think I'm not glad 
 to be here?" He glanced quickly around upon 
 the bare walls and simple furnishings. The table 
 was spread in readiness for his late supper; a 
 pot of coffee steamed cheerily on the back of the 
 stove; from the door of the oven, standing ajar, 
 issued a confusion of delicious odors. His glance 
 came back to his mother's face, that beamed with 
 homely joy, and there was a queer catch in his 
 voice. "Sure I'm glad to be here!" 
 
 130 
 
THB ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 She hovered about him while he ate, heaping 
 his plate with the choicest things from store-room 
 and pantry, glad when she saw his unfailing 
 appetite, rejoicing in the hearty accents of his 
 voice, losing much of what he said in the simple 
 delight of hearing him talk and knowing that he 
 was hers again. 
 
 His Sunday hour with Ruth was not a shining 
 success, from the point of view of the impatient 
 lover. The day was filled with the needful dis- 
 cussion of the affairs of home. In quitting the 
 labor of the fields, he had not meant to step 
 from under his share of the responsibility of 
 directing affairs. Dan, the elder son, was a giant 
 in capacity for execution, but by tacit consent 
 David was looked upon as having the adroiter 
 mind, the subtler understanding, and as being the 
 better endowed contriver of ways and means. On 
 this Sunday there was a long conference between 
 the brothers over the new extension of the farm. 
 Dinner-time found many points still undeter- 
 mined. It was well after one o'clock when David 
 said his good-byes and set off for his coveted talk 
 with Ruth. 
 
 Disappointment awaited him. The Milford fam- 
 ily was assembled in force in the sitting-room, 
 lethargic after its mid-day feed. Ruth was there, 
 to be sure, a vision of wholesome loveliness, but 
 around her was a noisy swarm of younger fry. 
 Providence had prospered the family in no way 
 more than in the gift of offspring; between Ruth 
 
 131 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 and the babe at the mother's breast were eight 
 younglings of the house, in all stages of freckled, 
 tow-headed awkwardness. 
 
 Mrs. Milford — a worn, child-ridden relic of fair 
 womanhood — was walking the floor as David 
 entered, hushing the infant in her arms. Ruth 
 sat by a sunny, south window, a book of childish 
 tales open upon her knee, her soft voice weaving 
 a spell of enchantment around the souls of three 
 or four of the smaller folk grouped upon the 
 floor about her feet. In opposite corners of the 
 room, seated upon the floor, their sturdy backs 
 against the wall, were two 'cublike boys, glaring 
 at each other in an avid longing for conflict. 
 The father of the household — a big, red-shirted, 
 red-bearded, red -cheeked specimen of out -door 
 manhood — lay stretching his massive length upon 
 a couch, his hat over his eyes, his deep chest 
 heaving under the stress of his guttural snoring. 
 
 Ruth glanced up with a bright blush, letting 
 her book fall shut. A chorus of remonstrant 
 voices rose from those around her, and the half- 
 sleeping babe awoke, squirming for release from 
 the mother's arms, squealing a protest. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry," David said, helplessly. 
 
 "Never mind," Mrs. Milford returned, with a 
 feeble attempt at reassurance. "I'll take her out 
 to the kitchen and get her to sleep. These chil- 
 dren are making too much racket, anyway. I was 
 just startin' to do it when you come in. Don't 
 bother. Set down." 
 
 132 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 David drew a chair to Ruth's side, striving 
 against the rise of his embarrassment. 
 
 "Mother's had one of her dreadful sick-head- 
 aches to-day," Ruth said. "I haven't got my 
 dinner dishes washed yet. I've been keeping the 
 children quiet till she could put Annie to sleep, 
 and then I'm going to try to get some of them to 
 go to sleep, too. They won't often do it, though." 
 
 David glanced uneasily around upon the clam- 
 orous family. " Why, what's the matter with you, 
 Dick?" he asked; but Ruth answered for the boy. 
 
 " He and Ben have been fighting, and they're 
 being punished. They have to sit still in their 
 corners for an hour. It's the worst punishment 
 we can contrive on a nice day like this." 
 
 Dick drew the back of his mottled hand across 
 his snub nose with a liquid sniff. " Little beast!" 
 he challenged. " He stole the goodies I had pick- 
 ed out o' my walnuts at dinner." 
 
 "You're a liar!" Ben retorted, strenuously. 
 "You eat 'em yourself. I saw you hoggin' 'em 
 down on the sly after ma told you to quit. You 
 was cry in' with a belly-ache, anyway." 
 
 " Boys !" Ruth cautioned. " You mustn't speak 
 another word to each other — not another word! 
 It's perfectly disgraceful the way you carry on. 
 Now I want you to be still." 
 
 "Aw, you hush up!" said the rebellious Ben. 
 "You ain't my boss." 
 
 " Ben !" she cried, with a pretty authority. The 
 sleeping man stirred on his couch, threatening to 
 
 133 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 awake, and the youngster subsided into a sulky- 
 silence. From the kitchen came the shrill screams 
 of the baby and the weary voice of the mother. 
 The children at Ruth's feet were pulling at her 
 skirt, pleading that she would go on with the in- 
 terrupted reading, and refusing to be put off with 
 promises. It seemed to be a time when a lover 
 was a being quite superfluous, and David sat shift- 
 ing his feet uneasily, making courageous efforts at 
 speech, but realizing an ignominious failure. With 
 no conscious thought of his own, a grotesque fancy 
 came to him. In a day not long gone that inert, 
 fleshy heap on the couch had laid ardent love at 
 the feet of the pale, worn woman who now walked 
 the kitchen floor, quieting her fretful babe, her 
 aching head, no doubt, nursing some dull thoughts 
 of life and romance. 
 
 "Go on with your reading, Ruth," he begged. 
 "I'll just sit and look at you for a while." And 
 she complied willingly. 
 
 His hour was almost gone when Mrs. Milford 
 came in again, bearing the dead weight of the 
 child, heavy with sleep. She passed through into 
 an adjoining bedroom, then returned, brushing 
 her shaking hands over her disordered hair, pulling 
 at her calico gown, making a brave essay at a hos- 
 pitable smile. 
 
 " I declare, these young ones most tucker me 
 out sometimes," she said, with a listless pa- 
 tience. " Seems like the days I get these terrible 
 headaches is always the very time they pick on 
 
 134 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 for their worst cuttin' up. Now, Ruthie, you gi' 
 me the book. I'll amuse 'em, an' you go talk to 
 Dave awhile." 
 
 "No, no," the girl answered. "You must go 
 and lie down yourself. You must, because you 
 need it. There's not much to do. I'll get through 
 all right." 
 
 David looked at his watch and arose. "It's 
 time I was starting for my train, anyway," he 
 said, and picked up his hat. 
 
 Ruth walked with him through the shrub- 
 grown yard and down to the road. They stood 
 for a few moments with the gate between them. 
 She smiled into his devouring eyes, and he laid 
 his hands upon hers, that held to the tops of the 
 weather-worn gate-pickets. 
 
 "You're a good girl, Ruth," he said. "I wish 
 I could have talked to you a little while; but I'll 
 fix it next time. I sha'n't be so busy at home 
 when I come again." 
 
 There was a strident outcry at the house, a riot- 
 ous outbreak of boyish taunt and defiance, as Dick 
 and Ben found their release into the yard at the 
 end of their imprisonment. Quick feet scuffled 
 down the walk, and the freckled Dick appeared, 
 climbing like a squirrel to a place on the top of 
 one of the gate-posts, grinning down at David 
 with an impudent intrusion of friendliness. 
 
 "Say, Dave," he shrilled, "I was down to the 
 pick'rel-hole yiste'd'y, an' I got one, too. Golly, 
 but he was a whopper ! Only he got away, though. 
 
 135 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 He got my line all twisted around a darned old 
 stump. If it had been Ben, I bet he'd 've just set 
 down an' blubbered; don't you?" 
 
 " It's no use, Ruth," David said, with a helpless 
 laugh. "I'll have to wait. I must go now; but 
 I'll write to you. Good-bye, girl." He took her 
 hand between his own, striving to make the press- 
 ure mean what he would have said. " Good-bye, 
 Ruth." 
 
XIV 
 
 UPON reaching the office early Monday morn- 
 ing, David found the inner room strewn with 
 a tangle of newspapers, that lay over table, desk, 
 and chairs, and on the floor was a high mound of 
 the debris. Watson had passed his Sunday there, 
 that was plain, and a hasty scrutiny of the inky 
 head -lines revealed the reason. His candidacy 
 was blazoned forth with all the perfervid rhetoric 
 of provincial journalism — the purple - and - rose 
 color of favor, the soberer grays and browns of 
 neutrality, and the lurid reds and yellows of oppo- 
 sition. As always in such cases, there had been 
 a hasty overhauling of his "record," and the re- 
 porters' discoveries were spread unsparingly to 
 view. Nothing had been accounted too sacred 
 for exploitation. The motives of the Western 
 press are not lower than those of the East, per- 
 haps, but its methods are wofully uncouth, and 
 here was an exhibition of the worst that impu- 
 dence could accomplish in advertising itself. Wat- 
 son's life, both public and private, was chronicled 
 with a shameless particularity ; one sheet went so 
 far as to flaunt, under double-column "scare- 
 head," the story of his domestic misadventure, 
 
 i37 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 presenting it with a commingling of brutal direct- 
 ness and hardly less brutal innuendo. Condem- 
 nation was unsparing, and laudation was even 
 more revolting in its gross excess. There was in 
 the whole matter an effect as though Watson's 
 person and character had been smirched and foul- 
 ed with ink. As David read the color mounted 
 to his cheeks as with personal resentment. 
 
 While he was in the thick of it, Watson came in. 
 At sight of the boy's perturbed face his deep eyes 
 shone with amusement. 
 
 " We belong to the public now, my son," he said. 
 " There's no kick coming. A man who courts no- 
 toriety must make up his mind to take it when it 
 comes. I'm not pitying myself a little bit, so 
 don't you waste any feeling over it." 
 
 "It's coarse," said David. 
 
 " It's human nature — the very humanest kind. 
 I suppose the reason it doesn't affect me is be- 
 cause I'm human myself. I found that out long 
 ago." He stood by one of the windows fronting 
 Farnam Street, looking down upon the people who 
 were going to their day's business, moving like 
 columns of excited ants. His hands were clasped 
 loosely at his back ; his strong legs were spread far 
 apart ; his face was impassive, as though he stood 
 apart from personal concern in the matter. When 
 he spoke again it was with entire dispassionate- 
 ness. 
 
 " It's singular how a man can be reconciled to 
 conditions that he wouldn't have chosen for him- 
 
 138 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 self. We'd have a hard time of it if we couldn't 
 adapt ourselves to conditions. When I was young 
 I used to think I'd have a decent, orderly life. 
 The one thing I wanted above all else was quiet. 
 Yet fate has given me a turbulent career, from 
 first to last. That isn't very strange, of course; 
 but what amazes me is the way I've grown ac- 
 customed to it. I don't dream of rebelling any 
 more." 
 
 He turned away from the window and rolled to 
 his desk, dropping into his big chair. "It's all in 
 a lifetime. If things came just as we wanted, it 
 wouldn't lessen the mystery any; I reckon that 
 would only make it more inexplicable." He 
 laughed, forcing a half-hearted show of indiffer- 
 ence. " I give it up, boy. The mystery has thick- 
 ened from the beginning, year after year, until 
 I positively refuse to be mystified by anything 
 again. I'm just going to take things as they come, 
 after this. If there's a Providence in it, its work- 
 ings are beyond me. I might just as well quit 
 worrying and settle down to this Senate fight." 
 His laugh gained somewhat in genuineness. " I 
 wonder what Providence thinks about American 
 politics. I suppose the ways of the professional 
 politician are as much of a mystery to the Al- 
 mighty as His ways are to us. We'll get a lot of 
 fun out of it, anyway. You'll be interested in 
 the kind of men we'll have to deal with from now 
 till January." 
 
 That was quite true. They were an interesting 
 J 39 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 lot, those politicians. Upon the public declara- 
 tion of Watson's design, endorsed as it was by- 
 powerful local interests, they gathered from the 
 four corners, as prairie- wolves assemble in response 
 to the first shrill hunting-cry at night. 
 
 Day after day, from early morning until late at 
 night, the office swarmed with a noisy horde, dirty, 
 dishevelled, reeking with the evil odors that arise 
 from the decay of civic respectability. We hardly 
 seem to realize the grotesquery of it, but there is 
 hardly a campaign in America whose practical 
 conduct is not apparently left to the meanest 
 and lowest of the people. From the first, decent 
 citizenship had comparatively little to do with 
 furthering Watson's prospects; decent citizenship 
 came shyly in once in a while, spoke a quiet 
 word, and went quickly away, leaving the field 
 clear for the doings of the dirty, the dishevelled, 
 the malodorous. David wondered, and his won- 
 der deepened as the days passed; but Watson 
 could not or would not take it in serious part. 
 Only now and again he grew weary of it, and at 
 such times he spoke his thoughts freely to David's 
 private ear. 
 
 "The nation will wake up some day," he said 
 once. "The theory's lovely, but the practice is 
 damnable. We're hypnotized; the glitter of the 
 idea of freedom and equality, and all that sort 
 of rot, has put us in a trance, so that we don't 
 feel the fangs that are biting at our very vitals. 
 The regicide isn't any more of a menace to 
 
 140 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 society than the American professional politi- 
 cian." 
 
 David's apprehension did not go so far as that. 
 He had observed the mob as mere social curios- 
 ities rather than active agents of evil — as most of 
 us do, while preserving an easy sense of security, 
 as though feeling that our institutions, springing 
 somehow out of the divine idea of government, 
 must rest upon foundations that are proof against 
 disintegration. 
 
 "They seem harmless enough," David said. 
 "If I had charge of 'em, I'd keep 'em washed 
 and combed a little better; but I don't see where 
 they're dangerous." 
 
 " That's it !" Watson growled. " That's always 
 the cry. I tell you, rottenness is never harmless ; 
 there's death in it. No nation can live forever, 
 of course. Ours will come to an end some time, 
 like all the rest. When it happens, it won't be 
 the result of war or great catastrophe ; it '11 come 
 from this deadly curse of professional politics. 
 Just look at these louts that are hanging around 
 here now ! We shouldn't trust 'em to manage the 
 finances of a chewing-gum slot-machine ; yet we 
 sit by and let 'em engineer the primaries and the 
 conventions and the campaigns. They name our 
 officers, and they dictate our policies and our 
 laws, and it isn't once a year that folks like you 
 and me give a serious thought to it." 
 
 "Maybe once a year is enough," David sug- 
 gested, lightly. " Don't things get along pretty 
 
 141 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 well? Every day isn't a crisis, but when the 
 crisis comes it gets settled all right." 
 
 "Oh," Watson scoffed, "that's a shiftless way 
 to talk. That's what the sot says, and the mor- 
 phine-eater, till after a while the coroner gets him. 
 Half the work of the courts is a sort of coroner's 
 work — looking after the dead, and clearing up the 
 wreckage of our fool adventures in self-govern- 
 ment." 
 
 But that was, after all, only a tentative con- 
 cern. When David asked the plain question, 
 "What's to be done about it?" the concern van- 
 ished. 
 
 " Done about it ? Nothing. We'll just keep on 
 pawing up the earth and screeching about equality 
 till offended Heaven puts a stop to it. We aren't 
 equals in brains, or virtue, or capacity for service 
 or evil ; to pretend that we're equals at all is noth- 
 ing but a lazy expedient for saving trouble. No- 
 body believes it; everybody knows that he isn't 
 the equal of any other one man on earth, to 
 say nothing of the whole bunch. Oh, well," he 
 laughed, "I don't care. What's the difference? 
 If folks like to pretend that they can read the rid- 
 dle of creation with one eye shut, let 'em pretend. 
 I'm not going to worry over it. This pack of un- 
 washed canaille can help me to a seat in the Sen- 
 ate, and I'm going to let them do it." 
 
 There were days together when that mood — a 
 sort of intellectual abandon — ruled and moved 
 him ; days when his present personal purpose rose 
 
 142 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 singly above all else, dwarfing every item and 
 every factor that entered into it. On those days 
 he seemed heart and soul at one with the unlove- 
 ly horde that beset him — jovial, companionable, 
 suffering his hand to meet their soiled clasp, his 
 eyes to meet their furtive glances, with a more 
 than tacit confession of his need and dependence. 
 If he felt any sense of humiliation, it did not show 
 outwardly. He was like every other man who 
 resigns himself to any form of the idea of destiny ; 
 he was merely a chip floating down stream, and it 
 was not for him to object that the current was 
 muddy. Those were his worst hours — hours when 
 his own stubborn will, that would have struggled 
 still towards some remote ideal of integrity, was 
 laid aside, while his weary soul sported with the 
 elusive phantasms of "practical" politics, as a 
 child sports with flitting fireflies on a summer 
 night, laughing to see the darkness pricked by 
 little stabs of light, grasping at them eagerly, but 
 grasping only the darkness. Those were not 
 times of clear vision, of volition, of definite intent ; 
 rather were they times when the strength of his 
 hold upon himself was relaxed — times of dull re- 
 action after the long, grim tension of a resolute 
 life. They marked a distinct breaking-down of 
 moral tissue. He seemed himself half conscious 
 of this, while lacking the nerve to combat it. 
 David, observing him curiously day after day, 
 saw that beneath the jocund assumption, the 
 brusque hail-fellow air, the almost reckless friend- 
 
 143 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 liness with which he met the crowd, there lay an 
 ineffable scorn and contempt, a loathing of him- 
 self no less than of them. 
 
 And there were times when this repugnance 
 burst all barriers of restraint and revealed itself 
 to the full. 
 
 One morning in the third week, when the elec- 
 tion of legislators was past and the canvass was 
 settling into definite form, there was a conference 
 between Watson and two of his angels of destiny. 
 As it progressed, David, though deep in his book, 
 was made aware that it was not likely to end in 
 peace. Watson was developing some portentous 
 symptoms; he was beginning to choke with ex- 
 plosive mutterings, sounding from somewhere be- 
 low, like a soda-geyser making ready for eruption. 
 The eruption came at last in a burst that defied 
 doors and walls. 
 
 "Go — to — the — devil! Understand, once for 
 all, that you get no hush-money out of me, by 
 whatever name you call it. If you've got any- 
 thing to tell about me, tell it and be damned. I'm 
 not buying anybody's silence. I don't want si- 
 lence. If the people are going to send me to the 
 Senate, I want them to know the truth about me 
 first — the plain truth, and all the truth. Can't I 
 make you idiots understand that? Can't you get 
 it out of your heads that I'm running some sort of 
 a confidence game? There's enough in my past 
 that I wish wasn't there, God knows; but I'm not 
 going to hide it. The people have a right to know 
 
 144 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 who I am and what I've done. If anybody wants 
 to know the facts, let him come to me and I'll 
 give them to him, without any ' ifs ' or ' ands ' or 
 'buts.' Buy your silence! If I could buy fel- 
 lows like you to silence at five cents a dozen, I'd 
 keep my nickel. Hear?" 
 
 There was the murmur of a low-voiced response, 
 which Watson cut short. 
 
 "Bronson! Oh, Bronson! He's back of it, is 
 he? I thought so. I knew he'd show himself 
 sooner or later. I knew he couldn't keep up even 
 an outward show of decency for more than two 
 weeks at a time. That nasty little half-breed 
 comes of two races of traitors; what could any 
 one expect of him but treachery? If to keep 
 faith would serve his ends better, he'd still choose 
 the part of the betrayer; he couldn't help it. 
 There hasn't been any political scoundrelism 
 worth mentioning in Omaha for the last twenty 
 years but that he's been at the bottom of it. You 
 go and tell him I said so. Bronson! If I could 
 buy him and all his imps to silence at five cents a 
 million, it would be an extravagance. I wouldn't 
 have his silence at any price. I despise him. 
 Tell him I said that, too. I'll make no compro- 
 mise with him, if it would give me the place 
 for life. Now you get out of here, and stay 
 out." 
 
 He flung open the middle door. " Boughton," 
 he flashed, " go out there and sit in my chair for a 
 while, and let me have yours. Don't let anybody 
 10 145 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 bother me about anything till I get ready to come 
 out. I want to be let alone." 
 
 For a time David heard his laboring tread cross- 
 ing and recrossing the narrow limits of the inner 
 room, in a brave effort to walk down his temper. 
 Then followed two hours of unbroken silence be- 
 yond the closed door. Noon came — one o'clock; 
 still there was no sign from within. The office 
 gathered its accustomed multitude — a multitude 
 in numbers, but a wearisome unit in type and 
 motive. David held these folk at bay as best he 
 could, with the plea that Watson was engaged. 
 Most of them hung about, on that word, waiting, 
 and more came in to help them wait, until the 
 rooms were close with stale smells, thick with 
 smoke of cheap tobacco, buzzing with subdued 
 talk in corners between confederates in some cun- 
 ning plot. It was plain enough that one instinct 
 ruled the common mind — distrust. The breast 
 of practical politics yields none but that unwhole- 
 some milk to its sucklings. In other conditions of 
 life some of these faces would have been good 
 enough, with their firm features and a certain 
 latent capacity for expressing frank, human emo- 
 tions ; but sly craft and hungry watchfulness had 
 pencilled out the softer lines, making the faces 
 into stolid masks, expressive of nothing above the 
 mental level of the fox. 
 
 David tried at first to go on with his reading, 
 but that became impossible, and he gave it up and 
 laid his book aside as one of the loiterers — an ill— 
 
 146 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 clad young Irishman, whose old coat was buttoned 
 high to conceal his soiled shirt-front — perched 
 upon a corner of the desk, drumming with his 
 heavy, muddy heels on the polished mahogany. 
 The fellow had an instinct for friendliness, or for 
 an ostentatious counterfeit of it, and seemed to 
 think David worth cultivating. 
 
 " He's a great man, Watson is, ain't he? Have 
 you knowed him long?" 
 
 " Only a few weeks." 
 
 "I been knowin' him ten year — an' I don't 
 know him yet. Watson's deep, he is. You never 
 know how to take him. A man that don't drink — 
 how's anybody to know what he will do?" He 
 fetched a soiled tobacco - pouch from his pocket 
 and began fashioning a cigarette between his 
 pudgy fingers. When it was finished he scratched 
 a match on the desk-top and sucked his lungs full 
 of the pungent smoke, allowing it to escape slowly 
 from lips and nostrils while he talked. " D' ye 
 ever hear about the time he quit drinkin' ? 'Twas 
 the funniest thing I ever seen in my days." 
 
 " I didn't know he'd ever been a drinker," David 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, Lord! Used to drink like a sand-bank, 
 five or six year ago. Just after his wife run off 
 with Curran, there was a whole year when he set 
 the high mark for all the drinkers in Omaha. 
 French brandy — I've seen him drink a pint of it 
 without turnin' away from the bar. The funniest 
 thing was you never could see he was drunk, not a 
 
 147 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 little bit. You know there is them that don't 
 show it, even when they're full up to the neck. / 
 ain't that kind. Sure as I get three or four little 
 whiskeys in me somebody's got to ring for the 
 patrol, an' then I got to cough up to the police 
 clerk next mornin'. That makes drinkin' too 
 damned expensive for a poor man. I can't afford 
 it to get full more 'n oncet a month. An' there 
 was Watson, that could afford to pay the fines, he 
 could take his pint o' brandy on board an' you'd 
 never know it, except for his eyes. He'd walk 
 home steady an' straight as a funeral. I tell you, 
 it don't look like things was evened up very well 
 in this world, does it? An' then, just to think, he 
 was the one that quit! He didn't know a good 
 thing when he had it. It was sure funny, though. 
 There was a bunch of us down in Dougherty's 
 place one night, 'long about 'leven, an' he came in 
 an' stood up against the bar an' called for his 
 brandy. He drunk five or six of 'em, right in a 
 string ; an' then he took the bottle an' went over 
 an' set down to a table, right in front o' the big 
 plate lookin' -glass they had there, an' poured him 
 out another one an' drunk it, lookin' at himself in 
 the glass. After he'd got it down, he set there a 
 minute, with his elbows on the table, lookin' at 
 himself ; an' then he took up the bottle, holdin' it 
 up to his nose, smellin' it an' shakin' it, an' keepin' 
 on lookin' at himself in the glass, solemn as a 
 horse. You'd 've died, it was so comical ! After a 
 bit he just reached over an' ketched up a big brass 
 
 148 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 spittoon that was settin' on the floor, an' he hauled 
 off an' threw it right plumb through the lookin'- 
 glass, an' smashed it all to hell. He just turned 
 'round an' walked over to the bar, an' he says to 
 the bar-keep', 'You tell Dougherty to send the 
 bill for damages to me in the mornin'.' He 
 walked out, an' he ain't touched a drop o' nothin' 
 since. Just quit! Don't that kill you? Oh, I 
 tell you, he's a deep one!" 
 
 By the middle of the afternoon the less hardy 
 ones of the crowd abandoned their watch and 
 went listlessly away; but it was near the dinner 
 hour when the room was finally cleared. Still 
 there was only silence beyond Watson's door. 
 David had missed his lunch— a thing he was not 
 used to doing — and his stomach yearned. After 
 the last man had taken his way down the echoing 
 corridor, David went in for his coat and hat. 
 
 Watson sat by the window, lolling back in 
 his chair, his huge legs cocked upon the desk- 
 top, a much-read copy of Middlemarch lying open 
 in his lap. He looked up, quaking with quiet 
 laughter. 
 
 "Oh, I'm having a bully time!" he cried, his 
 voice ringing like a boy's. " I haven't enjoyed 
 myself so much in years. By ginger, I do like 
 George Eliot! She's so astonishingly prodigal 
 with her good things. Why, the very best things 
 in this story are tucked away in the obscurest 
 corners of out-of-the-way paragraphs, where you'd 
 never think of looking for them. I don't see how 
 
 149 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 she could afford to be so reckless. If I were a 
 writer, I'd do differently. I'd save up all the 
 witty things to begin chapters with, where they'd 
 make a show. But she doesn't seem to care 
 whether anybody sees them or not. She's a 
 regular spendthrift." 
 
 He slammed the book shut and threw it on 
 the desk, then stretched his arms over his head, 
 yawning. 
 
 "Another day gone, thank the Lord! What- 
 ever's in store for us is so much nearer. Come 
 on, let's get a little dinner somewhere, just by 
 ourselves, and then go to the theatre. What do 
 you say? There's a delicious bit of comedy on, 
 this week, over at Boyd's." 
 
XV 
 
 EVENING was settling as they went out. It 
 was not yet dusk, but there was a softening 
 of the robust afternoon light, an assembling of 
 shadows in the corners of the halls. The incan- 
 descent globes were glowing feebly. Many of the 
 tenants of the building were locking their doors 
 and starting homeward; the janitors were assert- 
 ing themselves, hurrying with their nightly work. 
 The elevators were crowded, and the crowd thick- 
 ened in the rotunda to a dense throng. 
 
 There was excitement of some sort afoot. The 
 broad stone steps leading down to the street 
 were packed with men squeezed together, those 
 on the outside stretching on tiptoe, craning their 
 necks trying to catch a glimpse of what was go- 
 ing on in the entry, where voices were rising in 
 a swirl of passionate altercation. 
 
 "What's the matter here?" Watson demanded, 
 elbowing the lesser folk aside and pushing his way 
 towards the centre of difficulty. Recognizing 
 him, the crowd opened a way for him. A voice 
 sang out above the clamor, "Here's Watson 
 now!" and the cry was taken up by other voices. 
 Then the crowd closed together in a breathless jam. 
 
 151 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " Yes, here I am !" Watson challenged. " What's 
 up? If it's anything of mine, give me a hand 
 in it." 
 
 The man Bronson stood at the side of one of 
 the steps, his back planted against a pillar, his 
 arms swinging above his head, his voice lifted 
 in a fury of declamation. His face was livid with 
 anger, the muscles distorted, gnarled; his hat 
 was gone; his hair was tangled and blown about 
 his forehead. Before him, facing him, the object 
 of his violent wrath, stood a decrepit old man, 
 leaning heavily upon a stout cane. His figure 
 was patriarchal, venerable; it suggested that al- 
 most angelic dignity which descends upon very 
 old men towards the last. But his face was in 
 odd contrast to that suggestion; his w r rinkled 
 cheeks were flushing with sardonic satisfaction in 
 having provoked Bronson's theatrical outburst; 
 his rheumy old eyes were flashing. He was en- 
 joying himself thoroughly, tasting again the al- 
 most forgotten savor of conflict. 
 
 " What's all this about ?" Watson repeated. He 
 laid his hand, not unkindly, upon the old man's 
 shoulder. "What are you doing, Martin? This 
 is no business for you." 
 
 The ancient straightened his bent form slight- 
 ly, laughing in a weak, plaintive falsetto. "You 
 let me alone. I'm just-amusin' the boys a little, 
 pokin' up the pup to hear him yelp. If you want 
 some fun, you stand there an' listen a minute. 
 He's just peelin' the wrapper off a fresh bundle o' 
 
 152 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 dif rent colored cuss-words. He's talkin' about 
 you, too. It ought to be mighty interestin' for 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, come away!" Watson growled. "A man 
 of your sense has no business messing with such 
 offal; the smell will stick to you for days." 
 
 Bronson sprang suddenly forward, shaking his 
 closed fist in Watson's face, lifting his voice in an 
 inarticulate scream. He was quite beside himself. 
 
 " Wow-wow!" the old man cried, in shrill taunt. 
 "Just listen! Anybody 'd think to hear him that 
 the little mongrel was 'most ready to bite." He 
 turned, grinning, towards the nearer members of 
 the crowd, who had drawn back a little in alarm. 
 " Don't get scairt, boys ; I won't let him hurt you." 
 He faced Watson, licking his tongue over his 
 shrivelled lips. "Somebody's been tellin' him 
 somethin' you said about him to-day, an' seems 
 like it's kind o' disagreed with him. I just been 
 tellin' him what I think about him, too, an' he 
 don't seem to like that no better. He's awful 
 hard to please, ain't he? I said as many dif 'rent 
 things as I could think of, too, so's to give him 
 a chance to take his pick." 
 
 "Oh, somebody take this doddering old grand- 
 mother away!" Bronson cried. "This is business 
 for men." 
 
 " Men !" the old fellow echoed, in his thin treble. 
 "Who's called you a man? You'd have a thun- 
 derin' hard time provin' it. All you've got to 
 show for your manhood is the poor girls you've 
 
 153 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ruined, an' the bastard children you've got hid 
 away in asylums. Don't you talk to me about 
 men /" 
 
 In a frenzy Bronson raised his arm and struck 
 the old man heavily in the face. He swung half 
 around under the blow, trying to steady himself 
 upon his cane, clutching at the air. His foot 
 slipped on the stone, and before any could prevent 
 he fell backward at full length, his head striking 
 with violence against the edge of a step. 
 
 For a moment no one moved. The fallen man 
 lay without stirring, save for a convulsive dra wing- 
 up of the legs. His face was upturned, colorless. 
 A small pool of blood formed beneath his head, 
 staining his silvery hair and trickling slowly over 
 the edge of the step to the one below. 
 
 Watson was the first to recover. His big hand 
 caught Bronson's collar, forcing him back against 
 the wall. 
 
 "You infamous coward!" he roared. Bron- 
 son's hand went to his hip, but Watson's mighty 
 grasp tightened like steel on his wrist, and the 
 bone snapped. 
 
 "Call an officer!" Watson shouted. "Get a 
 doctor here, somebody. Lift Martin up, can't 
 you? What are you gaping at, you dolts?" 
 
 David knelt on the steps, raising the old head 
 to his knee. 
 
 " Let me through!" a voice demanded, sharply, 
 and a man knelt beside the body, examining it 
 with deft, professional manner. 
 
 154 
 
HIS BIG HAND CAUGHT BROXSOX S COLLAR 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Dead," he said, simply. "You'd better get 
 an ambulance. The police surgeon ought to see 
 him, too, to prevent question. He's dead, though 
 — killed instantly." 
 
 Terror seized upon Bronson, making him oblivi- 
 ous to the pain in his broken wrist. " Good God, 
 no!" he chattered. " He can't be dead! Get an- 
 other doctor, quick, for God's sake! Let go of 
 me, Watson. Let me see him. Of course he's 
 not dead. Men don't die as easy as that." 
 
 "This one did," the physician said, curtly. 
 " He's dead enough. There was concussion at the 
 base of the brain, with instant paralysis." 
 
 A police officer and a deputy from the sheriff's 
 office ran in together from the street and relieved 
 Watson of his shivering charge, hurrying him 
 away, some of the spectators trailing along behind, 
 aimlessly expectant. The police patrol came up 
 at a gallop, and the alert young surgeon gave the 
 body a swift inspection. There seemed to be a 
 concert of intention to have the incident over with 
 as soon as possible. 
 
 " He's dead, all right," the surgeon said. "The 
 coroner's the man you want now. You'd better 
 take him down in our ambulance, and not wait for 
 them to come after him." 
 
 The body was lifted into the black wagon, and 
 Watson climbed in beside it. 
 
 " Come on, Bough ton," he urged. " I must look 
 after him, and I'll need your help." On the way 
 down street he bent over the dead figure, straight- 
 
 155 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ening the poor old legs and arms with an ineffect- 
 ual tenderness. 
 
 " Oh, it's tough," he lamented, gloomily. " Poor 
 old soul! A better fellow never lived on earth. 
 And to die in that way, under the hand of that un- 
 speakable scoundrel ! He thought he was serving 
 me, too." He looked across at David with eyes 
 full of dismay. " I feel as though it's on my head. 
 I knew when I went into it that there was some 
 hideous thing lying in wait for me behind it all." 
 
 They left the body with the coroner, Watson 
 giving directions for its care. Then they came 
 out to the street again, and Watson laid his hand 
 heavily upon David's arm. 
 
 "We'll have to go and see his wife," he said, 
 in growing anguish of mind. "There were just 
 those two, grown old together. By God, it's cruel ! 
 It '11 kill her, too, most likely. They depended on 
 each other like children. I'd give all I've got if 
 I didn't have to go ; but she'd better hear it from 
 some one of sense. I hope no bungler has got 
 there ahead of us. You'll have to stand by me, 
 Boughton, and see me through. I can't do it 
 alone." 
 
 It was quite dark. They went to a remote cor- 
 ner of the city — a quiet cross street where small 
 cottages stood in close rows. Evidently the neigh- 
 borhood was known to Watson ; he went directly 
 to one of the houses, passed around by the nar- 
 row, creaking plank-walk to the kitchen, and rap- 
 ped at the door. A little dog within started a 
 
 156 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 furious yap-yapping in the thin, rasping voice of 
 canine senility. A woman spoke in reproof, then 
 came slowly forward and opened the door. 
 
 She was a shadowy, little, old creature, with just 
 enough of substance left upon her bones to hold 
 a flickering spark of vitality. Her dress, though 
 scanty to the lowest point of plainness, hung loose- 
 ly from her lean shoulders ; her eyes, behind big, 
 steel-framed spectacles, shone but feebly. 
 
 "Who is it?" she asked. 
 
 "You'd never guess," Watson answered, with a 
 deep-toned laugh — a brave assumption of cheer. 
 The woman started in pleased surprise. 
 
 "Why, Paul!" she cried, holding her weazened, 
 tremulous hands towards him. "Why, what in 
 the world brings you here?" She took his big 
 hand between her own, drawing him inside, cling- 
 ing to him still, patting his arm, leaning upon him 
 with what seemed an excess of feeling. "It's aw- 
 ful good of you to come; but you oughtn't to 
 put yourself out to do it, when I know how terrible 
 busy you've been. Oncet a month is as often as 
 we ought to expect you to come away out here, 
 just to see a couple o' old folks like we be." She 
 caught sight of David then, and regarded him 
 with a pathetic, half -blind stare. "Oh, you've 
 brought some one with you." 
 
 "Yes. This is Mr. Boughton, Mrs. Akin. He's 
 a friend of mine — a pretty good sort of a boy. 
 You'll have to make a place in your heart for him, 
 too, as you've done with me." 
 
 157 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 She gave David a nervous, embarrassed hand- 
 clasp. "I guess I can, if you say so, Paul," she 
 said, with a quavering laugh. "Anybody you 
 like 's got a place in my heart a'ready, though, 
 without no askin'. Set down, won't you, by the 
 stove, an' get you warmed up. These nights is 
 gettin' pretty chilly after dark; though I 'ain't 
 hardly ever seen such a fine fall as this has been, 
 not since we first come acrost the Missouri. That's 
 forty-three year ago yeste'd'y. Yes, sir. Me an' 
 Martin was settin' at the supper-table last night, 
 an' it came to me all of a sudden what day it was. 
 I couldn't hardly believe it, how long it had been, 
 when I come to think back over it. Martin said 
 it seemed twicet as long to him, but it don't to 
 me. I believe the older I get the shorter it seems. 
 I went an' opened up a can o' them peaches you 
 sent me, to kind o' celebrate; an' after supper 
 Mart he set here an' smoked one o' your cigars, an' 
 we didn't go to bed till after ten o'clock, talkin' 
 about old times. He hadn't ought to smoked it, 
 though, that near bedtime, because he didn't 
 sleep none to speak of till pretty near mornin' ; an' 
 he kep' me awake, too, with his thrashin' 'round. 
 But I guess mebbe 't wa'n't all the cigar that done 
 it. It's got so, lately, he gets all stirred up every 
 time he starts to talkin' about the days he was 
 young. I tell him I b'lieve he's gettin' foolish 
 over it." 
 
 She had placed a couple of chairs for them, and, 
 while she went on with her cheery, inconsequent 
 
 158 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 recital, had turned her attention to the little cook- 
 stove, whose top held a bubbling teakettle and 
 stewpan. Her age sat lightly upon her spirit, 
 though it had worked havoc with her body. She 
 was happily contented. 
 
XVI 
 
 THE kitchen of the Akin home was narrow 
 and low, and altogether tiny, though there 
 was plenty of space for the few simple furnishings. 
 A cheap pine cupboard stood in one corner ; a pine 
 table, covered with a square of red oil-cloth, was 
 over against the wall, set ready for supper, a 
 small, flat-wicked oil-lamp gleaming faintly upon 
 the slight array of coarse crockery. The floor was 
 bare save that back of the stove a braided rug 
 was spread for the comfort of the dog — an ugly 
 pug, bloated with years. That was all, excepting 
 those bravely conventional attempts at decoration 
 which poverty is wont to indulge when it sets 
 about making a home for itself — a canary chirp- 
 ing sleepily in its diminutive prison, two or three 
 stunted geraniums in tin cans on the window- 
 shelf, and a various collection of colored pictures, 
 cut from the literature of the grocer and the 
 butcher, fastened up with pins here and there 
 about the cracked plastering. 
 
 "I'll just make an extry cup o' tea," the woman 
 said, briskly. "You'll stay an' help me an' Mart 
 drink it, won't you? Mart hasn't come home 
 yet to-night, but he ought to be here by the time 
 
 160 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 I get things ready. I can't think what's keepin' 
 him. If there's one thing he's usu'ly particular 
 about, it's gettin' home in time for supper. You 
 just take your coats off an' let me lay 'em in on 
 the bed, an' then wait a bit. I s'pose mebbe you 
 wanted to see Mart, anyway, didn't you?" 
 
 Watson got to his feet with a mighty sigh, 
 walking around the little stove and standing by 
 her side, laying his arm over her drooping shoul- 
 ders. "No, Mrs. Akin, we didn't come to see 
 Mart. We came to see you alone, this time." 
 He faltered, looking down at her with infinite 
 compassion. "You've always had the courage 
 of a dozen men in facing things. You must keep 
 it now. We don't bring you very good news, 
 dear old heart." 
 
 " Oh !" she breathed. She drew back from him 
 a little, putting up her shaking hands to set her 
 spectacles straight upon her nose, then looking 
 earnestly into his face. "It's something about 
 Mart, ain't it? Something's happened to him. 
 Tell me. Is he sick, or hurt?" 
 
 "He was hurt," Watson answered, with heavy 
 reluctance. "Yes, he was very badly hurt. But 
 it's all over now, and all right. I know you'll say 
 so. I know what your faith is." He stretched 
 out his arms and took her in their clasp, holding 
 her gray old head against his burly breast. Tears 
 sprang to David's sympathetic eyes, but Watson's 
 feeling was deeper; his eyes were dry, his voice 
 without a tremor. " He didn't know a moment's 
 ii 161 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 suffering. If your love could have chosen the 
 way, you couldn't have given him less pain than 
 he felt. It was all over in a moment." 
 
 It sounded almost brutally blunt and hard. 
 At the best, no matter what their tact or grace 
 or tenderness of tongue or intention, messengers 
 who bear such tidings have no easy task. News 
 of death is not to be much softened by the lit- 
 tle subtleties of the intellect. The plain, simple 
 word is as good as any delicate contrivance. 
 
 She lay quite still for a moment in his arms, 
 her face hidden ; then she released herself gently. 
 They might have spared themselves the dread 
 of racking demonstration; there was no outcry, 
 no spectacular grief. She lifted her hands and 
 smoothed some straggling ends of hair back from 
 her forehead. Upon a careful, subconscious im- 
 pulse of housewifery, she moved the steaming 
 stewpan to the back of the stove and closed a 
 damper, then stood with hands held together 
 before her, puckering the hem of her apron be- 
 tween her knotted fingers, regarding the plaits 
 intently. She did not appear stunned. Her 
 busy, homely cares of a few minutes ago had 
 come suddenly to a dead stop ; that was all. She 
 was looking at the fact with clear vision. A long, 
 long sigh was her only show of emotion. 
 
 "Where is he?" she asked, presently, in un- 
 daunted quiet. "Were you with him, Paul?" 
 
 "Yes. We were both there, and we've done 
 everything needful. There isn't anything any- 
 
 162 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 body can do now, except to care for you. You 
 must let me do that, while we both live. I can't 
 take his place, of course, but you must let me do 
 what I can. You mustn't be anxious. I'll take 
 care of you. I'll — " He turned away before 
 the look she gave him and crossed to the win- 
 dow, staring out into the night, his big body shak- 
 ing. "God!" he cried. "I can't see why things 
 happen so!" 
 
 "Paul! Paul!" she said. "You mustn't talk 
 that way." She was at his side, clutching his 
 arm, holding fast to him. "Listen to me a 
 minute. I'm not grievin'. God knows best, 
 Paul. I've been wonderin' an' wonderin', ever 
 since he had his last spell, if it wasn't 'most time 
 for him to go. His work was all done in this 
 world years ago, an' he was just kind o' waitin' 
 to hear the word, same as I be. He was all 
 ready, any time. When a body's old, like us, an' 
 can't do no more, why, death's God's mercy to 
 'em. It's meant that way; don't you see? I 
 don't say I won't miss him ; I been so used to his 
 ways, an' gettin' his meals for him, an' helpin' 
 him on with his shoes in the mornin' — Oh, I will 
 miss him dreadful; I will, I will!" She bent her 
 head against his shoulder in a spasm of acute 
 suffering ; but in a moment her patient eyes were 
 raised again to his. "Can't you see it's best? 
 We wouldn't never 've wished him dead, not if 
 he'd lived a hundred years yet; but now it's 
 happened, I'm not goin' to think o' nothin' except 
 
 163 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 what a blessin' it is to him to be red of his neuralgy 
 an' his crippled leg an' all like that. I ain't sorry 
 for him; it's only myself I'm sorry for, an' I 'ain't 
 got no business to be that. It ain't a shock, like 
 it would 've been when we was young. I been 
 expectin' it. There 'ain't been a night this last 
 year but I've gone to sleep wonderin' if we'd both 
 wake up in the mornin', an' kind o' surprised 
 when we did. It's all right, Paul. It's a blessin' 
 he was the one to go first, because he couldn't 
 have got along nohow alone, like I can. It won't 
 be very long. I'll go, too, one o' these days 
 pretty soon, an' then we'll both be together again." 
 
 "God bless you!" Watson cried. "I sha'n't 
 make a fool of myself trying to comfort a faith 
 like yours. You don't need comfort. But you've 
 got to let me look after you — like a son. I'll be 
 a son to you." 
 
 "You've been better to us than our own son 
 ever was," she answered, simply. "I'm not 
 goin' to be proud with you, an' say no. I won't 
 need much; but I'm goin' to let you give it to 
 me, just like you been doin', as long as you feel 
 like it." 
 
 The news had reached the neighborhood at last, 
 and some women came in from the cottages near 
 by, full of beautiful human kindness and sym- 
 pathy. Some, true to the one sure impulse of the 
 lowly in such hours — the impulse to give — brought 
 modest offerings of delicacies from their own stores 
 at home. The kitchen filled with those good, 
 
 164 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 hearty, homely souls; they overwhelmed the old 
 widow with the numberless, nameless little offices 
 which only the women of that rank know; they 
 wept over her; they stood around, talking to- 
 gether in garrulous over-cheerfulness, as if that 
 would exorcise sorrow. 
 
 Mrs. Akin seemed in small need of ministration. 
 She sat in her rocking-chair beside the stove, her 
 hands folded in her lap, hearing and seeing what 
 was going on, but heeding only her own deep, 
 tranquil thoughts. Her wrinkled old face was 
 transfigured, glorified by its perfect peace. 
 
 Watson spoke quietly to David. " We'd better 
 go. We don't belong here now. She'll be taken 
 care of better than we could do it. Let's get out. 
 I'll come up again in the morning." 
 
 They slipped away and returned towards the 
 heart of the city. 
 
XVII 
 
 ALTHOUGH it was eleven o'clock, the down- 
 l town streets were full of men. Watson and 
 David left the electric-car at Sixteenth and Far- 
 nam. There was a crowd at the corner, moving 
 westward, and people were hurrying in from all 
 the side streets. They were orderly enough. There 
 was no boisterous confusion ; only the steady, shuf- 
 fling drift of feet up the hill. There was no ex- 
 cited outcry; only a strong, bass hum of many 
 voices. 
 
 Watson stopped at the curb, looking quickly 
 around. " Heavens and earth !" he said, in a deep 
 undertone. " Here's a mess!" 
 
 "What's the matter?" David asked. 
 
 "Look!" Watson returned. He pointed west- 
 ward. A block away, at the intersection of Sev- 
 enteenth Street, the flowing crowd had met an 
 obstruction. The arc-lamps, swinging overhead, 
 revealed many thousands of men closely jammed, 
 congested in the wide street, packing the space 
 between the court-house wall and the opposite 
 buildings. At that distance the eye could see 
 nothing individual ; there was only a broad, swell- 
 ing surge of the mass, now backward, now forward, 
 
 166 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 under constantly changing impulse or direction. 
 The ear could catch only one dominant note — the 
 heavy roar of one voice, sullen, ominous — the roar 
 of a tumbling surf of passion. The court-house 
 yard, with its steep, sodded terraces, was cleared; 
 but at intervals on the long flights of steps groups 
 of police officers were stationed, the metal stars on 
 their breasts glinting. 
 
 "What is it?" David persisted. His inexperi- 
 ence left him far short of realizing what was afoot ; 
 but he felt an indescribable thrill, that was half 
 terror and half exultation. 
 
 "Don't you know?" Watson cried. "They're 
 after him!" 
 
 "You mean — " 
 
 " I mean Bronson, God damn him!" 
 
 The common impulse had taken hold upon 
 them ; unthinkingly they had fallen into step with 
 the rest, and were pushing their way excitedly 
 towards the point above, where the heart of the 
 movement was throbbing, sending abroad hot, 
 pulsing waves of feeling. The sidewalks were too 
 narrow; the throng had spread out to the pave- 
 ment, choking it from centre to curb. The car- 
 line was blockaded ; a half-dozen cars stood in line 
 below Seventeenth Street, and in the lower block 
 was another string. 
 
 Watson seemed possessed; his great body was 
 alive to its outmost fibre. "Keep close to me!" 
 he called to David, and with savage strength he 
 crowded and fought his way onward, crushing op- 
 
 T67 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 position. Once thoroughly aroused, he was not to 
 be held back. In the thickest of the mob, where 
 the efforts of other men were impotent, he threw 
 his ponderous weight against the mass, breaking 
 it apart and going through. David had all he 
 could do to keep up. Now he was borne almost 
 to his knees, then lifted fairly from his feet; but 
 his own muscular strength was great, and at last 
 he stood, breathless and shaking, by Watson's 
 side, leaning against the stone wall below the 
 court-house. 
 
 A police captain with a squad of men blocked 
 the foot of the stairway near by. Those below 
 were swinging their clubs threateningly against 
 the front rank of the crowd, as it was unwillingly 
 borne forward by the ungovernable pressure from 
 the rear; those above stood ready for emergency, 
 armed with heavy revolvers. 
 
 When he had recovered his breath, Watson went 
 closer. "Let us through, Mike," he called to the 
 captain. The officer recognized him and spoke a 
 quiet word to his men ; way was made for them to 
 pass, the squad closing again after them. 
 
 Watson spoke to one of the rear rank. "Has 
 anything happened yet?" 
 
 "No," the man answered, "nor I don't believe 
 it will. There's nobody at the head. They ain't 
 goin' to do nothin' this way. They'll get tired an' 
 cold pretty soon, an' go home. There 'ain't been 
 a sign o' trouble." 
 
 " What has the sheriff done?" 
 168 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " Oh, he's back in the jail with his own men, an' 
 he's got a few extra deputies pressed in. Every- 
 thing's been quiet around there. We've kept the 
 yard clear. We'll get the crowd to movin' after 
 a while. The chief's sent out for the day -men to 
 come down an' help. After we once get 'em mov- 
 in', it '11 be all over in an hour or two. You can 
 see by lookin' at 'em they ain't out for blood." 
 
 In truth, there was little of blood-thirsty feroc- 
 ity appearing on those upturned faces. Stand- 
 ing apart and looking at them from above, they 
 seemed dull rather than savage ; they were merely 
 gaping with curiosity. The only token they gave 
 of great portent was that deep-throated snarl — a 
 note that rang from an elemental chord in the soul 
 of the multitude. Personal identity was engulfed 
 in the breadth of sound. No single voice had that 
 ring; yet it swelled, resonant, terrible, above the 
 mingled cries of the many, as the voice of the 
 demon that moved them. None can understand 
 who has not heard. As David listened to it, it 
 beat upon his ears with a sickening significance. 
 It was as lawless, as far beyond methodical con- 
 trol, as the roll of thunder on some wild night of 
 prairie storm. The terror was not in the sound 
 itself, but in the nameless feeling it bred in the 
 heart of him who heard. Thousands of men do 
 not meet in perfect sympathy on a common plane, 
 unless it be a plane very low in the scale of emo- 
 tion. These thousands were as one. There was 
 the threat, the danger. What if they should 
 
 169 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 make up their minds to kill? The spirit of law 
 and order, represented in those little knots of blue- 
 coats, appeared so paltry, so wholly ineffective, 
 against the potential strength of that vast horde. 
 
 Watson led the way to the pillared porch above, 
 where a dozen men, leaders like himself in the pub- 
 lic life of the city, were assembled, waiting, talk- 
 ing quietly together. They met him as though 
 his coming was welcome — as though they got com- 
 fort and support from his sturdy, masterful pres- 
 ence. They were men strongly set apart from the 
 mob below ; they were of that class, always small 
 in numbers but great in power, which gives dig- 
 nity and poise and safety to the life of a commu- 
 nity ; men in whom the old, old idea of integrity 
 rises always and forever superior to that inextri- 
 cable tangle of twisted and broken threads of mo- 
 tive that actuates the people. They were all past 
 middle life, past the danger of easy disturbance of 
 mind and soul. Outwardly they appeared almost 
 unmoved by the dramatic fervor of the spectacle 
 being enacted under their eyes ; more than once a 
 low laugh went around, in sympathy with a whim- 
 sical or witty word from one or another of their 
 number ; but under it all lay a deep, far-reaching 
 sense of human obligation — obligation alike for 
 the turbulent thousands and for the one poor 
 wretch who cowered in his cell at the back of the 
 yard, listening to the merciless, hungry clamor 
 that was making the air vibrant. 
 
 " Well, Watson," one of these men said, in greet- 
 170 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ing, " you've managed to put quite a little show on 
 the boards to-night. I believe they say you're 
 the stage-manager." 
 
 " It's most deadly true, God forgive me!" Wat- 
 son answered, with an earnestness that put an 
 instant check upon the other's jest. He seated 
 himself wearily upon the topmost step, his elbows 
 on his knees, his chin supported in his hands, his 
 gloomy eyes wandering slowly over the face of the 
 billowing human sea. 
 
 "I wonder why the Almighty doesn't give us 
 a little foresight," he said. "Just a little — just 
 enough to let us avert these awful and useless 
 catastrophes. It would have taken so little fore- 
 knowledge to prevent this murder to-night. When 
 a thing's past, like this, we get a sense of respon- 
 sibility that's fairly benumbing; but what good 
 does that do?" 
 
 Before any tried to answer there was a diversion 
 in the street. Something had happened, unseen 
 from above, exciting the crowd to laughter. The 
 laugh went flickering over the surface of that 
 ominous, persistent hum like the shimmer of 
 moonlight over the ruffled bosom of dark waters ; 
 there was an effect in it like a cold shiver. One 
 of the onlookers spoke. 
 
 "There's no getting at the heart of a mob like 
 that. There's absolutely no telling what it will 
 do or won't do under a mighty little provocation. 
 They're ready to laugh or kill, just according to 
 how the notion strikes them; and they don't 
 
 171 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 much care which comes first. Individually, they're 
 sane enough; but get a few hundred of them to- 
 gether in a crowd and start some sort of a wild 
 cry, and they'll go clean back at one jump to 
 naked savagery. You'd think the human race 
 would have outgrown that sort of folly by this 
 time." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw!" Watson blurted. "Men don't 
 change. Conditions change, and dam up the 
 currents of behavior once in a while; but men 
 are at heart just the same now as they were in the 
 beginning. What makes the book of Genesis so 
 fascinating to us? It's because we know exact- 
 ly how those old roosters felt, in every particular 
 of their lives. We haven't changed a bit. Eat- 
 ing and drinking and breeding and loving and 
 hating are just exactly the same now as then. 
 We've built up a glittering system of ethics, and 
 we've tabulated our morals, and all that sort of 
 thing; but strip away the rubbish and you'll 
 find the old, primal man. I've known the time 
 myself when I was almost ready to go out on the 
 prairie and smear paint on my face and eat raw 
 liver." 
 
 An old man who lounged lightly against the 
 porch-rail spoke mildly. "A little excessive, my 
 friend. We're not altogether wise; but we're 
 growing wiser." 
 
 "I don't believe it," Watson retorted, stoutly. 
 "We're moving faster than they did two thou- 
 sand years ago — we've quickened the pace of our 
 
 172 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 folly, that's all. We do the same old, mad things 
 in half the time, and brag about the advance of 
 civilization. I tell you, those fellows down there 
 aren't a whit less plastic under the hands of a 
 born manipulator of men than the children of 
 Israel were. A born leader can take a mob at 
 any time and do what he likes with it. It doesn't 
 matter whether he's a sage or a charlatan, so long 
 as he knows how to play on the few simple strings 
 that make human nature. If he can do that, he 
 can make them follow like sheep in the direction 
 of his own ruling passion." 
 
 The crowd had suddenly quickened into new 
 movement. A commotion had started at the 
 western side of the square, around the corner, 
 out of sight from the porch, and the populace 
 was drifting strongly in that direction. There 
 was a new sound in its cry; the deep bass growl 
 was broken into a strident, high-pitched yell, 
 filling the street with shrill echoes. 
 
 "Something's doing!" one of the spectators 
 called out. "They've started a fight, likely, or 
 else they've run against the police." 
 
 It was more than that. From the alley open- 
 ing into Eighteenth Street, opposite the jail, a 
 score of men had burst, running in a compact 
 wedge, forcing a way for themselves. They wore 
 cloth masks over their faces, and were heavily 
 armed with sledges and crow-bars; and support- 
 ed on a half-dozen shoulders were two lengths 
 of railroad iron. They were few in number, but 
 
 173 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 they were more potent than the gaping thousands, 
 for they had a purpose. They made no noise, but 
 their grim silence was a greater menace than all 
 the inarticulate babel that swelled around them. 
 
 The attack was well timed. The steep drive- 
 way that led up to the jail was defended at its 
 mouth by a detachment of police, armed like 
 the rest, ancl formidable in fighting strength; 
 but through several hours they had been oc- 
 cupied with nothing graver than the fretting 
 work of holding in check a good-natured rabble. 
 They had given up the idea of serious trouble, 
 and had relaxed their earlier vigilance. The 
 sudden, determined rush of this score of men 
 came with the shock of complete surprise. The 
 crowd opened its ranks before the energetic 
 charge and let them come into sharp contact with 
 the police. The weary sergeant in command hes- 
 itated for a fateful instant; before he recovered 
 his wits the maskers had thrown themselves 
 heavily against the line of defence, crumpling it, 
 sweeping it aside. The eager host closed after 
 them, following in their steps, delirious now with 
 excitement. Within a dozen seconds the leaders 
 were at the jail doors, and the spaces around were 
 choked full of shrieking rioters. The guards at 
 the other entrances left their posts, running up 
 to lend aid, and the crowds on all sides of the 
 square, now quite unrestrained, poured in by ev- 
 ery avenue. Over their outcry sounded the first 
 strong blows of the sledges against the outer doors 
 
 174 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 of the jail, swung by powerful arms. The police 
 could do nothing; they were tossed about like 
 drift in a swirling eddy, hatless, struggling, spent, 
 impotent. They became no more effectual for 
 order than so many women; they were merely 
 units in the multitude, and must await its will. 
 
 Watson dragged David to a place on the rear 
 steps of the court-house, whence a view could be 
 had of what was going on. A gigantic fellow, 
 stripped of his coat, his grimy arms bared to the 
 elbows, his shoulders knotted with thick welts of 
 muscle, stood foremost in the group of masked 
 leaders, swinging a hammer with mighty strength. 
 The door had not been built to resist such assault 
 from without; already the blows were showing 
 effect. The man knew where to strike, and iron 
 and wood alike were splintering and giving way. 
 It was only a matter of a few minutes of such 
 work until the outer door would be passed. 
 
 "They'll get him, sure!" Watson shouted above 
 the turmoil. "There'll be one more devil in hell 
 before morning, thank God!" He was intoxicat- 
 ed by passion ; the veins on his sweating forehead 
 were swollen with blood, standing out in purple 
 cords; his eyes glittered; his lips were convulsed 
 by a savage laugh. 
 
 A window opened in the upper story of the 
 jail, and a bearded man leaned out, calling to 
 those below with emphatic gestures, shaking a 
 big revolver in his hand. His words were un- 
 heeded, unheard. The crowd broke into a cheer, 
 
 175 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 and another man joined the giant who swung the 
 sledge, adding the din of a second hammer. 
 
 "That's the sheriff!" Watson cried. "He's 
 got his men inside. They'll have him to deal 
 with before they get to the cells, and it won't be 
 child's play. He'll fight as long as there's any 
 fight left in him. He'll shoot to kill, too. They've 
 got a man to reckon with there." 
 
 A wilder cheer went up. One of the heavy 
 hinges had broken at last, and the door was 
 tilting outward at the top. The sheriff ceased 
 his efforts and retired within, closing the win- 
 dow. 
 
 Watson pulled at David's sleeve. "Come on," 
 he said. " We'll go home now. I don't want to 
 see the rest; do you?" 
 
 David had been for an hour like a man held by 
 the horror of nightmare, his mind asleep, except 
 for the power to see and hear. Understanding 
 had been dulled by an abnormal fixedness of at- 
 tention on the rushing procession of facts. He 
 had hardly spoken; he had merely looked and 
 listened. But now he felt the blood rush into 
 his brain, and his mind started broad awake in a 
 flash. 
 
 " Watson !" he cried. " In Heaven's name, what 
 are you going to do?" 
 
 "Nothing!" Watson answered, roughly. 
 "There's nothing for us to do. It isn't our 
 funeral." He laughed aloud in barbaric relish. 
 " This is one of the functions of the great Amer- 
 
 176 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ican people, Boughton. They're administering 
 government. I'm going home to bed, and you'd 
 better come, too. They'll look after the little de- 
 tails, and we can read about it in the morning. 
 Come on." 
 
 " No!" David screamed, in an ecstasy of excite- 
 ment. "Watson! What are you thinking of? 
 Is that your idea of law?" 
 
 " Oh! Law!" Watson returned, with the same 
 bitter laugh. "The law has just fallen back for 
 an hour or so into the hands of the people who 
 made it — that's all. What's the difference? 
 They'll do a quick job, and they'll save him and 
 everybody else months of useless worry. It '11 
 come to the same thing in the end, if justice 
 doesn't miscarry. We can't do anything, any- 
 way." 
 
 " We can try! Good God, we can try!" David 
 caught Watson by one massive shoulder, shak- 
 ing it in a fury of protest. "Watson! Man! If 
 justice means anything at all, it doesn't mean 
 that! What's got into you? They'll kill him! 
 There's not a man lifting a hand to stop it. 
 They'll kill him, I tell you!" 
 
 Watson's figure was immovable, granitic in its 
 absolute impassivity. 
 
 "Kill him, will they? Well, let 'em! He's 
 earned killing, if ever a man did in this world." 
 He held his clinched fists above his head, shaking 
 them in a frenzy towards the jail. "I'd not hold 
 up one finger to save him from any doom they 
 
 177 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 could hatch for him. I hate him! I hate him! 
 — hate him! — hate him!" 
 
 David grew hot with quick anger, the flaming 
 indignation which does not measure its words. 
 "Stay here, then!" he cried. " I'm going down." 
 It was the spirit of the citizen that was aroused 
 in him now — the spirit of the protestant against 
 unbridled force in antagonism to law. He did 
 not know what he would try to do, more than to 
 set his will somehow against that of the rioters; 
 he did not stop to consider how much alone he 
 would be in the effort, unknown as he was; it 
 did not occur to him to appeal for aid to those 
 around him. He sprang down the steps and into 
 the crowd, struggling resolutely towards the jail 
 door. It was no time for gentle manners; he 
 used the utmost strength of his sinewy legs and 
 heavy-muscled shoulders, setting his teeth to- 
 gether in grim silence, battling for every foot of 
 the way. The crowd resented his rough vigor, 
 swearing at him and opposing his every step with 
 harshness. His coat was split from collar to 
 waist; his hat was crushed over his eyes; despite 
 the chill of the air, his face dripped with perspira- 
 tion and his deep lungs gasped for breath. A 
 drunken fellow, unsteady on his legs, struck out 
 savagely with a bony fist, catching David on the 
 cheek and bringing a spurt of blood ; his hat fell 
 off and was trampled under foot. Still he kept 
 on, fighting, panting. At last he came to the 
 steps, where the leaders were at work. 
 
 178 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 The giant with the sledge had made good use 
 of the time, swinging his weapon with muscles 
 tireless as steel, his blows regular as pulses. Both 
 hinges were broken now, and the door hung tot- 
 tering, supported only by its bolts. The mob 
 was gathering closer, shrieking insanely, making 
 ready for the next decisive move in the game. 
 The great hammer fell with a ringing stroke and 
 was lifted again. David leaped forward and 
 stood upon the steps, facing the worker, catching 
 one brawny wrist in both hands and throwing 
 all his weight against it, so that the descending 
 sledge swept out sidewise in a wide arc, its force 
 impotently spent. 
 
 "Stop!" he cried. He set his back against the 
 swaying door, bracing his feet on the stone steps, 
 squaring his shoulders for the struggle which he 
 knew must come. 
 
 For a moment there was a perplexed pause. 
 The fallen hammer hung idle, and the menacing 
 scream of the crowd, tense an instant before, was 
 modulated into a futile, surprised babble. David 
 had appeared without warning; his audacious, 
 single - handed interference and his distraught 
 aspect seemed to break the current of purpose. 
 His clothing was in wild disarray; his thick hair 
 lay in a disordered mop over his forehead, cling- 
 ing in damp strands to the skin; the blood from 
 the wound on his cheek was clotted and smeared, 
 and his collar and shirt were stained darkly by 
 the fallen drops. The leader, embarrassed by his 
 
 179 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 hot mask of black cloth, tore it from his face and 
 threw it upon the stones, then drew his thick, hairy 
 arm slowly across his face, wet with sweat. But 
 this suspense lasted for only a few seconds — just 
 long enough to allow two or three deep, gasping 
 breaths ; then the giant stooped, grasped the stout 
 handle of his weapon in both hands, and swung it 
 high over his head, taking a step forward, his eyes 
 blazing with wrath, his convulsed lips forming a 
 ragged oath. 
 
 "Get out of the way, or I'll brain you!" he 
 shouted. David saw the powerful muscles swell- 
 ing for the blow and heard the excited scream of 
 the onlookers, shrill with impatience over the de- 
 lay. But he would not move aside ; a desperate, 
 unreasoning determination was upon him to stand 
 where he was and to take what might come, even 
 to death, rather than give way now. He raised 
 his arms over his head in a lingering impulse of 
 defence ; he tried to speak, but his lips and tongue 
 were parched dry; the seething mob, under the 
 glare of the swinging electric lamps, became a 
 wide, blurred blot before his eyes. Then, at the 
 end of that breathless instant, a huge figure threw 
 itself before him, confronting the enraged fellow 
 with the hammer, breast to breast, and a thun- 
 derous voice bellowed above the clamor: 
 
 " Stop ! Stand back ! Back, I say ! Get back!" 
 
 There was magic in it — the inexplicable magic 
 
 of a mighty will. The packed mass fell away as 
 
 before the levelled muzzles of arms, leaving a 
 
 1 80 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 broad, clear space on the flagged pavement; and 
 in that space stood Watson, erect, burly, gigantic, 
 his great shoulders heaving, his big face purple 
 with passion. 
 
 " What are you doing?" he roared. " Drop that 
 sledge, Stevens. Drop it /" He did not raise his 
 hands ; his fists hung clinched at his sides. He was 
 fighting with his will alone — that and his terrible 
 voice. But the heavy weapon fell with a clatter 
 upon the stones, and the faces in the front rank of 
 the rioters were blank with dismay. David, too, 
 was dazed by the sharp shock of the unexpected ; 
 he stood with his back against the wall, a mere 
 spectator now, listening curiously to Watson's 
 booming cry. 
 
 " What are you trying to do?" Watson bellowed 
 again. " You're a shame on the name of citizen- 
 ship and manhood ! I'm ashamed of you, Stevens 
 — you brute fool — you anarchist — you outlaw ! Is 
 this the measure of your responsibility? Is this 
 your sense of integrity? I'd always thought you 
 a man! You're a disgrace to public decency! 
 You're as much a criminal now as Bronson. If 
 you had your deserts, you'd be sharing his cell 
 with him . " He stepped one long stride nearer the 
 cowed giant, shaking a knotted fist in his face. 
 " Lift your hand to this business again, if you dare, 
 and I'll see that you get your just reward — you 
 and all your pack — if it takes the last dollar I have 
 on earth and the last drop of blood in my body! 
 You attend to what I say. I'll make your life a 
 
 181 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 hell for you, till you'll be glad to quit it at the end 
 of a rope!" 
 
 But the tension was too great to endure. Those 
 farther back in the crowd, beyond the influence 
 of this sturdy presence, failing to understand the 
 sudden stoppage of the work upon which all had 
 been so deeply intent a little time before, began 
 another boisterous demonstration, their voices 
 swelling again into one strong, deep-toned, ring- 
 ing cry, and the front rank was pushed forward by 
 an irresistible pressure. A stone, thrown by some 
 impatient hand, flew in a wide arc over the throng- 
 ed heads and fell with a sounding blow against 
 the iron plates of the door ; another missile struck 
 one of the upper windows, and the shivered glass 
 fell in a shower upon the stone steps beneath. 
 Watson's great voice was hardly to be heard now 
 over the rising tumult; only his huge body and 
 his threatening attitude prevented an immediate 
 renewal of the attack. But his intervention was 
 enough. In those few moments a half-score of 
 police had forced their way to the front, and now 
 mounted the steps, their revolvers drawn ; others 
 were crowding forward, swinging their clubs lustily 
 upon those who opposed their way. Suddenly a 
 rifle-shot rang out from above, and the rioters 
 turned their faces upward, startled into another 
 brief interval of quiet. . A stentorian voice shouted 
 from the roof of the jail : 
 
 "I have twenty men up here, armed! The 
 man in that crowd who dares take one step out of 
 
 182 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 that line towards the jail will be shot! You know 
 me. I mean what I say!" 
 
 The little force of police, swelled by a few addi- 
 tions to their number who had succeeded in get- 
 ting through the jam, moved forward determin- 
 edly, breasting the mob, threatening with club 
 and pistol. The interruption had diverted the 
 thoughts of the people for a time from their wild 
 design; the leader had suffered defeat in his en- 
 counter with Watson, and no one offered to take 
 his place. A mob without a leader is incapa- 
 ble of action. Slowly, stubbornly, sullenly, the 
 line gave way, falling back upon itself. There 
 was no longer a dominant, angry, single voice, 
 but a confused jargon. The danger was over. 
 
XVIII 
 
 DAVID awoke late, after a profound, dream- 
 less sleep. The sun shone brilliantly through 
 his wide-open windows, flooding the room with 
 a white glare, and the air was jarring with the 
 myriad noises of the day's activity on the paved 
 streets, now in full flow. The unmistakable late- 
 ness of the hour confused him greatly, used as he 
 was to rising at daybreak; for the moment his 
 mind was a blank as to what had preceded sleep, 
 but when he started briskly from his bed then 
 every muscle of his body was wrung with pain, 
 every strained nerve cried a protest, and he re- 
 membered. He sat down upon the edge of his 
 bed, his elbows on his knees, his head supported 
 in his hands, dwelling with intent appreciation 
 upon the events of the last twenty-four hours as 
 they disentangled themselves and fell into order- 
 ly procession for review. He got to his feet and 
 took a stiff turn about the room, stretching his 
 legs and arms and discovering the centres of 
 tenderness. Then he broke into his irrepressible 
 laugh. 
 
 "Well, son," he said, aloud, "you're getting a 
 taste of high life now, aren't you? By ginger! 
 
 184 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 this certainly does beat farming for excitement. 
 But I don't want it to happen every day. Thun- 
 der! how I do hurt!" 
 
 Sitting at his breakfast, he opened his morning 
 paper. The front page was ominous with a big 
 expanse of black head-lines. " Homicide, Horror, 
 and Heroism!" ran the first, followed by a bold 
 succession of others, in a gradually descending 
 scale of blackness, setting forth a skeleton outline 
 of the exciting story. " Splendid Coolness and 
 Courage Prevent Ghastly Crime," said a lower 
 line. " Mob Thwarted by Young Law Student. 
 David Boughton, Hero." In the centre of the 
 page was a group of three rough line portraits, 
 one of the murdered man, one of the luckless 
 Bronson, and the third, an audacious fiction of 
 the zealous artist's imagination, bearing his own 
 name. 
 
 David stared in utter amazement. Not once 
 had it occurred to him that his escapade would 
 entail notoriety; his mental habit was too spon- 
 taneous for that. For himself, he would have con- 
 sidered the whole thing but a spirited adventure, 
 closed with the act and the night's sleep ; yet here 
 it was, hardily perpetuated to another day, thrust 
 brazenly in upon his accustomed placid privacy. 
 As he followed the turbulent narrative down the 
 column, with its riotous superlatives, its sweeping 
 disregard of anything like precision, its gross sen- 
 sationalism, and, above all, its insistence upon 
 the heroics of his own part in it, he tingled with 
 
 185 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 irritation. Watson's more effective achievement 
 was made quite incidental to his own. 
 
 He left the table abruptly and hurried to the 
 office. The door was locked, though it was now 
 eleven o'clock. Within were the tidy signs of 
 the little stenographer's attention to her morning 
 duties, but her chair was empty. As he stood 
 by the table, turning over a heap of the morning 
 papers, each with its own recklessly graphic ac- 
 count of the night's happenings, she came in hur- 
 riedly, dressed as though from the street. When 
 she saw him, her usually demure face flashed into 
 a smile. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Boughton!" she cried. After an 
 instant's hesitation she approached him with a 
 shy offer of her small hand, her eyes alight. "I 
 didn't think you'd be down to-day. Goodness! 
 Wasn't it perfectly awful? But you've stood it 
 a great deal better than Mr. Watson. He's sick 
 in bed over it — just prostrated. He had me take 
 his mail down to him, but he couldn't look at it 
 when I got it there. He's all gone to pieces." 
 She paused, looking up at him with modest shy- 
 ness. "You must let me say it!" she cried, 
 warmly. "It was just splendid in you!" 
 
 "Oh, please don't!" he begged. 
 
 He was suddenly sobered by her news. "I 
 wonder if I oughtn't to go down? Maybe I can 
 do something. I think I'll go and see, anyway. 
 I'll come back again in a little while and help 
 you run things. There'll be a lot to do, most 
 
 1 86 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 likely, with the politicians and all. I'll come 
 back as soon as I can." 
 
 At the hotel he was shown to Watson's parlor, 
 where he sat in waiting for many minutes. Wat- 
 son's room adjoined the parlor, and through the 
 closed door came a low, steady flow of voices — 
 one, a heavy bass, going on and on in an excited 
 monologue, with others putting in now and then 
 a quieter sentence. As he listened, gradually 
 the stress of the hurried voice grew less, with 
 longer and longer breaks, sinking at last into 
 silence. For ten minutes the silence continued 
 unbroken ; then the door was opened noiselessly 
 and Margaret entered. 
 
 She was clad with extreme, almost rigorous, 
 simplicity, in a loose morning -robe of creamy 
 white, which draped her slender figure in long, 
 sweeping lines from shoulder to foot, the lines 
 only slightly broken at the waist by a corded 
 girdle. A profusion of yellow lace encircled her 
 throat and fell from her short sleeves over her 
 round forearms. Her black hair was gathered 
 lightly back from her forehead and lay upon her 
 shoulders in two superb, lustrous braids, tied with 
 bows of scarlet ribbon. There was a subtle, 
 clear pallor in her dusky skin ; but her lips, slightly 
 parted over immaculate teeth, were brilliant as 
 flame. 
 
 She paused at the threshold, closing the door 
 with painstaking quiet, then turned and confront- 
 ed David, who stood apart at the width of the 
 
 187 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 room. She did not speak, nor did he; but their 
 glances met and held together. He stood quite 
 still, waiting, while she came towards him with 
 swift, light step, giving him both her hands. He 
 took them in a firm clasp and held them. They 
 were tremulous, and the tremor passed into his 
 own strong fingers, along his muscled arms, and 
 possessed the breadth of his sturdy body. Her 
 wonderful eyes encountered his steadfastly, with 
 no sign of weak confusion. No word passed 
 between them. He stood looking down into her 
 face — looking and looking, as though he would 
 never get enough of it, thrilling with an unrea- 
 soning, delirious consciousness that in that in- 
 stant he was wholly mastered, overborne, helpless, 
 robbed of all volition by her radiant presence. 
 He felt his heart leap, heard the warm, rushing 
 blood singing in his brain, and saw that her 
 bosom was troubled by the agitated indrawing 
 of her breath. 
 
 "Your hands are — cold," he said, in a harsh 
 whisper. Upon uncontrollable impulse he would 
 have drawn her to him; but a startled light rose 
 from the depths of her eyes, and she released 
 herself with a quick, gasping murmur. 
 
 " No, no! Forgive me. I wanted to thank you 
 for — for my poor father's sake — for what you 
 have done for him. You — you don't know — " 
 She turned away, as though struggling to hide 
 her confusion, and seated herself in her father's 
 chair by the window, gazing out across the city. 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 After a moment she looked at him again with 
 serene, composed eyes, her head falling lightly 
 back against the cushion, her small hands lying 
 upon the padded chair-arms. The glowing noon- 
 day sunlight touched her gown and was reflect- 
 ed upward upon her face, casting it into strong 
 relief against the deep, crimson background of 
 upholstery. A warm blush lingered briefly in her 
 cheeks, then passed, leaving no trace. She seem- 
 ed wonderfully childlike and fragile, resting half 
 buried in the chair's huge hollow. Irresistibly 
 David moved towards her and sat down by her 
 side. 
 
 "Tell me, what is it about your father?" he 
 asked, with what quiet he could command. " Is 
 he really very ill?" 
 
 "I hope not," she answered; "still, I'm afraid. 
 He hasn't been able to sleep, and there's a high 
 fever. His doctor has been in two or three 
 times this morning, to administer sedatives; and 
 he's just now injected morphine. He's gone to 
 sleep, but the fever is increasing, and I think 
 the doctor is worried over it, though he pretends 
 not to be. I'm very much afraid he's going to 
 be ill." 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't think that," David urged, 
 cheerily. " I shouldn't be frightened, if I were 
 you, until I saw what a day's rest will do for him. 
 Maybe that's all he needs. I had a good sleep, 
 and I feel as fresh as ever this morning. Why, 
 he can't afford to be sick now; there's too much 
 
 189 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 depending on him in this Senatorial fight. He 
 must get well again, right away." 
 
 Her glance was questioning; her hands were 
 playing with the tasselled ends of her girdle. 
 "Do you imagine he cares for that?" she asked. 
 " I've never been sure of it, for myself; but, then, 
 I don't see him as you do. That is — " She 
 checked the sentence as with an effort; then, 
 after an instant's hesitation, she went on quietly: 
 "My father doesn't often reveal his real self to 
 me. You must have seen something of his feel- 
 ing when you've been here. It hasn't always 
 been so. When I was a little girl, we used to 
 be just jolly good friends; but since then we've 
 grown apart somehow — oh, ever so far apart. I 
 don't know why it is, exactly, but I suppose I'm 
 to blame for a great deal of it." She paused 
 again, looking at him with a soft, wistful reluc- 
 tance, as though a desire for frank speech was 
 taking account of the chance of being heard with 
 sympathy. " I don't care very much for people," 
 she said. "I've been largely alone, and I've 
 gathered my own little interests, altogether dif- 
 ferent from his, and I suppose I've gotten too 
 much wrapped up in them, so that I haven't 
 lived enough with him and for him. We've 
 just lost a common understanding, that's all. I 
 have only a vague, intuitive sort of knowledge of 
 what he's thinking about and planning. Well!" 
 She dismissed her seriousness with a smile and a 
 light gesture, recovering her wonted self-posses- 
 
 190 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 sion. "I ought not afflict you with my little 
 distresses. I only meant to say that I can't tell 
 whether he is really interested in going to the 
 Senate, or really interested in anything, and liv- 
 ing for it." 
 
 David regarded her with wonder, almost with 
 pity. Much was in his mind, but he did not 
 know what to say, more than a blunt: "Oh 
 yes; he's going to the Senate, all right. He's 
 given himself up to it, and he's going to win. 
 I'm sure of that." 
 
 She changed her posture, drawing her hand 
 wearily over her eyes, her face in repose. "I 
 ought not have spoken as I did to you. I didn't 
 stop to think. I'm very tired. I've been up 
 most of the night, a.nd then this excitement 
 and worry — it has unnerved me a little, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 David arose, standing before her. "I'm proud 
 of your confidence," he said, simply. "I'm glad 
 you've told me. I'm going now, but I'll come 
 back this evening to see how your father is, and 
 whether there's anything I can do." 
 
 "Yes, do," she said, rising. All constraint was 
 gone from her manner as she offered her hand in 
 parting. " Good-bye," she said ; then added, with 
 impulsive directness: "You did a brave thing 
 last night, Mr. Boughton, and you saved my 
 father a lifelong regret. It has made me think 
 very highly of you." 
 
 " Oh, you make far too much of it," he returned, 
 191 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 in real embarrassment. "It was your father's 
 doing, not mine." 
 
 "Ah?" she smiled, with a note of question in 
 the word. "The final accomplishment was his, 
 perhaps; but the motive was yours, and that is 
 what counts. He would not have acted as he did 
 but for you. I shall say no more about it, my 
 friend, if it distresses you; but so much I was 
 bound to say, whether or no." 
 
 On the street again, David turned towards the 
 office; but on the steps of the great building he 
 changed his mind and kept on up the hill, striking 
 into a long, swift stride. He must have time to 
 think. 
 
 As he hurried onward, for a while there was 
 nothing before him but inextricable confusion, a 
 wild chaos, not of thoughts', but of swelling emo- 
 tions, too big and turbulent to be checked and 
 held in order. Out of the tangle, one element 
 alone rose in clear and vivid relief. It was the face 
 of the girl he had just left, as it had appeared to 
 him at the moment of meeting. Try as he would 
 — and he did try — he could not dismiss it from his 
 imagination. After a time he ceased the useless 
 effort, and let the image remain, dwelling upon it 
 with a reckless abandon of delight. Its every 
 line, its every least fraction of expression and feel- 
 ing, that contributed to the elusive mystery of its 
 loveliness, was as present before him as when she 
 had confronted him in the flesh. It was a wonder- 
 ful face, quick with the vital charm of perfect 
 
 192 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 womanhood. Yes, yes ! But more than that had 
 been revealed to him, in the warmth of her pres- 
 ence, in the clinging touch of her hand, in the well- 
 ing light of her glorious eyes. He did not try 
 to analyze. He knew what he had seen, and 
 the depths of his body and soul were swept 
 by a pulsing wave of sheer joy in the realiza- 
 tion. 
 
 He came by-and-by in his walk to the wide 
 seclusion of Hanscom Park, and, leaping down a 
 wooded slope, he threw himself upon the grass 
 beside the upper lake, lying outstretched, staring 
 up at the meshed branches above, drawing deep 
 breaths of the free air, smelling the sweet odors of 
 the near earth, feeling the genial warmth of the 
 sun upon his upturned face, making no effort of 
 mind, but letting his thoughts slip slowly back 
 into calm. By-and-by reaction amounted almost 
 to apathy. He sat upright, looking at the fair 
 scene about him, amusing himself in a dull, care- 
 less way by shooting little pellets of earth into the 
 moss-grown brown water of the lake, considering 
 himself. 
 
 " I wonder what's the matter with me?" he pon- 
 dered. "I can't make it out. I thought I knew 
 myself, as plain as day; but I didn't. I'm just 
 beginning to see a little of what things might 
 mean. What bothers me is that I don't seem to 
 care more. A man oughtn't to be like that. I 
 ought to be sorry, and ashamed, and full of a sick 
 sort of revulsion against it. But I'm not. I'm 
 13 193 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 glad. I just wonder what Ruth would think of 
 me, if she knew." 
 
 He took his watch from his pocket and opened 
 the case, bringing Ruth's likeness to view, looking 
 at it long and earnestly ; then shut it away again 
 with a stifled sigh and got to his feet. 
 
 " I give it up," he said. " I guess I'll just have 
 to wait and see." 
 
 At the office a telegram awaited him. It was 
 signed by Joe Keller, and had been sent from 
 Waterloo that morning. 
 
 "Are you all right?" it read. "Your mother 
 is anxious. Answer, quick." 
 
 As he read, the door opened, and framed in the 
 doorway was the figure of Keller himself, a trav- 
 elling-bag in his hand, his coat over his arm, his 
 serious eyes full of eager anxiety. At sight of 
 David his expression cleared and the sober lines 
 of his face relaxed into a smile. 
 
 "You young rascal!" he said. "You're a nice 
 sort of chap, aren't you?" 
 
 "Why, Joe!" David cried, with pleased warmth. 
 1 ' Why, what in the world brings you down ? Come 
 in." " 
 
 "We'll go to the telegraph-office first, young- 
 ster," Keller returned. " Why didn't you answer 
 my message? Your mother's at the hotel over 
 there, and Uncle Billy has been camping out at 
 the station since morning, making life a burden 
 for the operator. I had hard work to keep him 
 from coming on to Omaha with his team." 
 
 194 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 They went to the desk in the rotunda of the 
 building and despatched a reassuring message, 
 then returned to David's room up-stairs and set- 
 tled themselves for speech. Keller filled his pipe 
 and sat by the open west window, smoking lazily, 
 watching the blue clouds float away upon the 
 slow air, while the mellow light of the declining 
 sun fell upon him, discovering the warm, living 
 tones in his clear skin and in his thick brown hair 
 and beard. His presence was very human, very 
 calm, very comforting. 
 
 "You aren't going home to-night?" David 
 asked. 
 
 " No," Keller said. " I'm going to stay awhile, 
 now that I'm here — three or four days, most like- 
 ly, working in the library. I've been trying to 
 nerve myself to it for a good while; but I'm 
 too contented out yonder, and it's hard to break 
 away. Is there a quiet place near you where I 
 can stay?" 
 
 "You'll stay with me, that's what you'll do!" 
 David answered, with hearty emphasis. "Oh, 
 that '11 be rich! I've been busy, Joe; but you 
 can't think how much I've missed home. Going 
 out on Sundays doesn't help me much, either; it's 
 only a quick taste, when I want a full feed. I 
 don't often get to see any one but the folks at the 
 house. I didn't get out at all last Sunday, either. 
 Since Mr. Watson has gone into politics I've been 
 trying to help him. I was with them — with him — 
 last Sunday; and now that he's sick it isn't likely 
 
 195 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 I'll go home next Sunday. There's no one but me 
 to look after things. I'll write mother a good let- 
 ter to-morrow, though." 
 
 "You ought to be at home as much as you 
 can, Dave," Keller said, quietly. "Don't miss 
 a chance to go. They need you, too." 
 
 His serious directness gave David a sudden 
 uneasy qualm. "Why, Joe, there isn't anything 
 the matter?" 
 
 " Oh no, there's nothing the matter," Keller an- 
 swered. "Everything is just as it has been, ex- 
 cept that you're gone. Your mother's well and 
 happy in her own way. But she misses you, you 
 don't know how sorely. I've been with her a 
 great deal through these few weeks. I knew you'd 
 like to have me, and I like it, too, because I think 
 she's beginning to take a liking to me. It's a sort 
 of all-around liking, don't you see? It's been a 
 revelation to me. It's perfectly wonderful how a 
 mother sinks herself in her children — a mother 
 like yours; and the pathos of it grows when the 
 children really don't feel the need of her devotion 
 any longer. A man can't begin to understand it; 
 he hasn't soul enough. I know you won't mind 
 my speaking so plainly, will you? I'm not re- 
 proving you, Dave ; I'm merely suggesting. You're 
 a good son. Still, I know the feeling of confident 
 youth, that doesn't need to depend upon any one. 
 It's a glorious feeling, but it's apt to carry one 
 away. If I had a mother, knowing what I know 
 now, I'd spend most of my time trying to make 
 
 196 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 her believe that I was afraid to take a step with- 
 out her counsel." 
 
 David listened with frank alertness, his lively 
 eyes contemplative. Keller dispelled his serious- 
 ness with a smile. 
 
 "Don't take it too hard, old man," he said. 
 "You haven't done anything reprehensible. I 
 was just talking on general principles. If I were 
 you, I'd go home every chance I got, and I'd do 
 everything I could to make her feel that you need 
 her more than ever." 
 
 "Yes, Joe," David said, with a simple grace of 
 friendliness, which could not take offence at gen- 
 erous intention. Then: "You haven't told me 
 a thing about your own work, Joe," he said. 
 "That's what I want to hear about. We'll have 
 dinner, and go down and ask after Watson, and 
 then we'll go up to my room and talk! We'll set 
 a pace for the girls to follow. Come on. I told 
 Miss Watson I'd bring you to her when you came 
 in. You'll like her. She's seen your work, and 
 she's capable of appreciating it, too." 
 
 He was eager for his own next meeting with the 
 girl. The afternoon's relaxation had abated his 
 agitation, leaving him doubtful of his thoughts, 
 even of his own impressions of the morning. He 
 wanted to see her again; so much he knew cer- 
 tainly, and he felt a warm thrill in realizing how 
 great his desire was. Yet he was glad of the 
 presence of his friend. 
 
 Margaret was just leaving the dining-room as 
 197 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 they entered the gloomy hotel rotunda. There 
 was a shadow of constraint in the informal meet- 
 ing, in the presence of the many onlookers who 
 lounged about in the stiff rows of chairs, idly 
 turning the sheets of the evening papers and 
 chewing upon their toothpicks. David felt, too, 
 that the girl was weary after her day's nursing, 
 though the suggestion was not in her appearance, 
 but rather in a stately quiet of manner as she 
 spoke a few reserved, considered words of greet- 
 ing to Keller. There was no awkwardness, but 
 only a lack of spontaneity. She led the way in 
 silence to the parlor above, where the lights were 
 turned low and the air was tinctured with the 
 odors of camphor. The door into Watson's bed- 
 room stood ajar, showing semi-darkness beyond, 
 out of which came a sound of deep breathing. 
 
 Margaret closed the door quietly, then turned 
 to them with a faint smile. " Be seated, please," 
 she said, and seated herself in the corner by the 
 window, out of the full glow of the lights, where 
 she could feel the freshness of the outer air, still 
 balmy as in September. "I'm sorry to welcome 
 you in this way, Mr. Keller," she said; "and I'm 
 sorry to have you miss meeting my father. I 
 suppose Mr. Boughton has told you of what has 
 happened?" 
 
 "Yes," Keller assented. "How is your father 
 to-night?" 
 
 "No better, I fear," she said, gravely. "His 
 doctor says he must keep his bed for several days, 
 
 198 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 at least. He has been over -excited for a long 
 time about many things, and this experience 
 simply served to hasten the reaction. He can 
 sleep only with sedatives, and when he's awake 
 he's tormented by anxiety about his work. He's 
 one of those who don't know how to rest." 
 
 There was a quick, querulous call from the 
 inner room. When Margaret opened the door, 
 Watson's voice demanded: "Is that Boughton 
 out there? I want to see him." 
 
 David stood by the bedside, taking Watson's 
 big, burning hand between his own. "I'm very 
 sorry we wakened you," he said. 
 
 "You didn't wake me," Watson retorted, 
 brusquely. " It doesn't matter if you did. Say, 
 have you been out to see Mrs. Akin to-day?" 
 
 "No, sir, I haven't," David answered, with 
 quick contrition. "That's too bad. I haven't 
 been near her all day." 
 
 " M— m!" Watson muttered. " Well, then, go! 
 What do you suppose she'll think of us? It 
 doesn't make any difference what she thinks; 
 we oughtn't to neglect her like this. Mag- 
 gie, get your hat and go out with Boughton 
 and see if there's anything she needs. Quick, 
 now! 
 
 She hesitated a moment. "No," she said, 
 calmly, "I can't go, father. I must stay here." 
 
 "Oh!" Watson cried, in nervous exasperation. 
 "You do as I tell you. There's nothing to stay 
 here for. I can dope myself while you're gone. 
 
 199 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 I can't rest a minute until I know how she is. 
 Hurry, Maggie!" 
 
 " Pardon me," Keller interposed, from the door- 
 way. " Let me stay with Mr. Watson. I should 
 be glad to." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" Watson interrupted, harshly. 
 "That '11 do all right. You stay with me, then. 
 Now get a move on you, Maggie." 
 
 She made no further demur, but prepared her- 
 self for the street and went out with David to 
 the car. She seemed to be in no mood for talking ; 
 during the ride she sat in a corner of the car, 
 leaning against the back of the seat, her hands 
 clasped in her lap, volunteering not a word, and 
 answering David's ventures almost with reluctance. 
 When they stood before the gate, at the end of their 
 way, she hung back with a shuddering sigh. 
 
 "Must I go in?" she breathed. "I can't do 
 any good. Let me wait for you out here." 
 
 " You'd better come," David returned. " You'll 
 be of more account than I — a woman always is at 
 such times." 
 
 "Very well," she answered, and followed as he 
 led the way around to the back door. 
 
 The tiny kitchen showed no change since the 
 night before; a fire burned briskly in the little 
 stove, as then, and the one dim oil-lamp struggled 
 bravely. Beside the stove stood the old wife's 
 chair, and another was drawn up before the glow 
 of the grate, its cushions beaten up into inviting 
 lightness. 
 
 200 
 
T,HE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 Mrs. Akin herself had answered the knock at 
 the door. "Oh, it's Paul's friend!" she said, 
 when her squinting eyes were sure of David's face. 
 "And where's Paul? Ain't he come, too?" 
 
 "Mr. Watson isn't feeling well to-day," David 
 answered, pressing the worn old hand. "He 
 wasn't quite able to come; but I've brought his 
 daughter, Mrs. Akin. This is Miss Margaret." 
 
 The old woman peered at the girl with a child- 
 like eagerness. "Paul's da'ter?" she questioned. 
 "Well, I do say, deary! My, my, what a nice 
 girl! I wonder how it comes I 'ain't ever seen 
 you before. Come right over by the fire an' sit 
 down. No, not that place!" she interposed, 
 quickly. " Here's chairs. That one's his'n. It's 
 a foolish notion, maybe, but I don't want nobody 
 to set in it awhile yet. Now you're comforta- 
 ble, ain't you? Well, I am so glad to see you 
 both." 
 
 "Are you all alone?" David asked, as the still- 
 ness of the little house became apparent. 
 
 "Just for a while," she answered, in gentle 
 deprecation. " Some of my neighbors has been 
 in to set with me most o' the day; but they've 
 all got their own families to think about, too, 
 you know, and they've gone home to get supper. 
 They'll be comin' back pretty soon. I 'ain't been 
 a bit lonesome all day, except for wantin' to see 
 my boy Paul. You say he's sick?" she asked of 
 Margaret. " I hope it ain't nothin' bad." 
 
 "Oh no! He's a little worn out, Mrs. Akin, 
 201 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 that's all," the girl answered. "He'll be better 
 again in a day or two." 
 
 "Of course he will!" the old woman agreed 
 readily. "And so you're his da'ter! Well, now, 
 that seems right curious to me, deary. Somehow 
 I never thought about Paul's havin' a growed-up 
 girl like you. I s'pose it's because he's always 
 seemed to me so much like a boy hisself — so 
 kind o' light-hearted an' full o' spirits, you know. 
 I knew he had a da'ter; but I reckoned you was 
 just a child. I don't know what made me think 
 so, unless maybe it was just my not seein' you." 
 
 Margaret's eyes were large and intent in their 
 puzzled scrutiny; but she said, simply, "You'll 
 see more of me after this." 
 
 " That's nice," the other woman returned. " I'll 
 be awful glad to have you come — I'd be glad for 
 nothin' except just your belongin' to Paul; but 
 then I'm bound to like you for yourself, too, I 
 know, because you look like such a good girl. I 
 don't see how you could help bein', with Paul 
 for your father. He's been a mighty comfort to 
 us — me an' Mart. Oh ! I expect you'd like to see 
 Mart, wouldn't you?" she interjected, suddenly, 
 with a note of kindly indulgence. " Why, of 
 course you would! They brought him home this 
 afternoon, all fixed up so nice I wa'n't right sure 
 'twas him at first. He's in the parlor. Come right 
 on in and I'll show him to you." 
 
 She took the lamp from the table and opened 
 the door leading into the front room, entering 
 
 202 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ahead. Margaret laid a nervous hand upon 
 David's arm and clung to him for a moment, 
 trembling; then followed with rapid step. 
 
 It was a barren little room, like the other, 
 but instead of an air of homely cheer there was 
 upon it that stiff coldness which marks poverty's 
 bravest pretensions to grandeur. Starched muslin 
 curtains hung like sheets of ice over the square 
 windows; against the gaudily papered wall for- 
 bidding hair-cloth chairs were ranged in an at- 
 titude of grim formality; and from the ceiling 
 depended an ugly, glittering brass lamp, dangling 
 its score of iridescent glass prisms. But these 
 poor details were of little moment, once the eye 
 had perceived the silent, black-draped presence 
 in the middle of the room, looming large in the 
 feeble light, its huge, sombre shadow obscuring 
 all that lay beyond. 
 
 The old wife stepped to the side of the bier, 
 turning back the coffin-lid with a steady hand, 
 bringing to view the dead face. David offered 
 to take the lamp from her grasp, but she checked 
 the movement. 
 
 "No, I can hold it all right. I won't let it 
 drop." Her calm was as perfect as that of the 
 dead body, her face as steadfast and as free of 
 pain. She put out her hand and lightly arranged 
 a lock of silvery hair that lay over the unruffled 
 brow, and her fingers showed no tremor. 
 
 " I ain't grievin'," she said, with sweet placidity. 
 "I know it's best. He was a good man, and he 
 
 203 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 was always willin' the Lord should have His way. 
 I know he don't mind bein' dead ; and why should 
 I mind, if he don't?" She bent low over the un- 
 responsive face, speaking to it with an unfathom- 
 able gentleness. " No, I ain't goin' to grieve an- 
 other mite, dear heart, because I know you're 
 well, an' stout, an' happy, an' waitin' for me to 
 come. An' it won't be long — no, no; it '11 be just 
 a little while, my husband!" 
 
 Margaret had stood apart, looking on in deep 
 agitation. As though fascinated, she drew near- 
 er, step by step, her ringers knotted together, her 
 parted lips colorless, her tense body bent forward, 
 her gaze fixed upon the inscrutable gray face. 
 Upon irresistible impulse she put out her hand 
 and lightly touched the quiet forehead, then 
 drew back with a smothered, gasping cry and 
 fled from the room. 
 
 Mrs. Akin closed the casket gently and followed 
 after the girl, who stood beside the glowing stove, 
 cowering, shaking, her eyes burning, her cheeks 
 of a livid pallor. 
 
 "Oh, please shut the door!" she begged, her 
 pleading hands outstretched. 
 
 "Why, Miss Watson!" David cried, in astonish- 
 ment. She seized upon him like one drowning, 
 clutching him, hiding her terrified face against 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, please take me away!" she whispered, in 
 an agony of emotion. 
 
 The elder woman saw and understood. " Yes," 
 204 
 
"'oh, please take me away!'" 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 she said, " I guess she better go. There's nothing 
 you can do now. There '11 be somebody comin' 
 in in a minute or so. That's right; you take her 
 out, poor lamb!" 
 
 On the street, under the brilliant stars, with 
 the warm, living air breathing upon her, the girl 
 controlled herself with a great effort. " How 
 foolish of me!" she said, with an hysterical, 
 mirthless laugh. " But I couldn't help it. I 
 never saw death before; and, oh, it's dreadful, 
 dreadful, dreadful! I'll never forget it while 
 I live — the terror of it, and the awful stillness. 
 Oh, I wonder why we must die!" 
 
 Moved by a great, pitying tenderness, David 
 put his arm about her bowed shoulders and 
 drew her firmly to his side, holding her close, 
 stooping above her. She did not resist; she lay 
 quite still for the space of three hurried heart- 
 beats, then drew away with a deep - drawn 
 sigh. 
 
 "I am ashamed of myself," she said. "What 
 must you think of me?" 
 
 He caught her hand in his and held it fast, 
 lifting it to his lips passionately. Aged death 
 lay within; but young life must have its way 
 without. "Will you let me tell you what I 
 think of you?" he cried, harshly. "Margaret!" 
 
 For a swift instant she faced him there, in the 
 warm dusk, beneath the gemmed sky, disclosing 
 to him the marvellous dark glory of her eyes, 
 every fibre of her quick body yielding ; but then, 
 
 205 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 with an inarticulate murmur, she released her 
 hand and started away from him in tremulous 
 alarm. 
 
 "No, no!" she panted. "You must not — not 
 — not now!" 
 
XIX 
 
 AN hour later David and Joe were wandering 
 i\ about the quiet, shaded streets on the crest 
 of the hill, where the comfortable homes of the 
 town were grouped, set in wide, open lawns, with 
 broad spaces between. Most of the houses were 
 darkened, and they had the world almost to 
 themselves. Only now and then was there a dis- 
 turbing sound of footsteps on the stone flagging 
 of the walks, as a belated pedestrian hurried 
 homeward. Now and again they saw a motor- 
 car passing on the distant lines, its yellow lights 
 glinting through the trees, its humming whine 
 softened and remote. To the eastward the 
 massed lights of the city glimmered in close array ; 
 but on the other slope of the hill was darkness, 
 stretching away and away in the dim, billowy 
 roll of the prairie, that was lost in the obscurity 
 of the far horizon. They were well pleased by 
 the undisturbed silence; it fell in perfectly with 
 their mood, long indulged at home, when they 
 had been used to walking the country roads at 
 night, talking as now of whatever was uppermost 
 in their minds or quickest in their hearts. Night 
 is a good time for confidence ; the stars and trees 
 
 207 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 invite sincerity, encourage revelation to the ut- 
 most, making the honest man ashamed of any- 
 thing less than full disclosure. Keller was re- 
 marking upon this as they strolled leisurely along. 
 
 "A man is in a bad way when he loses the old 
 habit of looking at the stars," he said. "It's a 
 sign of emotional decadence. Men in town don't 
 do it very much; I suppose because they have 
 so many brighter lights that catch the eye first. 
 But an electric-lamp is a very poor substitute for 
 a star. Men used to find the stars useful, too — ■ 
 a chart drawn by the hand of the Almighty, with 
 never an error in it. I wonder how many of 
 the people of our generation in Omaha could find 
 their way across country by night with nothing 
 to guide them but that chart? Not many. Most 
 of them would have to call for the police, or else 
 sit down and wait until morning. They wouldn't 
 be comfortable in waiting, either; they'd be in a 
 cold sweat of fear, jumping at every little wild 
 sound, frightened if a toad hopped in the grass 
 beside them. The very thought of lying down 
 on the ground and going to sleep would terrify 
 them. I know the feeling. After my four years 
 in Paris, when I came back to the Elkhorn again 
 and tried to take up the old life, it was hard work 
 for a while. It was months before I could walk 
 out at night and face the stars without an impulse 
 of crying, ' Unclean ! unclean !' like a leper. I 
 suppose you don't know that feeling." 
 
 "No, not yet," David answered, soberly. He 
 208 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 had not been attending closely to the quiet 
 speech — hearing without heeding. There was 
 something else he wanted to talk about ; in trying 
 to brace himself for it he had suffered Keller to 
 direct speech in whatever channel he chose, con- 
 tent to halt along behind. Keller had appeared 
 not to notice the reticence as anything unusual; 
 they had always been used, between themselves, 
 to long intervals like this, when neither cared 
 to talk. Keller kept on and on with his easy 
 monologue; not impassioned, but calm, stopping 
 frequently to take account of the beauties of 
 earth or sky as they appeared at every turn of 
 the way. His pipe burned evenly and well — 
 sure index to his tranquillity of spirit. As so 
 often happens on the lower levels of the prairies, 
 the warmth and vitality of summer lingered in 
 the air, reluctant to give way; so far as signs 
 went, it might have been a June night; its soft 
 touch wooed them into loitering, caressed them, 
 comforted them. 
 
 They came to a stone wall under the trees, en- 
 closing a smooth, upward-sloping grass-plot, with 
 a big, square- shouldered house standing far above, 
 looming in a black mass against the clear dusk of 
 the sky. There David stopped, seating himself 
 upon the broad top of the wall, Keller standing 
 before him. 
 
 "Joe," David broke out, abruptly, his smoth- 
 ered wish coming all at once to a head — " tell me, 
 old man, what did you think of her?" 
 
 *4 209 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOM'ENT 
 
 "What?" Keller asked, perplexedly. The ques- 
 tion was a sudden obstruction in the current of his 
 thoughts. "What did I think of whom?" 
 
 " I mean Miss Watson," David blurted. " She's 
 a wonderful woman, Joe. I wondered if you'd 
 see it as I wanted you to." 
 
 " Oh !" Keller said, with light indifference. " No ; 
 I missed that. All women are more or less won- 
 derful, at one time or another; but if there's any- 
 thing really extraordinary in her, I didn't see it." 
 
 "Nothing at all?" 
 
 " Not quite that, maybe. She has rather re- 
 markable beauty, of a certain sort, and her whole 
 appearance is good; but she didn't make any par- 
 ticular appeal to me." 
 
 " There wasn't time enough," David said, eager- 
 ly bent upon explaining and justifying this dis- 
 turbing short-sightedness. ' ' You must have seen, 
 if you'd had a little more time. She is wonderful. 
 I hoped you'd see it, because I want you to help 
 me." 
 
 "Help you?" Keller echoed, mystified. Then: 
 "What do you mean? What's on your mind, 
 Dave? What did you want me to find in her?" 
 
 "Oh, I can't tell you! It's no use to try. If 
 you didn't see it, you couldn't believe it. Every- 
 thing fine and good that could possibly belong to 
 a woman." 
 
 There was a long, awkward interval. "I saw 
 nothing so unusual," Keller declared, bluntly; 
 "nothing to distinguish her from many other 
 
 210 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 women I've known — beautiful women, fully aware 
 of their charms. It isn't likely that's what you 
 mean." 
 
 "No, no, no!" David protested. "Not that at 
 all. She isn't that. I don't see how you can 
 think so. It must be that you weren't looking 
 for anything in particular. She's wonderful, I 
 tell you — wonderful, wonderful ! I've never 
 known another woman like her. There isn't an- 
 other." 
 
 Keller attended quietly, standing erect, only 
 the swelling volume of his pipe-smoke under his 
 quickened purring betraying more than a passing 
 interest. Soon he drew closer and sat down upon 
 the wall at David's side. 
 
 "Tell me, Dave," he said, again, "what's on 
 your mind?" 
 
 David hesitated, struggling against a strong 
 sense of isolation and despair of being understood. 
 There are times in the life of every man when no 
 friendship is quite close enough to fit in with his 
 desire to share his personal burdens with a sym- 
 pathetic friend. But David's need mastered this 
 feeling. 
 
 " I love her, Joe, with my whole heart," he said, 
 with quick, desperate resolve. 
 
 " David!" The word was a cry, sharp, pained, 
 full of surprise, doubt, incredulity. Keller sprang 
 to his feet and moved for a few steps along the 
 walk, then turned and confronted David, coming 
 slowly back to him. " Oh, boy," he said, huskily, 
 
 211 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " what's the matter with you ? What are you say- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Just the plain truth," David returned. It 
 was easy now for resolution to persist. "Does it 
 seem so hard to believe? Is it so very terrible? 
 I sha'n't tell you anything but the truth; and I'll 
 tell you all of it, every word, if you'll let me. It 
 can't surprise you or hurt you more than it has me. 
 I've been fairly stunned. I can't think straight. 
 That's why I'm asking you to help." 
 
 Keller's pipe fell from his relaxed grasp to the 
 stones, and its amber stem snapped into pieces. 
 He knelt, groping about for the fragments, then 
 arose, occupying himself for a moment in a futile 
 endeavor to fit the bits together. But his hands 
 were uncertain ; the fragments escaped one by one 
 and dropped upon the walk. He gave up the ef- 
 fort, put the beloved bowl safely away, then stood 
 with his hands plunged deep into his pockets. 
 
 " Well !" he said, heavily. He appeared like one 
 trying to rise with a great load upon him. "I 
 don't know — You've knocked me all into a 
 heap, Dave. I see stars. It seems past belief." 
 
 "I know, I know!" David cried, with straining 
 intensity. " I couldn't have believed it of myself 
 a week ago — not even yesterday. It's just hap- 
 pened to-day." 
 
 "Oh!" Keller exclaimed, relief contending with 
 anxiety in the tone. "Is that all? Why do you 
 want to scare a fellow with such a vagary ? You're 
 all worked up and excited by this affair. No won- 
 
 212 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 der you're a little crazy. Come, let's go home 
 and go to bed. You'll be saner in the morning." 
 
 But David seized the man's arm in a fierce grip, 
 holding him fast. "No, no!" he cried. "I must 
 talk now, Joe — right here and now ; and you must 
 listen and help me. I know what you think ; but 
 I'm surer than I ever was in my life before, about 
 anvthing. I'm perfectly sure. It isn't just a 
 thing of to-day. I feel as though it must have 
 begun years ago — -as though I'd been getting 
 ready for this, and for nothing else, all my life. 
 Don't you believe such things can happen?" 
 
 Keller groaned aloud in helpless distress. " You 
 boy!" 
 
 David broke into a short, rasping laugh, half 
 exasperation and half exultation. "I was a boy 
 until to-day," he said. "I've been like a five- 
 year-old playing on the floor with a lot of toys, and 
 not even dreaming that there was anything else in 
 life. But I know better now." 
 
 They were seated again upon the top of the 
 wall. Keller hooked his hands about his bent 
 knees and rocked slowly backward and forward, 
 his face upturned to the jewelled sky, deeply 
 distraught. By - and - by he said, almost curtly : 
 " What do you want of me? You don't want me 
 to argue you out of it?" 
 
 " No !" David cried, in quick impatience. " No, 
 of course I don't. But there's Ruth." 
 
 Keller's indrawn breath hissed through his 
 teeth. "Ah, yes!" he said, with a palpable 
 
 213 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 effort. "To be sure— Ruth ! Well, what about 
 Ruth?" 
 
 "Oh," David complained, "if you won't try to 
 understand I can't make you. You know well 
 enough what the trouble is." 
 
 "I might guess," Keller returned; "but you 
 said you were going to tell me everything. I can't 
 know how you feel until you tell me." 
 
 His manner was controlled now, even calm, and 
 it brought something of ease to David's intense, 
 chafing thoughts. 
 
 "Forgive me, Joe," he said, more quietly. "I 
 am excited. It's just this. I loved Ruth when I 
 came away from home, with the best love I'd ever 
 felt for any one. That last night I all but told her 
 so. She knew how I felt, as perfectly as though 
 I'd put it into plain words, every bit of it. You 
 know how it had been. I'd grown up with her, 
 and knew her for just what she was and is, one of 
 the dearest girls in the world. I didn't think of 
 anybody but her, and the best thing I dared hope 
 for was to know she cared for me. I didn't want 
 anything else. I was going to live for her, and the 
 thought of her and her love was to keep me for- 
 ever. I couldn't have believed that anything 
 could shake that feeling. But now that I've 
 known Margaret, I feel as though it had been 
 nothing but a card-house, and it's tumbled down. 
 I'm not belittling Ruth — God knows I couldn't 
 do that ! — but Margaret — I love her, and I know 
 she loves me!" 
 
 214 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Yes," Keller said, softly. "Has she told you 
 so?" 
 
 "No," David answered, readily. "But that 
 doesn't matter. To-night, when we were out 
 together, I asked her to let me speak, and she 
 wouldn't. But she knows, and I know! I said 
 as much to her as I ever did to Ruth. There's 
 no difference." 
 
 " Wait a moment!" Keller interposed. " There's 
 a mighty difference between the women." He 
 hesitated long, and when he went on it was with 
 manifest labor, every word escaping hard. " It's 
 a thankless task you're giving me, in your state 
 of mind. You aren't likely to take much stock 
 in anything I say. If I say anything, it must be 
 just what I think, without any reservations for 
 mistaken friendship's sake." 
 
 " Yes, yes!" David exclaimed, impatiently. " I 
 tell you I'm not a child now. Go on. I want 
 plain talk." 
 
 But Keller took a long time for meditating 
 upon the matter. " I shouldn't have thought it 
 possible for you to love such a woman," he said 
 at last. " Hers is about the last of all types that 
 ought to attract a man like you. It's pretty 
 nearly grotesque. But, then, the whole business 
 of sex attraction is almost terrible in the blind 
 way it works and the dreadful things that come 
 out of it. It absolutely defies all reason. The 
 worst of it is that such men as you — simple- 
 hearted, clean, honest fellows — are the ones who 
 
 21^ 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 have to suffer most. Healthy, red-blooded chaps 
 like you must fall in love with somebody, as a 
 matter of course. It's the natural outlet for your 
 ecstatic youth. In animals, that makes good 
 stock; but with men it breeds torment. Unless 
 youth has a lot of iron and granite in its will, 
 nine times in ten it will yield to the strong- 
 est sex attraction and ignore everything else; 
 and the nearest attraction is most likely to be 
 the strongest. Yes, I know, I know!" he said, 
 sharply, as David swung out his arms in a broad 
 gesture of protest. "That sounds to you like an 
 unfeeling and base view to take of your present 
 passion. But you said I was to talk straight. I 
 say it's fairly tragic, the ease with which healthy 
 young people mate. That sort of passion is very 
 adaptable, though. If a warm-blooded boy can't 
 get his first love, he easily finds another, and 
 offers her a heart that carries no visible scars 
 from his first disappointment. If anything, his 
 frenzy is only increased by waiting. Oh, I don't 
 decry frenzy, if it's governable. I like passion — 
 I like the man who has capacity for great passion, 
 if he's strong enough to keep it steadfast. If 
 he can't do that, he'd better never feel a stir 
 of it. Steadfast passion makes for happiness 
 and security, but those brief flashes only dis- 
 concert and destroy. Steadfastness is the only 
 motive worth while in a man's life, in any of its 
 phases." 
 
 "But, Joe!" David cried, quite beside himself 
 216 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 with repressed feeling. " Must I be faithful to a 
 notion after I've found out it's a mistake, just 
 because I've committed myself to it? Do you 
 think that sort of steadfastness would be likely 
 to make for happiness? Isn't it better to admit 
 the mistake decently, and start right?" 
 
 "Not quite so fast," Keller said. He was 
 almost tranquil now, though there was a fine 
 depth and breadth of earnestness in his bearing. 
 " I was just working around to what I want to 
 say. No, I shouldn't want a man to stand by a 
 discovered mistake, and go to ruin with it. That 
 would be puerile. But what strikes me as very 
 strange is the buoyant confidence of a young 
 fellow who's just found out his liability to mis- 
 takes. He seems even more cocksure than ever 
 of his security. And that isn't all. The trag- 
 edy of it is that when a man is standing within 
 the shadow of a great impending mistake, as I 
 think you're doing now, with all his enthusiasm 
 bent on it, everything outside the shadow looks 
 unreal to him. His eyes get used to the dark, 
 I suppose, and the light hurts. I feel perfectly 
 sure, Dave, that you're near making an awful 
 blunder. You're so desperately young and un- 
 tried. I don't know what to say about that 
 woman without seeming heartless and cruel. 
 You won't thank me for it. But I'll try to make 
 you see that I'm intending your good. I'll tell 
 you something, before we're through, which ought 
 to convince you of that. Even if you can't be- 
 
 217 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 lieve it, I've seen women like Miss Watson be- 
 fore—a hundred of them, with practically noth- 
 ing to choose among the lot. She's new to 
 you, that's all. That's her charm for you. I 
 know the feeling. You're just at that susceptible 
 age when woman's art is most enticing, and when 
 honest, frank simplicity of motive and behavior 
 in a woman is very apt to cheapen her for you. 
 That's the difference between Ruth and Miss 
 Watson. Now just wait! It has to be said. 
 There's no good in stopping half-way. It's per- 
 fectly plain to me that Miss Watson is one of 
 those women with whom life is an art, its least 
 action carefully thought out, all its effects well 
 considered beforehand. She's not rare, except 
 perhaps in the variety of her resources and the 
 degree of her skill in using them. Whether you 
 believe it or not, I tell you that no word or smile 
 of hers ever grows naturally out of a frank, un- 
 studied impulse; that's next to impossible. She 
 isn't wholly to blame for it ; she's a social product. 
 But that doesn't help matters a bit. The worst 
 thing that could happen to a man of your sort 
 would be to marry such a woman. You haven't 
 anything in common, and never could have. I 
 don't believe she'd ever think of going so far as 
 to marry you, or any other man in your condi- 
 tion. I'm not considering her danger, but yours. 
 She isn't in any danger. She's merely interested 
 in you because you're a novelty. That isn't the 
 feeling that marriage is built on. She's wise, 
 
 218 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 David. Even if her marrying you were con- 
 ceivable, she'd make you unspeakably wretched." 
 
 "For God's sake, Joe!" David groaned, in 
 abject dismay. "Oh, don't talk like that! You 
 don't understand at all. She's not such a woman 
 as that. I can't bear to think so. Can't you 
 say something better than that? I couldn't 
 have believed that of you. You don't know how 
 it hurts me." 
 
 "'Faithful are the wounds of a friend,'" Kel- 
 ler returned, with gentle insistence. "I'm your 
 friend, David. I don't want you to forget that 
 for a minute. Do you think I'm hurting you for 
 fun? I'd give my hand to see you happy, if that 
 would do it. That's why I'm trying to get you 
 awake to your folly. It is folly, and nothing else. 
 You're losing Ruth, a perfect angel of honesty 
 and goodness, for the remote chance of gaining a 
 woman who doesn't know the meaning of honest 
 love. Why, Ruth is so much above her — " 
 
 "Oh, don't!" David beseeched. "You're only 
 making it a thousand times harder. I wish I 
 hadn't spoken to you at all. You're not helping 
 me. Do you think I haven't considered Ruth? 
 I have — I have! If it weren't for her I shouldn't 
 hesitate an instant. But Ruth trusts me to love 
 her, after what I've said ; and now I can't. I love 
 Margaret better than all the rest of the world 
 beside. You seem to leave that out altogether. 
 You can't have known anything of what love 
 really is, and what it can do. That's what 
 
 219 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 makes it so easy for you to talk. Why, love 
 can do anything, Joe, if it's like this." 
 
 Keller did not answer at once. His idle rock- 
 ing stopped and he sat quite still, staring straight 
 before him. The silence became oppressive — a 
 heavy weight. 
 
 " Listen, boy," he said, by-and-by. " I must tell 
 you something. It will change your mind about 
 my point of view. Maybe it won't help you much, 
 right away, but you ought to know it. If it does 
 nothing else, it '11 show you that I'm not so un- 
 feeling as you think." His voice was level and 
 perfectly controlled in its even accents; he bent 
 forward, his shoulders drooping, his face supported 
 in his open palms. " I never knew before just 
 what your feeling for Ruth was," he said. "I 
 couldn't have wished anything better for you than 
 to gain her ; but I didn't know you'd really thought 
 of it until the very day you left home, and then 
 it wasn't clear; it was only a surmise. On that 
 morning I drove into town with Ruth, and on the 
 way I asked her to be my wife. She said no, of 
 course. I'd dreamed of it for a long time, trying 
 to persuade myself that I was fit for her. There 
 was a new loveliness upon her that morning. She 
 seemed perfectly happy, like a child, and there 
 was something in her eyes I'd never seen before. 
 I was foolish enough to take it to myself and let it 
 carry me away. I know now what it was. It 
 was love for you, David. You don't know what 
 you're risking. I never saw such a look on any 
 
 220 
 
WITH A DESPAIRING CRY DAVID THREW HIMSELF DOWN 
 UPON THE WALL" 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 woman's face. It was just divine. I'd give my 
 life for one such look from her, knowing it was for 
 me. Now do you wonder that I've been talking 
 plainly?" 
 
 With a despairing cry David threw himself down 
 upon the wall, covering his head with his arms, 
 his strong young body shaken by a tumult of sobs, 
 his tears coming free and unchecked. It was the 
 best relief for his pent feelings. Keller sat by, 
 waiting for the boyish grief to spend itself, not 
 offering to interfere with its course. Over the 
 tangled glitter of the city's lights the east was 
 softly aglow with a clear, prophetic radiance. 
 The man's eyes lingered upon the tender glory, 
 watching it grow and grow, until out of the silver 
 deeps rose the great moon, a globe of warm gold, 
 suffusing all the world, touching the black shad- 
 ows and spiriting them away. It was a beautiful 
 night, full of an indescribable tranquillity, and it 
 brought to the heart of the man a mighty sense of 
 reassurance, in which all lighter disturbing emo- 
 tions were sunk and lost. He was willing to let 
 that peace possess him. 
 
 David sat up, his face showing white and drawn 
 in the moonlight, his moist eyes brilliant. 
 
 "Dear little Ruth," he said, in a half-whisper. 
 He drew close to Keller's side, laying his arm over 
 the bent shoulders. "Joe," he said, gently, " I'm 
 not worthy of such a friend as you. I'm not very 
 much of a man, after all, I'm afraid. But I can't 
 see it any other way; to save my soul I can't. I 
 
 221 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 love Margaret with all the strength I have, and all 
 the rest looks poor and thin beside that. What 
 am I to do?" 
 
 "There's the impatient boy in you," Keller re- 
 turned, soberly. " You'd like to have it all settled 
 out of hand. But big things don't happen so, 
 David. I don't see anything for it but to wait. 
 Isn't a right solution worth waiting for? Come, 
 we'll go home now. You must get some rest. 
 You're nearly played out, and no wonder, dear old 
 chap. Rest is what you need more than anything 
 else just now." 
 
 They walked slowly homeward, talking of other 
 things in a dull, desultory fashion, making no 
 great pretence to sustained speech. Once in his 
 room, David undressed and threw himself upon 
 his bed in utter weariness, to fall asleep without 
 delay. But Keller sat over by the window facing 
 the east, where the moonlight covered him with 
 its soft glory, comforting his soul. He took no 
 account of time. The moon moved steadily on its 
 stealthy way towards the zenith, until its light was 
 no more than a thin band upon the window-ledge, 
 and the low rim of the horizon was melting with 
 the warmth of dawn. He fell asleep in his chair at 
 last, and did not awaken until the day's work 
 upon the street below was well begun. David 
 still slumbered heavily. Keller found a book and 
 sat down again, waiting. 
 
XX 
 
 THERE were bad days that followed for 
 David ; days of high - strung expectancy of 
 something to happen, he knew not what, that 
 would resolve and dispel his difficulties. It was 
 a primitive sort of mood — that of most men when 
 for the first time they are brought to face the 
 intricate conditions wherein good and evil, right 
 and wrong — the items in the great profit-and-loss 
 account of life— lie awaiting disentanglement, and 
 when the obligation of making choice of one or 
 another line of positive conduct becomes impera- 
 tive and sharply personal. In the stress of strong 
 action, youth's first ideas of life's values are sel- 
 dom fixed by wise, patient, courageous judgment; 
 a great deal is always expected of the god in the 
 machine — of fortune, fate, or destiny — in bringing 
 things to pass. David felt himself wholly inca- 
 pable of seizing hold upon the broken threads of 
 emotion and motive and knotting them up of his 
 own will ; that, he was vaguely sure, must be done 
 by a power other than his — a power acting through 
 him, perhaps, but still outside himself. 
 
 He fell in quite helplessly with Keller's sugges- 
 tion of waiting, though it was not a patient wait- 
 
 223 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ing; neither was there a willingness to abide by 
 the result, but rather an impetuous, overmaster- 
 ing determination that things must turn out to his 
 liking, yet with credit to his troubled conscience. 
 
 Keller did not remain in Omaha longer than 
 was necessary for the completion of his errand. 
 After two or three days he returned to his home 
 on the Elkhorn. David was not altogether sorry 
 to have him go. Generous as their confidence had 
 been, now that he was practically thrown back 
 upon his own resources David felt a curious un- 
 easiness in the man's quiet presence, as though 
 Keller's understanding of all that was in his heart, 
 his share in the trial, and his larger power of self- 
 restraint, were a definite if unspoken accusation 
 against the sincerity of his own attitude. He was 
 uneasy, chafing, hungry for consolation, yet re- 
 luctant to give any sign of his need. He did not 
 take counsel again with Keller ; neither spoke upon 
 the matter so near the hearts of both until the 
 very hour of Keller's leave - taking, when they 
 walked the station platform awaiting the signal 
 of the train's departure. 
 
 "Tell mother I'm all right, Joe, will you?" Da- 
 vid said then. "I'll be home as soon as I can 
 get away and spend a couple of days with her. 
 But I can't go this Sunday, on Watson's account. 
 I must be on hand if he needs me. He'll be out 
 soon, and then I'll make up to mother for every- 
 thing. You tell her how it is, Joe." 
 
 " All right, old man, I'll tell her," Keller assured 
 224 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 him. Then, with his foot on the car-step, he gave 
 David's hand a warm, lingering pressure. " We're 
 good friends, Dave, always. Don't let yourself 
 forget that, if you ever need my help in any way. 
 I'm mighty fond of you, and just as anxious as you 
 are to have this thing come out right; and I'm 
 sure it will, too, if you'll only keep your courage 
 and make up your mind to take the right way 
 when it's clear to you. The saving thing about 
 doubt is that it doesn't often last long, if only a 
 man's perfectly honest with himself. Good-bye. 
 If you need me, say so. Good-bye!" 
 
 David's meetings with Margaret were very fre- 
 quent in those few days. It could not have been 
 otherwise, while necessity took him continually to 
 Watson's rooms, save as she might have avoided 
 him deliberately. But there was no avoidance; 
 there was no change at all in her attitude towards 
 him. On the day following their visit to Mrs. 
 Akin, she met him with her usual serenity, as 
 though nothing had occurred to cause embarrass- 
 ment or to vary their former relations. If there 
 was any constraint it was all on David's part, but 
 it speedily vanished before her calm self-posses- 
 sion. He had not been able to forecast her be- 
 havior or his own after the events of that night; 
 he was glad to find her tacitly ignoring them and 
 abating nothing of her frankness, giving no sign 
 that she desired anything but a continuance of 
 their old cordial friendship, allowing the present 
 to suffice for just now and the future to care for 
 is 225 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 itself. He welcomed the sense of freedom which 
 this gave him — not that he doubted in the least, 
 but only that he would be doubly sure. 
 
 And as he encountered her from day to day, 
 entering each time into some fresh realization and 
 enjoyment of her great beauty, getting a new 
 understanding of her subtler charm and power, 
 and not denying himself the right to see and feel 
 to the utmost, he found that what might have 
 been at first only an emotional impulse was be- 
 coming an absolute conviction. He loved her. 
 No lesser word would take the place of " love" in 
 his thoughts; and he determined that he would 
 one day ask her to be his wife. 
 
 And Ruth? He resolved that he would not 
 keep cowardly silence with Ruth, though he 
 knew not what he could say to her. Their un- 
 derstanding had been definite enough in spirit, 
 though wholly intangible in terms; not one ex- 
 plicit word of pledge had passed between them 
 to afford him a clear right to go to her now with 
 explanation. But it must come somehow; his 
 honest love of justice, no less than his great regard 
 for her, would discover a way to make all plain. 
 Though his distress recurred again and again, he 
 was always able to dismiss it with that assurance ; 
 and in the intervals there was the living, com- 
 forting certainty of his love for Margaret — a cer- 
 tainty that would not keep company with doubt. 
 
 New thoughts came to him — thoughts of a 
 larger future than he had ever dreamed of. He 
 
 226 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 must build in a way worthy of Margaret, and 
 so show himself worthy of her. It had been all 
 so different with Ruth; she had seemed to make 
 no demand upon him to do great things or to be 
 other than what he was. He would have been 
 to her only David, her husband; she would have 
 been to him only Ruth, his wife — a sweet com- 
 panion, a comfort, even a joy, but surely not an 
 inspiration to the splendid achievements possible 
 to manhood. She would have been content had 
 he crowned her with field flowers ; but he must 
 win jewels for Margaret. 
 
 Before the end of a week Watson was around 
 again, weak of body, peevishly irascible of tem- 
 per, but bent upon taking up his work. On 
 the morning of his return to his desk his 
 pleasure was noticeable despite his nervous irri- 
 tability. 
 
 " I can't stand it, Boughton, to be obliged to 
 lie quiet in a dark room and meditate," he de- 
 clared. " That self-examination business is out 
 of my line. I hate myself too much, to begin 
 with. I want to keep busy on something else 
 and forget myself. I've heard people say they 
 were at their spiritual best in those contemplative 
 hours alone ; but they're different from me. The 
 thoughts I have at such times are like toads and 
 spiders — I'd rather have 'em stay in their holes. 
 I nearly went crazy this week, lying there and lift- 
 ing the closed hatchways of my soul and letting 
 out the ugly brood to hop and crawl over my bed. 
 
 227 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 No, sir! The only time when I feel safe is when 
 I'm in action — busy, busy, busy!" 
 
 He attacked his work with a desperate, grim 
 energy ; but his strength was not equal to sustain- 
 ed application. After an hour's trial he gave it 
 up with an angry exclamation of disgust, throw- 
 ing his book into a corner. 
 
 "It makes me sick! I'm getting old and 
 played out and no account. Pick up that book, 
 will you, and put it away." 
 
 He lounged back in his chair, his huge figure 
 limply relaxed, his eyes aglow with a savage re- 
 vulsion against his weakness. He took up his 
 ivory paper-cutter and bent it between his fingers 
 until it snapped in two, then dropped the pieces 
 deliberately into the waste-basket and delivered a 
 sharp kick, sending the basket flying across the 
 room, scattering its rubbish over the floor. 
 
 "I'm in a sweet frame of mind for a grown 
 man," he roared. " I wish there was somebody 
 to give me a sound licking and straighten me 
 out. Why don't you do it?" 
 
 But David was pleased to find him in this 
 humor. He wanted to talk, and wanted the talk 
 to be plain, free of all mistaken mildness or con- 
 siderate refinements of expression. 
 
 "Mr. Watson," he said, abruptly, "I've been 
 thinking about the future — my own future, I 
 mean — trying to see into it a little; but it isn't 
 clear. I've been wondering if you can't help 
 me some." 
 
 228 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 Watson's restless fidgeting ceased as he scowled 
 into the young face. 
 
 "What's worrying you?" he asked, dully. 
 "Future? What do you care about the future? 
 You'd better let it alone. I never knew any 
 good to come of meddling with it." 
 
 " But it's time I'm making up my mind what 
 I'm going to do with myself," David returned, 
 earnestly. " I must begin to think about a de- 
 fined career. I'm getting past the trifling age." 
 
 Watson's scowl persisted. " Fudge!" he snort- 
 ed. " A career ! What's the good of that ? Why, 
 look at me! I ought to be a warning to you not 
 to get that notion stuck in your crop. I've had 
 a career. When I was your age I set out to be 
 somebody and amount to something, and I made 
 everything serve that end. Now look at me ! My 
 life's gone, except for a few gray years that I'd 
 be glad to chuck after the rest, and I haven't 
 got one decent thing to show for it. I haven't 
 shirked, nor I haven't played the coward or the 
 scoundrel; I've worked hard and fought des- 
 perately to win something that I thought would 
 be worth while; yet all I've got is a sense of 
 failure and disgust with the whole business — just 
 a sick taste in my mouth. Is that what you 
 want? I'll lay odds of a hundred to one that's 
 what you'll get, if you keep on as you're begin- 
 ning." 
 
 He paused, amusing himself for a time by 
 swinging around in his chair, making the springs 
 
 229 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 creak beneath his weight, his impatience gather- 
 ing an added vehemence as the noise rasped his 
 nerves. 
 
 "You were a fool to leave home in the first 
 place, with the thought of bettering yourself," 
 he said, harshly. "If you'll listen to me, you'll 
 go back there and stay. That's where you be- 
 long." 
 
 "But, Mr. Watson — " David began, in remon- 
 strance. But Watson cut him short. 
 
 "There's no 'but' about it. You invite me to 
 say it when you begin talking such twaddle. 
 You're a fool, a whole fool, and nothing but a 
 fool. Oh, I know what you think. You'd like 
 to remind me of this Senate business, as a worthy 
 end to a hard life, and all that. Rot ! As if that 
 counted! I'm going to the Senate, but it's only 
 a drowning man's last hopeless effort to save 
 himself. I know in advance what it '11 cost me. 
 I'll suffer agony and get nothing but bitterness 
 and an increased distrust. There isn't one of 
 these fawning political friends of mine that 
 wouldn't betray and sell me out in a minute if 
 he could do it at a profit. That isn't what I've 
 been hunting for in life. Would you be willing 
 to trade places with me and take my cards and 
 play them out and abide by the result? Do 
 you think I wouldn't swap? I'd give the whole 
 six years, and all their glory and reward, for just 
 one single day of the sort of life that you're so 
 anxious to quit. You don't know what you're 
 
 230 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 giving up — freedom, the work most worthy of a 
 man, the certainty of earned rewards, and the 
 chance of coming to the end of a decent, happy 
 life in self-respecting content. In God's name, 
 Boughton, what more than that do you want? 
 I know how you feel. I felt the same way once. 
 I chose the part you're choosing, and I've seen it 
 through, the best I knew how, and I tell you 
 there's no good in it. How can there be? It's 
 artificial and vain and stupidly false from be- 
 ginning to end. Can't you see the harm it's 
 done right here in Nebraska? What's the good 
 in this State of a big, overgrown scheme of 
 politics and laws? All it does is to fatten a lot 
 of parasitic politicians and lawyers. We'd be a 
 lot better off here on the prairies if we had no 
 laws but the Ten Commandments, and if the 
 whole gang of lawyers and law-makers were com- 
 pelled to go to work and earn their living like 
 men. And look at Omaha! Could anything be 
 more artificial or more abjectly silly than to set 
 about building a metropolitan city in the mid- 
 dle of these farms ? A hundred thousand people, 
 where thirty thousand would be more than enough 
 for all the real work there is to do now. A 
 market-place — that's all the farmers need here 
 right now. They're supporting seventy thou- 
 sand useless people just for the sake of being in 
 the fashion and having a metropolis. And now 
 you want to join the seventy thousand and have 
 what you call a 'career,' and make the people 
 
 231 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 pay for it. I'd like to know what right you have 
 to ask them to do it. It's a mighty narrow, 
 selfish desire; it isn't even respectable, except 
 by a powerful stretching of some of the good 
 old standards of behavior. A man ought to be 
 dead sure of his call before he essays that role. 
 You don't seem to be sure. If you were you 
 wouldn't be coming to me for counsel." 
 
 David had sat quite helpless under the rushing 
 fall of words. He could only wait until Watson's 
 strange fury had spent itself. Curiously enough 
 he felt no resentment; his mind seemed suddenly 
 to lack even enough of elasticity to be resentful. 
 
 " But I am sure," he declared, after a moment. 
 "You misjudge me altogether. There's other 
 work in the world besides the sort I've known — 
 good work, too, that a man needn't be ashamed 
 of, and that's what I want to have a hand in. I'm 
 no drone, and don't mean to be. I want to be of 
 some real use. I want a bigger usefulness than I 
 had at home. That's perfectly respectable, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " A bigger usefulness?" Watson echoed. " Such 
 as what? If a man's going to be useful he must 
 minister to some real need of his fellows. That's 
 the only way. What's your idea? To feed the 
 hungry? How can you do that any better than 
 by raising wheat — making the earth fruitful ? Or 
 to reform the world's morals? How can you do 
 that any better than by setting a plain, easy ex- 
 ample of manly righteousness? We've already 
 
 232 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 got too far away from first principles — from the 
 sound morality of the soil ; we're breaking all our 
 contacts with nature as fast as we can, when we 
 ought to know that nature is the only possible 
 source of health. The world's morals won't be 
 reformed until we repair the breaks. We've got 
 to set our feet on the soil again. You had no 
 business to leave it for a share in this big, false, 
 crazy scheme of modern life. I left it and I'm 
 paying the price, and trying not to whine because 
 I'm finding the price too high. It's too late for 
 me to turn back now; but I'll call it square if I 
 can prevent your following after me. Haven't 
 you seen enough? Do you suppose it '11 be a joy 
 to me to win out in the legislature and take my 
 senatorship, with that good old man's blood in my 
 memory? And that's just one little part of what 
 these days are bringing me. The best thing you 
 can possibly do, while your soul's still fresh, is to 
 go back home and stay there, and do your work 
 and live your life and be sure of yourself. That's 
 too much to surrender for a breathless chase after 
 a flying shadow. For Heaven's sake, boy, give it 
 up and go back!" 
 
 But David shook his head, his lips set, his eyes 
 unyielding. 
 
 "No. I can't see it that way at all," he said, 
 stoutly. " I don't believe it's inevitable that I 
 must suffer your disappointment, just because I 
 want to cut loose from the farm and do work that 
 I think I'm better fitted for." 
 
 233 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Well, what's that?" Watson cut in. "What 
 is it you want to do?" 
 
 David flushed under the direct question. 
 "That's where I want your help," he confessed, 
 frankly. "I'm not sure of the means, but I want 
 to win a place in life where I can use my powers 
 and have standing and recognition. Maybe I'm 
 not such a hopeless fool as you think. I've learn- 
 ed honesty, for one thing, and I think I know how 
 to apply it in other ways besides following the 
 plough. I want to be more with men than I 
 could be out there in the fields ; I want to mix with 
 them and influence them and have a hand in af- 
 fairs and make a reputation for myself by-and- 
 by — not just a name, but a good reputation. That 
 isn't just vanity. I'm not vain. For one thing, 
 I want my mother to know she has a son who can 
 do the things other men are doing in the world. 
 And besides," he continued, with brave deter- 
 mination, "I'll have a wife some day, most likely, 
 and I want to make a place for her." 
 
 " Ah!" Watson breathed with a sharp wince of 
 pain. " A wife, eh? That's the idea, is it? Well, 
 that — I reckon that puts me out of the discussion. 
 I can't argue that point with you." 
 
 "Oh!" David said, in contrition. "I didn't 
 think. Forgive me. I'm sorry if I've hurt you." 
 
 "All right," Watson returned, with a gesture of 
 dismissal. "Never mind. I wish you joy, on 
 general principles, and we'll let it go at that." He 
 gave himself up to silence for a time, his chin sunk 
 
 234 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 upon his breast, his heavy features twitching ; then 
 a sigh swelled his broad chest. "All right," he 
 repeated. "I'll take it for granted you know 
 your own mind, in a general way. I understand 
 pretty well, I reckon. If you're really bent on it, 
 you'd better see a little of how the game's played 
 before you put up your own chips. You ought to 
 meet some different kinds of men and get on to 
 their pretty little ways. I'll tell you what I'll 
 do — I'll take you to Washington as my secretary, 
 if you like. That '11 be good training, and maybe 
 open the way to something you want. How does 
 that suit you?" 
 
 David glowed with the warmth of quick enthu- 
 siasm, and his hand was outstretched in a grati- 
 tude he could not put into words. Watson took 
 the offered hand and pressed it, while upon his 
 face there gathered an expression of unwonted 
 gentleness. 
 
 " Yes, you're a fool," he insisted. " But you're 
 of an interesting kind. That's something in your 
 favor." 
 
 True to his promise to Keller, David planned to 
 spend the following Saturday and Sunday at 
 home. He hoped that a couple of quiet days with 
 his mother would abate his agitation somewhat 
 and enable him to take a calmer view of the mat- 
 ters that were pressing upon him for decision. He 
 did not mean to take her wholly into his confi- 
 dence just yet; he would not tell her of Margaret; 
 that would only cause her distress, while effecting 
 
 235 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 nothing — there was nothing but uncertainty to 
 lay before her. After the constant manner of 
 self-reliant youth, he did not want to seek advice 
 which might go contrary to his desires, unformed 
 as those desires were; he wished first to get his 
 plan of conduct clearly outlined, and then to 
 have it approved. The most that he wanted 
 now was a renewed assurance of his mother's 
 faith in him. 
 
 He hoped, too, that there would be a chance to 
 talk with Ruth, and that a way would open for 
 letting her understand what was in his mind. It 
 must come some time, and only when it was finally 
 accomplished could he settle again to his work 
 with real zest. But on Friday a letter came to 
 him from Ruth, bringing him a half-conscious re- 
 lief. Its tone was that of all the letters that had 
 passed between them — a tone of generous warmth 
 of understanding, with love taken for granted, 
 running elusively between the lines, though its 
 definite expression seemed by common consent to 
 be held in abeyance against a possible day to 
 come. The letter ran: 
 
 " Dear David, — Good-bye ! There, doesn't that make 
 you feel bad? Well, you deserve to suffer, you've been 
 so dreadfully remiss yourself. It's three weeks, almost, 
 since you've been here. And now you aren't going to 
 see me for a long time — oh, ever and ever so long! 
 Not until after New Year's! I'm going away to-night, 
 back to my uncle's in Illinois, to be gone a whole month. 
 And why, do you think? Because the doctor says I 
 must. He says I'm tired and need a change. Isn't 
 
 236 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 that a good joke — big, healthy, busy Me ordered to take 
 a rest, just like a common, lazy, rich person! But I'm 
 going. It has been a hard year; harder than I realized 
 until the work was all done and out of the way, and I 
 had time to stop and think. I've had headaches and 
 nerves for two weeks. Mother's going, too, and we're 
 going to leave the place with a housekeeper. There, 
 now, don't cry. I'll be back after a while, and in the 
 mean time you can write to me, if you want to. Now 
 here's the wagon for our trunks. Good-bye! 
 
 "Ruth. 
 
 "P.S. — Yes, there must be a 'P.S.,'of course. This 
 is honest — real honest-true: I'm very sorry not to have 
 a chance to see you and tell you how fine you are. Just 
 to read about any man doing such a thing would have 
 been good enough; but then to know that it was really 
 and truly you, David! Now you'll just have to guess 
 at the rest of what I'd like to say, for I'm not going to 
 say it — not now. R." 
 
 This message seemed almost like a reprieve. It 
 was not a pleasant task he must perform ; not one 
 to be coveted and hastened. 
 
 Free of that embarrassment, his visit home was 
 happy and inspiriting. He was forced to take a 
 new role among the people of the quiet neighbor- 
 hood — the role of hero, because of his performance 
 on that eventful night. With unfeigned modesty 
 he sought to avert their awkward adulation ; but 
 it left a grateful flavor, nevertheless, and this was 
 heightened when he saw his mother's frank, gen- 
 uine pride in him — -a pride in which Uncle Billy 
 was a close sharer, though he affected to rid- 
 icule. 
 
 237 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " 'Mighty!" he scoffed. "I reckon now you'll 
 be quittin' the law, won't you, an' goin' onto the 
 stage? That's where all these here prize-fighters 
 wind up. We'll be seein' your picture on the 
 play-bills, an' you'll be comin' out on the plat- 
 form in pink tights an' showin' 'em how you 
 pitched in an' licked ten thousand men all to 
 oncet, with one eye tied behind you. Our little 
 Dave!" 
 
 After some futile remonstrance, David submit- 
 ted and let them say what they liked, taking it 
 all in good part, knowing so well what it meant. 
 They were pleasant days. 
 
 His long-delayed talk with his mother was all 
 that could have been desired. They sat together 
 in the quiet of her room, after the late Sunday 
 dinner, until the afternoon hours slipped into 
 evening dusk, he rehearsing with irrepressible en- 
 thusiasm the story of his little achievements and 
 bolder plans, holding back only one thing — the 
 thing which, above all others, was nearest and 
 greatest in interest, she placidly listening, putting 
 in a gentle word now and then, but for the most 
 part content with the mere fact of her mother- 
 hood and the present possession of a strong, good 
 son. That was enough for her; better than any 
 of the things upon which he dwelt so insistently. 
 Out of her very silence he gained a new strength, 
 a certainty that he would be equal to whatever 
 was in store. 
 
 "Washington seems like it's a long ways off," 
 238 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 she said, "but I don't want you to be afraid I'm 
 going to mind that too much. I'll miss you, of 
 course, but I'll know you're there; and, then, 
 thinking about those you love always somehow 
 makes them seem close. It's all right, son, and 
 I'll be perfectly happy." 
 
 Wanting the stimulus of his campaign, Watson 
 must have succumbed to his physical ailment, 
 which weighed heavily upon him ; but the con- 
 sciousness of facing a large task sustained him 
 through trying, weary days. His health was sadly 
 broken, but his will was that of a born fighter and 
 would not yield. Between the innate love of con- 
 flict and his acquired distrust of the men who were 
 abetting him, he would delegate nothing to an- 
 other which he could do for himself. Day after 
 day he was at his desk, indefatigable, indomitable, 
 meeting riff-raff and gentry turn about with a 
 marvellous adroitness and power of adaptability, 
 bending them to his purpose, and, like every true 
 fighter, sustained less by the thought of approach- 
 ing victory than by the lurking possibility of 
 defeat. So long as there was a remote chance 
 of defeat he took a savage delight in the strug- 
 gle, but as the day approached for the assem- 
 bling of the legislature he became curiously apa- 
 thetic. 
 
 "It's too easy," he complained. "It's prac- 
 tically all over now, except the formal vote, and I 
 haven't had half the fun I've paid for. There 
 isn't a man in the contest with any real political 
 
 239 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 genius. They're a lot of dubs. I know what the 
 matter is — I miss Bronson. I wish to Heaven he 
 wasn't in jail. He's an infamous scoundrel and 
 all that, but he certainly does play a stiff hand in 
 politics, and that's the sort of fellow I like to have 
 on the other side of the table. These other chaps 
 know enough, but they lack nerve, and mere skill 
 is no good in anything unless a man has the nerve 
 to back it up. If murder was a bailable offence, 
 I'd be glad to go on Bronson' s bond just to get 
 him out and have a good, swift scrap on my hands. 
 As it is, I might as well be fighting a ladies' aid 
 society." 
 
 So great was his assurance and so correspond- 
 ingly small his interest that he even refrained al- 
 together from attending upon the legislature. 
 The details of organization aroused in him only 
 a passive sort of curiosity, and upon the day fixed 
 for the first ballot in the matter of the senatorship 
 he was at his desk as usual, busy over a mass of 
 papers in a new case. 
 
 In the middle of the afternoon a telegram was 
 brought to him. He read it with no show of feel- 
 ing beyond a short, mirthless laugh, then gave it 
 to David. 
 
 "Congratulations," it said, succinctly. "We 
 win with twenty- two votes to burn." 
 
 David's blood was less cool ; he felt it rise to his 
 cheeks and throb in his temples, and his laugh 
 held all that Watson's had lacked. 
 
 " Well !" he said, heartily, his strong hand grasp- 
 240 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ing Watson's shoulder. " How do you feel now, 
 Senator? Won't you let me congratulate you, 
 too? Now, don't you really think that's worth 
 winning?" 
 
 Watson turned again to his desk, taking up the 
 document he had been reading, slowly smoothing 
 out the creases in the stiff paper. 
 
 "Oh, I guess so — maybe," he said. "That re- 
 mains to be seen." He laid the paper down again, 
 leaning back in his chair and raising his eyes to 
 David's. " Yes ; on the whole, I'm glad of it. It's 
 the first thing I've really wanted in years that 
 wasn't clear out of my reach. It '11 give me some 
 hard work to do, anyway, and that's what I want. 
 Besides, I'm really glad on your account. I've 
 been thinking a lot about you, Boughton, and I 
 shouldn't wonder if this would be good for you. 
 You'll make a lot of friends among some big men 
 — good, strong, human people — and, whatever 
 comes afterwards, such friends won't be amiss. 
 If you like, you can just consider it settled that 
 you're going with me." 
 
 A messenger boy entered, laying another tele- 
 gram before Watson, who tore open the envelope 
 and glanced hastily at the yellow sheet, then read 
 it over again slowly, and as though it required a 
 distinct effort, the color fading from his face, his 
 big hand shaking. 
 
 "Oh, good God, Boughton!" he cried. "This 
 isn't for me. I didn't look. It's for you. Who 
 is Dan? Isn't he your brother?" 
 16 241 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 He stretched out his hand and took David's 
 into a firm clasp, holding it fast while David bent 
 over his shoulder to read : 
 
 "Dan kicked by horse. Badly hurt. Can live but 
 few hours. Joseph S. Keller." 
 
XXI 
 
 ALTHOUGH the year had clung tenaciously 
 A to the milder mood of autumn, prolonging 
 it far beyond lawful seasonal bounds, as a man 
 indulges himself in postponing an unpleasant 
 duty, it had become resolved at last, and in the 
 true prairie fashion had plunged headlong, though 
 with a gasp and a shudder, into the cold depths 
 of midwinter. It was a winter landscape through 
 which David's train sped westward towards Wa- 
 terloo in the gray end of the afternoon. Snow 
 had begun to fall an hour before, driven by a 
 rising wind; already the lower hollows were 
 choked with it; the dead weed-clusters standing 
 along the railway were gathering little mounds 
 of white about their roots ; and the uneven surfaces 
 of the ploughed fields caught at their share, hid- 
 ing it jealously in chinks and crannies among the 
 clods — thrifty accumulations of treasure against 
 the needs of later time. Over all a winter sky 
 lowered close. 
 
 David's thoughts were in keeping with the 
 prospect before his eyes — sombre, chilled, stiffen- 
 ed. They were without order; he had lost the 
 will to arrange them and keep them in orderly 
 
 243 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 line; he had lost even the power to suffer their 
 pain — for anguish bears always its own anodyne, 
 blunting the susceptibility of the senses till they 
 can endure. David was not anguished. A strange, 
 heavy calm possessed him, oppressed him. One 
 impression recurred again and again, like the 
 beating of a sluggish pulse : Dan must die — might 
 even now be dead — -and the meanings and values 
 of life must be changed. 
 
 Keller awaited him at Waterloo. A glance at 
 the man's face sufficed. 
 
 "Oh, Joe!" he cried. "Am I too late?" 
 
 Keller made no attempt to soften the fact. 
 "Yes, Dave; too late to see him alive. He died 
 even before I got to town with my telegram. He 
 lived less than an hour after he was hurt." 
 
 He drew his arm through David's, and they 
 went out across the common to where a blanketed 
 team stood in readiness. He kept silence through 
 the hurried minutes of preparing for the drive; 
 but when they were out upon the home- road he 
 volunteered a quiet, further word : 
 
 " It's just as well. It wouldn't have done any 
 good to get here sooner, except for your mother's 
 sake. He wasn't conscious at all. The black 
 mare kicked him on the back of the head, fractur- 
 ing his skull, and then trampled him underfoot. 
 He was beyond all help. But he didn't suffer 
 at all, as he would if he'd been conscious." 
 
 "And what about mother?" 
 
 " She bears it well. She's a wonderfully brave 
 244 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 woman. You needn't be anxious about her. All 
 she wants now is to have you at home." 
 
 At the end of the drive, David leaped from his 
 seat and hurried up the long pathway through 
 the snow - laden shrubbery, entering the hall, 
 casting aside his coat, and kicking the snow from 
 his feet. There was an ominous hush in the 
 house, though many people were about, kindly 
 neighbor-folk come to minister to fancied needs. 
 One of these women came forward to meet him, 
 but he hardly attended to her greeting. 
 
 "Where's mother?" he asked; and when the 
 question was answered he ran up-stairs to his 
 mother's room. 
 
 She was alone, lying upon her bed. With a 
 great cry she arose and threw herself into his arms, 
 clinging to him, hiding her face upon his breast. 
 
 "Oh, my boy, my boy!" It was a cry em- 
 bracing the whole range of the mighty passion 
 of motherhood — unfathomable joy in his living 
 presence, unfathomable sorrow in the presence 
 of death, with an unfathomable love over all. 
 She raised her face to his; and then, as never 
 before, he saw her w T ondrous strength. There 
 was no least sign of bitterness; she seemed to 
 know a depth of calm which no earthly bereave- 
 ment could sound or disturb. Her lips were 
 perfectly controlled; in her clear eyes was the 
 lambent light he loved so well, not dimmed, but 
 shining with a new radiance. Pain and grief 
 and loss were there, but her faith was greater 
 
 245 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 than her agony; and as he met her look, some- 
 thing of her courage entered his own soul. 
 
 They sat down side by side, his arms about her, 
 holding her close, while he pressed tender kisses 
 upon her forehead, her eyes, and her lips, like 
 an ardent lover; and she rested content as in a 
 lover's embrace. 
 
 "Have you heard all about it, son?" she asked, 
 by-and-by. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "Joe told me how it 
 happened — all I need to know. What is there 
 for me to do? Have you made any plan yet?" 
 
 "We were just waiting for you," she returned, 
 quietly. "There's not much to plan. I think 
 we'll bury him to-morrow afternoon, with just 
 a few of the neighbors in, so there'll be nobody 
 to make us feel strange. Don't you think that's 
 best? Of course we can't help there being some 
 sorrow at a funeral; but I don't want to make 
 any more show of it than has to be. I've been 
 thinking it all over, lying here. If I could, I'd 
 want to have it cheerful, like we thought we 
 were only saying good-bye to him and sending 
 him away to have a good time for a little while, 
 till we can come, too. That's all it is, son." She 
 took his big, strong hand between her own, 
 caressing it, holding it against her breast. " That's 
 all it is. I know it. The neighbors all know 
 how we loved each other, and we won't have 
 to pretend to the kind of sorrow we don't feel. 
 Why, I don't believe I've cried a bit, and I don't 
 
 246 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 believe I'm going to. That isn't the way I feel. 
 I think we'll just have Mr. Kennedy come in and 
 talk to us a little, and that's all. I think that's 
 enough, don't you?" 
 
 The usual simple routine of the household was 
 not altered. The mother descended to the 
 kitchen after a time, and, against the protests of 
 the neighbor - women, helped to prepare supper, 
 going about with her accustomed light, brisk 
 step, and taking her own place at the head of the 
 table. If there was any change from the spirit 
 of other days, it was not in depression, but 
 rather in a rare exaltation. Old Uncle Billy 
 was even wrought to a high pitch of half-humor- 
 ous appreciation of the event, and seemed to feel 
 that he must contribute his part towards sus- 
 taining this wonderful spiritual effect. 
 
 "Say," he observed over his coffee-cup, "I 
 don't believe the next world's goin' to be so 
 mighty dif'rent from this 'n. I've had lots o' 
 time to think about it, since I was young; an' 
 I shouldn't wonder if we'd just wake up an' go 
 on about our business pretty much like we been 
 doin' here. Why shouldn't we? Ain't this good 
 enough? If we don't, I know I'm goin' to be 
 powerful homesick. I got so used to this. Come 
 mornin' o' the Last Day, I ain't goin' to feel one 
 speck to home unless I can go limpin' up side- 
 ways to'ards the throne, totin' a couple o' milk- 
 buckets, an' set 'em down in the sink an' say to 
 some o' the women-angels that's hangin' 'round, 
 
 247 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 'Now, gimme my breakfast, quick, before I got 
 to go out an' 'tend to the horses.' I'd lots rather 
 have it that way, too. I know I never could get 
 used to loafin' an' havin' no chores. 'Twouldn't 
 be me. An' Dan was a good deal that way, too. 
 Yes, sir; I reckon we're goin' to be happy there 
 pretty much the same way we are here, except 
 mebbe a man '11 know better how to do his part." 
 
 At a later hour, when the kitchen had been 
 made tidy for the night, and the neighbors had 
 gone to their homes, David and his mother stood 
 together beside the dead. 
 
 "We'll tell him our good-bye to-night, just us 
 two," she had said. " It '11 seem more natural, 
 somehow, and not so much like anything but 
 good-night, because he was alive this morning." 
 
 The young body was splendidly stalwart in 
 bulk and line, just as in life. There was a deep, 
 wholesome tan upon the face, concealing death's 
 pallor; and death had wrought no change in the 
 fine, strong set of the features. In the man who 
 lives out-of-doors, close to the heart of the world, 
 and in league with it, the change from life to 
 death is not great; it seems not a catastrophe, a 
 terrible break in the divinely ordered harmony, 
 but only a passing note, holding in suspension 
 deeper and broader harmonies yet to be sounded. 
 Death had touched this face; but the touch had 
 been kindly, softening, .and nothing more. 
 
 The mother stood looking upon it long and 
 tranquilly, her hands loosely folded before her, 
 
 248 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 her own face unimpassioned ; then at last she 
 bent and kissed the still lips. At the touch a 
 ragged sigh escaped her, that deepened into a 
 moan. 
 
 "Just one tear for my boy — my man-child!" 
 she sobbed; and then the tears came in a strong, 
 warm, living flood. She knelt and wept without 
 restraint. When the passion was over, David 
 raised her to her feet and dried her eyes as 
 though he were caring for a child. 
 
 "I didn't mean to give way," she said. "It 
 was weak, maybe; but he was my first-born. 
 You don't know what that means — no man does, 
 or can. It's the very first sign that Heaven 
 gives to a woman that her own mission in the 
 world is to be fulfilled. It's a different feeling, 
 somehow, from every other. That was what 
 made me cry; it wasn't just because I was weak." 
 She smiled bravely up into his troubled eyes. 
 "That's all. I'll not do it any more. We'll 
 go to bed now, son, and rest up for to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "Go thy way; thy son liveth." So spoke the 
 village preacher to the listening soul of the mother. 
 He made but a poor figure, standing by the 
 window in the full afternoon light; shabby, 
 awkward, grown old before his time, made almost 
 abject by long uncertainty of himself and his 
 work; he was not a man to be picked from a 
 crowd as a chosen messenger of God. In the 
 
 249 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 first few moments his habitual timidity weighed 
 heavily upon him, so that he halted and stumbled 
 in his slurring speech, as he faced the people and 
 felt that they were appraising him, in old human 
 fashion taking account of his manner and words 
 rather than of his thought. Then his eyes en- 
 countered the mother-eyes and held to them ; his 
 drooping shoulders lifted, and he spoke steadfast- 
 ly to her alone. 
 
 "Go thy way; thy son liveth. We call death 
 a sad mystery, because we cannot understand; 
 yet it is no more a mystery than life. The 
 mystery is not in life or in death, for these are 
 familiar facts, but in the purpose of Him who 
 ordains both. To that we are blind, save as we 
 have faith that it is wise and good. He has His 
 plan, and He carries it out, while we laugh and 
 weep. If we could see the end, no doubt we 
 should see that we have laughed and wept always 
 at the wrong times ; but if He meant us to see, we 
 should not be blind. He sees, and is not that 
 enough? Death, no less than life, is a part of 
 His plan, and therefore wise and good and 
 beautiful. Yesterday we said that this man 
 lived; in his vigorous youth he seemed so much 
 alive that he made us share in his joy of life. 
 To-day we call him dead, sorrowing because his 
 death seems to us untimely, the promise of his 
 youth and strength unredeemed. Yet it came to 
 pass at the appointed time. Not one of us can 
 ever say with certainty of his life and work, it is 
 
 250 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 finished. To us the death of any man seems un- 
 timely while he has strength and purpose and the 
 will to work. But the task God has set for us 
 He will let us do, and death is His sign that it is 
 done. It is all included in His design, and there 
 are no accidents, and nothing goes wrong. Be- 
 lieving this, we need fear neither life nor death. 
 We live but to die : that is only a half - truth. 
 The rest of it is that we die but to live again. In 
 the beginning was life, and the end shall be life; 
 for God, the soul of all, is not dead, but living. 
 ' I am the resurrection and the life.' ' Let not 
 your heart be troubled.' Sometime, somewhere, 
 somehow, we shall know. ' If it were not so, I 
 would have told you.' Go thy way, dear mother 
 of the dead; thy son liveth!" 
 
 In the evening of that day David and his 
 mother sat long together before an open fire in 
 the sitting-room at home, borrowing of its cheer 
 and talking calmly of many things. 
 
 " There need be no break in your plans, David," 
 she said. " I want you to keep on with them. 
 Dan was a farmer; he liked the farm and would 
 have kept it up, and while he lived I felt that 
 way, too — I suppose because this had been home 
 so long. But now it's different, and there's no 
 reason why you should go on with it. I know 
 you'll consider me; but the best way to do that 
 is just to consider your own wishes. I shall be 
 happy anywhere, if I know you're doing what 
 
 251 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 you most want, and I couldn't be happy other- 
 wise. I mean just that, son." 
 
 The speech touched the vital centre of his 
 thoughts. He had wondered what she would say, 
 and he listened intently. Yet when it was said, 
 and the chance was his, he did not feel the ela- 
 tion he had expected. She would not stand in 
 his way; but did he want her to get out of his 
 way? In spite of her assurance, he knew where 
 her greatest happiness lay. Long afterwards he 
 was glad to remember that his answer came at 
 once and without reserve. 
 
 "I'm going to stay right here with you, mother, 
 for a while. This is where I seem to belong just 
 now, more than anywhere else. There's no hurry, 
 even if I decide that I want to stick to the law. 
 We'll just live along here, and I'll run the farm 
 in Dan's place till we see what comes. That's 
 settled. Now don't you fret about me. I'm 
 not giving up anything; there's lots of time." 
 
 And, indeed, after the stress and strain of the 
 eventful weeks preceding, his return to the labor 
 of the farm promised a vast relief. Here at least 
 were no complexities, no puzzles; here at least 
 the day's motives and the day's work were plain. 
 
 He had one long talk with Watson, explaining 
 the new obligations that were laid upon him. He 
 did not speak of a final surrender of his plan, but 
 only of letting it lie in abatement for a time, until 
 conditions might be adjusted and he could take it 
 up again without fear of the emotional complica- 
 
 252 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 tions that would be likely to follow a neglect of 
 obvious present duty; and Watson heartily ap- 
 proved. 
 
 "The place is yours when you're ready," he 
 said ; " so take your own time. You've chosen the 
 right course, and you can take my word for it that 
 you won't be sorry." 
 
 David collected his few belongings from the 
 office and his boarding-house, and when that was 
 done he went in some trepidation to say good-bye 
 to Margaret ; but she was gone out for the day, and 
 he returned to Waterloo without seeing her. It 
 was better so, he told himself. In his relaxed con- 
 dition of mind, he was perfectly willing to let the 
 whole matter rest until he should have time to 
 collect himself. He was even a little curious to 
 try the experiment of separation from her, to see 
 what it would effect. Already he felt a quieting 
 of the long, passionate tumult. It was not a re- 
 action, a lessening of desire, but only a lull, a long- 
 er look forward, and a subjugation of his madness 
 of impatience. He wrote to her once — a boyish 
 letter, though its expressions of feeling were stu- 
 diously moderate — and she replied in a letter that 
 was to him a more complete revelation of herself 
 than any she had ever given — sympathetic, hope- 
 ful, inspiriting, seeming like a distinct message 
 from one who had been ordained to sustain an 
 intimate relation to his destiny. It left him with 
 no shadow of doubt as to his attitude towards 
 her. Whatever the hinderances of the moment, 
 
 253 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 whatever the lagging progress of events to come, 
 he loved her. Of that he was very sure. 
 
 The days passed quickly enough. There were 
 no large tasks, but only a multitude of little things 
 to be done, after the manner of the thrifty farmer 
 in midwinter, making ready for the coming sea- 
 son in the fields. Uncle Billy was his only helper; 
 they, with the mother, made up the household in 
 those days, and their life was simple, almost ele- 
 mental. David was a good worker, and he pur- 
 sued his work with vigor, as though aware that 
 purposeful bodily labor would be, as it has always 
 been, a preventive and a cure of mental distresses. 
 And so he found it. As the days passed, each 
 bearing its own reward of definite accomplish- 
 ment by his hands, he felt only an increasing as- 
 surance, a truer reliance upon the belief that hu- 
 man life and conduct rest at bottom upon solid 
 foundations. His energy seemed inexhaustible. 
 In the first gray light of every dawn, long before 
 the older folk were astir in the house, he was about 
 his work in yard or barn or shed, mending the 
 broken fences, cleaning the rusted machinery, car- 
 ing for the stock, or, when all else failed, swinging 
 his axe lustily upon the great pile of firewood, 
 finding a supreme satisfaction in every sturdy 
 movement. The last fading light of every even- 
 ing found him reluctant to stop; and when he 
 would go to bed, his strong muscles cloyed with 
 the delight of day-long "exercise, still he felt no 
 weariness of mind. Those night hours were the 
 
 254 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 best of all, when he lay looking out through the 
 window beside his bed at the little square of sky- 
 beyond, where the brilliant stars seemed so close 
 as to be caught and held like quivering live things 
 in the light net-work of the bare elm branches. 
 Then, as at no other time, he had no secrets from 
 himself; then, in the delicious interval between 
 waking and sleeping, he cherished thought of 
 Margaret. 
 
 Ruth was at home again, and he saw her oc- 
 casionally on the long Sunday afternoons. He 
 might not have told the reason for his visits, but 
 there seemed to be no reason against them. He 
 had given up for the present the intention of tak- 
 ing her into his confidence concerning Margaret. 
 That must wait with all the rest. They were al- 
 most never alone; the care of the swarming chil- 
 dren and the obligations of housekeeping pressed 
 upon her. They met in a spirit which demanded 
 no privacy — the spirit of generous comradeship. 
 There was no outward sign of change from the 
 tacit understanding of an earlier time. He real- 
 ized — he had never failed to realize — the exquisite 
 grace and sweetness of her womanhood, and she 
 was very dear to him now, as always. The change 
 that had come was not to be expressed in outward 
 signs; it was too intangible for any expression, 
 too elusive to be seized upon save by the incom- 
 municable processes of intuition. But, though 
 they spoke no word about it, he knew that she 
 felt it, and he dimly wondered how she would 
 
 255 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 explain it to herself — whether she divined the 
 truth, or was content to charge his altered mood 
 to the sharply altered conditions of his life. 
 Though he had a recurring sense of obligation, 
 almost of guilt, he let the matter rest for the 
 time without attempting to justify himself. When 
 their meetings came he welcomed them, finding 
 in her companionship a solace, a restfulness, that 
 defied analysis, though it was sure. And between 
 times he worked with all his might. 
 
 Two months were sped, and the life behind the 
 lowered curtain of winter was softly tuning for the 
 overture of spring — faint, far sounds, audible to 
 the soul rather than to the ear ; sounds of the first 
 stir of sap rising in the trees, of the first least 
 swelling of the buds in their coverings, of the first 
 quickening beneath the last year's mantle of de- 
 caying mould. That is the time when every sleep- 
 ing thing, though with eyes still closed, breathes 
 a long, deep, awakening sigh. Walls shut out the 
 sound, but the out-door man hears and under- 
 stands and responds. 
 
XXII 
 
 ONE night in early March David walked through 
 the lane that led from the upper hills to the 
 deep hollow of the valley. The day's work had 
 been unusually hard, but at its end he felt in every 
 fibre of his body a resilience superior to any fa- 
 tigue. He knew its meaning — knew that spring 
 was on the way. Snow still lay heaped on the 
 northern side of trees and fences, but, though it 
 was long past sunset, at the sides of the lane tiny 
 rivulets ran down to the Elkhorn, chuckling in 
 happy undertone. The night wind, laden with 
 earthy odors, was warm upon his cheek. 
 
 He paused at the yard gate, leaning lightly upon 
 it, looking away across the shadowy sweep of the 
 landscape, not attending closely to what he saw, 
 but rather to what was going on within himself, 
 feeling the swifter movement of his blood and the 
 reawakening of the dormant impulses of his youth, 
 ordained since the beginning to come with the 
 bourgeoning of the new year. Undefined at first, 
 his thoughts soon centred upon Margaret, and he 
 let them have free way, checking nothing, hiding 
 nothing. In those few moments he grew deter- 
 mined. He would wait no longer. If she loved 
 17 257 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 him, as he dared to hope, one time was as good as 
 another for the confession; and at least he was 
 resolved to tell her of his own love without more 
 delay. 
 
 He went to Omaha early the next morning. His 
 first thought had been to go straightway to Mar- 
 garet; but afterwards he had concluded that he 
 would first talk with her father. With that in- 
 tention, he hurried from the station to Watson's 
 office. 
 
 Watson was in his private room, pacing the 
 floor, his big face suffused with the flush of strong 
 mental agitation. His walk ceased as David en- 
 tered, and he offered his hand warmly, though his 
 spoken greeting was abrupt, even harsh. 
 
 "Hello, Boughton! What are you here for? 
 You haven't been summoned on the Bronson 
 case, have you? Haven't you heard what's hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 "I came to see you," David answered. "No, 
 I don't know anything about the Bronson case. 
 Is it on trial?" 
 
 Watson raised himself to his full height, a tower 
 of wrath, his eyes blazing. 
 
 "You haven't heard, then? What do you 
 think? That hellion goes scot-free ! Now doesn't 
 that beat the devil and all his imps? Here, look 
 at this!" 
 
 He stepped to his desk, spreading out the sheets 
 of a morning paper, beating them flat with smash- 
 ing blows of his broad hand, pointing to the bold 
 
 258 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 head - lines over the news - columns on the first 
 page: 
 
 STATE AGAINST BRONSON 
 
 JURY DIRECTED TO ACQUIT 
 
 Fatal Error on Part of County Attorney in Conduct 
 
 of Case. — Murderer of Martin Akin Regains His 
 
 Liberty Through an Accident to the 
 
 Machinery of Justice. 
 
 David read with attention alert, Watson stand- 
 ing over him, breathing hard, puffing in his ex- 
 citement. 
 
 " Accident!" he bellowed. " Accident! Do you 
 suppose the people can be made to believe that?" 
 
 "What was it, then?" David asked. "Wasn't 
 it an accident?" 
 
 " What was it?" Watson shouted. " Can't you 
 see what it was without being told? Have you 
 lost your mind? Politics! That's what it was! 
 Why, it's so plain that a child could see it. That 
 prosecutor has played the villain, that's all. He's 
 paid a political debt by sacrificing his official 
 honor — made an intentional botch of the thing. 
 We might have known he would, if we'd stopped 
 to consider. Where we blundered was in not 
 getting somebody to take the case with him and 
 watch him." 
 
 "But I don't understand," David said, as in- 
 deed he did not. 
 
 259 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Why, you infant!" Watson retorted, hotly. 
 "That county attorney is one of Bronson's pup- 
 pets. Bronson put him in office, and he held 
 his office by Bronson's sufferance alone. Isn't it 
 plain enough? But do you think the people will 
 stand for that? No, by Heaven ! not while I live. 
 I'll see that the pair of them get what's coming to 
 them, if I spend the rest of my life at it." 
 
 He threw the paper to the floor, ground it under 
 his heel, spat upon it in the excess of his rage. 
 "That's politics!" he thundered. "That's the 
 sanctity of the institutions we boast about!" 
 
 He struck again into his rolling walk, swinging 
 his arms aloft, then flung himself into his chair. 
 
 " Boughton, I swear I'm almost ready to be- 
 lieve that honor amongst the general run of men 
 is pure fiction. I know it's all but an obsolete 
 word in the vocabulary of politics. It's archaic — 
 lugged out and paraded on the stump occasional- 
 ly, without the slightest notion of what it means. 
 And the curse of it is that the people don't seem 
 to care. They grin at official dishonor as though 
 it were a smart accomplishment. The chances are 
 that unless some fool like me takes hold of this 
 business, six months from now that outlaw Bron- 
 son can have anything he wants that's within the 
 power of the people of Omaha to give. It's hap- 
 pened before, a score of times, and it '11 happen 
 again, and keep on happening, just so long as the 
 functions of government are left in the hands of 
 moral idiots." 
 
 260 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 He shook himself, as though his temper could 
 be thus cast off, and his outburst died away in a 
 choking growl in the depths of his throat. 
 
 "Well, let it go. We'll attend to that later. 
 I'm mighty glad to see you, Boughton. I've been 
 wondering this long time how things were going 
 with you. All right? Have you made up your 
 mind to come back here again so soon?" 
 
 David had cared very little for the other theme. 
 Great as it was, it seemed very impersonal and 
 unimportant in comparison with his own present 
 purpose. He was impatient to declare himself, 
 and he struck straightway into what he had to say. 
 
 " No, I can't come back yet. I must stay with 
 mother for a while. I came down just for to-day 
 to talk to you — not about my work, but about 
 something else. There's no use in mincing mat- 
 ters. I want to tell you that I love your daughter, 
 and I want you to consent that I may ask her to 
 be my wife." 
 
 Watson sat dumfounded, his lips parted, his 
 eyes staring. For many seconds not a nerve 
 moved. The blood fled from his face, leaving it 
 overcast with a gray pallor, then came surging 
 back in a full, red flood, swelling the veins into 
 cords and bringing big drops of sweat to his fore- 
 head. 
 
 " Oh, good God, Boughton ! What are you say- 
 ing? No, no, no, no!" The words swelled into 
 a cry, vibrant with pain, and the heavy features 
 were convulsed, tortured. 
 
 261 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 David saw and beheld in utter amazement. He 
 had thought to arouse surprise, but here was pas- 
 sion such as he had never seen — a very agony. 
 
 "Yes," he said, in simple insistence. "I don't 
 see why it affects you so. Have you never thought 
 that it might be true?" 
 
 Watson did not answer; he only sat as if stun- 
 ned — staring, staring. 
 
 "It is true," David went on. "Does it hurt 
 you so much to know it? I hoped you wouldn't 
 feel so. I do love her, and I'm ready to spend my 
 life for her happiness. You know what kind of 
 man I am. I'm not rich nor great, but I shall 
 make my way and maybe be both by-and-by, if 
 I can have her to help me — if you'll trust her to 
 me." 
 
 "Trust her to you?" Watson echoed, dully. 
 " Boughton, have you told her this?" 
 
 " No," David answered, simply. " I think she's 
 seen — I hope she has — but I've never told her out- 
 right." 
 
 "Thank God!" Watson breathed, fervently. 
 " For God's sake, and for your own sake, and for 
 my sake, don't do it! You must not!" 
 
 There was a long silence. " You mean that you 
 won't give your consent?" David asked, at last. 
 
 "Consent? Not while I've got breath enough 
 left to say no. Not in this world!" And David 
 saw that he meant it. The full power of his great 
 will shone in his deep eyes and was expressed in 
 every burly line of his body. 
 
 262 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 "Will you tell me why?" David questioned, 
 wretchedly. "I'd never suspected that you had 
 anything against me, and I'd like to know what 
 it is, if you're willing to tell me." 
 
 "Against you!" Watson exploded. "What 
 have I against you?" In strange contrast with 
 his mood of a moment before, he broke into a 
 laugh that shook the room. "Oh, you poor, 
 blind boy! Be quiet a minute now, and look at 
 me, and listen. Why, Boughton, I thought I 
 was clear past being shocked like this. For the 
 life of me, I can't see how you've managed to 
 conceive such an idea. It's so utterly absurd and 
 grotesque and ridiculous. Make her your wife! 
 Why, what in the name of — Oh, what is the 
 matter with you?" 
 
 " I want her for my wife just because I love 
 her," David replied, stoutly, determined now to 
 stand his ground to the end. " Is that really so 
 hard for you to believe? I tell you I do love her. 
 That ought to explain it." 
 
 "Oh — love!" The exclamation was not one 
 of mere impatience or scorn or anger, yet it held 
 all three, and more, in its accents of extreme 
 repugnance. " Maybe you do. It's possible. 
 But to think of marrying her — that's what gets 
 me. I can't understand it. You don't know her 
 — you can't! Why, my dear boy, listen! It '11 
 sound cruel, most likely, but she's not fit to be 
 your wife. In the first place, she wouldn't marry 
 you. You're not the kind of man she's looking 
 
 263 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 for; you couldn't give her a hundredth part of 
 what she'll demand of her husband, when she gets 
 him. And even if it were conceivable that she 
 would marry you, your life would be hell-tor- 
 mented." 
 
 David raised his hand in impetuous expostula- 
 tion, and his lips parted; but Watson cut him 
 short imperatively. 
 
 "You must let me say it. I know her just for 
 what she is. I'm her father; but she's her 
 mother's daughter; and you know what it costs 
 me to say that. I'll say it all while I'm about 
 it — for your sake; and then we'll bury it and 
 forget it forever. She's one of the sort of women 
 who ruin men like you. Her mother ruined me; 
 and when I was young I wasn't so very different 
 from you. If she were to marry you, she'd turn 
 your life into a waste — a dreary, desolate waste. 
 That's the best you could hope for, after you'd 
 got to know her, and you'd be almighty lucky 
 if you didn't fare infinitely worse. Good God! 
 Don't I know?" 
 
 David could contain himself no longer. " I 
 don't believe it!" he cried. "I know better! 
 I won't hear you say that of her. I didn't think 
 you were capable of saying it." 
 
 "It's true!" Watson thundered, and brought 
 his clinched fist down in a mighty blow upon the 
 desk. "Don't tell me I don't know her! I 
 know every impulse of her selfish, false soul. 
 A-h-h!" 
 
 264 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 The word was a shuddering groan. He strug- 
 gled to his feet, his face drawn with terror, his 
 eyes starting, fixed upon the doorway that led 
 to the outer room. "Martha!" he gasped. His 
 hands groped feebly here and there for support, 
 but they caught only the air, and he sank slowly, 
 heavily to his knees, hiding his face in his arms. 
 
 A woman stood just within the door — a wom- 
 an poorly clad, gray, haggard. Her face was the 
 face of Margaret grown old and marked by name- 
 less suffering. 
 
XXIII 
 
 WATSON knelt, the huge mass of his body 
 cowering, his head fallen against the deep 
 cushions of his chair, his face hidden in his hands. 
 There was no sound in the room save a jumble of 
 faint echoes rising from the street far below. The 
 woman's appearance, coming unheralded at that 
 moment of passionate excitement, had snapped 
 the tense thread and left both men unnerved. 
 
 She was the first to move. With slow, halting 
 step, as though fighting her way, and conquering 
 little by little, with painful difficulty, she passed 
 to Watson's side and stood looking down upon 
 him for a long time. 
 
 "Paul," she said at last, very quietly — a quiet 
 that was not restraint but a struggle against a 
 low ebb of the will to speak. It was such a 
 voice as must have come from her white, drawn 
 lips. She put out her hand and touched his 
 shoulder lightly with the very tips of her fingers. 
 "Paul," she said again. 
 
 At the touch he shrunk away — seemed to 
 shrink within himself, as though withdrawing to 
 a safe retreat; and from that retreat he sent out 
 no sign. 
 
 266 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " Paul," she said for the third time, in the same 
 lifeless accents. Slowly, every movement a com- 
 bat, she sank to her knees upon the floor, keep- 
 ing a little distance between them, and crouching 
 like an abject dog that dreads the lash. She did 
 not offer to touch him again ; her hands lay loosely 
 clasped in her lap; even her glance was turned 
 from him, not to offend by too great temerity. 
 She betrayed no semblance of any feeling but 
 that of one who has met complete defeat and 
 made complete surrender. 
 
 "I've come back, Paul," she said, in level- toned 
 insistence. " You're not glad to see me. I knew 
 you wouldn't be — couldn't be; but I've come 
 back to you. I couldn't stay away any longer, 
 or I shouldn't have come. I had to come. You 
 needn't be afraid of me. I'm not going to harm 
 you any more. I think I've done you all the 
 harm I can. I didn't come to ask you to for- 
 give me, or to take me back. I know you 
 couldn't do that, and I couldn't ask it. But 
 I must make you understand me. You don't 
 understand me now, Paul." 
 
 She raised her lowered eyes and looked at him 
 long and earnestly ; and as her glance rested upon 
 his bent head and drooping figure there came 
 to her face its first token of awakening from its 
 spiritless impassivity. It was as though, starved, 
 she beheld food lying just beyond her reach. 
 
 "Paul," she said yet again, "you won't believe 
 me unless you look at me. Please look at me! 
 
 267 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 You used to know when I lied to you. If you 
 look at me now you will know that I have come 
 to tell you the truth." 
 
 Slowly he raised his head, and for an instant 
 their eyes met ; then without a word he sank into 
 his former attitude. She could not have gained 
 much encouragement from his look, for her voice 
 did not vary from its lethargy. 
 
 "It will be seven years next Thursday," she 
 said. " Seven years. I wonder if you have kept 
 count as well as that. I don't believe you have. 
 It isn't a man's way. A man would sooner for- 
 get. But I've remembered, every day and every 
 day. It has taken me seven awful years to get 
 the strength to do this. I've meant all the time 
 to do it, when I should be strong enough. And 
 now you must listen to me. I don't even ask 
 you to believe me, Paul — not yet. I'll make you 
 believe, if you'll only listen." 
 
 Neither had heeded David, who had kept his 
 seat, a fascinated witness. Suddenly he recov- 
 ered himself and arose, moving quietly towards 
 the door. At the sound of his footfall Wat- 
 son looked up, then struggled heavily to his 
 feet. 
 
 "For God's sake, Boughton," he cried, "don't 
 go! You must stay with me. I can't bear this 
 alone." And when David had resumed his seat, 
 he sank back into his own chair, his wife keeping 
 her posture on the floor before him. He regarded 
 her with a shudder of loathing, but he kept his 
 
 268 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 eyes fixed upon her face while she went on with 
 what she had to say. 
 
 "Hate me! hate me!" she said. "I've earned 
 your hate, God knows, and I don't deny you the 
 right to make me feel it. But you can listen, in 
 spite of that, and I don't ask anything more. All 
 these seven years I knew what you must be think- 
 ing, when you thought about me at all. My death 
 would have been a pleasant memory to you beside 
 that thought. I made up my mind to kill my- 
 self once, so that you needn't be tormented any 
 longer by your thoughts of me — the thoughts I 
 knew you had. But then I changed my mind. I 
 wanted to live until I could bring myself to do 
 what I'm doing now — until I could come back and 
 make you believe that the things you've been 
 thinking weren't true at all. You can tell if I 
 speak the truth, Paul. Listen! Except in the 
 very hour of going away, I have been true to you. 
 When I went away I was thinking horrible things 
 — meaning to do horrible things ; but I didn't do 
 them. As God hears me, since you saw me last 
 I've done nothing — nothing that I can't tell you 
 without shame, except that I did go away from 
 you. That's all there is to give me shame. I 
 left him — him, before half an hour — before we had 
 crossed the river, and I haven't seen him since, 
 not once. Every day of these seven years I've 
 been a pure woman. Oh, Paul! Paul! It's true 
 —it's true!" 
 
 With a cry of passionate appeal she threw her- 
 269 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 self upon him, clinging to him, her arms about his 
 knees, her face bent upon them. But with his 
 great strength he shook her off, pushing her away 
 roughly, so that she fell at her length upon the 
 floor. She lay as she had fallen, making no at- 
 tempt to rise, her face hidden, her poor body 
 shaken with the stress of her gasping breathing. 
 
 Watson walked the floor with his giant's stride, 
 back and forth, back and forth, keeping as far 
 from her as the width of the room would allow, 
 suffering the throes of a mighty agony. David, 
 watching both, pitied both with all his soul; but 
 for some undiscoverable reason his feeling for the 
 man was greater than that for the woman. 
 
 Watson paused at last, regarding his wife from 
 a distance with eyes unyielding. 
 
 " I believe you lie," he said, with slow emphasis. 
 "I have known you too well to believe anything 
 else." 
 
 She made no response by word or movement, 
 and he took up his walk again, holding away from 
 her. His big face had become as a mask of stone, 
 its every line fixed and rigid. But little by little 
 its rigidity gave way, fused by the heat of his pas- 
 sion, and once again his walk stopped. 
 
 " How have you lived?" he demanded, abruptly. 
 
 She arose from the floor, removing her worn 
 black gloves and stretching her hands towards 
 him. There was an infinite pathos in the gesture. 
 
 "See!" she said. "I have worked — worked 
 hard. At least you can believe that, for there are 
 
 270 
 
I BELIEVE YOU LIE, HE SAID, WITH SLOW EMPHASIS 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 the marks. Every hour of every day is open to 
 you. I am ashamed of nothing. I sold books at 
 first ; and then I sewed ; and then I got work in a 
 laundry, helping the book-keeper; and for two 
 years I've been a kitchen-servant in a restaurant. 
 I had to live, and I took what I could get to do. 
 I'm proud of that part. I've earned my living 
 honestly, and it's been enough. You can believe 
 that! Those aren't the hands you knew; they're 
 rough and hard. Feel!" 
 
 But he caught his hands together behind him, 
 turning away. 
 
 " Paul," she repeated, " I don't ask you to for- 
 give me. I don't ask anything for myself — only 
 that you will believe me. All I've been living for 
 has been to come and tell you this. When I see 
 that you believe, I shall go away again and never 
 trouble you any more. Is it too much to believe? 
 Don't you want to believe it, Paul — that I've 
 kept myself pure? Would you believe it if you 
 could?" 
 
 She drew close to him, plucking at his sleeve, 
 thrusting herself before him, striving to compel 
 him ; but once again he freed himself, pushing her 
 aside. 
 
 "Don't touch me!" he commanded. Then he 
 flashed out bitterly, savagely: "Why did you 
 come to me with this? What was the need of it? 
 Even if this wretched story were true, you would 
 better have stayed away. Your coming here can 
 do only harm, by starting fresh tortures and 
 
 271 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 quickening a scandal that would be better dead. 
 You could have played your part from a distance 
 just as well, if you have stated your real pur- 
 pose. I don't believe you have. There's some- 
 thing back of it all. You dare not tell me just 
 why you came." 
 
 She faced him with a supreme courage. " Would 
 you like to know why I came?" she asked. " My 
 true reason— shall I give it to you?" 
 
 " You needn't say it," he returned, harshly. " I 
 know it better than you can tell me. You've heard 
 that I'm going to the Senate, and you want your 
 share of the glory." 
 
 She did not flinch under the cruelty of the im- 
 putation. "I had heard of that, and was glad," 
 she said; "but that is not why I have come. I 
 came because I could not endure my life any longer 
 without seeing you face to face and telling you 
 the truth with my own lips. But that was only 
 a part of my reason. I meant to say only so much, 
 and then to leave you when I saw that you be- 
 lieved me. I should have gone away happy if I 
 had seen that. But now I can't stop with that 
 alone. You compel me to go on, after what you 
 have said. Believe it or not, as you will. I came 
 because I love you, Paul. It was love that 
 brought me. I love you!" 
 
 "God!" he breathed — a prolonged whisper, half 
 a sigh and half a groan. "Oh, my God! Have 
 you no pity?" Again she drew towards him; but 
 he retreated to the wall, setting his back against 
 
 272 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 it, throwing out his hands to ward her off. " Keep 
 away!" he gasped. " Don't touch me!" 
 
 Obediently she stood back, but opening her 
 arms to him, inviting him, her sad face glorified as 
 only love can glorify. 
 
 "I love you!" she repeated, with a quiet exul- 
 tation. " I have loved you all the time — from 
 the very day I left you, when I began to think 
 of what I had brought upon you. I never had 
 known before what my love for you was; but I 
 knew then. I denied it to myself at first, because 
 I was weak and proud ; but I knew it was true, and 
 it has been growing truer and truer every day. I 
 fought as long as I could, and when I could fight 
 no more, I came. You were always a just man !" 
 she cried. "You weren't always generous in all 
 things with me, nor gentle, nor sympathetic; but 
 you were always just, at least. I don't believe 
 you could be less than just to any one, and that's 
 all I ask for myself. Paul, you dare not be unjust 
 to me now. I have done you a terrible wrong; 
 but I have suffered more than you, knowing how 
 you must hate me, though I loved you with all my 
 soul. I do love you, and I shall stay here until I 
 make you believe it. I want nothing else of you ; 
 but you must believe!" 
 
 His hot eyes had been fixed upon hers while she 
 spoke, searching them, piercing through to what 
 lay behind. When she had finished, he stood with 
 his chin sunk upon his breast, his arms hang- 
 ing, in the lax attitude of a fighter who, having 
 is 273 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 fought to the utmost, can no longer sustain his 
 defence, and awaits the last blow, only his will 
 unconquered. 
 
 "Go away, Martha!" he pleaded. "Go away 
 for a little while! I can't talk to you now. You 
 must give me a chance to think." 
 
 Without further word she turned from him and 
 left the room ; but her step was the step of a vic- 
 tor, not that of one vanquished. 
 
 In those few minutes Watson seemed to have 
 aged by a score of years. The flesh of his full face 
 hung in flaccid folds; there was a burden of age 
 upon his stooped shoulders, and his walk, as he 
 shuffled slowly towards his chair, was that of an 
 infirm old man. His eyes met David's, and David 
 saw that their accustomed fire had died out, leav- 
 ing them lustreless, expressive of nothing but an 
 uncomprehending wonder. 
 
 " Well, Boughton," he said, feebly, with a faint, 
 unmeaning smile. "What do you make of this, 
 anyway? It's a great day for both of us, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 David's own trouble had vanished before this 
 other, so infinitely greater ; recalled to him thus, it 
 seemed not very portentous, and he did not dwell 
 upon it ; his strongest feeling was one of profound 
 compassion for the broken man before him. 
 
 "I wish I knew what to say to you, Mr. Wat- 
 son," he ventured. 
 
 "Yes," Watson returned, with only an imper- 
 sonal interest. "Yes, I wish so, too. What do 
 
 274 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 you think? You're unprejudiced. Is she play- 
 ing fair with me?" 
 
 "I believe she told you the truth," David an- 
 swered, simply, earnestly. 
 
 "Do you? Do you, really?" Watson ques- 
 tioned. "Well, you can't tell. It would be a 
 great comfort to me to think so. She spoke as 
 though I might have forgotten her — you heard 
 how she said it. But I haven't. I've tried to 
 forget, but I couldn't help remembering; and 
 especially of late I've been thinking a lot about 
 her, wondering about her. I loved her once, sure 
 enough, and a man can't easily get over those 
 memories of love. She touched me in a raw place 
 when she spoke of love. You can't guess, and no 
 more could she, how much I've wanted her late- 
 ly, since — since I've won some of the things we 
 planned for together when we were young. It 
 seems like an irony of fate that I didn't win much 
 of anything while I had her, and then found it easy 
 to win after I'd lost her. I guess it was because I 
 was suspicious that she wanted me to win so that 
 some selfish vanity of hers might be gratified, and 
 I stubbornly wouldn't do it. I thought she wasn't 
 satisfied with me, and it made me meanly jealous. 
 I know that was so. We split on that, and began 
 to drift apart, and I pretended I didn't care. I 
 simply couldn't drive myself to show what I really 
 felt. God knows I did care; but I wouldn't have 
 let her see it for the world. Then when she was 
 gone, I set myself to gain what I thought she'd 
 
 275 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 coveted, out of sheer perversity ; and all the time 
 it was bitter as hell to me. God knows I did care. 
 God only knows how I've missed her. And now 
 she's come, and I don't know what to do." 
 
 His voice was thin, worn, tight with pain. In 
 the extremity of his weakness a tear crept out on 
 his cheek and fell upon his hand. He lifted his 
 hand, regarding the glistening drop with listless 
 curiosity for a moment before brushing it away. 
 
 "Yes," he said again, "it would comfort me 
 mightily to think so." Then, with almost child- 
 ish eagerness : " Why, Boughton, I'd give my hope 
 of eternal life if I could be sure of her for one single 
 hour. I haven't been sure of anything for so long, 
 I'd count it a good bargain. One hour of cer- 
 tainty would be worth it to me just now." 
 
 He passed his hand wearily across his eyes, as 
 though he would brush away a troublesome mist. 
 " Boughton," he said, " I hope you won't mind if 
 I ask you to leave me alone for a while. You 
 can't help me, not a bit; and I must have time to 
 think this thing out for myself." 
 
 He clung to the boy's hand in parting, seeming 
 to draw strength from it. "I'm much perplexed," 
 he confessed; "but I'll try to think of you, too, 
 and what you told me. I don't know. Maybe 
 we can see our way out yet." 
 
XXIV 
 
 DAVID went away feeling that his own hope 
 had been worse than aborted — that it had 
 been misbegotten. As he contemplated it now, 
 with what courage he could summon, and in the 
 light of what had just passed, it seemed to have 
 fallen altogether shapeless, with all vitality gone 
 out of it. That it could rise again to life was past 
 belief. Nothing remained but to abandon it and 
 to let it go the way of the dead. His first instinct 
 was to go back to his home — to drop safely back 
 to his level and to keep to it. To his disturbed 
 vision even the fact of his love, that had shone so 
 steadfast and so golden a few hours before, ap- 
 peared as only a spectral shape, looming dimly 
 beyond his reach, and ready to fade altogether if 
 he would try to draw near to it. The first train 
 for home would leave in half an hour. He was 
 quite ready to let it carry him back to his fields 
 and away from these intolerable illusions of a dis- 
 tempered fancy. 
 
 But that was not to be. On the street the hu- 
 man stream, that had flowed slenderly through 
 the morning hours, had been swelled to thrice its 
 volume by the noontime discharge from offices 
 and shops, and was moving like a sudden freshet. 
 
 277 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 He plunged into it, making his way towards the 
 station, heedless of the rude jostling, thinking only 
 of escape. 
 
 Presently he was dimly aware that his name had 
 been spoken near by; but it did not arouse him. 
 The call was repeated, and when he looked around 
 he saw a neat trap drawn up to the curb, moving 
 along in time with his walk. Upon the high seat 
 was Margaret, bending towards him with a smile, 
 her small, gloved hand extended; and he knew 
 that he was not yet free. 
 
 " It's too bad to break in upon such abstrac- 
 tion," she said, in light raillery; "but it's so long 
 since I've seen you that I couldn't miss the chance 
 of saying how do you do, at least." 
 
 He took her hand and held it, without speaking, 
 his grasp tightening, until she gently released her- 
 self and moved to the farther end of the seat. 
 
 " Are you really so much engrossed?" she asked, 
 brightly. " Are you too busy to come with me for 
 a little while? It's too fine a day by half to be 
 spent in-doors. I'm going to drive for an hour 
 or so before luncheon; and then I'll let you lunch 
 with me, if you like, and we can talk. I want to 
 know all about what you've been doing. Come !" 
 
 He climbed into the place she made for him at 
 her side, and she turned her horse up the hill and 
 into an asphalted side street that stretched its 
 level length northward. For a time talking was 
 impossible. The horse was a spirited animal, 
 fresh from the stable and full of a lusty desire for 
 
 278 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 motion, and not to be curbed at once. Margaret 
 was an excellent horsewoman. She let the beast 
 have his head, giving herself up to the exhilaration 
 of his speed, every muscle of her lithe body re- 
 sponsive, while David sat with his glance intent 
 upon her beautiful face, seeing the warm color 
 rising to her cheeks and the quickening glow of 
 youth and health in her wonderful eyes. He did 
 not want to talk ; he did not try to think what he 
 would say when the time came. To be in her 
 presence, to be brought again into a living con- 
 tact, with susceptibilities rendered more than ever 
 acute by the long separation, and now more than 
 ever satisfied by what they fed upon, that was 
 enough. Everything else he was able to cast aside 
 and forget — the painful scenes of the morning; 
 Watson's furious outburst concerning the girl ; his 
 own despairing irresolution —that seemed the least 
 real of all. 
 
 By the time the horse had spent his excess 
 spirit and had settled to a soberer gait, they had 
 passed from the town streets and out upon a broad, 
 winding boulevard that ran along the summit of 
 the wooded bluffs overlooking the river. There 
 Margaret passed the reins into David's hands. 
 
 "Now, you may have him," she said. "I al- 
 ways hold on until he gives up, no matter how 
 long it takes; but when he has given up, it isn't 
 interesting any more. I suppose that's merely 
 human nature, isn't it? I'm always glad to have 
 some one along to drive for me after that ; and I'm 
 
 279 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 extra glad it happens to be you to-day, because 
 I've been wondering about you for so long — what 
 you were doing and thinking; and now you can 
 tell me while I rest. I'm perfectly willing to rest, 
 too. Don't you think he's an unusually strong 
 animal? Now, tell me: have you come back to 
 stay?" 
 
 " No ; not yet," he answered. " I had an errand 
 in town to-day. I begin to be afraid I can never 
 come back to stay." 
 
 "Oh!" she said, with ready sympathy. "Oh, 
 that would be a pity, after the splendid beginning 
 you've made! I hope it will turn out better than 
 that." 
 
 He was not inclined to take up the discussion at 
 once. Rather needlessly he devoted his attention 
 to the horse for a time, looking straight ahead, 
 while the girl covertly observed him, noting the 
 firm, square set of his shoulders and the evident 
 restraint upon his face. 
 
 " I hope nothing has gone wrong," she ventured, 
 at last. 
 
 " I don't know," he returned. " Before I met 
 you back there in town, everything seemed to 
 have gone wrong — everything. But now I'm not 
 so sure. I wish I could be sure." 
 
 She gave him another scrutiny, quicker, keener 
 than before, and fully comprehending, though she 
 feigned to let his meaning escape her. She was 
 more learned than he in the art of feigning. She 
 did not try to turn aside his evident intention, as 
 
 280 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 perhaps she might have done even then; for an 
 end of her own she invited him to go on. 
 
 "Is it anything you can tell me?" she asked, 
 gently. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, with resolution. "It is 
 something I must tell you, and you must let me 
 say it. It has been put off too long as it is. I've 
 never been a man to put off things that I thought 
 ought to be said, when I was sure of my right to 
 say them ; and this is one of them. You must let 
 me speak." 
 
 She was entirely composed; and in that statu- 
 esque serenity she was always most lovely to his 
 eyes. "Yes," she said, "I think I may let you 
 say what is to be said. I think it is better that 
 we understand each other." 
 
 He flashed upon her a look of intensest eager- 
 ness, striving to read her; but that he could not 
 do. He thought to find her agitated, remember- 
 ing other occasions when confession was less im- 
 minent than now, and when she had been appar- 
 ently unable to conceal the evidences of feeling. 
 But that mood was not in control to-day; what- 
 ever she felt was well hidden beneath an unper- 
 turbed exterior. She averted her face, looking 
 away across the valley, waiting for what was to 
 come, and there was nothing left for him but to 
 find his way as he could. 
 
 " I think you can guess what it is," he said. " It 
 began a long time ago — the very first time we met, 
 and it has been growing ever since. I ought to 
 
 281 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 have told you before ; it would have saved a lot of 
 trouble. But there were a great many things I 
 had to think about first — my own fitness to tell 
 you, and my fitness for what might come after- 
 wards. It seemed very strange. I'd never doubt- 
 ed my fitness for anything, before this. I'd al- 
 ways thought I was fit for anything I could win. 
 But this was different. I had to think about my- 
 self in a new way. Before I came down to Omaha 
 and met you, I'd never been anything but a farm- 
 er — just a plain, honest, simple-minded farmer. 
 You and your life, and everything that belonged 
 to you, were wholly new to me. You made me 
 think. We hardly seemed to belong to the same 
 world then, until I got to know you better, and 
 knew how I really felt towards you. Then it 
 seemed to me that we had always belonged to- 
 gether, and always must, in spite of all the differ- 
 ences in our lives. After that I don't know what 
 held me back from telling you, unless it was that 
 I wanted to have something more to offer you 
 than just myself. I'm sorry I ever thought of 
 that at all, because I feel sure it can't make any 
 great difference. I know it can't, if you feel any- 
 thing as I do, because then you can see that our 
 differences don't go very deep, after all. Under- 
 neath the differences, we're alike; we're both 
 young and strong and honest. Those are the 
 things that lie at the bottom of life, and the other 
 things are put on and false — position, I mean, and 
 all that. I've thought it all out during these 
 
 282 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 months, and I know that whatever my position 
 might be, or yours, high or low, loving you as I 
 do, I'd be bound to tell you. There!" he cried, 
 almost fiercely, inspired and strengthened by the 
 mere fact of having made a brave beginning, and 
 carried on by sheer momentum. " Now you know, 
 and there's no more chance for mistake. I love 
 you, as, I think, none but an honest man can love 
 a woman like you." 
 
 Swept and mastered by his feeling he bent tow- 
 ards her, stooping to catch a glimpse of her face. 
 She had sat quite still throughout his declaration, 
 without looking at him ; and now her posture was 
 unchanged, so that he could see nothing but the 
 oval line of her beautiful cheek and brow. 
 
 "Margaret!" he whispered, in the unreasoning 
 fulness of his joy. "Margaret, I love you! Do 
 you hear? I love you, love you, love you!" 
 
 She put forth her hand and touched him lightly 
 upon one strong wrist; then the hand was with- 
 drawn, and slowly, with an appearance of reluc- 
 tance, but without the least shyness, she turned to 
 face him. Her exquisite color was gone, but she 
 was not pale; her skin held only its accustomed 
 tint of clear olive. Her eyes, that were calmly 
 raised to his, were to him inscrutable. He could 
 not see in them anything of what he sought, and 
 his heart misgave him. She bent her head and 
 sat for a moment toying with her handkerchief, 
 while he waited in breathless expectancy. 
 
 " I must be honest with you, too," she said at 
 283 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 last, very quietly, " though it won't be easy. You 
 have made it very hard for me to say what I wish 
 — harder than you know; but you deserve noth- 
 ing less than an honest answer. I shall be per- 
 fectly sincere with you, Mr. Boughton. I'll tell 
 you, without trying to disguise it, that I have 
 suspected your feeling — I have been almost sure 
 of it, once or twice, and it hasn't displeased me." 
 She regarded him again, with grave, slow calm, 
 holding herself in close control. " I was glad to 
 see your feeling for me — I did see it ; but I hoped 
 you would see that you ought not to speak of it to 
 me. It hurts me very much to say this, because 
 I think I know the kind of man you are — that love 
 is something very sacred to you, and not to be 
 trifled with; and I'm afraid I shall seem to have 
 trifled in letting you come to this point with me. 
 You mustn't think that, for it isn't true at all." 
 She saw his dawning misery, and her eyes showed 
 genuine compassion; but she went on steadily: " I 
 can't tell what might have happened, if only we 
 had been more of one spirit — if we had begun life 
 under the same conditions, and grown up more 
 alike. I shouldn't want you to be more like me ; 
 I shouldn't care for you at all then; but I might 
 have been more like you. But it's of no use to 
 talk of that. We are of different worlds, Mr. 
 Boughton, as you saw at first, and it would be a 
 dreadful mistake to suppose that the difference 
 could be put aside, even by love — even if I loved 
 you. But I do not love you, and I am sure I 
 
 284 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 never could, being as I am. I doubt sometimes 
 whether I am ever to know what love really is — 
 the simple, honest, unquestioning love that I sup- 
 pose others know— men and women- who are like 
 you. I have never known that sort of feeling; I 
 doubt if I am capable of it; I'm afraid I should 
 never be willing to trust it and give myself up to 
 it. That's in my training. I've seen a great deal 
 more of life than you have, and I've acquired 
 a dull, tarnished sort of worldly wisdom which 
 makes me sceptical of this frank, fresh impulse of 
 simple passion. You don't know me — not at all. 
 I sha'n't try to tell you what I really am, after 
 living as I have. Oh, I shall marry, perhaps — 
 some time, ".she cried, with a little gesture of dis- 
 taste, a faint weariness in her voice. " That seems 
 inevitable in the social order. When I do marry, 
 I feel sure it will be with my eyes open. Does 
 that sound utterly heartless? I am heartless 
 most of the time, I think. Marriage for me must 
 embrace a great deal more than you feel now. To 
 be ' young and strong and honest' isn't the sum of 
 life for me any more, if it ever was — as it might 
 have been if I'd been differently born." 
 
 " No, no!" he interrupted, wretchedly. " Don't 
 say that! I think you do understand and feel, in 
 spite of what you say. You must let me make 
 you feel it. I can do it. It has come to be a part 
 of my life— my love for you. If you'll let me love 
 you, I'll give up my whole life to you, and I'll 
 make you happy — as happy as I'll be myself. 
 
 285 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 That's what love means — happiness and peace and 
 everything else that makes life worth while. Real 
 love doesn't know anything about those horri- 
 ble doubts of yours, and my love can make you 
 forget them. I'll make you love me. I can be 
 worthy of you — I can, I can ! You must let me 
 try to prove it to you before you say no." 
 
 She stopped him gently. " It isn't a question 
 of worth. If it were only that, you would have a 
 winning advantage, for I am the unworthy one. 
 You have overvalued me, because you haven't 
 understood me. I've never shown you more than 
 a very little part of myself ; so how can you under- 
 stand ? That is the difference in our worlds again 
 —in our birth and training and traditions and 
 what we've learned about life — in everything that 
 makes us what we are. You've never known an- 
 other woman of my world, and you've judged me 
 by the standards of the women you've known — ■ 
 ingenuous, simple-hearted girls. I'm not like that, 
 and I could never marry a man like you, because, 
 however much I might esteem him and appreciate 
 his honesty and his goodness of heart, I should be 
 afraid of tiring of him as my husband. Don't de- 
 spise me for saying it. I shouldn't want to grow 
 tired; but I feel sure that the things I've learned 
 — miserable, false things, no doubt, but I've learn- 
 ed them all well — would assert themselves in spite 
 of me. That would be terrible. Life is a long time, 
 and my husband, when he comes — if he comes at 
 all — must be able to share with me in the things 
 
 286 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 that make life real to me, false though they are. 
 I should never feel safe except in that sort of 
 a marriage. You don't even know what those 
 things are; and you couldn't sympathize with 
 them in the least, if you did know. They don't 
 belong to you. Don't you see? Your life is 
 very simple to you, isn't it? and plain and 
 easy, with only a few parts; but my life has a 
 thousand parts, in thought and taste and be- 
 havior, which make it anything but plain or easy. 
 Those things would hold us apart more and 
 more, as we came to know each other better. I 
 couldn't forget them, nor put them aside." She 
 paused for a moment, laying her hand upon his 
 with a gentle, kindly pressure. " Believe me, I 
 have tried not to seem unfeeling. To know that 
 you love me, as you say you do — -as I have no 
 doubt you do — is very sweet to me, and I shall 
 never forget. You are a good man. I haven't 
 tried to soften or hide the truth, for that would 
 have been unjust to you. I have told you very 
 plainly why I must say no, and you must let that 
 be my answer." 
 
 But he held on with grim tenacity. "Listen, 
 Margaret! No, you do not know what love is, 
 nor its power, nor anything about it ! I can teach 
 you that. My love for you can make me what 
 you wish me to be — anything, anything! I am 
 perfectly sure of it, and you must let me prove it 
 to you. Besides," he said, with sudden recollec- 
 tion, " there is another reason why I spoke to-day. 
 
 287 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 I want the right to call you mine because you will 
 need some one." 
 
 She took a vague alarm. "Need some one?" 
 she echoed. "What do you mean? What has 
 happened? My father — " 
 
 " Not your father. You must find it out some- 
 time, and I'd better tell you now. Your mother 
 has come back." 
 
 There came upon her face a change greater than 
 that of death; it was as livid as death, while its 
 lines were those of the gripping pain of life. For 
 a moment she sat transfixed, her hands catching 
 convulsively at his arm; then she shrank away 
 from him to the farthest corner of the seat, shiv- 
 ering. 
 
 "My mother!" she said, in a choked whisper. 
 "Oh, take me home — quick, quick!" 
 
 Her great distress made an impassable barrier 
 between them. Once, when they were entering 
 the town, he offered to speak, but she checked 
 him imperatively, and after that he respected her 
 desire. At the hotel she left him without a word 
 of parting, hurrying into the building ; and when 
 she was gone he turned away and walked slow- 
 ly down the street towards the railway station. 
 Home would be his refuge, as it had been to many 
 another beaten man before him. 
 
XXV 
 
 IT was with a keen sense of defeat that David tried 
 to take up his work again at home. But in 
 that work, with its imperative demand for strong, 
 unceasing action, lay his safety. The season 
 was advancing; and little by little, with plough, 
 harrow, and planter, he made conquest of his 
 broad acres, seeing field after field blacken with 
 the upturning of the rich mould and grow softly 
 green with new life. There was infinite healing in 
 it. He was not seeking forgetfulness ; but, all un- 
 consciously, he was doing better than forgetting. 
 He held on with his work, giving to it his best 
 thought from day to day, letting his heart and 
 mind and soul lie open to its benefits, contenting 
 himself with the robust, primal satisfaction of the 
 husbandman answering to the summons of spring. 
 He was a strong man, a natural man, to whom 
 sun and wind, rain and change of season, were 
 known of old. They spoke to him in a language 
 he could understand, with no timid reticence of 
 expression, with no cunning art, but with frank, 
 full disclosure. Whether he knew it or not, he 
 gave healthy response. 
 
 For a time he held aloof from the old com- 
 19 289 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 panionships of the home neighborhood, while he 
 fought out the first sharp struggle with his sorrow. 
 But he was not morbid, and as the days passed 
 he felt an increasing need of friendship. After 
 six weeks at home, when he had rid himself of his 
 first acute despair, one May evening he sought 
 Keller at his cabin -home, on the bank of the 
 Elkhorn. 
 
 It was a very modest abode; a low house of 
 rough logs, nestled in beautiful seclusion among 
 the towering elms and alders, now rich with their 
 spring leafage. The door stood open to the night, 
 and from it flowed a flood of golden light, making 
 a pathway across the new grass. A wood fire, 
 late but kindly, burned upon a wide, open hearth, 
 and before it sat Keller, lolling comfortably in his 
 chair, between his lips the inevitable pipe, a stu- 
 dent - lamp at his elbow, many books scattered 
 disorderly about upon the floor and table. It 
 was a fair picture of masculinity left to itself, 
 taking its own joys in its own way, without fear 
 and without reproach. 
 
 Keller greeted David heartily, but without ris- 
 ing, bidding him make himself comfortable where 
 and how he would — the best expression of a man's 
 sense of hospitality. 
 
 "Snug as ever, Joe," David commented, as his 
 glance wandered around the big, book -walled 
 room, and back to the ruddy, bearded face of his 
 friend. 
 
 "Rather snugger than ever in mind," Keller 
 290 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 answered, contentedly, through an odorous, blue 
 haze. 
 
 " Dave, did you ever know of a man being 
 frightened, actually frightened, by his own ful- 
 ness of content?" 
 
 "Why, what's happened, old man?" David ask- 
 ed. "Is it poetry, or something else?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing at all has happened. I don't care 
 much for the immature sort of happiness that de- 
 pends on particular happenings. I can't explain 
 myself. I'm not flatly torpid, nor drowsy in de- 
 sire. I'm working hard, and full of healthy desires 
 for attainment, yet I'm absolutely tranquil in 
 spirit." 
 
 A long silence fell, while David soberly medi- 
 tated upon his friend's speech, trying to fix its 
 bearings upon his own estate. His thoughts 
 wandered far before he spoke. 
 
 "Joe, have you heard anything about Mr. Wat- 
 son?" 
 
 "Concerning his wife, you mean?" Keller re- 
 turned. " Yes, I've heard of that. I met him in 
 Omaha last week. He looked badly broken, it 
 seemed to me — hunted and harassed. It's too 
 bad. His wife's still in town, I heard, and they're 
 living together; but he doesn't appear to be get- 
 ting much joy out of it. I'm genuinely sorry for 
 him ; it's more like a tragedy than anything I ever 
 knew." 
 
 Though many questions were astir in his mind, 
 he did not utter them, but, after their long-estab- 
 
 291 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 lished usage, awaited such confidence as David 
 chose to give. After an interval it came. 
 
 "Joe, I must tell you how it is. You ought 
 to know, I think." He told the story in its 
 entirety, frankly, while Keller listened without 
 comment until the last. 
 
 "Dave, Dave," the man said, at the end, with 
 deep warmth of feeling, " I'm sorry for you, but 
 I'm more glad than sorry. It's been hard on you, 
 but I suppose you took the best way, and I'm 
 heartily glad it's turned out as it has. You will 
 be, too, some day." 
 
 " I can't believe it, Joe," David answered. " It 
 has given me a different feeling towards the whole 
 scheme. I'm going to hold on, of course, and try 
 not to weaken, but it's hard work. It's clear past 
 me to understand why you should be glad." 
 
 Slowly and in silence they retraced their steps 
 through the woodland to the cabin; and at the 
 door they parted in some constraint, David turn- 
 ing homeward much depressed, thoroughly per- 
 plexed. To add to his perturbation, he encoun- 
 tered Ruth in the home door-yard. She had passed 
 an hour with his mother, she told him, and was 
 just leaving. Though she offered gentle protest, 
 he fell into step with her, and together they went 
 across the fields. 
 
 They took the "short way" — a way that once 
 he could not have reconciled with desire; but on 
 this night he found/ it long. In the first few 
 minutes he resolved to seize his chance .and to 
 
 292 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 part with the girl in full understanding; that, he 
 thought, would reduce his problem to the simplest 
 terms, and so put it in the way of solution. But 
 when he tried, he found that his resolution could 
 not so easily be translated into words. The min- 
 utes passed, and their speech was confined to mere 
 commonplaces. Once or twice he made a tenta- 
 tive beginning, only to have its current diverted 
 by some light word of hers, spoken without ap- 
 preciation of his mood. He was glad when they 
 came to her gate; there, after a few trivial words, 
 he pleaded his own weariness and the morrow's 
 work, and bade her good-bye. 
 
 When he had left her, and walked slowly home- 
 ward again, his dejection was profound. Whether 
 the cause was from within or without he did not 
 try to discover; but more completely than ever 
 before he felt himself mastered, not master. By a 
 devious way he arrived at a thought which star- 
 tled him like an apparition. 
 
 " I wish I had never gone away !" he cried, aloud. 
 " This is where I belonged, and I could have been 
 happy here, and made them all happy; and now 
 I've spoiled it all." And he went to bed in moody 
 despair. 
 
 But his work held him fast in leash and would 
 not let him free from its influence. The summer 
 came on, a processional of glorious, golden days, 
 each bearing symbols of bounty and of Nature's 
 content with herself; and every day, as he toiled 
 in the fields, she cried out to him in a language 
 
 293 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 that contained no word of art or artifice. " Life 
 for dear life's sake" was the song she sang with 
 myriad voices — voices of birds and bees and of all 
 living things, and voices from the summer wind 
 stirring softly through the lush green of his broad 
 acres of wheat and corn. "A man must do his 
 work" she called in other times, when for brief 
 moments his hold upon himself grew lax ; and the 
 call was always tonic. It is well, no doubt, that 
 men are little conscious of the processes of healing 
 and of health — well that they can make surrender 
 of themselves to sanative influences, without de- 
 manding that they be allowed to understand. Life 
 is, after all, a mighty miracle; and he is the wise 
 man who can work with a faith that demands no 
 guarantee, though he feels that he is passing over 
 fathomless depths. To be sustained is enough; 
 and the courage of the natural man sustains him. 
 It was to such influences, such healing, such assur- 
 ance of security, that David surrendered himself 
 through those wondrous days out-of-doors, sweat- 
 ing over his labor, too weary to take close heed of 
 what was coming to pass, his very soul lying fal- 
 low and being made ready for its fruitage. 
 
XXVI 
 
 THERE was never such another wheat harvest 
 in the Elkhorn valley as that year, and never 
 such ardent labor as in its gathering. For long 
 days together the air rang with the music of the 
 reaper and the thresher and the lusty joy swelling 
 in the voices of the harvesters, while each day, 
 from early dawn to latest dusk, the laden wagons 
 crept in from the fields, until every empty space 
 within the vast barns was choked, glutted with 
 wealth. There is no satisfaction like to that in 
 its profundity — the satisfaction of clear reward 
 following close upon the earning; a satisfaction 
 old as husbandry, yet new with each returning 
 year. 
 
 One evening, when the harvest was over, David 
 sat with his mother and Uncle Billy on the grass 
 under the elms in the door-yard. He was utterly 
 weary, as were they, and their speech was fitful, 
 intermittent, but full of placid content. 
 
 After a time the mother arose, passing towards 
 the house, but pausing to lay her hand upon her 
 son's head. 
 
 "Well, my boy," she said, quietly, "it's been a 
 good time, hasn't it? I'm very thankful, David." 
 
 2 95 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 He caught her hand, holding it fast, touching it 
 with his lips. 
 
 " Yes, mother. I'm thankful, too. If corn turns 
 out as well as wheat, we sha'n't have to worry 
 any more for years." 
 
 " If!" Uncle Billy sniffed, disdainfully. " What 
 business you got sayin' ' if ' ? You if-ers give me 
 a pain! If you'll just quit your if -in' an' stick to 
 your cultivator for a spell, corn '11 turn out all 
 right." 
 
 "Now, Billy!" Mrs. Boughton interposed, gen- 
 tly. " Who's done better than David with wheat 
 around here?" She stood for a moment, looking 
 around upon the beloved landscape, softened and 
 glorified by the summer moonlight. " I happened 
 on a little scrap of poetry the other day," she said, 
 presently, "and it made me feel almost guilty for 
 ever having been fretted or grieved over any- 
 thing, all my life. ' Earth gives us so much, and 
 asks so little from us at the last,' it said. That's 
 true, too, my son." With slow step she passed 
 within the house, and they heard her humming a 
 little melody of happiness. 
 
 "Yes, by God, it's true!" Uncle Billy muttered. 
 Then: "Dave, don't you mind what the old man 
 said a bit ago. 'Mighty! I'm proud of you; 
 that's what I am. You're a— you're a fanner! 
 But I wa'n't goin' to let on before her; she's like 
 to spoil you as it is, if I don't look out." 
 
 In his own room, a half-hour later, David sat by 
 the window, gazing out across his fields, listening 
 
 296 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 to the intricate chorus of sounds of the summer 
 night. The thrilling voices spoke to him with 
 new meaning; or perhaps the meaning was old, 
 and only his understanding was new. That is one 
 of Nature's habits — never to grow petulant, but 
 patiently to iterate and reiterate her simple truths 
 until by-and-by we comprehend. " Life for life's 
 dear sake" chanted the chorus — crickets and 
 whippoorwills, air and stirring leaves, and num- 
 berless other voices, sweetly familiar yet wholly 
 nameless and unplaced ; and, as he heard, mind and 
 heart were suffused with tenderness and strong 
 affection. Ambition for a better place than 
 this! His tired senses could not hold firmly to 
 the thought ; unsubstantially it slipped from their 
 grasp. 
 
 "Yes," he sighed, with an odd commingling of 
 sadness and content, " I guess this is where I be- 
 long." 
 
 He arose and lighted his little bedroom lamp; 
 then from a bureau drawer he brought forth the 
 letter which Margaret had written him in the early 
 spring, following Dan's death. He had read and 
 reread it many times, until it was worn at the folds. 
 He read it again now, slowly, with close attention 
 to its every word ; and yet again, from beginning 
 to end, while a cloud of memories floated between 
 his eyes and the sheet — memories of thoughts 
 once hardy and brave, but now grown strangely 
 remote, almost spectrally dim. He returned the 
 letter to its envelope and held it above the flame 
 
 297 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 of his lamp, watching it blacken and turn crisply- 
 back at the edges, and then break into yellow 
 flame, to fall at last in feathery ashes to the floor. 
 He set his foot upon the fluffy heap; and in that 
 moment he made complete renunciation. 
 
 A month later, when the work with the corn 
 was done and there came a brief intermission be- 
 fore the harvest, he received a letter from Wat- 
 son — a hasty pen-scrawl, written in big, bold lines. 
 It ran: 
 
 " Dear Boughton, — I want to see you. I have held 
 back from, writing until matters were cleared up some- 
 what. Now I can talk to you. I want a short rest, too. 
 I should like to go fishing for a couple of days, if you 
 can go with me. I hope you are not too much occupied. 
 Let me know. I must see you soon. 
 
 " Paul Watson." 
 
 Two days afterwards David met Watson at the 
 Waterloo station. He had prepared himself to 
 see a change in the man. As he walked the little 
 platform, awaiting the arrival of the train, he al- 
 most dreaded its coming and the pain which the 
 meeting must bring to both of them. What could 
 there be to say, he wondered, that would not bet- 
 ter be left unsaid? He felt a strong repugnance 
 to being forcibly reminded again of Watson's sor- 
 row, seeing the visible signs of what must have 
 been visited upon him in the long months of trial ; 
 and for himself, he felt that to go back over the 
 past, now that he had so effectually severed it 
 from the present, would be but to galvanize the 
 
 298 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 dead into a feeble, brief semblance of life — a mock- 
 ery and a torture. As he considered it, he would 
 have preferred to let the dead lie ; at the last mo- 
 ment, when the train came rumbling and hissing 
 to a stop, and the meeting was imminent, he would 
 have averted it if he could. But in another mo- 
 ment Watson was coming towards him along the 
 platform, and his fears were dispelled by sharp sur- 
 prise. 
 
 This was not the man who had haunted his 
 memory and imagination ; it was not the man he 
 had ever known. The body was the same, in its 
 gigantic outline and mass; and the face, in the 
 heavy, strong mould of the features ; but both were 
 transformed, transfigured. The powerful shoul- 
 ders were lifted and squared; the old downward 
 droop and grim restraint of the lips were gone, and 
 the dark depths of the eyes were glowing with the 
 fires of spiritual virility. 
 
 The big hand closed upon David's with a grip 
 of iron, and the big voice rang out in a laugh that 
 was like the booming of a bass bell. 
 
 "Boughton! Lord, but I'm glad to see you! 
 How are you, anyway? Brown as a Greaser! 
 But tell me, anyway, that you're well. I cer- 
 tainly am glad to see you, youngster." 
 
 He had linked his arm through David's and 
 was drawing him away from the gaping crowd of 
 station loafers. Once apart from them, he stood 
 confronting David, laughing with boyish delight 
 at the wonder he saw in the young face. 
 
 299 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 " It's too good to keep !" he cried. " I came out 
 on purpose to tell you, and the sooner the better. 
 Boughton, I've found my Eurydice. I've been 
 through hell and back to get her; but I've got her 
 at last. Do you understand?" 
 
 In the full flood of his amazement and strong 
 emotion, David could not answer save by putting 
 out his hand again. Watson caught it fiercely in 
 both his own, pressing it until the very bones 
 ached. 
 
 "It's true!" he cried. "Thank God, it's true. 
 I'm as sure of her as I am of the sun up yonder. 
 Oh, I wish I could tell you! Why, I've jumped 
 clean back to the days of my youth, at one jump — 
 jumped clean over every doubt I ever had in the 
 world, and fallen in love with my wife all over 
 again. And she loves me. I know it. I've got 
 such certainty as belongs to only a mighty few ex- 
 periences in this life. Oh, come, come.'" he broke 
 off ; " this won't do. Where's your wagon? Let's 
 get started. I want to get as far away as I pos- 
 sibly can from a town, for this one day, where I 
 can have you to myself and talk to you. I've got 
 to tell you the whole story, from the beginning." 
 
 On the drive northward through the beautiful 
 valley, with the morning sky over them and the 
 south wind warming their blood, he was like a 
 happy boy — yes, better still, he was a happy 
 man. 
 
 "I can't tell you what I've been through," he 
 said. " You don't need to know that ; it wouldn't 
 
 300 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 be good for you to know. I didn't try to find 
 out from anybody else whether she was telling 
 me the truth; I just waited to see for myself. 
 And I saw — absolutely. I don't want to go 
 through it again — those dreadful months ; but it's 
 been worth all it cost. She's proved herself; ev- 
 ery word of what she told me was true. She loves 
 me, boy, and she's loved me all the time. It's 
 pretty late in life ; but do you know what I'm go- 
 ing to do? I've resigned my seat and sold out 
 my practice, and we're going to start fresh. I'm 
 done with law and politics — damn the whole busi- 
 ness ! I'm going to give the rest of my life to that 
 woman. I'm going to give her everything I've 
 been withholding from her a"l these terrible years, 
 and we're going to find out that this life was meant 
 to be something besides an illusion and a hoodoo. 
 I wish there was some way of letting you know 
 what it means to us; but you can't do that, and I 
 hope you may never find out." 
 
 Something in David's face sobered him sudden- 
 ly, and they rode on for a time in silence. 
 
 " I've thought of you, too, Boughton," the man 
 said, presently. "I was a brute that day; but I 
 couldn't help it. I believe the strain was driving 
 me' insane. I said unjust things to you. But I 
 honestly tried to make it right, after I'd had a 
 little time to think. I talked to Margy about you, 
 and she told me everything that had gone between 
 you. I'm sorry, genuinely sorry. I hope you 
 can believe that. But at the same time I can't 
 
 301 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 help thinking that the girl knew best. I was 
 largely to blame for it, on account of the way I'd 
 influenced her during those years. But it's a 
 thing that can't be helped now. It's a mighty 
 big question. I didn't argue with her, because 
 I felt I had no right to do that ; I felt that I'd 
 rather trust her instincts than my own, after 
 the way mine had led me astray. I guess she 
 was right in what she said to you. Tell me this, 
 boy: have you heard from her since?" 
 
 "No," David answered, in listless calm. 
 
 " You haven't heard from her direct? She went 
 away when her mother came back — back to friends 
 in New York. She couldn't stay. I guess that 
 was best, too. But there's something more. You 
 don't know that she's to be married?" 
 
 " Married!" For a moment earth and sky were 
 fused together in a whirling blur, and the young 
 heart leaped and pounded; but that passed, and 
 the green hills lay warm and tranquil in the sun- 
 light as before. 
 
 "It's better so," Watson said, gently. " You'll 
 appreciate it by-and-by. I think she's found the 
 right man. He's in the thick of things back there, 
 and has interests all over the world. He's been in 
 Congress once, and he's likely to go again, if he 
 doesn't conclude to live abroad. He's going to 
 Syria this winter, to explore some of the ancient 
 towns, and she'll probably go with him. He's a 
 thoroughly worthy fellow, and I think he's just 
 the kind of a husband she needs. I hope so." He 
 
 302 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 looked long and earnestly into David's grave, 
 frank face, then laid his arm affectionately across 
 the sturdy shoulders. " If I were left to choose a 
 son from among all the men I've known, it would 
 be you," he said, with deep feeling; "but I guess 
 it's best as it is." 
 
 Five miles above Waterloo they halted in a nook 
 of the unreclaimed wilderness, where the narrow 
 belt of valley woodland crept down close to the 
 water's edge. It was far from any human dwell- 
 ing, and the whole world seemed from that spot 
 to be given over to the simple, primal light-heart- 
 edness of wild, free life. As they turned from the 
 travelled road into the thicket, a gray rabbit ran 
 lightly out of their way, a pair of red squirrels 
 scolded from the near branches, and the water 
 called invitation from its hiding beyond the trees. 
 
 David loosed the horses and picketed them in 
 the thick sward beside the road. When that was 
 done, and he walked down to the river, he found 
 Watson poised upon a flat rock in the stream, rod 
 in hand, his face beaming with satisfaction. David 
 made his own tackle ready, and gave himself to 
 the sport. But Watson's impetuous zeal did not 
 long endure. After a catch or two he put by his 
 rod and stretched himself at his length upon the 
 warm sand, spreading his arms and legs to the 
 utmost, his face upturned to the sky. 
 
 "I'm going to have a day of leisure," he said. 
 " I'm not going to be obliged to fish, just because 
 I came fishing." He clutched at the sand, gath- 
 
 3°3 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 ering it up in great handfuls, letting it escape from 
 his ringers, sighing in sheer content. "Leisure!" 
 he said again. "We Western folk don't know 
 what that is; we shouldn't know what to do with 
 it if it was ours. We take a half -day off, once or 
 twice a year, and call that leisure; but it isn't. 
 We're so excited by the fear of losing a minute of it 
 that we lose it all. I'm just going to lie right here 
 until lunch-time; and that's two full hours." 
 
 Presently, in the fulness of his relaxation, he 
 dozed, and David was left alone with river, trees, 
 and sky — those and his thoughts. Effort to think 
 there was none ; the time for that seemed passed. 
 Nor was there strong emotion of any kind. It 
 was as though will had halted and stood by, 
 watching idly while memory marshalled its hosts 
 and led them in procession. He did not realize 
 it; but in those few quiet hours was the crisis of 
 his life. Had he been called upon to give name 
 to an active desire for the future, he could not have 
 done it ; he was only drifting, drifting ; but drifting 
 surely, upon the bosom of currents he did not even 
 suspect, back to a secure anchorage upon firm 
 ground at the very bottom of his existence. Ev- 
 ery voice, every wondrous effect of light and shade, 
 every impulse that was borne to his quiescent 
 senses, came with a touch of healing. Iridescent 
 dragon-flies skimmed along the banks, poising 
 now and again with outspread wings upon his rod ; 
 bank-swallows flashed by, back and forth, close 
 against the water, touching it lightly with wing or 
 
 3°4 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 breast ; sometimes a silvery fish flung itself free of 
 the stream, and snake or tortoise protruded cau- 
 tious head; the air was murmurous with life; not 
 one false note among them all. Under all beat 
 the mighty heart of the world — heart that never 
 betrayed true lover. Once the face of Margaret 
 rose before the man's eyes, floating in the shad- 
 ows of the dark water ; but the current was swift 
 and strong, and the beautiful image drifted, drift- 
 ed farther and farther away, and was lost to his 
 sight. Regret, sorrow, pain — if he felt these, even 
 in the lightest degree, they did not wound, but 
 blended softly into his mood and became a part of 
 its balm. 
 
 " It wasn't mine," he brooded. " If it had been 
 mine, it would have come to me." Then he reeled 
 up his line and stepped from stone to stone tow- 
 ards the bank where Watson lay still sleeping. 
 
 They made a hearty luncheon, taking their time 
 to it; and afterwards they returned for a time to 
 their sport. But it did not hold them, and for 
 most of the afternoon they gave themselves to en- 
 joyment of the slow, calm movement of the day's 
 life about them ; talking when there was anything 
 to say, but not grudging the long intervals wherein 
 each retired within himself to meditate upon the 
 mystery whose solution was unfolding. Twilight 
 deepened around them before they thought of 
 home, and the valley swam with mellow shadows 
 — clear, ethereal gold, slipping into royal purple, 
 laced with other hues too subtle to be named ; and 
 
 305 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 then, against the breast of the eastern sky, shone 
 one brilliant star, like a decoration won from an 
 approving God. 
 
 "This hour seems like Nature's holy of holies," 
 Watson said, "and not many of us are fit to be 
 admitted to it. But I'm fit, as I never was be- 
 fore." And then again, when they were starting 
 back along the quiet country road: "Oh, it's a 
 good world !" he cried — "a good world, and lots 
 of chances for good. I guess the Almighty knows 
 His business, Boughton." 
 
XXVII 
 
 AGAIN it was mid-October; and again David 
 l\ set his plough into the black loam of the 
 "hill eighty." It was still early morning, and 
 seasonal mists lay thick in the deep hollows tow- 
 ards the river, swirling in gray eddies as the wind 
 touched them. Here and there over the land- 
 scape flitted the shadows of passing clouds; but 
 most of the land lay bathed in warm light — fair 
 cloth of gold, embroidered with infinite wealth of 
 color by a master hand. 
 
 David paused for a brief time before beginning 
 his task, looking around. 
 
 "Is it a whole year?" he said, aloud. "I 
 thought that was going to be the last time!" 
 
 He set the ploughshare into the rich soil, gath- 
 ered the reins into one firm hand, chirruping to 
 the horses, and striking into the long, swinging 
 gait that was his in the fields. He heard the blade 
 rip its way deep into the mould, and saw the long, 
 outward roll of the upturning furrow; he caught 
 a deep breath of its humid odor, and the wind 
 touched his cheek like the kiss of a friend. At 
 the far fence he turned his team and stood 
 looking down the slope of the hill to where his 
 
 307 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 home lay nestling close against the breast of its 
 mother - earth, and his heart swelled with great 
 happiness. 
 
 "Thank God, it wasn't the last time!" he cried, 
 softly. Then, as busy memory leaped backward 
 again, he laughed aloud, in the irrepressible fash- 
 ion he had been so near to forgetting. 
 
 " I was looking for a sort of final, supreme vic- 
 tory — an 'ultimate moment,' I told Joe. I won- 
 der if this might be it, after all?" 
 
 A blue jay flitted down from the air and perched 
 upon the fence near by, cocking its saucy head, 
 appreciative of the newly turned earth; then 
 swooped closer — a jet of vivid flame — picked a fat 
 worm from the furrow, swallowed it, and flashed 
 into the air again, screaming with lusty delight. 
 David's laugh rang large and true. 
 
 "That was an ultimate moment, sure enough!" 
 he said, gayly. " Oh, you're a wise old bird. But 
 why couldn't you have told me that a year ago? 
 It would have saved me a heap of trouble." 
 
 He bent to his work then with a firmer purpose, 
 and the willing horses plodded steadily back and 
 forth, across and across, leaving behind a trail of 
 patient industry. It was joyful work, and his 
 hardy muscles thrilled ; but hard work, too, that 
 brought the sweat dripping upon his forehead 
 and cheeks. A young cotton wood- tree stood in 
 one corner of the field, close to the lane, and he 
 promised himself that when he reached it he would 
 rest for a little while in its shade. As he drew 
 
 308 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 near, his alert eyes caught a glimpse of a blue- 
 clad figure passing quickly through the lane tow- 
 ards the spot; and there, with his head bared to 
 the soft wind, he encountered Ruth. 
 
 She nodded blithely, and with a bright word 
 would have passed on, but he called to her to 
 stop. 
 
 "People mustn't stop on errands," she said. 
 "I'm taking this basket of grapes to your mother." 
 
 " It isn't a case of life and death," he pleaded. 
 "Please, Ruth, just a minute." And without 
 further demur she turned aside, standing near him, 
 with only the fence between — not a great barrier. 
 His eyes met hers and held to them, drinking deep 
 of their sweet serenity. They were beautiful eyes 
 — he had always known that ; blue as the mid-day 
 sky ; but more than that he saw now. They were 
 true as the sky, too — as steadfast, and as full of 
 heavenly meaning. She was a simple-hearted 
 girl, with no power but that of her simplicity ; yet 
 as he gazed he knew, what is known only to the 
 wise, that simplicity is the master-key to all true 
 power. Perfect purity was hers, too, and the 
 strength that comes from purity, and the faith 
 that comes from strength. She had never learned 
 to cherish lightest doubt of life or of life's utility. 
 
 "Oh, Ruth," he said, feeling his own un worthi- 
 ness, "it has been a strange year. It was a year 
 ago yesterday that I went away; do you remem- 
 ber? And here I am back again. I've wandered 
 a long way since then — oh, you don't know how 
 
 3°9 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 far— around and around, like a man that's lost in 
 the woods ; only it was worse than that. But I've 
 been led back to my place, and I'm thankful, more 
 thankful than I can tell you if I try for a lifetime." 
 He took her hand in his, holding it firmly, quiet- 
 ing its shyness; then bent and touched it rever- 
 ently with his lips. " I'm going to tell you the 
 whole story," he said. " It isn't going to be easy 
 for me, nor for you; but it must be told. I've 
 done no wrong, Ruth; but I've been a sorry, mis- 
 erable fool. That's what makes it so hard — any 
 man would rather own up to wickedness than to 
 being a fool. But I'm going to tell you, anyway, 
 every word, and I'm going to keep you here until 
 I make you understand." 
 
 And then he told his story, like the honest man 
 he was, from beginning to end, making no trial to 
 shield himself nor to soften the hurt it must cause 
 her. That must come afterwards, when she knew. 
 She listened in complete silence until the last word, 
 standing in her simple attitude before him, look- 
 ing at him now and then, but giving no token of 
 her depth of feeling. When he had finished she 
 was very pale, but she only said, quietly : 
 " I must go on now. Mother will want me." 
 But he would not have it so. "Ruth, Ruth!" 
 he cried. " Don't go that way — don't ! You must 
 listen to one word more, first. Do you know why 
 I've told you this? I know you do! I have no 
 right to say it yet, but I'm going to have the right 
 — I'm going to make you give it to me. I'll make 
 
 310 
 
THE ULTIMATE MOMENT 
 
 you know how I care for you, better than — 
 oh, I can't say it! Look at me, Ruth, just once, 
 and then I'll let you go." 
 
 She did as he bade her; then, with a smothered 
 cry, a rush of burning color upon her cheeks, she 
 started from him, frightened by her own temerity. 
 He leaped the fence at a bound and stood beside 
 her, catching her hand in his, pressing it to his 
 breast. 
 
 "Ruth, you must give me the right to show 
 you how much I do care. I don't ask anything 
 else now; but you must give me that." He laid 
 his hand upon her bent head, lifting it, compelling 
 her eyes to meet his again. It was only for an in- 
 stant, but he saw enough. 
 
 He stood looking after her as she hurried down 
 the lane ; and, when she was gone, still he stood in 
 his place for a long time. 
 
 " God make me fit for her !" he whispered. Then, 
 with slow step, he went back across the field to 
 his plough. 
 
 THE END 
 
The ultimate moment 
 
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