-' 
 
 AST WORD 
 
 ALICE MAcGOWAN
 
 The Last Word
 
 
 CAKRINGTON WEST
 
 HE LAST 
 
 By 
 ALICE MAcGOWAN 
 
 BOSTON 
 L. C. PAGE fc? COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCCIII
 
 Copyright, 1902 
 
 By L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 (INCORPORATED) 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Published, August, 1902 
 
 Colonial 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
 Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
 
 . . . So take the book. Its words are mine; 
 
 Mine is the voice 
 Which through its pages you may hear 
 
 Grieve, or rejoice. 
 
 But heart and eyes of yearning love 
 
 To feel and see 
 All human grief, or joy, or hope, 
 
 You gave to me. 
 
 1 walked the city's ways, alone 
 
 As hermits are, 
 Because my heart was from your heart 
 
 Exiled so far. 
 
 Though I was housed, and warmed, and fed, 
 
 All want I knew; 
 All hunger, cold and loneliness, 
 
 In wanting you. 
 
 From all Life's victims' eyes I saw 
 
 The wakeful pain 
 Which tossed and slept not in my heart 
 
 Look back again. 
 
 Yet could I hope for these, against 
 
 Despair and death; 
 Because my own hope cannot cease, 
 
 Save with my breath. 
 
 My heart, like the great city's heart, 
 
 Its deep unrest, 
 Its trouble, half revealed, half hid, 
 
 Beneath a jest.
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. IN THE HAND OF THE WIND . . . i 
 
 II. "THE PANTHER'S FEET" . . . .17 
 
 III. " Now WE ARE COME TO OUR KINGDOM" . 37 
 
 IV. A SUPERFLUOUS INTRODUCTION ... 56 
 
 V. " A ROMAN WARRIOR SCULPTOR UN- 
 KNOWN" . . . . . . .68 
 
 VI. ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN THE MORNING . 82 
 
 VII. "THE EATERS AND THE EATEN" . . 96 
 
 VIII. OF THE MAKING OF BOOKS. . . . 107 
 
 IX. THE LITTLE STJDIO 119 
 
 X. " His PROPER GIFT " 132 
 
 XI. THE BATTLE OF THE SOVEREIGNS . . 139 
 
 XII. IN THE CHAMBER OF ECHOES . . .152 
 
 XIII. "THROUGH THE SEVENTH GATE" . . 1 66 
 
 XIV. THE LORD'S FREEMAN 189 
 
 XV. A DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY .... 200 
 
 XVI. As SOLOMON SAYS 214 
 
 XVII. "FoR A HAWK A HORSE OR A HUS- 
 BAND" 230 
 
 XVIII. THE HIGHEST PLACES 238 
 
 XIX. " UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH "... 249 
 
 XX THE BREAKING GULF 267 
 
 XXI. A WHITE NIGHT 278 
 
 XXII. IN THE TROUGH OF THE SEAS . . . 285 
 
 XXIII. A SPARTAN THREE 295 
 
 XXIV. A PLASTER EROS 312 
 
 XXV. FLAWED VESSELS ...... 325 
 
 vil
 
 Vlll 
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 PACK 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " THE PITY OP IT I " . 
 
 344 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " THE AMAZING MARRIAGE " . 
 
 - 35i 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 THE PUN THERAPEUTIC . 
 
 , 364 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A BRIDGE OF DAYS .... 
 
 376 
 
 XXX. 
 
 THE PHANTOM CARAVAN . 
 
 384 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " IN THE HOUSE OF A STRANGER " . 
 
 397 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 "THE RACE UNRUN" 
 
 . 417 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 HEARTS TRIUMPHANT 
 
 43
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CARRINGTON WEST Frontispiece 
 
 '"A ROMAN WARRIOR SCULPTOR UNKNOWN'" . 81 
 " ' IT IS ALWAYS ROSES AND CARA TO ME '" . .172 
 
 UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH 256 
 
 A WHITE NIGHT 278 
 
 " I DECIDED FINALLY THAT I WOULD WRITE TO 
 
 HIM'" 386 
 
 " ' WE RODE TO THE ROUND - UP ' " . . . 430
 
 The Last Word 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the Hand of the Wind 
 
 " Hail and farewell 1 I must arise, 
 
 Leave here the fatted cattle, 
 And paint on other scenes and skies 
 My Odyssey of battle." 
 
 MY hat blew off as we were crossing Packsaddle 
 divide. There's a wind that lives all alone up there 
 on Packsaddle, a wild, shiftless, senseless creature, 
 that runs hooting and tooting up and down. It 
 comes at you, snatching and screeching, the moment 
 you top the divide, and races yelling away, carry- 
 ing anything in the outfit it can tear loose. Now it 
 fled triumphantly with its booty, at the rate of fifty 
 miles an hour. 
 
 We had encountered, as we neared the station, 
 several detachments of skylarking cowboys, seeking 
 entertainment, as they seek or meet all the is- 
 sues of life, a-horseback. 
 
 My fleeing hat drove directly toward the nearest 
 group of these riders, and they, perceiving from my
 
 The Last Word 
 
 frantic gesticulations and the sight of my bare head, 
 what was (literally) in the wind, whooped as one 
 cowboy, and as one cowboy launched forward after 
 it. 
 
 The lunatic wind dropped its plaything just at 
 that moment, and, before they could check, the whole 
 troop had ridden pell-mell over the fugitive, and I 
 realised that the enthusiasm of well-meaning friends 
 may have its embarrassments. 
 
 This hat, however, was my hat, that is to say, a 
 garment (if garment is the word) which had spent 
 many months in close association with my head, and 
 it was not to be easily downed. Mangled as it must 
 even then have been, it stoutly signalled the next 
 passing blast, which came racing along at that in- 
 stant, boarded it, and capered gaily away on its 
 wings toward some air-drawn point in the horizon 
 line, which it had evidently decided upon for itself. 
 
 The boys wheeled and tore after it. There were 
 ropes whirling now. They had forgotten the nature 
 of the thing they were after, a mortal hat, and 
 the only headgear I had in which to travel to New 
 York. It was with sinking heart I observed their 
 earnest rivalry in its pursuit. No hat ever fabricated 
 of straw, I assured myself, could come whole out of 
 the impending encounter. And I was right. 
 
 " I've got the brim ! " Bob Howard called to me, 
 as the squad came charging back, " and Shorty, he's 
 got the crown." 
 
 " I'm awful sorry it wouldn't stay together," 
 apologised Shorty. " I'd have been perfectly will- 
 ing to let Bob have all of it every bit but it 
 seemed as if my rope cut right through it." 
 
 " Say, boys," put in Little Carpenter, " that hat's
 
 In the Hand of the Wind 
 
 a gone fawn-skin it's a was even if you went 
 and scraped up all the pieces we scattered around 
 back there. I forgot it wasn't a mountain lion while 
 I was after it." And he laughed ruefully. 
 
 Snap Masters rode up gaily, glanced at the frag- 
 ments in Bob's hands, and his face fell comically as 
 he announced : " It's no use fooling with that stuff. 
 There's a new millinery store started over at Can- 
 yoncita City and she's a hummer, too. 'Tain't 
 more'n five miles extry between here an' the station. 
 I'll ride round that way and get her a hat." 
 
 "You will!" snorted Bob Howard. "Well, I 
 like the cast-iron brass of that! I guess I'll get 
 it for her. 'Twas me roped the brim." 
 
 " I rode over it more'n six times," retorted Snap, 
 and Shorty put in a claim as the one who pulled 
 it in two. I was forgotten in the earnest, not to 
 say heated, discussion as to who should buy my 
 headgear. 
 
 Suddenly Little Carpenter settled it. " We'll each 
 get her one," he said. " Git there! " and he started 
 his pony in what proved to be a second race. 
 
 King Preston told me about it afterward, at 
 the station, while we waited for old Hank Pearsall 
 who never came. King had a delightful style, a 
 distinctly literary style. Indeed he was a born 
 writer, an artist; the only man I have known, out 
 on that border of the world, in whom the doing of 
 strange, dramatic deeds, the actual living of a wild, 
 vivid, picturesque life, could not dull a fine instinc- 
 tive perception of the picturesqueness, the humour, 
 the dramatic points, and artistic values of it all. 
 
 We, in our buckboard, drove on across Packsad- 
 dle toward the station; and the millinery posse, as
 
 The Last Word 
 
 King styled it, thundered upon the door of the Elite 
 Millinery Parlours in Canyoncita City, bringing 
 Madame O'Brien to the door, with her Hibernian 
 locks still in their French crimping-pins. 
 
 " She lives behind the shop," explained King, 
 " an' she'd slung a small rebozo over the general 
 dis-abilly an' disconnection of her cos-toom. When 
 she saw the crowd of us, she staggered back, an' 
 says, ' Hivin presarve us ! ' I guess she thought 
 we was a mob o' vigilantes. ' The ' Howly Mother 
 kape us! ' she says, an' tried to clap to the door." 
 
 But it seems that Frosty, who had been doing the 
 door-pounding, was ahead of her there. Frosty had 
 been used to ride, as a ranger, with posses military, 
 after goods other than millinery, and was familiar 
 with all manner of strange encounters. Now the 
 toe of his boot was between the door and lintel 
 as they strove to connect. The boys stood in a semi- 
 circle and announced that they had only come to get 
 some hats for a young lady. 
 
 " She looked at us plumb wild," reported King, 
 " an' she sorter whispered, ' Some hats ! ' So I 
 explained. I told her we'd each take a hat, an' let 
 the young lady have her choice. She bristled up at 
 that. ' Well, then, you'll do no such thing ! You'll 
 not rob a lone widder of her goods, an' carry 'em 
 off the Lord knows where, not fer awwv-body to take 
 their ch'ice of ! ' says she. 
 
 ' Oh, we'll buy the bonnets all right, ma'am,' 
 says I ; an' the boys sorter jingled the money in their 
 pockets, to back me up. You never saw such a 
 change in a person. She was all smiles, and full o' 
 good talk. She was helpful, you know, thataway. 
 Oh, she was plumb excellent in counsel. ' Walk
 
 In the Hand of the Wind 
 
 right in, gintlemen,' she says; an' she took a hitch 
 in that insufficient rebczo, where her costoom didn't 
 seem to connect, an' made fast with one o' them big 
 prod-poles you ladies spike on hats with. We left 
 the ponies standin', an' the six of us all boots an' 
 spurs an' sombreros, looked like to me went in 
 fer millinery. 
 
 " We stopped in a bunch inside, sort o' sheepish. 
 But now 'twas the Madame spurred us on. She 
 began by showin' a big ' picture hat,' she called it, 
 to Bob Howard that blazin' red, frizzly one. 
 
 " ' Blue's my favourite colour,' objects Bob, very 
 solemn, ' an' this don't show any blue about it.' 
 
 " ' Blue is it ! ' says the Madame, a-flutterin' like 
 a prairie-hen ; ' Oi've the jewel of a blue parrit that 
 Oi c'n jist tuck in, t' give it th' taste!' An' she 
 brought out that long-tailed, blazin' blue buzzard, 
 an' pinned it into them blazin' red things cactus 
 blossoms, look like. She was plumb religious over 
 it, Miss Carry ; she rolled up her eyes an' told Bob 
 she'd seen the Lord Leftenant's loidy, in Dublin, 
 a-goin' to mass of an Easter marnin'. a-wearin' the 
 very mate o' that on her head. 
 
 " That was a plenty for Bob, an' he paid for the 
 hat, all solemn, an' saw it boxed. He wanted to 
 make a quiet sneak with it, but Frosty was guarding 
 the door all right, an' told him flat that we was all 
 goin' out together, an' no favours shown. 
 
 " I'd picked out a little bonnet that was nothin' 
 but flowers great, long mosquito-netting tie- 
 strings to it. I didn't like Bob's red-cloud, blue- 
 buzzard thing; still, it somehow made mine look 
 small. ' There don't seem to be enough of mine,' 
 I says, sort o' discontented. Then I had an idea.
 
 The Last Word 
 
 'Hold on!' I hollered to the Madame (she was 
 selling that yellow velvet thing she called a tam-o'- 
 shanter, with purple flowers on it, to Snap Masters). 
 ' Say, wait ! I want about a peck measure o' these 
 flowers and things,' I says. 
 
 " She looked a little jolted for a minute, but she 
 riz to the occasion, an' measured 'em out all right 
 in a bonnet box, an' passed 'em over, with about 
 'steen yards of thin stuff an' a paper of pins. I 
 got Frosty to let me out by promisin' not to stam- 
 pede, an' leavin' my bonnet inside. I had time 
 enough to do my work, for Rush Clark bought that 
 big green an' white hat, an' had them wavin' plumes 
 put on special, before the thing come up to his fas- 
 tidious taste. Frosty couldn't find any hat at all 
 that answered to his notions, an' one had to be got 
 up entire for him. 
 
 " When they were all suited at last, an' started 
 for the door an' the ponies, I was done; an' I guess 
 you'll agree my job was no slouch, neither. The 
 boys give one look, an' then yelled like Comanches." 
 
 Gazing on King's " job," I was constrained to 
 admit that it was, indeed, as he had said, " no 
 slouch." 
 
 Armed with his peck of millinery and quarter- 
 mile of veiling, he had trimmed and caparisoned his 
 pony till it resembled the steeds of Aurora, or Spring 
 in a modern French fresco. His fingers, trained by 
 long practice upon his own garments, had used the 
 pins and wires skilfully. A pair of glowing purple 
 Mercury wings garnished the pony's knowing ears, 
 a garland of roses encircled his ewe neck ; puffs of 
 vapourous tulle fell over his shoulders like monster 
 sleeves, and were looped back toward the saddle,
 
 In the Hand of the Wind 
 
 and bound about with bunches of posies' and shining 
 ornaments. His tail was shrouded in misty white, 
 and a rope of flowers ran from it to the high cantle. 
 
 The pony, it seems (" You can't surprise a Texas 
 bronc," said King), had accepted his unusual attire 
 with a cynical indifference born of many and strange 
 adventures; but the millinery hunters went wild. 
 They cast their burdens upon the ground, and turned 
 with joyous whoops to secure, each for himself, a 
 similar outfit. 
 
 King shouted in vain that it was late, that they 
 must mount and ride if they were to reach the sta- 
 tion in time for my train. He even confessed the 
 weakness of claiming that the boys were infringing 
 upon his original idea in thus decorating their steeds. 
 " It was a stampede," he confided to me, half sadly. 
 " There was no turnin' 'em." 
 
 " Old train never was known to be on time," de- 
 clared Shorty; "an' I'll bet Hank Pearsall hasn't 
 got there yet, anyhow." 
 
 This settled it. Bolts of diaphanous stuffs of 
 every known tint, bushels of flowers and feathers 
 and buckles were brought out; Madame was en- 
 couraged to assist ; and when King set his disgusted 
 face toward the station, he had met the fate of the 
 pioneer in any field. For he found himself (like 
 all great originators) surrounded by a school a 
 cloud of imitators. 
 
 To make up the time lost at Madame's, they rode 
 hard, and, as men and horses warmed to their work, 
 the great, light, square, or round bonnet box each 
 man carried became an intolerable nuisance. Fi- 
 nally, in desperation, King attached his sombrero to 
 his saddle ties, cast away the encumbering box, and,
 
 The Last Word 
 
 perching the toque it had contained upon his head, 
 tied the filmy strings beneath his chin. 
 " When the others snickered at sight of his tanned 
 and^ weatherbeaten face in its vernal framing, he 
 told* them sternly that he was going to get that bon- 
 net to the station, and get it there in good shape, 
 but that he'd as soon pack a windmill and pump as 
 that old box. And those who had jeered yet looked 
 enviously at him as he swung ahead, his tulle 
 streamers flying, while they shifted their light but 
 trying burdens from one aching arm to the other. 
 
 Bob finally broke his box, endeavouring to attach 
 it to his saddle ties. Then he fastened his flaming 
 trophy upon his pony's head " Blazin' blue buz- 
 zard an' all ! " recounted King. 
 
 Snap Masters, a man of resource, took off his 
 sombrero, which chanced to be of the stiff, steeple- 
 crowned variety, and spiking his yellow tam-o'- 
 shanter atop of it with the long hat-pins, set it 
 back in place, and buckled the strap once more below 
 his chin. This rational plan appealed to all, and 
 was promptly followed by the three others. Quirts 
 and spurs were brought into use, and the posse set- 
 tled down to that means and end of all cowboys' 
 frolics, a go-as-you-please race. 
 
 I sat waiting at the station, in the soft light of 
 early morning, when this fantastic, flying squadron 
 of the imagination came tearing across the open 
 prairie toward us, the ponies shedding flowers at 
 every jump, so that the cavalcade left a wake like a 
 bridal procession. It swept in from the west, an 
 ambulatory equine rainbow, which blazed upon the 
 face of the plain, and shamed the fires of sunrise. 
 
 It was truly the maddest thing I ever saw. But
 
 In the Hand of the Wind 
 
 it was, for that very reason, perhaps, good med- 
 icine for an insidious little chill which, during that 
 long wait, had begun to creep over my spirit. So 
 we rose up and yelled a lusty welcome. The boys 
 who were holding the herds of cattle, had all they 
 could do to prevent several stampedes. The mil- 
 linery question was disposed of, with much argu- 
 ment and cross argument, and we proceeded to other 
 matters. 
 
 I had driven in from the ranch a little after mid- 
 night, that the " local freight," which passed Emer- 
 ald at about five o'clock, or, as the boys put it, " at 
 early sunup," might be flagged for me. 
 
 It was shipping time, and the outfits from nearly 
 a dozen ranches were camped on the open plain all 
 about Emerald, getting the long trains of " beef " 
 off to Kansas City and Chicago. 
 
 For Emerald, hardly more than a railroad station, 
 Emerald, upon whose insignificance uninstructed 
 eyes would look with contempt a station, a little 
 hotel, one or two humble looking stores, where hun- 
 dreds of thousands of dollars' worth of ranch sup- 
 plies are sold yearly, and a scattered handful of little 
 houses, all looking preposterously small and lost on 
 the vast green-brown plain Emerald is headquar- 
 ters of the biggest ranch in the world, and of several 
 others that are extensive even for Texas; and it is 
 the greatest shipping point in the State, that is, for 
 shipping directly off the range. 
 
 As I stepped on to the platform in the gray dawn, 
 I could see the sidings filled with hundreds of cattle- 
 cars, and the levels about the station covered with 
 tents and men and cattle. 
 
 Over to the left was the Broken Circle camp;
 
 io <& The Last Word $ 
 
 back of them were the boys of the Bar 13 ranch. 
 The Lazy F and the Cross 5 were camped together ; 
 and on the outskirts hovered a small Mexican outfit 
 or two. 
 
 Your genuine cowboy will work all day and sky- 
 lark all night; so I was inclined to think that my 
 departure for New York, in search of fame and 
 riches, was seized upon by the boys as rather a god- 
 send in the way of amusement. I am sure they 
 made the most of it for this reason; though it is 
 but fair to say in this connection that people in 
 Texas, when they like you, like you very much, 
 often quite vociferously. 
 
 All the boys that I knew and some that I did 
 not had brought me things. The Bar 135 had 
 accumulated almost a ton of Navajo blankets. Na- 
 vajo blankets are just the thing for camping. They 
 are woven so thick and closely that they will turn 
 water. Nobody, surely, would doubt that a good 
 supply of them was the thing most needed by a 
 young woman going to New York to engage in lit- 
 erary and journalistic pursuits. 
 
 The boys from the Broken Circle, which is over 
 near the breaks of the Canadian, where there is still 
 good hunting, brought me a fine collection of cat, 
 coyote, and " loafer " hides, dressed mostly with the 
 heads on, so that they looked formidable enough as 
 they lay huddled and grinning in the uncertain light. 
 Lefty Adams's horned toads were delightful. They 
 were nicely tamed, and trained to some simple tricks. 
 " Gentled an' well broke," he called them. There 
 were six of them, in a box which he had made and 
 decorated in leisure moments ; and over the little door 
 he had painted, with many flourishes. " Hotel Wai-
 
 $ In the Hand of the Wind <$ n 
 
 dorf." There were several pairs of magnificent 
 steer horns of tremendous size and spread, picked 
 specimens, with the beautiful double curve, lovingly 
 polished and mounted. There were deer hoof ink- 
 stands and jewel-receivers, buffalo and antelope horn 
 hooks, and other odds and ends. 
 
 Presently the " local freight " came wabbling and 
 muttering and coughing along southward, and 
 pulled up at the station. Whereupon it at once 
 became evident that some unusual demonstration 
 had been planned. Feverish excitement immediately 
 prevailed. The air, which before had contained 
 merely about sixty per cent, of Texas dust, was now 
 also thick with flying inquiries and exclamations, 
 after this manner : 
 
 "Where's Hank Pearsall?" 
 
 "Who's got my dawg?" 
 
 " Leave in ten minutes ? Yes, a whole lot ! Say, 
 Billy, swing yer rope into that engine cab an' jerk 
 that feller out fer me!" 
 
 "Where's that buffalo head?" 
 
 " Say, now, that's mean ! I brought a whole 
 passel o' prairie-dogs, an' Jerry's went an' turned 
 'em all a-loose ! " 
 
 "Where's Hank Pearsall?" 
 
 " Take them horned toads off o' that. It's grub ! " 
 
 " Roll up them blankets, an' make her a seat. 
 Don't you see she's tired o' standin' ? " 
 
 " Push them hides out o' her way." 
 
 " Did you rope that engineer ? Well, then, hog- 
 tie him. I tell you, this presentation address is 
 a-goin' to be delivered if this train don't never git 
 nowhere ! " 
 
 "Where's Hank Pearsall?"
 
 12 The Last Word <f 
 
 These wild and apparently unrelated questions, 
 exclamations, and adjurations strove and wrestled 
 together in the immediate vicinity of the station; 
 then went out and lost themselves on the open 
 prairie. For me, I sat on the roll of blankets, and 
 felt (for once in my life) very small and very quiet. 
 
 " Gentlemen," protested the engineer (he was 
 hog-tied, as had been directed, and lay on the plat- 
 form, while Frosty sat on him and smoked socia- 
 bly), " Gentlemen, I can't stay here; it's a matter, 
 y' might say, of life an' death! " 
 
 " You bet it is," corroborated Frosty. " The boys 
 don't feel like standin' any foolishness." 
 
 " I tell you, you blame fool boys, I'll bet I'm on 
 the time of the north bound express right now." 
 
 " Oh, no, you ain't. You're on the station plat- 
 form, an' I'm on you," laughed Frosty, giving him 
 a comfortable punch with an unspurred heel. 
 
 We waited with patient industry for Hank Pear- 
 sail, who, it seems, was the orator of the occasion. 
 But I have already told you that Mr. Pearsall 
 (the most famous range cook in the West Texas 
 cattle county) never came, and my triumphant 
 departure lacked the crowning splendour of Hank's 
 inimitable oratory. 
 
 This was probably even a greater disappointment 
 to me than to the boys who had " the blow-out " 
 in charge. For Hank and I were old and congenial 
 friends. Our attachment had commenced, simulta- 
 neously with our acquaintance, at my first round-up. 
 It was a big round-up. Hank was cook for the 
 Broken Arrow outfit, but he was also master of 
 ceremonies and lord of the feast. And this poten- 
 tate signalised his approval of me and my horse-
 
 In the Hand of the Wind 13 
 
 manship by presenting me (I was a slim slip of a 
 girl) with a sour-dough man, inconceivably fat, 
 mounted on a horse also of sour-dough biscuit, like- 
 wise dropsical in appearance, but careering through 
 space like a racer, obedient to the artist creator's 
 hand. Since that time, nearly ten years ago, the 
 course of our true love had run perfectly smooth. 
 I had heard Hank tell many inimitable stories, and 
 speechify on several " happy " and " auspicious " 
 and " important " occasions ; and greatly as I val- 
 ued those things the boys had brought me, I would, 
 in my secret heart, have been willing to give them 
 all in exchange for old Hank's parting a-dress. 
 That speech would have been to me blankets and 
 food and drink yes, and friends. 
 
 The thing which the presentation address pre- 
 sented was a buffalo head, one of the finest I ever 
 saw, as big as a small cottage, and apparently weigh- 
 ing tons. I was absolutely enthralled at the idea of 
 possessing so fine a head ; but it was nearly as con- 
 venient a bit of bric-a-brac to carry about in one's 
 satchel as a house and lot. 
 
 The government is certainly by the people out on 
 the West Texas plains. Functionaries and officials 
 carry small terror to the wild and windy soul of 
 the plainsman. The president of the road himself 
 would be treated well only in proportion to his de- 
 serts as a brother mortal. He would receive only 
 what he could command as a man, or win as a good 
 fellow. What, then, could the conductor of a mon- 
 grel freight and passenger train expect ? The same, 
 neither more nor less. As Lefty Adams once said, 
 pronouncing upon this subject for the whole Pan- 
 handle, " Bloated monopolies don't bloat much out 
 here, nor they don't monop none at all."
 
 14 f The Last Word * 
 
 The conductor packed my blankets and hides, my 
 steer horns and other curiosities, into his combina- 
 tion car with great meekness. But at Brack Jacox's 
 gift of a glass-eyed pinto cutting pony, warranted 
 to outrun anything in the Panhandle, even this un- 
 happy conductor of a train through West Texas 
 rebelled. 
 
 " This ain't a cattle train," he objected. 
 
 " It carries you" retorted Brack, with free cow- 
 boy wit. " Anyhow, Pinto's a gentleman, and 
 couldn't go on anything less'n the vestibule limited. 
 I'll wait till it comes along." 
 
 " Say," drawled Frosty, " won't Pinto lead all 
 right? Why don't you tie him on behind?" 
 
 Brack shook his head decidedly. " Never do in 
 the world," he replied. " He has some speed, Pinto 
 has. He'd be pulling to get ahead, and slew the old 
 rattletrap off the rails." 
 
 While this contention was in progress, Eugene 
 Barnes slipped up to where I sat, and put a palpi- 
 tating little handful of a pelon dog into my lap 
 one of those fragile, high-strung, sensitive, hysteri- 
 cal, hairless little creatures the Mexicans so love, 
 freely sharing with them bed and board, as well 
 as the affections and the secret hopes and fears of 
 their hearts. I happen to know that Eugene is more 
 than suspected of reading poetry. But Eugene 
 doesn't know it ; he is too prompt and willing a per- 
 former on the six-shooter ever to have this sort of 
 information brought to him. Now he said to me in 
 a half-whisper, easing the little, trembling, big-eyed 
 thing from his hands, where it clung caressingly, 
 into the strange world of my lap: 
 
 " His name's Texas. He stayed with me when I
 
 *^ In the Hand of the Wind <& 15 
 
 was sole alone for three months, keepin' sign camp 
 for the L Q on the Staked Plain. I reckon he 
 kept me from goin' crazy. 'Course there's a heap 
 o' difference between the Staked Plain and New 
 York. But I've been thinkin' a lot 'specially 
 since you been a-goin' there an' I've got the no- 
 tion that a man, er a lady, could likely be as lone- 
 some there in that ocean o' folks, folks, folks, as they 
 could up on that ocean o' grass that hell o' lone- 
 liness where you don't mebby see a human face 
 fer months together. He's a sight o' comfort when 
 you're lonesome, Texas is." 
 
 At the name the small creature quivered in my 
 arms, and rolled his big prominent eyes on Gene. 
 
 " You freeze to him, an' he'll freeze to you. No 
 no no I won't take him back. I'm goin' off up 
 the trail with a herd of Six Bars next week anyhow. 
 I couldn't very well take him, an' there's nobody 
 I want to leave him with. You stay with her, honey. 
 She's a square man, an' she'll treat you white." 
 And he turned away and left us together. 
 
 I had never been able to like the little hairless 
 creatures, despite their delicacy, elegance, and in- 
 telligence; but now, for the moment, I hugged this 
 one close, and fancied (when I felt his small heart 
 beat hard against my arm) that his thoughts and 
 mine were of one fellowship. 
 
 Harvey Parker finally made what he called a few 
 remarks, in the place of that presentation address 
 which old Hank Pearsall was to have provided. 
 The engineer was untied, the various train-hands, 
 who had been out among the cowboys, were called 
 in; the fire in the engine was, in Southern parlance, 
 " chunked up ; " we got up what the released engi-
 
 1 6 <& The Last Word * 
 
 neer called " some steam," and grumbled and stut- 
 tered away southward. 
 
 And so I left Texas. 
 
 Yea, but I carried Texas with me. The dark 
 levels raced past my window. My heart sank and 
 sank. I have wept but few times in my life. It 
 seems to be a kind of expression, and r a means of 
 relief for a too-full heart, usually denied me. But 
 now, a forlornness so vast and appalling was upon 
 me that I could not stem it at all, and some great, 
 bitter tears fell down upon the little pelon dog's 
 back. Whereat he wakened, looked up in my eyes, 
 and cried in a little undertone, only ceasing when 
 I dried my tears and comforted him. 
 
 Then he trembled and slept again in my arms. 
 ,And I learned too late, ah, too late ! that which 
 has been the tragedy of many enforced companion- 
 ships that he snored.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "The Panther's Feet" 
 
 " Love's wings are over fleet, 
 And like the panther's feet, 
 The feet of Love." 
 
 MY journey southeastward to Fort Worth, and 
 thence northeastward to Kansas City, proceeded 
 with most gratifying peacefulness, and with an even 
 and continuous sinking of the heart which was very 
 astonishing to me. 
 
 The easy-going Texas conductor had let little 
 Texas go unchallenged ; and we started out of Kan- 
 sas City at dusk, so that possibly that conductor 
 hadn't noticed him. The car was full of tall, big- 
 hatted, deep-voiced ranchmen. They had been to 
 a meeting of the Cattlemen's Association at Kansas 
 City, and were on a junket to some place twenty 
 or thirty miles east. 
 
 They were innocently well pleased with them- 
 selves. It was a car-load of bluff, hearty, masculine, 
 high good humour. And under the immediate in- 
 fluence of so much hilarity, my spirits ebbed and 
 ebbed. For the first time, I fully appreciated the 
 mental attitude of Texas. 
 
 He cowered and trembled in my arms, plainly 
 divided between contempt and pity for the robust, 
 noisy, happy crowd around him.
 
 1 8 -^ The Last Word <& 
 
 The one exception to the prevailing jollity occu- 
 pied the section opposite my own, a quiet, distin- 
 guished-looking gentleman, with an accusing air, 
 as though the ballasting of the road-bed, perhaps 
 (among many minor shortcomings of the kosmos), 
 were not done to his taste. 
 
 He wore a handsome, rough travelling suit and 
 a cloth travelling cap drawn down low on his face; 
 and on the seat before him were some very elegant 
 impedimenta. 
 
 I was wiping away a furtive and solitary tear 
 when I caught the gleam of his eyes below the cap- 
 visor, and I thought with a sense of intolerable 
 indignity that he smiled. 
 
 I hastily requested the porter to make up my 
 berth ; and when he had done so, crept disconsolately 
 into it. 
 
 Next morning, while accomplishing the skulking 
 and constricted dressing permitted to the occupant 
 of a Pullman berth, my attention was attracted by 
 two voices outside my curtain, speaking of me. 
 
 Of these two voices, the one which I recognised 
 as that of the Pullman conductor went by my ears 
 unsignifying as the rattle of the train. The other 
 spoke in tones to which I needs must hearken. 
 With all their volume, there was a plangent quality 
 in their very sweetness which beat upon the heart 
 and demanded tribute. I cannot believe that such 
 a voice would pass any consciousness unmarked. 
 But where it found its own where it was heard 
 indeed that soul which heard it must be moved, 
 and rise trembling to answer. It was a voice to 
 set afloat a pulsating ferment in any woman's be- 
 ing; and then, with its deep, thrilling tenderness, 
 to rock to quietness all perturbation.
 
 $ "The Panther's Feet" <& 19 
 
 It made my heart beat quick to know that those 
 tones spoke of me at all; yet the matter of the 
 remarks, which they just now purveyed, was such 
 that a seraph's tongue could not have put them 
 forth in a way to please. 
 
 " Against the rules, you know," was the declara- 
 tion from the conductor which first caught my 
 attention. 
 
 " Don't take it away from her," remonstrated the 
 golden-voiced one. " Poor little soul! She is some 
 schoolgirl being shipped East to school. And she 
 is the homesickest, forlornest small person leave 
 her the dog. It isn't bigger than a well, say a 
 curtain-tassel. It would be very reasonable to sup- 
 pose you never saw it. If '' 
 
 The voice dropped to a mere murmur; there fol- 
 lowed a pause, some rustling movement, and, pos- 
 sibly, another low-spoken word or two. Then the 
 conductor laughed a little, and said, " Guess I can 
 manage not to see it. Did you say the poor little 
 thing is going to school ? " 
 
 '' Yes, she was crying last night, and trying to 
 hide it. The dog doesn't weigh more than seven 
 ounces, but he was tons of comfort to her when 
 she got well started away from Kansas City." 
 
 The conductor passed on. I glowed with indig- 
 nation. I, who was going to New York to succeed 
 in journalism! Not to go into journalism, you 
 understand; almost anybody may do that. I bit 
 with unnecessary force upon the hairpins between 
 my teeth. I would show that individual with the 
 fine voice whether or not I was a poor little soul. 
 And the remembrance of those tears (or, more ex- 
 actly, that tear), which I had actually shed the 
 night before, increased my height by several inches.
 
 2O $ The Last Word $ 
 
 When I had made my toilet all that it could be 
 under that head-bumping upper shelf, I emerged 
 with a haughty bearing, which was slightly im- 
 paired by my incautiously treading on Texas, and 
 being much disconcerted by his shrieks. Recover- 
 ing myself, I gave my neighbour across the way a 
 cold stare, and received in return a very genial 
 " Good morning ! " 
 
 I was astonished to find the owner of that voice, 
 and the publisher of those very patronising remarks, 
 a young man, almost boyish looking. He was 
 neither much older nor much taller than myself, I 
 decided, which added to the offensiveness of his 
 calling me a " poor little thing." 
 
 In spite of the interest in my affairs which he 
 had expressed to the conductor, he did not, after 
 his first greeting, look my way again for some time, 
 so that I had all my haughtiness and rancour to 
 myself, along with an excellent opportunity to study 
 him. 
 
 I draw now upon later knowledge of his face 
 in describing it. It is well-nigh impossible for 
 me to go back and remember exactly what were my 
 first impressions of it. A young face, a very stern 
 face, the handsome chin coming forward with a 
 resolution almost cruel; fresh-coloured, clear-eyed, 
 but grim, reserved, unsocial. Some few hairs in 
 his fine brows left the sleek company of their 
 down-lying fellows, grew long and strong, and 
 stood forward, a thing you have seen sometimes 
 in the brows of wilful, choleric old men, but which 
 had an odd effect upon this smooth young counte- 
 nance. 
 
 The air about him of distinction, of race lin-
 
 & "The Panther's Feet" <& 21 
 
 cage and breeding was as unmistakable as occult 
 and undefinable. And he bore, as assuredly and as 
 indescribably, the mark of high place in the mate- 
 rial world. He would have been recognised in 
 Patagonia, I decided, studying his half-averted, 
 indifferent face, for a man of weight and honours 
 in that world, one who moved and commanded men 
 and affairs. 
 
 Finally, when he rose, still without looking at 
 me I think he took me to be very shy, and was 
 sparing my blushes he proffered the book he had 
 been reading, and went on down the car, and out to 
 dinner. The train was halted at the dinner station, 
 so that, looking after him, I got his real bearing 
 and walk, something which, in spite of its lightness 
 and grace, must be described as a belligerent roll. 
 
 I turned to the book he had laid beside me on 
 the seat. You may resent the hand that brought 
 it, but a book is never a creature to be slighted. 
 It was a worn little leather-clad volume, whose 
 very sides and edges appealed straight to my heart, 
 for it was very evident that it had been specially 
 bound for a loving owner. 
 
 That is the dearest thing about a book, and one 
 of the many advantages books have over people. 
 We are never jealous of the number of those who 
 love our books. The people we love, some of us, 
 at least, would like to put in convents or prisons, 
 so that no eyes but our own jealous ones could 
 look upon them and appreciate their beauties; but 
 there is always, for us, something to love in the 
 people who have loved our books. And, conversely, 
 the sight of a worn little volume, which some other 
 human being has plainly loved, brings a gush of 
 affection.
 
 22 $* The Last Word $ 
 
 With some trepidation, I opened the pages. It 
 would be a mathematical treatise, of course, or a 
 technical handbook of geology. 
 
 Dropped in across the title-page was a card, which 
 bore the inscription, " Francis Garnett Randolph, 
 The Pakenham, New York." The name was 
 strangely familiar. I wondered where I had seen 
 it; and then forgot my wonderment when I found 
 the little book was the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. 
 
 I turned the leaves. It was marked, all through, 
 in a sort of cipher, and thumbed and turned down, 
 and defaced with much loving, as my own copy is. 
 The marks, of course, gave me an insight into the 
 character of my neighbour. Francis Garnett Ran- 
 dolph, where had I heard that name before ? 
 
 When he came back, I was disposed to be friendly. 
 He brought with him a local morning paper and an 
 air of preoccupation. " Thank you so much/' I 
 said, presenting the little book, although I could 
 have wished to keep it. 
 
 " Not at all," he returned, with an elderly-uncle 
 air; "have you read all you want to in it?" 
 
 With the inquiry, he gave me a rather shrewd 
 look, which made me fancy the Rubaiyat had been 
 advanced as a test. " I know it all by heart," I 
 answered, " but it is a pleasure to hold the book 
 and look at it." 
 
 I saw in his face a gleam of interest in a school- 
 girl who knew the Rubaiyat by heart. It was mo- 
 mentary, however, and he turned to his paper and 
 forgot me. 
 
 I am the most gregarious of creatures. I love 
 my kind. Indeed, when hard pressed, I love some 
 who are not my kind at all. I think if I were
 
 $ "The Panther's Feet" & 23 
 
 cast away on a desert island, and the cannibals were 
 preparing to make pot au feu of me, I should chirrup 
 up to them, and try to be sociable while the water 
 heated. I wished my neighbour were not so surly. 
 We had the whole end of the car to ourselves; I 
 watched the flat, unlovely landscape race past my 
 window, and teased Texas, who slept fitfully, and 
 regarded my efforts with contempt. 
 
 I took the little Rubaiyat, and amused myself 
 by reckoning how closely Mr. Randolph's marks 
 therein tallied with mine in my own volume. I 
 found that, while I had marked everything philo- 
 sophic, optimistic, picturesque, or sheerly beautiful, 
 he had set his pencil to the grim truths. I was 
 bursting with this bit of information, when I looked 
 up and found his amused eyes fixed upon me. 
 
 " Well ? " interrogatively. Then he rose and 
 crossed the aisle, remarking, " I will come over 
 and talk with you awhile." 
 
 The assertion appeared to need no acceptance, 
 so I simply made room for him, saying, " Certainly." 
 
 " Do you like Omar? " he began, with caution. 
 
 I nodded, adding, " But I don't like him for the 
 same things you do." 
 
 "No?" still with that irritating manner of a 
 grown man talking to a child. " How did you ar- 
 rive at your conclusions as to what I like him for ? " 
 
 " Your markings, of course," I answered. " Now 
 mine it is just about as shabby and well worn 
 as this has every bit of sunshine and beauty and 
 whimsicality and audacity in it marked. You have 
 taken the shadow." 
 
 " Not the shadow, by any means," he returned, 
 smilingly ; " the hard reality. I haven't much lik- 
 ing for moonshine and molasses. I want the truth."
 
 24 "$ The Last Word $ 
 
 " So do I. But why not a happy truth as well 
 as a gloomy one? " 
 
 He looked at me, silent for a moment, and I saw 
 in his face the protest that truth was never happy. 
 He did not voice it, however, but merely answered, 
 " Well, the truth at all hazards. For my part, if 
 I cannot live by it, I am willing to die for it." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I said. " To my mind, dying would 
 be a very poor sort of compliment to pay to truth. 
 You must be younger than I am, and I'm certainly 
 not preparing to die yet. Why should you be talk- 
 ing about it ? " 
 
 " I ! Younger than you ! " he cried. " Oh, come, 
 come ! That is a joke. I see now that I was at first 
 somewhat deceived in the matter of your years. I 
 took you for a girl going East to school, and kept 
 looking at every likely station for the crowd of 
 schoolmates and teacher to meet you." 
 
 This was the opportunity I had desired. I drew 
 myself up with dignity, and announced that I was 
 going to New York to take a position with a syn- 
 dicate in a large publishing house. As I mentioned 
 the name of my future employers, he looked oddly 
 at me, but made no comment, except to say, " The 
 literary life in New York is a very trying one for 
 a woman. I have seen many of them break down 
 at it I go there myself sometimes." 
 
 " Why is it especially trying to a woman ? " I 
 inquired, sharply. 
 
 " A woman, a nice woman, is too sensitive, or 
 rather, her sensibilities are too keen, for that life. 
 Yours are. Your very humour betrays you. Why, 
 last night," and he smiled at the retrospect, " I 
 thought I had never seen so forlorn a little figure.
 
 <& "The Panther's Feet" *> 25 
 
 You need some one to take care of you. Every 
 nice woman does." 
 
 " And a good many nice men," I put in, calmly ; 
 whereat he laughed, and owned that it was true. 
 
 " If it's all the same to you and the rest of man- 
 kind," I resumed, " I have no use, in the business 
 of my daily life, for an aureole or pedestal; they 
 both are troublesome to tote around. I would 
 rather any time be a first-rate human being than a 
 poor, second-rate goddess." 
 
 My companion looked at me for the first time 
 with actual heed. He appeared to find my remarks 
 worthy of consideration and extended reply. 
 
 It was past noon. The books or papers which at 
 morning promised diversion had grown hopelessly 
 stale; so he sat and talked to me with increasing 
 interest and absorption. 
 
 He was crude, but forcible, with the endless charm 
 of a salient and expressive personality. 
 
 For me, this charm was trebled, as I found at 
 every turn the inference that he was not so out- 
 spoken with others, that the rare fascination of his 
 unbending came in response to a charm as unusual 
 which I held for him. 
 
 It was a very subtle stimulus and flattery, to see 
 this reserved nature open its gates to me ; to find my- 
 self, not only admitted within them, but presently 
 all its inmates, clad and smiling, set forth to greet 
 me, to hold council and make cheer with me. 
 
 We talked, as people newly met upon a journey 
 do talk, of a vast array of floating subjects. And 
 finally, when we had grown to feel well acquainted, 
 we reached down for deeper things. 
 
 That the possessor of such a voice should break
 
 26 <& The Last Word $ 
 
 the hearts of maids was a thing which could not 
 justly be laid to his charge. A civil speech, in those 
 tones, passed for the utterances of love itself. 
 
 I found him about two decades behind his time. 
 A true Bourbon, his young, powerful mind was 
 evolving and enunciating views and theories which 
 have been superseded or exploded these twenty 
 years. 
 
 " I am a conservative," he announced; " and par- 
 ticularly so in regard to the new movement in 
 women's affairs." 
 
 " That is to say," I retorted, " instead of taking 
 a new idea by the hand, you take it by the throat 
 that's conservatism ? " 
 
 " Oh, you shall not discountenance me with an 
 epigram," he smiled. " I'll warrant you speak very 
 boldly, but are at heart and in act a conservative 
 otherwise a very woman." 
 
 After we had talked for some time with eager 
 interest on both sides, " A woman needs love," he 
 asserted, rather unexpectedly. " She needs to love 
 and be loved, that her heart may be strengthened. 
 Deny her that, and she is a poor, desolate creature." 
 
 " Oh, if that is all," I answered, easily, " I shall 
 get on swimmingly. I always loved numbers of 
 people, and many of them have no better sense than 
 to take to me." 
 
 My neighbour gave me a smiling look. " Do you 
 know," he said, in the lowered tone of one impart- 
 ing a state secret, " I have been guessing something 
 like that about you." 
 
 " You are a clever person," I answered, briefly. 
 
 " And do you know, also," he went on, " that, 
 try as you may, you cannot quite get away from
 
 ^ "The Panther's Feet" ?* 27 
 
 the pedestal and aureole? I fancy there will always 
 be some one, or two, or more unfortunates, setting 
 you up and adoring you. For my part, I began at 
 ten years old with a reverence for women and a 
 belief in their semi-divinity. It's my experience, 
 since my manhood, that has made me doubt those 
 early ideals." 
 
 " Been finding a bad sort of folks in the world ? " 
 I inquired. 
 
 " I got a good many of my ideas of women from 
 reading Shakespeare and Scott; but it has appeared 
 to me of late years that, if the bard and Sir Walter 
 were to look for heroines among the modern prod- 
 uct, they would have to reconstruct their plays and 
 their books." 
 
 " Dear me," I remarked, solicitously, " you must 
 be an unpleasant sort of person, rather a wicked 
 individual, to find all this badness in the world 
 or maybe," innocently, " this is just schoolboy cyn- 
 icism, which will wear off when you have been 
 about a little." 
 
 " That more than pays your debt," he laughed. 
 " I only said that you looked like a schoolgirl 
 not that you thought like one. But I tell you, I 
 honestly believe that the average club-man, with all 
 his vulgar selfishness, has purer ideals than most 
 society women, and is not nearly so daring and base 
 in his wickedness as they. The thing which makes 
 a woman worse than a man, when she fails to be 
 better, is that she fights behind a barrier. She will 
 accept no consequences. She would not brave the 
 world for any consideration ; but if a thing may be 
 safely done, the smallest temptation answers for her. 
 A woman like that will talk love to you by the yard,
 
 28 ^ The Last Word <$> 
 
 while she has no conception of what the word means, 
 and in her heart considers Juliet a fool." 
 
 My neighbour was coming out famously. " Have 
 you," I asked, " any conception of the meaning of 
 it? Can you define it?" 
 
 "Can you?" he countered. 
 
 " Oh, yes," I said, " I could if I wanted to. It 
 is the thing best worth having in the world. It is 
 the finding of some one whose faults you can toler- 
 ate. " Wait ! " I cried, as he moved to interrupt me. 
 " We are all faulty creatures, of course, so none of 
 us need look for another human being without a 
 fault. If we could find such a one, he would only 
 act as a standipg reproach to us, and we could not 
 love him. We do not love people for their virtues, 
 anyhow. We love them, as I asserted in the first 
 place, because they have the qualities we like and 
 the faults we can tolerate." 
 
 " A pretty good description of friendship," ob- 
 served my neighbour, calmly. 
 
 " Oh, it is, is it ? Well, suppose you try your 
 hand at a definition, since mine does not suit. A 
 man who can mark the Rubaiyat in the way you did 
 ought to be able to give a most tender and moving 
 characterisation of love." 
 
 " Love," said my neighbour, looking absently 
 across the Illinois flats, " is a thing apart, a thing 
 consummate and and terrible. It knows noth- 
 ing of traits and qualities. It concerns itself as little 
 with the virtues as with the faults of its object. 
 If the gods send you this divine passion in its ful- 
 ness, you would love her just the same were she 
 a queen, or the lowest of the earth. She would 
 be beautiful to you equally in silks or in rags. Her
 
 f "The Panther's Feet" Q 29 
 
 voice would be the dearest music to you, whatever 
 it said. And once let this feeling be born in your 
 heart, it can never perish out of it. It is immortal, 
 as its source is immortal." 
 
 " Why, that is not love," I commented, cheer- 
 fully ; " that is merely some mental ailment. I don't 
 know about the divineness, but it would certainly be 
 terrible. The next thing, you will be admitting 
 that you have an ideal woman in your mind." 
 
 " I have," he said. " My mother is my ideal of 
 womanhood. She married my father when she was 
 eighteen. He has been gone from us two years. 
 She was a beautiful girl, a gifted, charming woman ; 
 but she kept always the best of her for the home 
 circle. She was not seeking a sphere. She made 
 my father a loving, obedient wife to the day of his 
 death." 
 
 "A what-ient wife?" I gasped. 
 
 " Obedient. Oh, I see, you object to the word. 
 Why do you ? He loved her. He laid no commands 
 upon her which were not for her good. In a part- 
 nership such as that, one of the two must surrender 
 individual will why not say so? Why not use 
 the word?" 
 
 " No reason," I returned, heartily. " After I had 
 brought myself to do the thing itself, the word 
 would certainly be a small matter." 
 
 "And love " 
 
 "Love!" I cried. "The love that puts hands 
 on the loved object do you call that loving? 
 Why, so are potatoes loved! I love them, we say, 
 I want them for my dinner. I lay hold of them, 
 to tear and pierce them with a knife, and torture 
 them with hot water, or fat, or an oven seven times
 
 30 ^ The Last Word <&> 
 
 heated. In all this, what thought is of the potatoes, 
 
 of their wishes, preferences, development, life?" 
 " There you go " 
 
 " I tell you the love that lays hands on the be- 
 loved, that seeks or hopes or expects something in 
 return, is the love that enslaves. And there is no 
 love, deserving the sacred name, but that which 
 liberates." 
 
 " Oh, this new " 
 
 "HI love a man " his frowning face cleared 
 
 " if I love him, I set him free. He must be him- 
 self, free, whole, unmarred, individual, thrall to 
 none, least of all to me who love him. And I - 
 
 " Now listen to me a moment. Take our two 
 selves, for instance " 
 
 " For instance," I echoed, encouragingly, and he 
 glanced at me keenly to see if it were possible I 
 could be sarcastic. 
 
 " This is not personal," he asserted, with dignity. 
 <; I said ' for instance.' ' 
 
 " Of course you did," I rejoined, soothingly. 
 '* Certainly, you could not be more impersonal than 
 that." 
 
 He looked me over, and decided that there was 
 nothing to be done with me. " Well," he began, 
 " if you and I were married, I venture to assert that 
 you would want to give me the deference of a nom- 
 inal obedience 
 
 " I should be your slave, of course," he added, 
 hastily, as he saw the signs of rising revolt in my 
 face, " but it would be like your rich, generous 
 nature to crown me a king." 
 
 I had the sensation of a child who has been shut 
 up in a closet, but given a sugar-stick to keep it
 
 ^ "The Panther's Feet" <*> 31 
 
 stuffy, prison company. " I should never play a king 
 when a queen would take the trick," I muttered, 
 angrily, and refused to speak for any lure till we 
 had passed Joliet and were steaming into the last 
 stopping-place before Chicago. 
 
 Then my neighbour, who had given up his first 
 careless attempts to resume our conversation, said, 
 softly, " Did you know that I am getting off at 
 Chicago or, rather, that I am only going so far 
 East, just now, as Chicago?" 
 
 "No," I answered; "I'm sorry." 
 
 " Oh, we are to meet each other again." And, 
 in reply to my puzzled glance, "It is written in the 
 stars. Why, I could tell you a great many things 
 about yourself, of which you have not seen fit to 
 inform me. I even know your name." 
 
 " It's on my bag," I cut in, jealously. 
 
 " I haven't looked at your bag," he smiled; " but 
 I know that your name is Miss Carrington West, 
 and that you left Emerald City at some unearthly 
 hour Tuesday morning to go into " 
 
 " No, not to go into journalism ! To succeed in 
 journalism ! " 
 
 " I wasn't going to say journalism," he defended 
 himself, laughing. " I was going to state what 
 office you were to enter, but I remembered just in 
 time that you had told it to me yourself; so you 
 would see no wizardry in it. However, I am to see 
 you again. We are to be great friends. We may 
 live to be very old people, quite side by side, and 
 die on the same day." 
 
 " I think I told you that I had a prejudice against 
 dying," I answered, rather crustily. *' You may 
 die on your own day, if you please, and let me scuffle 
 for myself."
 
 32 <f The Last Word f 
 
 He laughed indulgently at me. " I wish you 
 would play," he begged finally, " that we were cast 
 away on a desert island, just we two, with all the 
 rest of the world out of reach, or swept away. 
 We'd be pretty frank with each other under those 
 circumstances, wouldn't we ? " 
 
 " It's like playing ' Truth Upon Honour.' ' 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Did you never play it when you were a child ? 
 You put all your hands in stacks (that sounds as 
 if we had eight or ten apiece, doesn't it?), and, as 
 each player withdraws his hand, he answers truly 
 truth upon honour a question which the other 
 players ask him." 
 
 " That's it, exactly," he exclaimed. " Let's play 
 it now." 
 
 The little table on which my lunch had been 
 spread, hours ago, was before us. He laid upon 
 it a smooth, muscular, handsome right hand. I put 
 one of mine over it, his left covered that, and then 
 with mine the stack was complete. 
 
 " You have ' first goes,' " he said, wickedly. 
 
 " No, I don't," I answered, serenely. " You al- 
 ways withdraw the hand at the bottom of the stack. 
 Wait a minute, I haven't decided what I want to 
 ask you." Then, abruptly, "Are you married?" 
 
 He laughed a little, and flushed. " No," he an- 
 swered, with sudden seriousness, " I am not mar- 
 ried now, but I hope soon to be." 
 
 The words in themselves were perfectly innocent. 
 He was no doubt telling me of some girl in New 
 York to whom he was paying court. Yet, as I sat 
 there, with his eyes fixed upon my face, I would 
 have given all I possessed the toads, Navajo
 
 * "The Panther's Feet" * 33 
 
 blankets, rattlesnake skins, even the buffalo head 
 for extra composure; and that which I had fled to 
 the winds, to leave me blushing like a schoolgirl 
 indeed. 
 
 " What are you blushing about? " 
 
 " Nothing," I answered, resentfully. " I mean 
 I am not blushing at all I never blush. It's your 
 turn to ask." 
 
 " Such lovely colour you have, and so much of 
 it," he whispered, very softly, as I drew out my 
 hand. He must have had his query ready, for it 
 followed instantly. " Did you like me at first ? Do 
 you like me a little now ? " 
 
 " You can't ask two questions," I objected, in- 
 dignantly. " I won't be in it unless you play fair." 
 
 " Answer the first, then," he demanded. " No, 
 the second." 
 
 " I shall not answer either of them," I replied, 
 with dignity. " It is all childish nonsense, too silly 
 for grown people to be indulging in." 
 
 My hand, which remained upon the table, was 
 caught and held in a firm, masterful grip. 
 
 :< Yes, you will answer. I may be younger than 
 you, and not much of a fellow, but I am not going 
 to be cheated in any such fashion. You did not 
 like me at first, I could see that; but then, I didn't 
 I mean, I wasn't caring for anybody. I confess 
 to having been in an unlovely mood. You do like 
 me better now, don't you ? And before we are done 
 with it, you're going to 1 " 
 
 The conductor opened the door just back of us, 
 and said, with a smile, " You're getting off here, 
 sir ; " then, in answer to an inquiring look from me, 
 " You go on in to the Central, miss."
 
 34 & The Last Word ^ 
 
 My companion went over and gathered up his 
 belongings. It seemed as though years had passed 
 since he crossed the little dividing space of aisle 
 possibly four hours ago to talk to me. And, as 
 the thought flitted before my mind, he glanced at 
 me above the valise he was closing, and said, with 
 his rare, illuminating smile, and indicating his pos- 
 sessions with a little motion of the graceful head : 
 
 " I thought, like Rip Van Winkle, to have 'found 
 them mildewed and decayed. But mine was an 
 awakening not a sleep." 
 
 The train beginning to slacken speed, he left his 
 preparations completed, and came to me to say good- 
 bye. I did not rise. He did not sit down again. 
 As, in the dusking shadow of late afternoon, he 
 bent over me, I raised my face, resolved to smile 
 a pleasant farewell; but he looked deeply into my 
 eyes, so that the smile did not come. 
 
 It was a great, terrible, wondrous thing which 
 had entered into this my world, and moved and 
 shaken it so. If Love's self had willed to come and 
 sit down beside me in my solitude and isolation of 
 heart, he could not, meseemed, have chosen to come 
 otherwise than in this semblance. What aspect 
 could he have worn more subduing than this nature, 
 with faults so palpable, weaknesses and discrepan- 
 cies so manifest, but such winning and compelling 
 sweetness reserved; this young, fine, salient per- 
 sonality, almost pungently masculine, and almost 
 saturninely reticent, which warmed and opened and 
 smiled to me to me to my touch ? 
 
 The grave, melodious voice was a caress upon the 
 ear upon the heart. These eyes, protean in col- 
 our as in expression, had but to relax the sternness
 
 * "The Panther's Feet" f 35 
 
 of their ,;ard under those choleric brows for their 
 every j.-. ;ce to be an endearment. This voice which 
 caressed me, these eyes which caressed me, and this 
 head, whose movement as it leant toward me, was 
 the most gracious caress of all ; the rare smile which 
 lightened over the grim, powerful, half-resentful 
 young countenance, so movingly sweet surely 
 this would be love's chosen guise and mien. As the 
 hours passed, and that lovely voice talked on; as. 
 turning to answer, I looked up at the beautiful head 
 bent down to me, and encountered the deep, changing 
 eyes still fixed on my face, a panic would suddenly 
 seize me. This presage which vibrated in the air 
 I breathed this sweetness and longing and prom- 
 ise what were they ? What the keen half bliss, 
 half pain, that thrilled through me when I met the 
 smile of those eyes, or when that deep voice said 
 "love" or "my heart?" (He pronounced it 
 hawrt, lingering caressingly upon the broad, soft 
 vowel, and almost eliding the r.) 
 
 And, as the instinct is at such a time, I would 
 search his face jealously, but furtively, demanding 
 if it were with him even as it was with me. Was 
 this glamour upon him, also ? Did something trem- 
 ble in the air about him ? Was he stirred and shaken 
 taken away from himself ? 
 
 Now, as I looked up into his eyes, that de- 
 feated and refused the smile with which I would 
 have met them, the air throbbed again with that 
 alarm and that question. 
 
 But an answer was written plain in the face 
 bent toward mine. " I am leaving you now," he 
 faltered ; and for one swaying instant that my eyes 
 could not turn away from his, it seemed that he 
 must take me in his arms and kiss me.
 
 36 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 Then, with a quick breath, as of pain, which I 
 heard my companion echo, I withdrew my gaze. 
 We were once more in the world of realities. I 
 gave my hand, which was taken closely and warmly 
 in his vital clasp. We smiled now; and he made 
 his adieus quite as though we were old friends. 
 " I shall see you soon in New York. No need to 
 give you an address " (he had not asked if I would 
 write to him). 
 
 I saw him from the window. He never looked 
 back; I recognised that as characteristic, and felt 
 a strange little premonitory chill, which I regarded 
 as impertinent. 
 
 I sat and watched his departing figure cross the 
 platform and pass through the gates. Yes, bellig- 
 erent was the word to describe the squaring of those 
 shoulders, the swing of the whole form; and yet 
 was there ever another like it? 
 
 I made as though I would have turned to Texas 
 and my book, but my soul was not deceived. It 
 knew that all interest had gone out of both, that 
 it had got off the train, crossed the platform, arid 
 walked through the gate, where the fat official in 
 brass buttons stood. 
 
 The Significance of All Things had walked away 
 with Francis Garnett Randolph, whom, in the secur- 
 ity of my own mind, I called thenceforward Frank.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Now We Are Come to Our 
 Kingdom " 
 
 " A power 
 " Girt round with weakness ; it can scarce uplift 
 
 The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
 It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
 A breaking billow." 
 
 HE was an elegant young person, this new editor 
 of mine with the old Knickerbocker name, acute, 
 clever, perfectly groomed, an excellent type of the 
 highly evolved American. But I was fresh and 
 green from my Texas pastures; too broncho to fed 
 any awe of him, I treated him much as I would 
 treat one of our cowboys. 
 
 Whether or no he felt this as a bleak alteration 
 from the atmosphere of myrrh and frankincense, the 
 reek of the burnt offering in which an editor lives, 
 he assumed toward me, with what I decided was 
 flattering precipitancy, an attitude of kindly pat- 
 ronage. 
 
 " Of course you feel very small and very lone- 
 some here just at first," he remarked. 
 
 "But I don't," I rejoined; "I haven't at all." 
 
 Without seeming to hear me, he continued res- 
 olutely, " You see the importance of the individual 
 
 37
 
 38 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 shrinks surprisingly when he is so infinitely multi- 
 plied, when he is presented to your observation as 
 one variation among five millions, or as an exception 
 of forty thousand exceptions to the rule of five 
 hundred thousand." 
 
 I hastened to interrupt, " I don't care 
 
 But he ran right over me. " And this sort of 
 shrinkage in relative value of the ego gives, to one 
 accustomed, like yourself, to make quite a figure in 
 his country neighbourhood or small town, a sense 
 of painful littleness and insignificance the lost, 
 snowed-under feeling traditionally the lot and por- 
 tion of the obscure stranger in a great city." 
 
 He had said it now, and leaned back at peace. 
 
 " But I tell you," I reiterated, " I don't feel that 
 way at all." 
 
 My editor tipped the top of his head back a lit- 
 tle more, half closed one eye, and examined me 
 shrewdly with the other. " You were told you 
 would, and you've been determined not to," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " Certainly," I assured him, " I am told so and 
 condoled with over it continually. The sensation 
 was most unanimously promised me when I came 
 here, by everybody who saw me off from my native 
 wilds, by everybody else who knew of my coming 
 away, and I confidently looked forward to experienc- 
 ing it ; but I haven't I never have at all." 
 
 "Oh, you haven't?" 
 
 " No, I haven't," I repeated, stoutly, though 
 aware of the sarcasm in his tone. " I hold him but 
 a poor creature who stands lacking in sight of all 
 that he desires, who cannot take possession by the 
 eye, For me, I have come easily into my fee here."
 
 f> " We Are Come to Our Kingdom " $ 39 
 
 " Oh, yes," agreed my editor, somewhat quizzi- 
 cally. " It's evident you own the town." 
 
 " I do. I've been here five and a half days, and 
 I've made it all mine and taken stock of most of it." 
 
 " I shall be glad," said Mr. DeWitt, meditatively, 
 " when you meet the president of our company. I 
 wish he could hear you now, or rather, I shall enjoy 
 it very much when he does hear you I take it 
 these seizures are frequent? " 
 
 " Seizures ! " I echoed. " It is a calm and stable 
 mental condition." 
 
 " You make me think of " he began, broke off, 
 and then inquired, " do they have such things as 
 Bibles out in West Texas? " 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " Well, a certain ancient writer named Isaiah de- 
 scribes you pretty well. How does it go? ' Behold 
 thou shalt call a nation thou knowest not, and 
 nations that knew thee not shall run unto thee.' Is 
 that it?" 
 
 " Yes, that's it," I acquiesced; " but David's way 
 of putting it hits my particular fancy : ' A people 
 whom I have not known shall serve me.' (Serve 
 me, mind!) 'As soon as they hear of me they 
 shall obey me. The strangers shall submit them- 
 selves to me.' ' 
 
 " I see," agreed my editor once more, but with 
 wavering firmness. " And now that you've got 
 the town, how does it please you ? " 
 
 " It likes me well and always," I replied. " Even 
 when I come up through the swarming East 
 Side, I do not despair. I am only moved to deep 
 pity by the squalor and discomfort in which the 
 people live, by the sight of wretched, slovenly
 
 4O $ The Last Word $ 
 
 women, and most of all the herds of little dirty, 
 unchildish children. I then and there lay it upon my- 
 self to remember these my poor subjects, and more, 
 if need be, to absent myself from felicity for awhile, 
 that I may devise means to mend their cruel con- 
 ditions." 
 
 " Yes," mused Mr. DeWitt, " our president is 
 the only person in the shop really fit to talk to you. 
 He's a Southern man, like yourself. He's got 
 exactly your own Alexander-looking-for-more- 
 worlds-to-conquer attitude of mind." 
 
 " Thank you," I hurried on. " Now, you know, 
 when I walk up Broadway after a matinee, studying 
 the meeting and passing streams of beauty, fashion, 
 and elegance, I am only delighted nothing is fur- 
 ther from my thoughts than a feeling of envious 
 isolation. ' Here you are, my dear people/ say I, 
 ' the flower of my kingdom ; high-bred, daintily 
 clad, happy and prosperous. Where else will you 
 find such fresh cheeks, glowing eyes, grace of bear- 
 ing, and such beautiful and luxurious attire ? After 
 all, it is a happy people, and I a favoured sov- 
 ereign ! ' 
 
 " Right, I believe you ! " breathed Mr. DeWitt, 
 faintly he died hard, but I had held his head 
 under till he could barely gasp. 
 
 Notwithstanding this one momentary triumph, the 
 truth was always big before my mental vision, that 
 he was the editor, let all the writers tremble and 
 the strong writers be afraid. 
 
 So I walked into the office very quietly, on the 
 day following the day which had seen my first 
 batch of copy sent in, and it was with some hesi- 
 tation that I approached to address him. But he 
 made me easy at once, calling out, heartily,
 
 $ " We Are Come to Our Kingdom " $ 41 
 
 "Good morning"! Your stuff's all right! It's 
 rattling good stuff! We'll run it next week." 
 
 When I sat down beside his desk, he added, in 
 a lower tone, and most kindly, " I give you my 
 word, Miss West, that this copy of yours was a 
 relief to my mind. The bringing of writers local 
 celebrities to New York, has usually been, so 
 far as my experience and observation go, an unsat- 
 isfactory move. The writer transplanted loses that 
 individuality and flavour which brought him the 
 offer ; then he and his employer fall to blaming each 
 other for something that was not the fault of either 
 party, but of the mistaken plan." 
 
 " Yes, I know," I agreed, " I thought of all that 
 it was all in my mind but I wasn't afraid of 
 it. Besides, if I had nothing but a little local colour, 
 and if going to another place would expose the false 
 pretence that I was a writer at all, why, the sooner 
 I. detected myself, the better." 
 
 " Well," and he tapped the little pile of copy 
 beneath his finger-ends, " so far from deteriorating, 
 you seem to have received a fresh impulse. I like 
 the way you have seen New York with Texas eyes; 
 it's piquant." 
 
 I had noticed, as I came in, sitting at a desk near 
 Mr. DeWitt's, but with her back to us. a young 
 woman with peculiarly abundant and beautiful hair, 
 of a pale tan colour, the arrangement of which in a 
 huge Bath-bun on the back of her head suggested to 
 my mind that she might be an Englishwoman. 
 
 As my editor made that remark concerning the 
 unsatisfactoriness and general futility of bringing 
 local celebrities to New York, this young woman 
 started quite violently, turning upon me a pair of
 
 42 9> The Last Word $ 
 
 naive, English-tan-coloured eyes, of exactly the 
 same tint as the hair, in which was a look of mild 
 incredulity. At the time, I attributed this to my 
 failure to look the part, and vainly sought in my 
 limited repertoire for a somewhat more celebrated 
 expression, that I might display it at once, with a 
 view to her enlightenment. 
 
 I was endeavouring to look as celebrated as pos- 
 sible, when Mr. DeWitt, moved by that irresistible 
 impulse which prompts people to tell you something 
 displeasing they thought or said of you at first, 
 because it is past, remarked meditatively : 
 
 " By the way, Miss West, do you know who, in 
 this office, was most active in making you the prop- 
 osition that brought you East? It wasn't I. Much 
 as I admired your work, I opposed the plan; and 
 I am glad you've proven me wrong." 
 
 "Miss Salem, was it not?" I hazarded; "that 
 was the name signed to the first letters I received." 
 
 "So it was!" agreed Mr. DeWitt; "but your 
 most extravagant admirer if you will forgive the 
 qualifying term the one who had unlimited faith 
 in your future greatness, and your desirableness to 
 the Salem Publishing Company, was our president." 
 
 " Mr. Yardley," I assented. " I read of his death 
 just before I left Texas." 
 
 " No, not Mr. Yardley. He had been out of health 
 for more than a year before his decease, and had 
 withdrawn almost entirely from the work. I mean 
 the gentleman who was acting president at that time, 
 and who has succeeded to the office ; our art mana- 
 ger, Mr. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Bucks," for she of the 
 Bath-bun had touched him on the arm, and laid upon
 
 f u We Are Come to Our Kingdom " & 43 
 
 the desk beside him a neat pile of copy, plainly pre- 
 paratory to departure. 
 
 Miss Bucks and I were then made acquainted, 
 and as she seemed a pleasant, wholesome girl 
 she was English I was glad to know her. That 
 lost, snowed-under feeling which Mr. DeWitt had 
 so cheerfully urged upon me at an earlier interview, 
 had ached and fretted in my heart all day. It could 
 hardly be homesickness, for though I had as yet 
 made no home here in New York, I had left none in 
 Texas. Whatever it might be, my defence against 
 this strange empty sensation was work much 
 work. And the office was a pleasant place, with 
 clever, busy people about, and the kind of work I 
 so love going on everywhere before my eyes. 
 
 It was a large publishing house, with many rami- 
 fications, out-branchings, and departments. I had 
 observed, over in the corner of the main room, 
 when passing in and out, a person whom I 
 unconsciously christened " the big man." He sat 
 endlessly at the same drawing-board, and now Miss 
 Bucks informed me that he made the fashion pic- 
 tures, and that nobody in New York had such style 
 and chic. His board sat near a big desk at which he 
 sometimes wrote. I regarded a man who made fash- 
 ion pictures as in no way related to myself, or my 
 work ; and when I occasionally found his mild blue 
 eyes fastened on me over the top of his drawing- 
 board, or end of this desk, I wondered if he were 
 making me a study of " How Not to Do It," in one 
 of the fashion articles he illustrated. 
 
 I was a little surprised when, one morning, some 
 time after my meeting with Miss Bucks, he got up 
 and came across to me, where I sat waiting on Mr.
 
 44 * The Last Word *f 
 
 DeWitt. He was, indeed, a large man, more than 
 six feet in height, with a big square head, vast 
 shoulders, and a great, deep, soft, rambling chest. 
 The frame was mighty, and would have been majes- 
 tic had the spirit of majesty been within it. He had 
 a very fair face, full and florid, clear blue eyes with 
 quick-expanding pupils like a child's, and a child's 
 fair, soft hair. There was a short, inadequate nose, 
 and a blond moustache under which an amiable, 
 irresolute mouth hesitated sweetly. This was Bush- 
 rod Floyd, cousin of the new president of our com- 
 pany; owing, as it was hinted to me, even such 
 inferior station as he held in the house to this rela- 
 tionship rather than his own merits. 
 
 When I came to know him well and that was 
 very soon I found this giant's disposition was 
 most vulnerable, sensitive, and appealingly appro- 
 bative. He had a body which was a grand and per- 
 fect thing, a soul strung like a wind-harp to answer 
 in harmony every air of joy, of liking and approval, 
 to tremble and shiver at the jarring touch of re- 
 proach and pain, and to rave and jangle wildly 
 under the gusts of remorse. 
 
 Such a temperament as this exposed him poor 
 soul ! a pathetic negative, upon which life was 
 to print any picture she list. And life's pictures, 
 when asked for in that way, are grim. 
 
 A man well born, of many fine talents and 
 trained abilities, there was something supine in his 
 spirit. 
 
 The world's prizes go to him who demands them, 
 declares himself worthy of them, and for them risks 
 the ridicule which waits upon a failure to make 
 good his challenge. It was evident that the bare
 
 $ " We Are Come to Our Kingdom " $ 45 
 
 thought of vouching himself a postulant for honours 
 and successes would have covered poor Bushrod 
 Floyd with confusion. He was far too timid and 
 too inert to put forth that effort which claims the 
 best; the worst could be depended upon to seek 
 him; and a passive attitude drugged his sense of 
 responsibility. 
 
 I could believe that his abraded sensibilities would 
 make him as chaff to the fire of a soft word, an 
 ogling glance ; but, these cheap bribes failing to pre- 
 sent themselves, I could never imagine him bestir- 
 ring himself in any degree to seek them. 
 
 What, then, would be the specific expression of 
 such a temperament's defects? Ah, you would 
 know beforehand; you would never need be told. 
 Drink yes, of course drink. 
 
 A man of such a disposition would naturally look 
 to liquor as an armour for his weakness, a shield 
 for his oversensibility. A thousand failures, a 
 thousand humiliations which it might work upon 
 him, would yet not teach him the futility of this 
 hope. 
 
 When I became more familiar at the office, I was 
 told that the only trouble with Bushrod Floyd was 
 that he had been known to go on wild sprees. No- 
 body seemed to appreciate that the lapses were pre- 
 pared in those months when he sat patiently at the 
 drawing-board, and saw his inferiors pass him in 
 every race. 
 
 They looked at the spree, at the drinking. They 
 said, " If he only would not do that." There was 
 never one to understand that these stumbles were not 
 causes of defeat, but only ultimate confession of 
 infirmity, of incapacity.
 
 46 f The Last Word $ 
 
 I alone, I believe, understood how, back in his 
 timid soul, he was always making half-hearted, fum- 
 bling offers at life's opportunities, and (still in the 
 country of his mind) being defeated and covered 
 with shame. I came to realise, as clearly as though 
 he had told it all to me, that his months of seeming 
 spiritual sloth were full of such half-hearted at- 
 tempts and their humiliating results, and to see that 
 when these failures finally piled mountain high be- 
 fore his shrinking eyes, there could be nothing for 
 it but one last cataclysmal failure in a spree. 
 
 A singular and significant feature of the matter 
 was that there should be so much more talk of Bush- 
 rod's drinking than there appeared any fact to 
 warrant. 
 
 For my part, I saw and continued to see, nothing 
 of it there was nothing of it. Yet those about 
 him, who certainly always liked him well, seemed 
 ever apprehensive that he might at any moment break 
 out in a wild debauch. 
 
 In truth, such an outbreak was not continually 
 apprehended. There was nothing to justify such 
 anticipation. He was just one of those brilliant, 
 gifted, weak-willed, perverse, endearing creatures 
 whose friends will always be mistakenly fearing for 
 them that they cannot live their lives, as we appre- 
 hend for little children that they cannot walk 
 without falling. 
 
 He spoke to me in a low, soft voice, which had a 
 little haunting reminder of some one else. I found 
 afterward that, through much difference, his tones 
 held a family resemblance to the golden voice of my 
 neighbour of the train. 
 
 "Would you like to look at these initials?" he
 
 f ' c We Are Come to Our Kingdom " f 47 
 
 inquired, gently, putting in my hand a package of 
 exquisitely neat white cards, upon each of which 
 was a design for a letter. The drawings were su- 
 perb ; a tiny figure of a mounted cowboy leaping out 
 at you, full gallop, through an O ; a swinging lariat, 
 whose curves formed a random yet perfect N; a 
 tilted sombrero and Mexican quirt, thrown down in 
 an inquiring Q; and a C that was a great, long- 
 rowelled Mexican spur. 
 
 " Oh, but these are just what I like," I cried. 
 "Who drew them?" 
 
 " I," he answered, smilingly. " I am glad they 
 please you. They are for Hexter's new cattle-coun- 
 try book, ' Spur and Lariat.' ' 
 
 "Have you more drawings for it?" I asked, 
 eagerly; " I love to look at Western things." And 
 I followed him back to his desk, where he placed 
 for me a chair and drew out numberless dainty 
 initials, head- and tail-pieces and enrichments. All 
 showed the same fine drawing, the same perfect 
 finish ; but none of them, as I would then have said 
 in my ignorance, amounted to much as art. 
 
 " Rouse is to do the illustrations for the Western 
 book," he explained. " I haven't got beyond my 
 letters yet." 
 
 I laughed appreciatively. The speech sounded 
 quaint from him then; and later, when I came 
 to know all the details I have already mentioned, it 
 had a pathetic significance. 
 
 Now, I caught up and laughed over a thumb-nail 
 sketch of a cowboy on a bucking pony, 
 
 " Good, isn't it ? " asked Mr. DeWitt, behind my 
 shoulder. " It reminds me of ' The Broncho Buster 
 and the Esoteric Philosopher/ in your last week's
 
 48 ^ The Last Word f 
 
 story. I like your turn in there; it's an original and 
 piquant conceit." 
 
 " There's no original conceit about it ! " I de- 
 murred. " A broncho buster one worthy the 
 name is necessarily an esoteric philosopher ; and 
 conversely, any esoteric philosopher of whatever 
 age, sex, or condition could, if he list, be a suc- 
 cessful broncho buster." 
 
 The blue eyes fairly patted me on the head. 
 " Stand right up to him ! " they said. And the 
 editor remarked, " Well, I shouldn't have allowed 
 myself to be drawn into any talk on broncho bust- 
 ing. It's a thing you plainly know more about, 
 abstractly and experimentally, than I do. I have 
 as little knowledge of Texas ponies and the cattle 
 business as you have of the New York streets." 
 
 " I've had some very vivid experiences on them," 
 I said, reminiscently ; " they are rich in copy." 
 
 " Yes, you ought to find good stuff that way. I 
 know. I came here fresh once myself. I am glad I 
 sent you out free-lance, no assignment and no rou- 
 tine. I don't see how you can go about in that tri- 
 umphant, choral, halleluiah spirit, with that patent, 
 life-preserving Texas trust and enthusiasm of yours, 
 without meeting experiences." 
 
 " I can't," I agreed, heartily. " I suppose I 
 walked and rode several hundred miles the other 
 day, only to gaze at street signs. The mighty are 
 indeed fallen. Cervantes is in a small shop cigars, 
 I think. Raphael is in the fruit line; Goethe is 
 running a bakery; and on another street, Walter 
 Scott, the Wizard of the North the divine Sir 
 Walter is clouting breeks for the unwashed mul- 
 titude. His sign reads, ' Suits Neatly Cleaned and 
 Repaired.' "
 
 $ " We Are Come to Our Kingdom " f 49 
 
 "I know some people" put in Miss Bucks, 
 with mean caution, from the desk where she seemed 
 to be looking for something " who would not 
 mind in the least if he had been trained to that in 
 his youth, and continued all his life in the business." 
 Then she went away before I could even get her 
 range and distance. 
 
 " You find Solomon in the pawnshops, sans the 
 glory ? " from Mr. DeWitt. 
 
 " Yes, and now I am looking in all the butcher- 
 shops and green groceries for Michael Angelo. He's 
 here somewhere, and when I find him I shall shed a 
 few preluding tears, and say, ' Shake, Mike ; I'm 
 just as proud to know you now as I should have been 
 in the days when you sculped and painted and archi- 
 tected and wrote heavenly sonnets to Vittoria Co- 
 lonna. " Lord, we know what we are, but we know 
 not what we may be ! " 
 
 "I call that noble," declared Mr. DeWitt. 
 
 '' Yes, I realise that it is. But you see nobody 
 knows better than I do that this catering to the 
 amusement of a fickle and fractious public which 
 is my trade and Michael's, too, in part, at least 
 is kittle work kittle work as these signs 
 have signified to me. And I dare not be arrogant, 
 who have no assurance that I may not some day 
 have to make sausages and head-cheeses myself." 
 
 ' There's one thing certain," announced my edi- 
 tor, suddenly ; " you want to keep that sunny trust- 
 fulness of yours that tackling of life in general 
 for a joke as a sort of professional property. I 
 see it is a fine thing to fish for copy with; but it 
 won't do for common, every-day consumption - 
 it isn't safe. You'll fall upon people and happenings
 
 50 *g> The Last Word $> 
 
 more wild and irregular than amusing or profitable. 
 You're liable to be buncoed ! " 
 
 " Oh, do you think so? " I cried. " I've longed 
 ever since I got here to have a bunco-steerer or a 
 confidence man. I should suppose it ought to be 
 one of the earliest experiences of the greenhorn in 
 Gotham. I've been at heaven upon my knees morn- 
 ing and evening to send me one ; and I've tried with 
 patience and intelligence to induce one." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Well I don't think you need to look so insult- 
 ingly amused. Of course I can't wear a big soft hat, 
 and Texas-y boots, and look wild and woolly as a 
 man could; but I've done my poor best, with a 
 guileless and confiding expression, and was always 
 in hopes." 
 
 " Now, really," he objected, dropping his voice 
 to a pitch of grave remonstrance, " you are a little 
 too too well, I advise you not, that's all." 
 
 Looking up, as Mr. DeWitt went back to his 
 desk, I found Bushrod Floyd's eyes fixed smil- 
 ingly on me, while something very like a faint wink 
 accompanied the comprehending look with which 
 he asked, " Did you like him after you got him ? 
 How did it happen ? " 
 
 " Why, I never really got him ; it was along of 
 my being so homesick," I explained; then suddenly, 
 " I imagine homesickness might be a really fatal 
 complaint when a body has no home." 
 
 He nodded. " Me too," he agreed, largely. 
 
 " It isn't just New York, you know," I went on. 
 " I have no home anywhere." 
 
 Back in Texas I had left some friends, one very 
 distant relative, and a little group of graves in an
 
 f " We Are Come to Our Kingdom " $ 51 
 
 old family burying-ground. The graves were 
 made so long ago that I could only call up faint 
 childish memories of the days upon which they 
 were digged. My father's was newest among them, 
 and I could recollect standing, a child of ten, in my 
 little black frock which didn't fit me and smelled so 
 oddly, to see that grave filled in. These and the 
 memories, however, are scarcely things to be home- 
 sick for, and I could not have told you no, not 
 I in what direction my craving heart reached. 
 
 " Same here," agreed Mr. Floyd. " I haven't 
 had a home since I was a baby a home that was 
 mine. You've met our president ? " 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " We are cousins. He is my Aunt Virginia's 
 son, two years younger than I, a very young man 
 to have reached the position he occupies. He's a 
 wonderful, unusual combination of artist and busi- 
 ness man." 
 
 I was beginning to hate this paragon of presi- 
 dents. " But about yourself," I prompted. " Were 
 you going to tell me something?" 
 
 " Yes, I was," he responded. " I see everybody 
 does. Your sweet receptive kindness melts every- 
 body's reserve. They hasten to hand over their 
 griefs to your keeping. Well, I began being an 
 orphan very young. 
 
 " It was a boy and girl love that of my young 
 parents. They were to have waited for years; but 
 when the darkest period of the war came, and the 
 poor, bleeding, desperate South was calling for the 
 last drop of gallant blood, they were married, a few 
 weeks before my father rode away on General Lee's 
 staff a boy of twenty. 
 
 " My poor little mother never saw him again.
 
 52 <9> The Last Word $ 
 
 He was killed at Gettysburg, before I was born; 
 and she followed him when I was less than a year 
 old. My aunt brought me up; and there's no 
 dearer, lovelier woman living than Aunt Virginia. 
 She was said to be like a mother to me, and my 
 cousins like brothers and sisters. I don't doubt it 
 was so. The fault was in me, I'm sure, that I 
 always felt alone yes, and homeless." 
 
 " So we are alike in that," I said. 
 
 " No," he demurred, with a little smile, " I claim 
 a sort of precedence in desolation. The graves in 
 my life were made so long before I came to know 
 myself or others to be a thinking creature that 
 I scarce know where they are. The people I have 
 lost my real dead live right here in the world 
 where I live, fasting, feasting, watching, labouring, 
 marrying and giving in marriage, and taking no 
 thought of me. They used to look at me across 
 the table three times a day, and the play was that 
 they were my kin. And that's the deadest kind of 
 dead you dare not ever be homesick for them ! " 
 
 My woes were not exactly of this foliage I 
 wore my rue with a difference. In point of fact, - 
 and to be brutally frank about myself, the main 
 tragedy of my life just then was that I had neither 
 seen nor heard from my neighbour of the train. 
 I was beginning to realise, too, that I had believed 
 implicitly his parting words that we were to meet 
 again. But now in my bitterness I told myself that 
 he was a shallow creature who got up a train flir- 
 tation as he tipped the porter, quite as a matter 
 of course, and a natural part of any journey. " He 
 did not," I said to myself, " so much as live in New 
 York at all." But, even if that were true, he might 
 have written me.
 
 $ " We Are Come to Our Kingdom " f 53 
 
 " It wasn't so much homesickness," I finally ad- 
 mitted. " It was about about a letter, a letter 
 which might have been written just as easily as not, 
 and which would have forestalled and prevented 
 this painful condition in my ego." 
 
 " A letter," mused the big man, in a gentle under- 
 tone. " I write mighty good letters. If I'd known 
 anybody of your name needed a letter, why I'd have 
 written you one myself." 
 
 " Well, I needed it oh, I needed it. I con- 
 sidered yesterday what manner of sudden death I 
 could adopt (in case I got no letter) to provide 
 undying remorse for those neglectful people, and, 
 at the same time, furnish the greatest amount of 
 material for enterprising young reporters; and I 
 said, ' The bridge has it ! ' " 
 
 " You're fine and bold," murmured my hearer. 
 " A modest cup of pizen would always satisfy me, 
 at my wildest. Did you " 
 
 " I came over here and found no letter. Then 
 I started toward Brooklyn bridge, in what I main- 
 tain was a thoroughly suicidal frame of mind. 
 Fixed, stony, desperate I do assure you those 
 terms are feeble." 
 
 He nodded gravely. " Been there," he said, 
 " know how it feels. I wish I'd written you that 
 letter!" 
 
 " Well," I continued, " I came, in the utmost pos- 
 sible gloom of soul, to the first short flight of steps. 
 There little thinking what boon fate had in store 
 for me I glanced darkly up where, lo, he stood, 
 my beautiful and long-desired bunco-steerer, my con- 
 fidence man in the flesh, just as I had read him 
 described thousands of times."
 
 54 f The Last Word f 
 
 '*' How seasonable ! " laughed Mr. Floyd. " Al- 
 most too good to believe." 
 
 " Yes, wasn't it? I thought so, too. The transi- 
 tion from despair to joy was so great that I didn't 
 credit the evidence of my senses. ' This is a fig- 
 ment/ I said, ' there's no such good luck ; they are 
 not to be found on the bridge. It is the mince pie 
 our Presbyterian friends had for dinner' (I dined 
 out most sadly the evening before)." 
 
 " And it was a figment? That's the joke? " 
 
 " No, no listen ; I gazed at him guilelessly. 
 The man returned my look, but in altogether the 
 wrong manner; for though he must have thought 
 I had a cataleptic attack, he only smiled civilly, 
 and considerately glanced out toward the shipping. 
 I went up the steps automatically, with my he-ad 
 turning gradually on my shoulders, like one of those 
 little brown owls that sit up at the mouth of prairie- 
 dog holes. In my childhood I solemnly believed that 
 if you continued to walk around those owls they 
 would continue turning their heads to follow you 
 with their eyes, until they wrung their little necks 
 in two." 
 
 " So did I so did I ! " cried my companion. 
 " I always believed a squinch-owl would do that ! " 
 And we laughed together with the subdued joy of 
 expatriates in a strange land, discussing and doting 
 upon important characteristics of the home country. 
 
 " But this ma'n was only responsive enough," I 
 went on, " not to seem really unkind and obdurate. 
 He still apparently gave me the benefit of the doubt, 
 and assumed that I was mistaken." 
 
 " Such coyness was unpromising, discouraging 
 and inexplicable."
 
 f " We Are Come to Our Kingdom " $ 55 
 
 " Yes, it was all of that, and my spirits began to 
 sink toward their former low stage. * It was the 
 mince pie,' I kept on saying to myself, though my 
 heart stood still at every footstep behind me. . ' It 
 was those insoluble foreordination, predestination, 
 sanctification, and adoption cakes with the Calvin- 
 istic icing onto them ; only them and nothing more. 
 Heavens, aren't they enough ? ' 
 
 " Plenty, I should think," with a smile. " No 
 wonder your heart balked." 
 
 "I went on, but deeply discouraged; and the 
 effort to keep my features in front of me, in spite 
 of the prodigious, vast and overwhelming rotary 
 impulse in the back of my head, distracted my 
 attention so that I had walked more than half-way 
 across the bridge before I noticed the absence of 
 any provisions for jumping off. I'd never observed 
 that the footway is inconsiderately placed right in 
 the middle of the structure." 
 
 ' That's the good reason for having it fixed that 
 way, my child. Otherwise a lot of us would be 
 jumping off there every day," explained the big 
 man, with a glance of the blue eyes that did not 
 match the jesting tone. 
 
 " Well, if so," I conceded, " it served its purpose 
 with me, and thwarted my " 
 
 " I'm ready for you now, Miss West," Mr. De- 
 Witt's voice broke in upon us, and this was the 
 first of many fragmentary talks with the big man. 
 half jesting, half confiding, and altogether enjoy- 
 able. They always wore the face of chance; they 
 appeared wholly incidental and fortuitous, and gen- 
 erally filled in what would have been my idle inter- 
 vals in the office.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A Superfluous Introduction 
 
 " They hunt our steps, that we cannot go in our streets." 
 
 GOING up to the office upon a certain Thursday, 
 to take my copy, I encountered Bushrod Floyd. 
 
 We both began in one breath to say that Mr. 
 DeWitt desired me to look at certain drawings that 
 Mr. Floyd was making for some humourous West- 
 ern verse; both laughed, and then he conducted 
 me to his desk, took the pictures from one of its 
 little-used drawers, and, having placed them before 
 me where I sat in the seldom occupied desk chair, 
 stood a little apart beside his drawing-board. 
 
 When I had examined, commented, criticised, and 
 offered suggestions as I had been asked to do, 
 for these were rough, tentative sketches I sat idly 
 on, and presently poked a little deeper into the pile 
 of sketches lying in the drawer an indefensible 
 thing to do. I realised this when, turning suddenly 
 with a card in my hand, I found the owner and 
 author's apprehensive eyes fixed upon me with the 
 look of a child who expects a reproof. Glancing 
 back to the card I held, I found it bore the sketch 
 of a hand. 
 
 " Why why It is mine! " I exclaimed, rec- 
 ognising a ring. 
 
 56
 
 <9 A Superfluous Introduction $ 57 
 
 " It's sure your dexter fist," confirmed the artist, 
 though still rather uncertainly. 
 
 " But it it's good ! " I went on, stupidly, as 
 though that were matter for surprise. Then with 
 delight, as I looked closer, " You've got my 
 crooked little finger, exactly. Father had just such 
 a one; he used to say it was a family finger." 
 
 " Crooked ! " echoed my hearer. " It's curved a 
 bit just enough to be charming and characteristic. 
 But the others they are as straight and slim and 
 deadly as little arrows." And he seemed relieved 
 that I had not been offended. 
 
 " Well, it is a wonderful sort of thing," I added, 
 looking long at the bit of work. " I declare, it 
 tells more, somehow, of the personality than many 
 a portrait I have seen." 
 
 ' You do me proud! " smiled the artist. 
 
 The hand paused relaxed upon a barely indicated 
 sheet of paper, a pencil lying lightly in the fingers. 
 " If my hand really looks as clever and intelligent 
 and and " 
 
 " Exquisitely lovely," proffered Mr. Floyd, in an 
 undertone. 
 
 " Nonsense ! If it looks as you know what I 
 mean as know how as that, I shall believe in it, 
 and in myself." 
 
 " Well, it looks as much more and lovelier and 
 cleverer than that, as " 
 
 ''' You seek to make me vain and conceited, so that 
 the entire force may have joy in the falling foul of 
 me by Mr. DeWitt," I interrupted. And then, with 
 no warning catch, the clock of destiny struck another 
 hour in my life. 
 
 Turning to seek the editorial autocrat, and deliver
 
 58 $> The Last Word <&> 
 
 my copy, I saw entering the door at the big room's 
 further end, the individual whom, in the privacy of 
 my thoughts, I had been calling Frank, the person 
 about whom I had been most persistently concerned, 
 of whom I had said as I lay down to sleep, " He 
 surely cared, and I shall see him again," and as I 
 rose up, " Go to ! it was a train flirtation ; he was 
 a drummer; he does not live in New York; and 
 worst and most woful of all, I shall never see him 
 more ! " 
 
 And here he came, down past the long line of 
 desks ; the same gait which I had called a belligerent 
 roll, the same deep, brown, violet, gray eyes, and 
 young, fresh-coloured countenance, half scornful, 
 half indifferent, wholly fascinating. 
 
 I must have been sub-consciously expecting some- 
 thing like this, for what I felt was more sheer panic 
 than surprise. Indeed, I mainly longed for present 
 escape a desire shared, I thought, by the other 
 party to the encounter yet, if this were so, why 
 had he come ? 
 
 It was not till afterward that I formulated his 
 offence against mere kindness. He knew who and 
 where I was, how to find or reach me. He could 
 have written, sent a message, called upon me in my 
 home yet he had chosen to let brute chance rule 
 our meeting. 
 
 I advanced hesitatingly toward him; all this lay 
 obscure and unexpressed, yet aching in my heart. 
 But before we were near enough for a greeting to 
 be required (which would publish to all beholders 
 our previous acquaintance) a tall man with a head 
 curled all over by close-rolling curls a striking 
 peculiarity in this day of short-cropped hair, rose
 
 $ A Superfluous Introduction 9 59 
 
 up from a distant desk and approached us. He 
 noted and had pity upon my trepidation, and I must 
 have seemed pitiable indeed. Smiling at me with 
 sunny eyes (and, it seemed to me, the whole outfit 
 of curls) " The editor is away," he explained; " but 
 he charged me to receive any copy you might bring 
 in. I am Mr. Corcoran, the cashier." 
 
 Strangely, in that strenuous moment, all the de- 
 tails of this new man's appearance and manner were 
 taken account of by my tense faculties. He had an 
 air of lovable benevolence, infinitely becoming to 
 him, and an interesting contrast to my editor's man- 
 ner of friendly satire. 
 
 Now, giving me a glance, as who should put a 
 kindly arm about a timid, overawed child, he turned 
 and presented me. 
 
 " Mr. Randolph, this is Miss Carrington West, 
 our Texas girl. We were expecting her when " 
 
 " Yes, I remember," the newcomer interrupted, 
 pleasantly, offering his hand. 
 
 I took it. " Mr. Randolph is our president and 
 art manager, Miss West. You are acquainted with 
 his work, of course, Francis Garnett Randolph." 
 And then I knew why the name had seemed familiar 
 to me, and why my almost consternation was ac- 
 counted quite natural in the office, where the young 
 president was held in great awe. 
 
 My first impulse was to observe calmly (calmly!) 
 that I knew Mr. Randolph ; my second spurred 
 by the unruffled demeanour with which he accepted 
 the introduction was to meet him, in every sense, 
 on his own ground. 
 
 In spite of his urbane, new-acquaintance manner, 
 my late neighbour of the train lingered; and he
 
 6o $> The Last Word & 
 
 was pleased to give an endorsement to the trend 
 of our conversation when Mr. Corcoran said, smil- 
 ingly, after we had talked a few moments: 
 
 " We have been rather looking forward to your 
 coming, you know, Miss West. We understand that 
 you are a stranger here, new to the East. Shall 
 you mind if I ask how you are situated domesti- 
 cally, and if you have any women friends ? " 
 
 Before I could answer, Frank or perhaps I err, 
 perhaps I should say that it was Francis Garnett 
 Randolph who spoke remarked, sympathetically : 
 " New York is hard enough on a man when he 
 comes to it for the first time, and without friends 
 or acquaintances but for a lady " (how oddly the 
 word chimed on my ear, who had not heard it used 
 generically since I left Texas) " for a lady it is 
 simply too bad." 
 
 I hastened to tell the tall man that I was for the 
 present domesticated in Brooklyn, where, through 
 no fault of mine, and indeed without my knowledge 
 or consent, a boarding-place had been procured for 
 me, with the idea, I suspected, of allowing me to 
 begin by taking New York gradually and in broken 
 doses. I had, I said, a number of letters to people 
 whom it had been supposed by mutual friends I 
 should be pleased and benefited by knowing; and 
 who, upon their part, would doubtless be cheered 
 and diverted by knowing me. But they were all, I 
 understood, persons who never did anything but 
 amuse themselves, and I had refrained from pre- 
 senting any of the letters, thinking that if I desired 
 to work, such acquaintances would be the reverse 
 of helpful to me. 
 
 " You're right, you are surprisingly right,"
 
 $> A Superfluous Introduction $ 61 
 
 returned he of the smile and curls, heartily. " Yet," 
 hesitating, " I believe that you would like my wife, 
 and she you. She was a New Orleans girl. Sup- 
 pose you come up to dinner next Saturday it is 
 my day off and see ? We wouldn't interfere with 
 your work, you know, being, as it were, of the hoi 
 polloi ourselves." 
 
 The " New Orleans girl " warmed my heart my 
 hurt heart. Mr. Randolph's endorsement of the idea 
 was so warm as to suggest that he felt I needed 
 respectable friends and associates or so I told my- 
 self bitterly. Yet, in spite of my resentment, I did 
 so yearn for consolation in my loneliness that I was 
 fain to follow his earnest adjurations and say : " I 
 shall be very glad indeed to do so." 
 
 Thereupon Mr. Corcoran made me out a careful 
 itinerary of the entire journey from my boarding- 
 place in Green Avenue, Brooklyn, to their flat in 
 Seventy-fourth Street. 
 
 The items upon this itinerary were many and (to 
 me) fascinating. When Saturday came I swept 
 my mind of all remembrance of Frank, I even laid 
 an embargo upon all thoughts of that distinguished 
 person, Francis Garnett Randolph, and set out with 
 a fairly light heart. 
 
 It was the itinerary that ruined me; yea, it was 
 that well-meant but fatal document that procured my 
 subsequent discomfiture. Had I known no more 
 than that these nice people lived at 124 West Sev- 
 enty-fourth Street, and had gone, as usual, on my 
 devious and erratic way, all would have been well. 
 I should have seen a great deal of the city, enjoyed 
 a large amount of outdoor air and wholesome exer- 
 cise, and finally arrived at my friend's house none
 
 62 The Last Word $ 
 
 the worse for a somewhat roundabout method of 
 getting there. 
 
 I took, as directed, the Ninth Avenue elevated 
 it was a good, free mover, well gaited, and held 
 out well. I dismounted, again by direction, at Sev- 
 enty-second Street, leaving it securely staked (this 
 was my own idea). 
 
 I was fascinated by those directions. I read them 
 all the way from Brooklyn to Seventy-fourth Street. 
 If I put them away, I instantly forgot whether it 
 was two blocks north or three, one block west or 
 two, and had to get them out again. 
 
 To be brief upon a not altogether pleasant sub- 
 ject, all this walking about the New York streets, 
 reading fitfully from a paper and gazing at build- 
 ings, culminated in something which must have 
 looked to the Corcorans (when, like Sister Anne, 
 they looked forth from their casement high) like a 
 street brawl, or at least like a very animated street 
 drama, in which their intending guest was playing 
 the star part. 
 
 From this embarrassing situation Mr. Corcoran 
 sallied forth and rescued me. Inside the door, that 
 is to say as we gained the wings, he asked me in 
 some amazement how it happened. I told. He 
 leaned up against the steam radiator and laughed 
 and wept and groaned, stopping occasionally to 
 shake his curls and wipe his eyes at me. 
 
 While he was still at this, a lady came down and 
 wanted to know also. I told her. She sat down 
 on the lower step and carried on like a foolish 
 person. 
 
 I alone stood by, quiet and dignified. 
 
 When they had recovered themselves a little, we
 
 $ A Superfluous Introduction ^ 63 
 
 went up-stairs, and later we had dinner. My hostess 
 was so very beautiful even for a New Orleans 
 girl that I blindly deemed it scarcely possible 
 she should have, also, goodness and sense. But 
 it was demonstrated to me, in later days, that she 
 had as generous a dole of each as the very ugliest 
 woman I ever knew. 
 
 Beside her at the dinner-table, magnificent in com- 
 pany bib and tucker, throned aloft in a high chair, 
 sat the sovereign Teddy, dispensing royal favour 
 with a nod of his frizzly gold head. I am apt, 
 through lack of experience, to be a trifle shy of 
 babies, but Teddy had an urbanity of manner all 
 his own, which put me immediately at my ease with 
 him. 
 
 We were at the table when Mr. Corcoran finally 
 understood that his directions had caused my recent 
 embarrassment. " Oh, was that what you were 
 reading from ? " he asked, most unnecessarily. 
 
 " It certainly was," I returned, dryly. 
 
 " And how did you get on with them ? Were 
 they useful otherwise than in attracting the atten- 
 tion of the guardians of the peace? " he pursued. 
 
 " I found them more than good and useful," I 
 answered, " they were beautiful. But I improved 
 upon them in places. 'Take Ninth Avenue ele- 
 vated,' they said, and I did so. When I found it a 
 free mover and well gaited, I thought best to stake 
 it securely, where I left it, so that it might graze 
 till I get back you'd never have thought of put- 
 ting anything like that in your directions com- 
 plete and enthralling as they were," I concluded, 
 triumphantly. 
 
 "I but you mustn't you can't they won't
 
 64 *f The Last Word 9 
 
 let you " protested the young sister of the house, 
 distressfully. 
 
 The laughter over my sally and its too literal 
 acceptance having quieted down, compunction came 
 upon my lovely hostess, and she offered me a little 
 delicate sympathy with my salad, stating that she 
 herself used always to get lost when she first came 
 to New York. 
 
 " Oh, thank you," I hastened to reply. " You 
 are very kind to say that. However, it is all grist 
 that comes to my mill. I used to try my little best 
 to avoid trouble and live a quiet and peaceable life. 
 But no longer oh, not now ! If I lose my pocket- 
 book, my way, and my head (and I do) ; if I am 
 even smashed up in an accident, and find myself 
 mangled and bleeding, do I complain?" 
 
 " Of course you do " began Mr. Corcoran. 
 
 " Indeed I do not ! " I interrupted. " The only 
 cry I utter is, ' Give me a soft pencil and paper 
 bind up my wounds! This will make good 
 copy!' 
 
 " And a broken heart would be so much stock in 
 trade ? " suggested Mr. Corcoran, in a somewhat 
 offensive tone. 
 
 " A broken heart ! " I echoed, with a slight waver- 
 ing, and a brief wonder as to whether I already 
 looked heartbroken. Then I went on briskly, 
 " That's what it would. When my young man 
 turns out perfidious " my breath gave a little 
 catch, at thought of Frank, but I whipped in my 
 coward forces and held ahead bravely with the 
 comedy " When he turns out perfidious (as he 
 frequently does) and tears my. heart into little 
 agonised tatters, would I foolishly seek to win him
 
 9 A Superfluous Introduction <+ 65 
 
 back, or unenterprisingly strive to escape the cruel 
 anguish merely because it is anguish ? " 
 
 "But would you not?" timidly inquired the 
 young sister. Since her late experience, she was 
 rather shy of me, as a person who said strange 
 things about familiar matters; but this was a sub- 
 ject in which she was much and presently interested. 
 
 " No," I protested, " and three hundred thousand 
 times no ! I am a woman, and I must needs feel it 
 as a woman ; but I am a writing woman, and I can- 
 not blink its magnificent commercial possibilities. 
 Do I moan ' Come back ? ' No, I cry ' Oh, wow, 
 Alphonso, cruel one, you have broken my heart! 
 But just go on, there's a good fellow ; wring it some 
 more, don't mind my tears ; for I tell you this 
 is the real thing I am feeling now. I'll make copy 
 as is copy out of this ! ' 
 
 " Which might be described," allowed Mr. Cor- 
 coran, " as thrift of soul." 
 
 " It certainly is nothing less," I returned, com- 
 placently. " And thus do I yank, as it were, victory 
 out of the clenched fist of defeat." 
 
 Mr. Corcoran simply made a wry face. 
 
 "I don't care," I persisted. "I think it's a 
 great time a great time when there's a mar- 
 ket for rages and megrims and vapours, if they 
 are but properly dressed." 
 
 " And is there, really ? " murmured the young 
 sister. 
 
 "Is there? Well, I should think there is!" I 
 exclaimed. " My dear Miss Phyllis, there is a fel- 
 low like an ol' clo' man going about buying up 
 your second-hand heart-throbs at so much per throb, 
 and your outworn emotions at so much an emote."
 
 66 -^ The Last Word ^ 
 
 " She is a little crazy, Phyllis," explained Mr. 
 Corcoran, gravely, " I had to go down to the door, 
 you know, and get her from the keeper." And we 
 all went into the parlour for some music. 
 
 When I got back to Ninth Avenue, I found that 
 the air-drawn stake-rope which my jester's humour 
 had placed upon the elevated was broken and the 
 train gone. But pursuing the same mood, one I 
 loved and furthered, since it helped bravely to be- 
 guile a sore heart another elevated just as 
 good every way came along almost immediately, 
 and I rode down-town on it. 
 
 All the way home my heart was singing a song, 
 whereof the refrain concerned a certain grim, taci- 
 turn, overbearing young man. 
 
 Grim, taciturn, overbearing that was the outer 
 shell. Part of the time, when the strain was gay 
 and hopeful, it asserted that, within, there was an- 
 other creature, ready to come forth and smile at my 
 touch, most winning, most lovable, most endearing, 
 and all mine because shown to me alone. And it 
 offered the further comfort that, when this well- 
 remembered countenance should shine upon me 
 once more, everything that puzzled and wounded 
 me so would be explained. All would be well. 
 
 And the faces, the faces, the faces, how they chal- 
 lenged me and called upon me. The people in the 
 cars, on the sidewalks, on the bridge, everywhere. 
 I watched them with unflagging interest, unfailing 
 sympathy, these subjects of mine in this my king- 
 dom; and whether they behaved handsomely, or 
 acted foolishly or wickedly, I found it to be all 
 toward my entertainment, instruction, or admoni- 
 tion.
 
 $ A Superfluous Introduction $ 67 
 
 To-day I could find it in my heart to pity them 
 - they do not know Frank. The best that can be 
 hoped for them and a very unlikely best is 
 that they may sometime meet Mr. Francis Garnett 
 Randolph; but poor things, poor things, it is only 
 1, picked out of the millions in the world, who can 
 ever know Frank. 
 
 Thus, when the strain was merry. But when 
 my heart sank low, it whispered to me that there 
 was no Frank, that the Frank of my thoughts was 
 only a silly vision; and it wounded me with recol- 
 lections of the staid gravity with which that keeper 
 of Frank, that outer shell, had received an unneces- 
 sary introduction.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " A Roman Warrior Sculptor 
 Unknown ' 
 
 " Poor captive bird ! Who, from thy narrow cage, 
 Pourest such music." 
 
 AFTER that first day's conversation it became quite 
 the regular thing, if Mr. DeWitt was late or occu- 
 pied with some one else, or I remained after he left, 
 for Mr. Floyd to have something to show me. 
 
 He never disturbed me if there was any one else 
 to whom I might address myself; but after a long 
 series of these childlike overtures, he asked one 
 day if I would not like to put into his desk a 
 large packet of manuscript which I desired to leave 
 at the office. " It's such a big desk." he explained, 
 " and I occupy exactly one drawer of it. It seems 
 a pity it should not be made of use." 
 
 His drawings were kept in a case, made specially 
 for them; and I had expressed some little curiosity 
 as to the contents of that desk drawer which he re- 
 served. I spoke of it as I sat down, and leaning 
 past me he drew it open. " There," he said, " pull 
 'em out and look at 'em. I'm sure it is better than 
 they deserve." 
 
 I glanced down and saw little packages of manu- 
 script, all showing the perfect finish characteristic 
 
 68
 
 $ "A Roman Warrior" * 69 
 
 of Mr. Floyd's drawings. They were folded so 
 that they looked almost like letters, though their 
 length would rather suggest legal documents. 
 
 " Try one of them," he encouraged, as though 
 he were speaking of an edible. Then to leave the 
 way more open for me to do so, he turned to his 
 drawing-board and ceased to regard me. 
 
 I plunged into the first package I drew out, 
 and was soon absorbed. They were fragments of 
 verse, recollections of a Southern plantation home, 
 glimpses of a region and a life most familiar to 
 me; the drollest and most perfect bits of negro 
 rhyme, and some tender and touching poems of 
 more classic form. 
 
 On one scrap of paper scarce larger than a 
 visiting-card, in the finest of little characters were 
 these six lines : 
 
 " I tell you, I have lived house-mate to Sorrow, 
 
 And those her gaunt, dark kindred, Pain and Care, 
 
 Sat with us often, and my life did borrow 
 
 From them its shade and bitter. Yea, I bare 
 
 And died not, when to-morrow and to-morrow 
 Brought to my secret hope but fresh despair." 
 
 I read them through again, then looked across at 
 the man who had written them, studying the bent 
 head, the relaxed lines of the big frame, seeking 
 to find what it was that wrote " defeated " across 
 his personality; and tenderness, pity, the longing 
 to help, ached in my throat. 
 
 " Mr. Floyd! " I cried, " this is cruel. Why arc 
 these things lying here in a drawer, with nobody 
 to see them? " 
 
 The big man looked around, startled. Then
 
 yo <& The Last Word & 
 
 his eyes softened, he smiled as he caught the mean- 
 ing of my protest, and attempted to pay me, or 
 did pay me in his own curious fashion, a quaint 
 compliment. 
 
 " Oh, don't say that," he remonstrated. ' The 
 whole world is looking at them right now I am 
 perfectly happy about them." 
 
 " Don't make a joke of it," I remonstrated. 
 " Things like this real creations of genius - 
 seem to me like little children. They ought to have 
 their chance in the world. You have no right to 
 deny it to them." 
 
 " I am not joking," he replied, seriously. " If 
 they diverted you for a moment if they amused 
 or touched or interested you they have done their 
 part in the world ; and I should be perfectly willing 
 to see them all burned. What is that you have 
 under your hand ? Which one of my small children 
 pleased you most ? " 
 
 " I love them all," I declared ; " the funny ones 
 best. But this," and I put forward the bit I held, 
 *' was the one I happened to be reading when T 
 spoke." 
 
 He glanced over the lines, and smiled a little 
 absently. " Fellow felt pretty bad when he wrote 
 that, didn't he? " he murmured reminiscently. " I've 
 got a longer howl, up here somewhere in the top 
 part of the desk." 
 
 He searched it out and handed it to me. " Don't 
 read it now," he cautioned. : ' You might burst 
 into tears right here in the office, and I'd be respon- 
 sible. Take it home as a as a Valentine, say." 
 And I put the long envelope in my pocket. 
 
 I was now boarding with the Corcorans. It was
 
 $> "A Roman Warrior " $ 71 
 
 a happy day for me when they adopted me into the 
 household of that little flat. 
 
 I observed that nobody else called it little. Far 
 otherwise, they constantly assured me that this was 
 a fair-sized flat. But to me it seemed finished and 
 close and small as a cabinet housekeeping in min- 
 iature. A pretty parlour, four bits of bedrooms 
 (there was one to spare, and so I could be taken in), 
 a cunning dining-room ; a scrap of a kitchen that was 
 a small domestic laboratory, as neat and dainty as 
 the movement of a Swiss watch ; all planned to the 
 perfection of convenience. 
 
 " Yes," I allowed, wistfully, " there is plenty of 
 everything except " 
 
 " Except what ? " inquired my hostess, sharply. 
 
 " Well, room and light," I brought out, bluntly. 
 " Those are the two articles that wild people from 
 the open plains find it hard to do without room 
 and light." 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran merely looked amused. 
 
 After West Texas, where there is nothing 
 but sunshine, space, and air, and where the inter- 
 esting problem two-thirds of the year is how to bar 
 out this great trio a bit, and make a little quiet 
 indoors to which you may retire, this gloom and 
 contraction were to me the most striking material 
 features of my home life. 
 
 " You must bear with me till I get tamed and 
 used," I said. " Just now, these little dark bed- 
 rooms " - there were two of them in the flat 
 " where the gas must be lighted half the day, seem 
 but chambers for the whispering of sad secrets ! " 
 
 " Do they ? " she laughed. " Well, that is a mis- 
 take on your part. They are only the bedrooms of
 
 72 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 an eight-hundred-a-year flat. Of course, when you 
 become rich and famous 
 
 "All right! all right!" I cried; "I'll say no 
 more." 
 
 But these, my people, were the dearest people; 
 and they had taken me in and made me one of 
 them, so that I had about me the kind and com- 
 forting air of home. Mr. Corcoran put it very 
 modestly when he said he thought I would like his 
 wife. Anything anything that lived in the 
 house with her winning sweetness, her bright, 
 wholesome, hopeful loveliness, must necessarily love 
 her. And again, I was not so strange a being to 
 them, since they themselves came from as far away 
 as New Orleans; and, while that is considerably 
 short of Texas, my passwords were not wholly 
 unknown there. 
 
 If they sometimes seemed to vaguely exhale the 
 inference that I ought to be impounded, it should 
 be said that I never succeeded in fastening such an 
 opinion upon them. I knew that they regarded me 
 as a sort of superior savage, an amiable, amusing, 
 and lovable barbarian. This to me! Me, who at 
 home was wont to consider myself (and am sure I 
 was regarded by others) as a person of refinement! 
 
 " You move about so quietly," I complained. 
 " Do you never have a violent emotion even a 
 sudden sensation? " 
 
 They only laughed. I thought of Francis Gar- 
 nett Randolph. He was quiet, but it was a vigor- 
 ous sort of silence. For all his grace and polish, 
 that calm of his was pregnant with action, even with 
 violence; and the possibility of its coming to utter- 
 ance did not seem so remote, either.
 
 f "A Roman Warrior" $ 73 
 
 But the others, the really Eastern people, appeared 
 to never draw a deep breath. For me, I seemed to 
 want room, to be always bumping my elbows, es- 
 pecially my verbal ones. I began to lose confi- 
 dence in heretofore-trusted expressions and forms 
 of speech. I often caught myself searching about 
 warily in my mind for suitably dilute terms, and 
 cautiously qualifying my voluntary statements. 
 
 " And to think," I exclaimed to Mr. Corcoran, 
 " that I had meditated going to Boston ! If it is like 
 this in New York, what would it have been in Bos- 
 ton, do you suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is well you began on us, Texas," he 
 responded, seriously, then for the first time using 
 the by-name which afterward became habitual with 
 him. " If you had tackled Boston at the start, gone 
 there straight from the plains, why " 
 
 "Well, then if I had?" I interrupted, feeling 
 resentfully that he made too much of this opening 
 which my own generosity had offered him. 
 
 " Well," he sighed, " I suppose they could only 
 have muzzled and hobbled you, shod you with list, 
 tied cushions on your elbows, connected you with 
 a fire and burglar alarm, and hoped for the best." 
 
 '*' You know that is a ridiculous, nonsensical mess 
 of absurdity," I remarked. " You make me weary. 
 You are just like Genevieve. She wants to tame 
 and train me make what she calls a lady jour- 
 nalist of me." 
 
 "Genevieve?" inquired my listener. 
 
 " Well, Miss Bucks, you would call her, of course 
 
 Fashions and Fancies Household Department 
 
 down at the office, you know." 
 
 " Why, yes, naturally I should call her Miss 
 Bucks ; and her first name is "
 
 74 $* The Last Word $> 
 
 . " Do not tell me," I broke in, " I do not want 
 to know. Genevieve suits me better." 
 
 As a matter of fact, when my eye first lit on 
 Miss Bucks, long, rather informally put together, 
 with her load of tan-coloured hair making her 
 head look too large, and her dead-serious, tan-col- 
 oured eyes, I said to myself, " You are Genevieve ; " 
 and so she had since remained for me. 
 
 Genevieve would fain have lured me to the big 
 stores where she got up her fashion articles. She 
 said something pitying about the things I wrote 
 for the office, spoke of my having so free a hand 
 in the matter of my work, and added that I ought 
 to deserve and make much of such liberty. Then 
 she announced to me that I might go about on a 
 tour of shops and stores with her the following 
 week. I rashly consented, and was immediately 
 seized by regret for my folly, and apprehension of 
 the deadly stupidity of such a campaign. 
 
 But I was agreeably disappointed. To speak 
 truth, the great bazaars, magnificent with fabrics 
 fetched from the four corners of the earth, charmed 
 my eyes. Yet from all these I got away compara- 
 tively whole and safe, and bearing the comforting 
 assurance that Genevieve was pleased with me, and 
 hopeful of my future. 
 
 It was at the Japanese store that I lost all this. 
 I am so weak w,here Japanese fixings are in question. 
 I do love their lightness and delicacy, the sharp, 
 angular, refreshing grace of their construction. 
 
 I fell under the fascination of a collection of 
 birds, snakes, bugs, animals, and goblins, in plaster, 
 fur, feathers, and scales, averaging about the size 
 of one's thumb, and weighing an ounce or so apiece.
 
 -^ "A Roman Warrior" $ 75 
 
 The very least of these no bigger than a thimble 
 were so expressive, so bursting with character 
 and significance, that it would make you jump to 
 suddenly encounter the sophisticated gaze of them. 
 
 From this gay and festive company, this gang of 
 wild, scampish, demoralised cynics, this Hecate's 
 rout of leering, gibing zoology, ethnology, and fancy- 
 run-mad, I only escaped away when I had beggared 
 both myself and my companion. 
 
 " Of course you are welcome to the money," said 
 Genevieve, more in grief than anger, as she handed 
 it over ; " only, what you want with that great mess 
 of little frumpy toys is " 
 
 " Toys ! " I cried, aghast. " They are teachers, 
 philosophers, sages ! Why, Miss Bucks, it's a whole 
 university I'll be after getting for myself," and I 
 turned feverishly to the precious assemblage. 
 
 I bought a crocodile (with a leer) that always 
 gave me the most agreeable shivers ; a skeleton sea- 
 serpent that would be a more effective means of 
 temperance reform than a whole inebriate asylum; 
 an ape, a porcupine, a hippopotamus (with a heavy 
 obese sneer), a dog of some revised and im- 
 proved breed, a parrot of most villainous and 
 depraved countenance, a swaggering, insolent, and 
 dissipated owl, a fat and contemplative toad, a pig 
 who knows the History of the Beginning of Things, 
 has discovered the Whence and Whither, and solved 
 the problem of the Wherefore (all for twenty cents, 
 too), besides several others that I do not think would 
 translate into English at all. 
 
 But the darling of my collection chiefest jewel 
 of the tribe was a seven-inch dragon, so utterly 
 frightful and appalling in his personal appearance
 
 j6 -f The Last Word f 
 
 that all the little segregated uglinesses displayed 
 by various individuals of the horde sank, by com- 
 parison, into mere commonplace. His scales, that 
 stood up along his serpentine back in horrent rows, 
 were little shells, scarce bigger than the shells of 
 rice grains ; his head was plaster ; those eyes which 
 he did glare with were china; and, from between 
 hooked and grabful fangs, he lolled out a slim red 
 muslin tongue, surrounded by a grin, the unspeak- 
 able malice and soulless venom of which (though I 
 well knew it to be purely Pickwickian) made my 
 flesh to crawl, my heart to slow up, my temperature 
 to fall, and my hair to rise, every time I encoun- 
 tered it. Oh, he was bewitchingly horrible ! Never, 
 sure, did plaster and red flannel wear such looks of 
 cool devilry. He cost eighty-five cents, too; and 
 by virtue of his higher price, as well as his superior 
 gifts was regarded by me and by all of them, 
 also as the choice and master spirit of the assem- 
 bly. 
 
 I looked at my gathering of embodied fancies, 
 sins and follies, crimes, mistakes and failures, gay 
 effronteries, sluggish indifferences and sullen de- 
 spairs, and said to myself that under their uncanny 
 influence I could write a wild, weird tale. 
 
 In the exuberance of my delight, I also said 
 something of this sort to Genevieve. 
 
 " I do not in the least mind about the money," she 
 repeated, with bald and remorseless sincerity; "but," 
 fixing me somewhat coldly with those solemn eyes 
 of hers, " I think you need something to cure you 
 of such nonsense, rather than a lot of trash to make 
 you worse, for you are certainly a little mad." 
 
 She stuck to this conclusion, and left me, refusing
 
 $ "A Roman Warrior " f 77 
 
 firmly my invitation to come and see some things 
 which I found interesting. In fact, she was so hasty 
 and final in her rejection of my offer that it almost 
 suggested alarm on her part. 
 
 So I went away by myself, down on Water 
 Street, among tarry odours, woollen caps, and sea- 
 faring commodities, to a little den of which Bush- 
 rod Floyd had told me; it could scarcely be called 
 a shop. Its keeper an Italian, yet in some sort 
 a fellow countryman of mine made the plaster 
 casts one buys of street venders, on the corner of 
 Sixth Avenue and Fourteenth or Twenty-third 
 Street. 
 
 In those early days I hung about that place; al- 
 most I could not get away at all. And we would 
 talk, my Lorenzo Bartolli and I, he speaking in a 
 very little broken, hesitating English, but both of 
 us using more the common language of the eye, the 
 hand, the attitude. 
 
 For this small, crooked, musty Italian had a much 
 better intelligence than the usual run of his kind. 
 He hated and despised, like any true artist, the 
 various examples of nameless trash he reproduced 
 for sale, and loved the classic pieces. The week 
 before, I had found, among a lot of rubbish, a small 
 cast which, having become very dirty, had been 
 bronzed. A little equestrian statuette a good 
 horse a good rider ; it struck a chord of home in 
 my heart. 
 
 What did it signify that dress and accoutrement 
 were of the time of the crusades; that no coiled 
 rope hung beside the tall saddle-bow, no broad cinch 
 circled the flank, no " slicker " flapped behind the 
 high cantle?
 
 78 -^ The Last Word <& 
 
 At how many roping matches and cowboy tour- 
 naments had I seen and admired, in how many 
 roundups, and on how many lonely trails had I 
 met or ridden beside this figure's living counterpart 
 and descendant ! How frequently in the vicissitudes 
 of frontier life had I experienced his unbounded 
 kindness and generosity, or at remote ranches or 
 incidental cow-camps partaken of his hospitality 
 which is as the Arab's ! And how often, on distant, 
 wind-raked, sun-scorched prairies, had I seen him 
 outlined (motionless and solitary upon some com- 
 manding rise from which that hawklike eye could 
 search for straying sheep or cattle) against a morn- 
 ing or an evening sky! 
 
 Here were the same deep seat in the saddle, the 
 long, blending lines of horse and rider, the slack 
 rein on the savage curb, the same high heel and 
 pointed toe, the broad hat, the lean, keen, kindly 
 face, the strong, lean, nervous body. 
 
 He would not sell it to me, the little bright-eyed 
 priest of that dim and dusty temple. It was " notta 
 count," he said; and he gave it to me. with amaze- 
 ment in his face, tempered, I fear, with scorn. 
 
 " You care for these," he said, indicating his 
 classic figures with a quick, backward sweep of 
 his hand. " How can you love-a this ? It is noth- 
 ing it is of the Renaissance." 
 
 " Oh, no," I said, as he wrapped it up for me. 
 " It is of Texas." 
 
 He looked at me doubtfully and repeated, with 
 a rising inflection, " Of Tet-saas? " 
 
 Genevieve despised it utterly. Mrs. Corcoran 
 called it a " clock figure ; " even Mr. Corcoran was 
 coldly indifferent. As for Francis Garnett Ran-
 
 $ "A Roman Warrior" $ 79 
 
 dolph, whose conjectured preferences had a way of 
 suggesting themselves to me as a dictum from which 
 there could be no appeal, he would never see it, and 
 of course it would be only a plaster cast to him. 
 But I I lived before I came to New York ; and 
 the horse and the rider of the Renaissance had for 
 me another meaning, as fine in its way as Mr. Bar- 
 tolli's beloved classic pieces. 
 
 He knew them all, did Lorenzo, and conned over 
 reverently as he would a calendar of saints 
 the names of those starry immortals, their creators. 
 There, in that dingy little hole, ranged on a shelf, 
 in front of a strip of dull red stuff, he had set a 
 group before which I must needs worship. 
 
 There is no phase of man's spiritual life which 
 is not typed for the seeing eye in the products of 
 man's art. The soul, knowing not words, recog- 
 nising only symbols, may be addressed by these, 
 and will hearken to them more readily than to 
 any human teacher. When forms of beauty no lon- 
 ger say to me, " peace," " truth," " love," I shall 
 begin to question if my soul waxes not hard of 
 hearing. 
 
 The day Genevieve and I parted, with our usual 
 pronounced divergence of opinion, I stopped long in 
 this unconsecrated temple of Father Lorenzo, high 
 priest of Silent Beauty, worshipping at this most un- 
 orthodox altar (yet where I found set forth well- 
 nigh all that appeared to me worshipful, as: love, 
 courage, nobility, tenderness, hope, beauty of idea 
 and of form), thinking a little heavily that it was 
 weary work forgetting people who were daily before 
 your eyes, and sometimes in their sweetest phase. 
 
 If I merely met Frank in the office for a formal
 
 8o -^ The Last Word ^ 
 
 greeting, most of all when I saw how important a 
 personage he was there, with the privacy of his 
 special inner office defended by a suave young man 
 whose business it was to politely pass all applicants 
 for admission through a fiery furnace of inquiry 
 and deliver them over to a private secretary if they 
 once flinched when I saw these things I was bet- 
 ter. But when I rode up in the elevator with him, 
 and heard a deep-toned word meant for my ear 
 alone, when I found his eyes fixed upon me with 
 jealous tenderness as I paused to consult Mr. De- 
 Witt or Bushrod Floyd over some detail of my 
 work, the old sickness of the soul rushed back upon 
 me and enveloped me for hours. 
 
 I longed for some sure specific for this ailing, 
 and I sought it doggedly in my work. 
 
 The door of my Italian friend's shop rang a bell 
 to warn him of a customer's entrance. When he 
 once saw that it was only I now since I was 
 become almost a member of the staff he let me 
 prowl for long, delightful quarter-hours alone amid 
 the dusty white world of the shop. Thus investi- 
 gating for myself in that place of fate, I rummaged 
 out a small and dusty bust from a corner, and set 
 it upon the counter. 
 
 I looked at my find, and a sudden qualm that 
 was almost faintness came upon me. There was a 
 helmet on the proud head, and some impossible curl- 
 ing hair under the helmet's rim. The stern eyes 
 were sightless ; but there was no mistaking the lift 
 of that chin, its forward thrust, and the curl of the 
 lip above it, the ineffable sweep of the haughty 
 nostril, the power in that broad, white forehead, 
 the browbeating, overbearing strength and yet
 
 "'A ROMAN WARRIOR SCULPTOR UNKNOWN 1 "
 
 & "A Roman Warrior" * 81 
 
 the beauty the merciless beauty of the whole 
 countenance. It was my neighbour of the train 
 president of the Salem Publishing Company he 
 who was ever in my thoughts, who put me from my 
 rest by night, and for whose sake I went heavily. 
 It was he, but with the sweetness left out of him. 
 
 Mr. Bartolli came in as I finished dusting it with 
 my handkerchief. He searched out a tattered cat- 
 alogue and placed his white-powdered finger upon 
 a line which read, " A Roman warrior. Sculptor 
 unknown." 
 
 " Yes," I agreed, " the noblest Roman of them 
 all but I do not think the bust would have pleased 
 his wife." 
 
 My Italian laughed. " He have no wife," he said. 
 
 " So he told me," I murmured, adding, " It's a 
 good likeness, but it does not do him justice." 
 
 " You like him ? " inquired Lorenzo. " Nobody 
 else like him much. I sell him cheap. 'Bout ten 
 cents." 
 
 And for the poor fee of ten cents I carried Fran- 
 cis Garnett Randolph or the more unlovable part 
 of him home with me, and set him. not beside the 
 Texas figure for all the world to see, but in a little 
 niche amongst my books where old Omar's half-sad, 
 half-smiling face in the Rubaiyat concealed him, 
 and where I could, when assailed by any foolish 
 sentiment or tender longings, uncover the stern 
 features and learn once more a lesson which had 
 a vexatious way of coming unlearned.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 St. Patrick's Day in the Morning 
 
 " The emblems on thy shrine embossed, 
 A broken head, shillelahs crossed 
 Relics of those who celebrate 
 St. Patrick's Day." 
 
 ONE fine, bright March forenoon, I went into 
 the office, when Mr. Floyd, contrary to his custom, 
 intercepted me as I would have passed his desk. 
 
 " The boss isn't in yet," he deprecated ; " and I 
 have something to show you something I think 
 you will like. Sit here." 
 
 I found the " something " to be a dozen exquisite 
 little drawings of Texas, used, as all Bushrod's 
 drawings were, for initials, tail-pieces, and enrich- 
 ments. There was Texas, standing slim-legged and 
 round-eyed, with one paw raised, looking right 
 out at you; the dog's head alone, with its big, 
 clear eyes so like a little deer's head ; Texas 
 careering through space after baseless, visionary 
 mice. 
 
 All were most cleverly done. Bushrod had caught 
 perfectly the personality of the little dog, and put 
 into these tiny pictures, along with the big eyes, 
 slim legs, and active, airy body, the fine, sensitive, 
 affectionate dog's soul and I said so, warmly. 
 
 " They are for a dog story that is to be run in 
 82
 
 $> St. Patrick's Day in the Morning $ 83 
 
 the weekly, sometime next month," he said. " Texas 
 has made great friends with me. We are similarly 
 circumstanced in some ways. We're both lonesome 
 fellows." And after a long pause, so low I hardly 
 caught the words, " You didn't want either of us." 
 
 I turned, laughing. It was one of Mr. Floyd's 
 extravagant, half-sentimental jokes. But I found 
 something, back of the smile which answered mine, 
 that set me thinking, uncomfortably. 
 
 But there, nonsense of course if he hadn't 
 said it quite so low, I should have been entirely 
 certain it was only a joke. 
 
 I remembered with a start that I had never even 
 read poor Bushrod's valentine, and resolved to do 
 so as soon as I got home, that day. 
 
 A boy came and called Mr. Floyd to go across the 
 street to the printing department. Save Mr. Cor- 
 coran deeply absorbed at his desk, there was not 
 a soul about upon whom I had any personal claim. 
 I sat and waited vainly for " the boss," as Bushrod 
 called him. 
 
 Briefly, the time approached when my weekly 
 stunt of copy should be handed in, and where it was 
 to come from I knew not. All week I had mostly 
 been engaged in doing those things which I ought 
 to have left undone, when I should have been doing 
 the things which I ought to have done; working 
 -but at vagrant, lawless, and wholly inapplicable 
 stuff when I should have been asleep ; loafing 
 uneasily about when I should have been at work. 
 And all the time beset by a horde of thoughts, recol- 
 lections, images, which, though I disallowed and 
 denied them, left me, at the end of the struggle, 
 bankrupt of strength and spirit.
 
 84 $ The Last Word +> 
 
 I found explanation for my silenced, disqualified 
 condition, hopeful explanation, as reasonable as in- 
 effectual. I told myself what was true enough 
 that some of the subjects had behaved frivo- 
 lously, meanly, not to say disgustingly; that I had 
 read a pessimistic book ; and that I had gone to see 
 a play by some wretch of a Norseman or Dutch- 
 man, or Russian which urged upon the soul a 
 conviction of the propriety of despair. And now I 
 had the returns from such a week's management, 
 in the form of a sore heart and an empty mind 
 with which to perform the week's task. 
 
 I stood a long time at a window looking unsee- 
 ingly out, thinking all this, hoping Mr. DeWitt 
 would come in and give me some suggestion 
 even an order would have been meekly and grate- 
 fully accepted. My mind felt to me like a locomotive 
 that had run into a vast mud bank. 
 
 " Texas, what are you hanging about here for at 
 this hour? " suddenly inquired Mr. Corcoran. 
 
 I jumped. " I am not hanging about," I retorted, 
 indignantly. " I'm waiting for " 
 
 " You're getting low in your mind, Texas," he 
 interrupted. " I am pained at it. Go and see the 
 St. Patrick's Day parade why didn't I think of it 
 before? It is just the thing for you." 
 
 "Why for me, particularly?" I inquired, with 
 suspicion. 
 
 " Well," rejoined Mr. Corcoran, unabashed, " if 
 I am any judge of people and conditions, it will 
 supply the exact elements your mental digestion 
 demands, and for the lack of which your spirit is 
 right now drooping." 
 
 I examined his face with guilty apprehension.
 
 $ St. Patrick's Day in the Morning f 85 
 
 But I need not have been disquieted. He only 
 thought me dispirited and homesick, and sought to 
 rally me a bit. 
 
 Now he added with a genial smile : " That's 
 right! You try it and see if it doesn't." 
 
 " It might make copy. When shall I go, and 
 where? " said I. 
 
 " Well, they're advertised to start up Fifth Ave- 
 nue at two o'clock, and they won't be comfortably 
 and entertainingly full before four. Suppose you 
 start about half-past two? Come down to Twenty- 
 third Street from the house; then go out to Fifth 
 Avenue, and you'll find it just happening right 
 along. Oh, you'll like it there isn't a shadow of 
 doubt in my mind about that ! " 
 
 It was plain to me he had no ulterior thoughts, 
 and meant only to be funny. So I assumed my 
 usual air of ignoring this intention, and went out 
 without remark. 
 
 At the elevator I encountered Mr. DeWitt and 
 Mr. Randolph. " Where away? " inquired my edi- 
 tor. The other gave me a low-spoken " Good-morn- 
 ing/' and a look. 
 
 " St. Patrick's Day parade," I responded, briefly, 
 and Mr. DeWitt laughed as though I had told him a 
 joke. 
 
 " Good idea. But say don't go off with the 
 band and forget to come back to dinner. You know 
 we're all dining at your house to-night," and he 
 included the president with a glance. 
 
 I had not known it; that is, I had missed the 
 only momentous feature of it that Frank was 
 coming. And now, with the disquieting knowledge 
 suddenly thrust upon me, it was not easy to treat
 
 86 <&> The Last Word $ 
 
 Mr. DeWitt's facetious inferences with that silent 
 and lofty superiority which it was my endeavour 
 consistently to show toward this attitude in my 
 associates. 
 
 This difficulty added insolence to the tone and 
 glance with which I replied; but Mr. DeWitt 
 laughed good-naturedly and looked significantly at 
 Mr. Randolph, as though my impertinence were the 
 ill-behaviour of a child " showing off " before a 
 visitor. 
 
 At lunch, the family were unanimously interested 
 in the St. Patrick's Day parade idea. Mrs. Corcoran 
 inquired if the notion were mine, and interrupted 
 herself to declare in chorus with the others 
 that it was a good one, anyhow. 
 
 I caught the infection and grew much enamoured 
 of the plan myself, expecting to get some good copy 
 out of it. 
 
 Phyllis wanted to put a green ribbon on me. 
 Mrs. Corcoran cried, " Oh, you must have a bou- 
 quet, so they'll think it's for Dennis, or Mike, or 
 whoever your best man in the parade is, and every- 
 body will make way for you everywhere." 
 
 But by this time very much enlisted I 
 scorned precautions and despised counsel. And I 
 went forth snorting, as it were, with eagerness for 
 the fray, and in a state of puffed up complacency 
 that was, as I saw it afterward, nothing short of 
 an invitation for something to come and fall on me. 
 
 I came upon the parade at Fifth Avenue and 
 Twenty-third Street; and oh, it was delightful! 
 There would be a band playing away for dear life, 
 and everybody marching very much in step. Grad- 
 ually, things became more and more straggling,
 
 9 St. Patrick's Day in the Morning $ 87 
 
 until it was a regular go-as-you-please scramble. 
 Then another band, everybody in step again, and 
 so on, over and over. It the procession was 
 like a string of musical beads. 
 
 Presently there was a long gap in its ranks. 
 Upon the interval of silence there suddenly broke 
 the blare of a trumpet, far down the avenue, back- 
 grounded by the murmur of drums and the throb- 
 bing suggestion of marching feet. As I and 
 everybody else pressed forward listening, some 
 companies of well-drilled cadets came in sight march- 
 ing solidly, the slant sun gleaming along their gun- 
 barrels and on their shining accoutrements. Their 
 band struck up a stirring march, the dense spiritual 
 atmosphere which had so clogged and stifled me 
 lifted. My breath came light and quick; my blood 
 started off gaily ; and I agreed with myself that Mr. 
 Corcoran's idea was a good one. 
 
 What is it so taking about things military ? The 
 mere fluttering tap-tap of a gray cape, tossed back 
 over a martial shoulder and dipping in time to the 
 wearer's step, is snatching; the squeal of a fife, the 
 boom-boom of the big drum, the kindling rattle of 
 the little ones, the pulsing tread, the clinking of 
 sabres how inspiring ! How we all stop and gaze 
 at and admire the military dress and bearing, and 
 listen to the martial music! Every eye brightened 
 as the young soldiers approached, every foot kept 
 time, responsive to the thrilling horns and rhythmic 
 drums. 
 
 It is the urchin in all our hearts which shouts 
 back so eagerly to this sort of thing. And the finest 
 of us the most evolved who has not a touch 
 of this boy nature, lacks something. It is the
 
 88 f The Last Word <$> 
 
 element in us that keeps the world young and stir- 
 ring, that reads border romances, gives great figures 
 to history, art, and the stage, and furnishes them 
 admiring audiences. 
 
 See the drum-major ! He is a mood. 
 
 Old or young, big or little, plain or handsome, 
 he is pure mood. 
 
 Look at him as he comes swelling down the 
 street in advance of the band. Wouldn't you give 
 all your painfully acquired pelf and pessimism, your 
 neuralgia and notes negotiable, to feel like that for 
 just ten minutes? 
 
 Ah, the delightful, jaunty, bumptious, extravagant 
 mood! How elate that head, how rigid that spine, 
 what fluent step, what lubricated prance! What 
 rollicking abandon of happy conceit and superlative 
 swagger ! 
 
 So antic! A fool, but not a solemn fool. No, 
 a gay, waggish fool who tips you the sly and know- 
 ing wink as he goes strutting past, as much as to 
 say, '* All fun, you know." 
 
 The excess and ecstasy of flamboyant ornamenta- 
 tion and martial splendour burst out all over him 
 nothing is gorgeous and gallant and audacious 
 enough- for this magnificent mood. The golden 
 cords and buttons and epaulettes, the plumes, the 
 fur, the glittering baton these, you should know, 
 are but symbols of the jocund soul within; the gay, 
 powerful, merrymaker mind. 
 
 I am sorry for you if you have never known 
 him the drum-major. There must be something 
 amiss with your digestion, your circulation, or your 
 conscience. 
 
 How often has he been mine! So often that I
 
 $ St. Patrick's Day in the Morning 9 89 
 
 have come to know him well, even by name. And 
 when I walk out in the sunshine, holding my gifts 
 youth, health, a modest measure of success 
 and feel the tingling ebullience of sheer mettle and 
 vainglory expanding in my veins, dilating my nos- 
 trils, lifting my feet high, rolling my eyes, and 
 thrusting out my under lip in glorious buncombe and 
 bravado, I laugh out loud and cry, " Ho, here's the 
 drum-major ! Hail, and thrice welcome, Sir Soldier 
 Fool!" 
 
 This St. Patrick's Day parade was a very glorious 
 parade indeed; this drum-major, a being of super- 
 nal splendour, even as drum-majors go, was alone 
 worth the trip. There were queer wagons with 
 two wheels, and yet queerer ones with four. There 
 were strange hand-barrows or stretcher-like affairs 
 carried by four resplendent creatures, upon which 
 (the barrows or stretchers) standards were mounted, 
 presenting to the eye, in big letters, noble sentiments, 
 moral maxims or inflammatory doctrines. And 
 everywhere there were flags, banners, badges, and 
 funny hats, collars, and aprons. 
 
 Now, women dressed up, tricked out and on pa- 
 rade, wear always the greatest variety of smirks. No 
 two faces will have the same degree or quality of self- 
 consciousness or simpering complacency. But a lot 
 of men in silk and tinsel, fringe and feathers, can 
 always be divided into two classes, the tickled 
 and the sheepish. 
 
 I watched with delight the first sort strut along, 
 rejoicing like South Sea Islanders in every one of 
 their seven colours ; glorying in every shred of 
 tinsel and every chicken feather. And with a joy 
 if possible finer, I observed the other sort skulk,
 
 90 f The Last Word 9 
 
 hang-dog, beside these (with an occasional sudden 
 glance of desperation which suggested the desire to 
 bolt), trying to hide their white cotton gloves under 
 their green silk aprons ; then, terrified, to hide their 
 green silk aprons with their white cotton gloves; 
 finally, in despair, to look nonchalant and uncon- 
 cerned ; in which latter they succeed so well that you 
 would imagine a policeman waiting around the cor- 
 ner to take them back the minute the jamboree was 
 over. 
 
 Well, the parade paraded, and so did the blood in 
 my veins. Every time it (the parade) got entirely 
 past, I went back to Sixth Avenue, got a car, rode 
 up ahead and caught it again, all the while blessing 
 Mr. Corcoran for his clever suggestion. And every 
 time I caught it again it was happier, less in step, 
 and more go-as-you-please. The parties sitting 
 dos a dos on the Irish jaunting car with a green 
 piano cover over it, hit each other upon the back of 
 the head more vehemently and promiscuously, as 
 they waved their flags ; I began to understand what 
 a St. Patrick's Day hat is. 
 
 Everybody laughed more. I laughed more. Then 
 I stopped in amazement wondering to hear my own 
 laugh. Where when had the heart to laugh 
 come to me? But it was vain to ask myself, vain to 
 decide for a more dignified demeanour. The infec- 
 tion was in the air, and to save my life I could not 
 help being just as jolly as the best of them. 
 
 I accepted the sudden and grateful change in men- 
 tal weather gladly, and laughed willingly with those 
 about me. Some of the riders began to have a 
 rotary motion on their horses, and to smile indul- 
 gently at space. I had a fine wicked sense of being
 
 ^ St. Patrick's Day in the Morning $ 91 
 
 out, with a lot of wild, reckless, fellow roisterers, 
 on a grand spree. 
 
 Suddenly, away up town, late in the afternoon, 
 just as I was applauding the discriminating clever- 
 ness of Mr. Corcoran's suggestion for the several- 
 hundredth time, I was fastened in a solid mass of 
 good-humoured humanity, so dense that I couldn't 
 wink, much less budge a foot. There I stood, be- 
 coming more and more inebriated every moment, 
 as I inhaled gallons and gallons of condensed alco- 
 holic vapour. " I shall be drunk and disorderly in 
 ten minutes if this holds out. Oh, for a green rib- 
 bon a bouquet oh, for a cabbage leaf ! " I 
 moaned. 
 
 " Lord love yez, honey, Oi'll fix yez ! " rolled out 
 a mellow voice; a big hand plucked me through 
 the crush, to the curbstone; everybody laughed a 
 great deal (including me) ; somebody tied something 
 on me; a bunch of disorganised flowers was put 
 in my hand ; " Take ut an' welkim," said the donor, 
 "Oi've sivin." 
 
 Just then, in the flash of an eye there opened 
 through the swaying crowd a clear, straight lane, 
 and at its end I saw, facing me, Francis Garnett 
 Randolph! He stood there in that heterogeneous 
 rabble, immaculate, correct, making a sort of vacant 
 place for himself in the press just by expecting it. 
 His astonished eyes dwelt upon me for one dizzying 
 instant. Then I turned to flee. Flight, in that press, 
 was something like the mad rush of a fly in a glue 
 pot. I looked out to the open space of avenue, where 
 there came worming its way along southward one 
 of those instruments of retribution upon an unjust 
 generation, a Fifth Avenue stage. I waggled a fee-
 
 92 f The Last Word $> 
 
 ble hand at it, whereupon, to my dreamy surprise, it 
 stopped. I entered it and started homeward. I 
 went in a sort of nightmare. It seemed to me the 
 passengers all looked at me queerly; but then so 
 many things were strange that I didn't pay much 
 attention. 
 
 We came to Fifty-ninth Street. I pulled the 
 strap. That strap pulled, I know, locks the wheels 
 by electricity, throttles the driver, and hamstrings 
 both horses. For when it is pulled, pull you never 
 so gently, it stops the stage like a thunderbolt, throw- 
 ing all the passengers in a heap in the forward end 
 (I understood then why I found them there when 
 I entered) and you underneath the pile, no matter in 
 what part of the vehicle you are standing when the 
 crash comes. 
 
 From the nethermost layer of this heap I crawled 
 out and, by way of two other cars, made my way 
 home, rang the bell, and the door opened. 
 
 I was as a sheep to the slaughter. Oh, it was 
 written that it should be so. For I walked up-stairs 
 and into the dining-room where the family and 
 guests were at dinner. In the stress and imminence, 
 as it were, of my latter adventures, and the emotions 
 thereby induced, all other matters had escaped me. 
 I had succeeded in so losing and neglecting the 
 creeping hours of time, that I walked in utterly 
 oblivious and forgetful of the fact that it was past 
 our dinner hour, and that Mr. DeWitt, Miss Bucks 
 and Frank would be dining with us. 
 
 I hope I have friends. I believe that I have gone 
 to places to see people who have much desired my 
 presence, and who rejoiced at my arrival. I do 
 think this; but no welcome I had ever met in the
 
 * St. Patrick's Day in the Morning <& 93 
 
 past could compare in spontaneity and floridity with 
 the one my Seventy-fourth Street friends almost 
 threw at me on the evening of this particular St. 
 Patrick's Day. No, I was never greeted with so 
 much enthusiasm in my life. They howled I re- 
 peat the word howled. I heard even Miss Bucks 
 laugh out a strange big haw ! haw ! The men simply 
 shook the roof. They all looked at each other and 
 smote their hands together, and laughed aloud 
 again. Never, never had I thought to see these 
 extremely quiet and well-regulated people so lively. 
 It was rather too much for even my long-suffering 
 good nature. 
 
 " Maybe," I observed, " when you have done 
 cackling and screeching, you will tell me what 
 amuses you so." 
 
 " Texas," said my host, rising and wiping away 
 his tears. " I'm shocked at you. I wouldn't have 
 thought you'd do it. But I blame myself, too; for 
 the suggestion was mine. DeWitt, we must be more 
 careful ; it won't do to let her out alone this way any 
 more. How did you get home, Texas? Where is 
 the policeman ? " 
 
 Here Mr. DeWitt came to the surface with 
 " If you were only er in a condition to do it, 
 what a story you could make out of yourself as a 
 result a product a sort of reminiscence, a sou- 
 venir of the parade." 
 
 I would have said that they all grinned approv- 
 ingly, but I found afterward that there was one 
 exception. "This," Mr. DeWitt went on, with a 
 wave of the hand, which included every shameful 
 item of my appearance, " was never brought about 
 without several very capable causes, the history of 
 which "
 
 94 $* The Last Word ^ 
 
 " Illustrated by a pair of pictures of you," broke 
 in Mr. Corcoran. " St. Patrick's Day Parade. ' Be- 
 fore Taking and After Taking,' see? " and he stood 
 me up in front of a mirror. 
 
 I involuntarily looked into it. My wounded self- 
 respect perished incontinently, my rage subsided. 
 The utter uselessness of all explanation held me 
 silent. 
 
 My big, furry hat sat at a rakish angle on the 
 back of my head; the choice assortment of costly 
 exotic poultry which decorated it was in a state of 
 violent internecine warfare. Through the very 
 vitals of the big black parrot was jabbed the staff 
 of a small green flag, with a harp of Erin printed 
 upon it in gold; while the smaller ornithological 
 fry was scattered about, disposed in various atti- 
 tudes of frightful disorder, suggestive of fierce com- 
 bat and agonised death. Over my left eye was a 
 smutch of dark colour which gave me a shamefully 
 significant permanent wink; one side of my coat 
 collar was up and one down; around one arm was 
 tied a green calico banner ; and in my hand was still 
 clutched that listless and haggard bouquet. 
 
 It was too fantastic. I had to yield and join the 
 shouts of delighted laughter; when suddenly in the 
 midst of the joyous uproar I caught sight, in the 
 glass beyond that mad, disreputable caricature 
 of me of Francis Garnett Randolph's clear face, 
 looking with alien eyes, pained and disapproving. 
 
 And the laugh was struck from my lips, my face 
 burned, my eyes stung. With the shamed, hurt 
 feeling of a petted child disporting itself for the 
 diversion of doting friends, and suddenly confronted 
 by a schoolmaster, " I am tired," I said, shortly.
 
 $ St. Patrick's Day in the Morning $ 95 
 
 " I'm sorry to miss you all, but I have walked some- 
 thing less than ninety miles since lunch time. I 
 think I will go to bed." 
 
 And go I did, buoyed up and encouraged thereto 
 by the sight of very genuine disappointment in that 
 stern face. 
 
 Ever since the first outburst of laughter which 
 greeted my appearance, the baby had been wailing, 
 in a fitful, vagrant way, " Po' Tarry ! Po' Tarry ! 
 Oh oh po' 'bused Tarry ! " 
 
 Now, as I reached the door, he burst into such 
 thrilling grief as secured immediate attention. I 
 went back for my one defender nothing less would 
 content him. 
 
 " 'Ey all mean mean to my Tarry," he 
 mourned, as he rode out of the room on my arm. 
 And his little wet, sobbing lips against my cheek, 
 as he clutched me close, repeating, " I love oo I 
 love oo tight tight tight ! " gave me the one 
 comfort we can ever receive from any human source 
 expressed love the comfort which it is so usual 
 a cruelty to withhold.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " The Eaters and the Eaten ' 
 
 " Woo't drink up eisel ? Eat a crocodile ? " 
 
 IT was less than a week after this episode of the 
 St. Patrick's Day parade that, in the ardent prosecu- 
 tion of a new plan for obtaining " material." I 
 had gone through some pretty harrowing experi- 
 ences at noon one day, and later, had carried some 
 little sense of weariness and distaste along with 
 a sore heart over to the park. 
 
 It was an April day, dropped into the latter part of 
 March bright, soft, spring-like; a half-holiday, 
 too, and the toilers were abroad. I strolled with 
 nurse maids and their charges, servant girls and their 
 beaux, and working people generally, and thought 
 of my friend Tennyson when, at Coventry, he "hung 
 with grooms and porters on the bridge." 
 
 As I mused, a voice spoke suddenly, close beside 
 me. It was a voice choked and hoarse with much 
 weeping, and glancing around I saw two servant 
 girls from their appearances leaning upon the 
 rail near me. The older and plainer, whose face was 
 red and her eyes swollen, was the speaker. 
 
 " He treated me shameful," she sobbed. " I 
 give 'im the money to get the license he didn't 
 have a dollar, not a dollar an' he's got a license 
 an' married that O'Shaughnessy huzzy ! " 
 
 96
 
 <& "The Eaters and the Eaten" <& 97 
 
 " Ai ! ai ! " cried my heart. " Tis the same theme ! 
 In words of one syllable, here. The bliss of requited 
 affection the pangs of misprized love! Didst think 
 to travel far and leave it behind? To the Barcan 
 desert, then, or those extensive woods where rolls 
 the Oregon! For where people are, there is this 
 chord for ever trembling. Proud and lowly, noble 
 and simple, all are laid under tribute first or last." 
 
 " There must be," I answered, " if He who made 
 our frame indeed is just, some compensation for 
 these things. Poor Maria and the others will find 
 it hereafter. 'Tis late, and I have some blocks to 
 travel. I will e'en go home, leaving these matters 
 to Him, and partake of that meal which my Brook- 
 lyn boarding people used sometimes to call dinner, 
 and sometimes supper." 
 
 Rising to go, I came face to face with Francis 
 Garnett Randolph. He put out a hand and spoke, 
 with a little catch in his voice, as though he might 
 have been walking fast. " It is you, then. Don't 
 go. Sit down again. I never get a word nor a 
 glance of yours which I can really call my own at 
 the office." 
 
 I sat down obedient. Now was the explanation 
 coming. 
 
 " Well," he went on, as he seated himself upon the 
 bench beside me, " this is what I have been dreaming 
 of for a month." He looked me over jealously. 
 ' The sight of you does my eyes good. And so, 
 DeWitt tells me, you've been ' succeeding in jour- 
 nalism.' ' 
 
 He spoke as though he did not see me almost 
 daily. He intended, evidently, that those meetings 
 should not count. Well, I certainly could think as
 
 The Last Word 
 
 little of them as he seemed to! " Mr. DeWitt is all 
 that is kind," I returned, quietly. 
 
 He lifted that aggressive chin a bit. " DeWitt 
 is only the mouthpiece of the office, you know," he 
 explained. " And the office is the mouthpiece of the 
 public. You have been doing some wonderful 
 work." 
 
 He had (who might have commanded) stooped 
 to flatter most subtly. The mother may forget the 
 babe; likewise the bridegroom may be taken with 
 a failing memory, in regard to the bride. As for 
 the monarch's affection for his crown, it's no com- 
 parison to the soft side a writing person has for 
 commendation of his work. I melted directly, and 
 well-nigh forgot that I had any grievance that 
 all this talk contained nothing germane to accepting 
 introductions to people whom you already know. 
 
 " And so my little Western friend is a successful 
 woman a journalist," he went on, with a note of 
 regret in his voice. " Tell me how the thing is 
 done." 
 
 " Why, I just went around to queer places and 
 then described 'em. New York is full of queer 
 places." 
 
 " Yes, to some people. What places, for in- 
 stance? " and his eyes dwelt upon my face with their 
 intense, earnest regard. 
 
 " Well, for one thing, I thought it would be a 
 bright idea to go and eat lunches around at snuffy- 
 looking places where there are cards all about with 
 such legends on them as so-and-so only ten cents; 
 and such-and-such only twenty cents." 
 
 " But it wouldn't be bright to eat anything," in- 
 terjected my listener, with a true man's horror of 
 gastronomic experiments.
 
 $ " The Eaters and the Eaten " $ 99 
 
 " Oh, yes," I rejoined, serenely, " to eat, of 
 course ; and to eat only these ' only ' dishes. That 
 is my notion of the way to get a practical working 
 idea how impecunious people live." 
 
 Frank shuddered. " To think of you with 
 your fine, sensitive appreciation of beauty and fit- 
 ness dragging about through such places as that 
 to ' make copy ! ' 
 
 I saw that he was genuinely distressed. " Let 
 me tell you about it," I urged. " You can't imagine 
 how infinitely funny it was." 
 
 " Oh, I've eaten in all sorts of places," he said, 
 carelessly; "and gone through all those disagreeable 
 experiences. But for a little tender flower of human- 
 ity it makes my blood boil. There ought to be 
 some one to take care of you, and keep you out of 
 such hardship." 
 
 I smiled a furtive smile over the " tender flower," 
 and after a meditative pause began, " It was poor 
 old Mr. Macbeth, I believe, who said, when he had 
 murdered Duncan, procured the killing of a large 
 and varied assortment of innocent persons, and set 
 on innumerable deeds of bloody violence, ' I have 
 supped full with horrors ! ' But I am bound to 
 think, with all deference to the man's energy and 
 capacity, that either I have supped fuller, or my 
 horrors were more horrible than his, or he'd never 
 have left the sleep-walking exclusively to Mrs. Mac." 
 
 " How long have you been pursuing this extraor- 
 dinary plan? " inquired Frank, suddenly, and I real- 
 ised that he suspected I was hungry. 
 
 " You'd be slow to believe it," I replied, " but I 
 have stuck to this thing three days." 
 
 Frank looked at his watch, evidently to see if we
 
 ioo The Last Word $ 
 
 were within respectable distance of any meal to 
 which he might invite me. 
 
 " If it hadn't been so bad, I should have given 
 it up after the first trial," I pursued; "but it was 
 so unexpectedly dreadful that it became serious, and 
 aroused in me the earnest enthusiasm of fight. The 
 ' what man dare I dare ' spirit entered into me." 
 
 " What were you living on all this time? " came 
 in troubled tones from my hearer. 
 
 " Well, at the last place about an hour ago," 
 I answered, reminiseently, " I ordered oyster pie, 
 
 * only fifteen cents,' mackintosh or macrame, or 
 marabout steak, with mushrooms, ' only twenty 
 cents ; ' country sausages ( I afterward decided that 
 they had left the country for the country's good), 
 
 * only ten cents,' and oh, a lot of such things." 
 
 " You poor baby," murmured Frank, with a melt- 
 ing tenderness that was only half jesting. " Did you 
 know how I pitied you that day on the train for your 
 ' tea and muffin ' buffet luncheon ? They had broiled 
 squirrels at that railroad hotel where I ate lunch; 
 and I was greatly minded to wrap one in a napkin 
 and take it to you. When I got back and saw you 
 with that bowl of deadly tea before you I was sorry 
 I hadn't." 
 
 I sighed as I thought of that comparatively drink- 
 able fluid. " This tea that I got with my lunches 
 here was awful indeed," I returned. " It offered 
 mingled suggestions of all the camomile, sassafras, 
 and catnip decoctions of my infant years, but it al- 
 ways had the added blandness of dishwater to soften 
 it and make it palatable." 
 
 " And yet you always ordered it," hazarded 
 Frank. " You know my comment that day. A
 
 "The Eaters and the Eaten" ^ 101 
 
 lady will always order tea. It's one of her articles 
 of faith that a cup of tea is the proper thing. She'd 
 generally as soon break one of the commandments 
 as omit it." 
 
 " Well, I tried the cocoa and chocolate," I admit- 
 ted, " but I was afraid of them. They sat and 
 looked at me after I had ordered them, until I gave 
 it up and went away. If all the things could be in 
 the tea that seemed to be there, what villainy might 
 not lie perdu under those opaque, mulatto counte- 
 nances? What crime, madness, and death might 
 not lurk in those mysterious and unfathomable 
 depths?" 
 
 "And all this time what were you eating?" in- 
 quired Frank, rather sternly. " I remember those 
 places with their artificial stone gingerbread that 
 stays on the table all the time. Yes, I know " 
 as I would have interrupted him " and a curious 
 interesting petrifaction, which they call cake, sitting 
 beside the Portland cement cookies but what did 
 you eat? " 
 
 " Never mind the eating," I said. " Let's talk- 
 about what I couldn't eat. Oh, you should have 
 seen the oyster that was the wicked genius of that 
 oyster pie! He sat on top, surrounded by pale, 
 startled gravy (below deck were things unspeak- 
 able). His viciousness was the repulsive depravity 
 of the old. He lacked whatever excuse is offered 
 by youth and inexperience. He was tough, he was 
 dissolute, incorrigible, invulnerable ! He was not to 
 be penetrated by kindness, nor by any of the utensils 
 furnished. I. felt it an injury to my moral nature 
 ever to have known him; and I asked the waiter 
 timidly to take him away, and bring me one of
 
 IO2 f The Last Word $ 
 
 those enormous wedges of pumpkin pie, ' only five 
 cents.' " 
 
 "I thought you never ate pie?" said Frank, 
 quickly. He had a curious way of finding out and 
 treasuring up all one's little personal peculiarities. 
 When he was sweet, one was sure he did it for love, 
 and when well at other times, one supposed 
 that he was keeping reprehending account of one's 
 faults. 
 
 " No," I agreed, " I never eat pie; but I under- 
 stood that it was the mainest dish with the folks I 
 was investigating, so pie it must be." 
 
 " Just over here is a nice place," began Frank 
 " you must be hungry if you lunched on a piece of 
 pie." 
 
 " No, no, hear me out," I protested. " It is a 
 humiliating record for one who has been glad to 
 share the hospitality of the fortuitous cow-camp or 
 the chance-met chuck-wagon, all through the West 
 Texas cattle country, and it runneth thus : The tea 
 was the one thing I really disposed of ; between me 
 and the country sausage it was a draw; also with 
 the macadam steak and the fireproof mushrooms 
 it was about an even thing. The depraved and dis- 
 reputable oyster loafing on the hurricane deck of the 
 pie named for him well, he routed me after a 
 desperate struggle. The cocoa and chocolate stood 
 me off; they slew me by the look, like cockatrices. 
 And before the size and solid resistance of those 
 vast wedges of pie, I simply melted away and drifted 
 out into the street." 
 
 " And so," laughed Frank, " if starvation has 
 brought you to terms, you " 
 
 " No, it wasn't starvation," I interrupted, " if you
 
 <& "The Eaters and the Eaten" * 103 
 
 will believe me, it was neither the things I ate nor 
 those I couldn't eat that have humbled my 
 proud heart, and broken and trampled upon my 
 free spirit. It was the harshness of the waiters." 
 
 " What? " inquired Frank, with startling sudden- 
 ness. 
 
 " Oh, yes," I pursued, calmly, " these men were 
 positively unkind they were brutal." 
 
 "They were brutal to you?" echoed Frank. 
 "Do you really mean that ? " 
 
 " Of course I mean it. The last one was the 
 worst. He came along the moment I was seated, 
 thrust the inflexible and serrated corner of a mala- 
 rial-looking napkin into my near eye, and while I was 
 wiping away the tears I could not hide, bawled out 
 in a loud, insulting tone, ' Y' go'n' t' order ? ' He 
 suggested fried oysters, and a thing with a French 
 name that sounded, as he pronounced it, very pro- 
 fane, and made the lady across from me jump; 
 though now that I think of it, he had just intro- 
 duced the napkin corner into her eye." 
 
 " I want you to promise me," began Frank, " that 
 you will not go alone any more to such places. I 
 must be allowed to go with you and look after you." 
 
 " Nice copy I should get in that way! Why, any 
 of them would be afraid of you, and wouldn't do a 
 thing worth repeating. Now this one sneered at 
 every ' only ' dish I ordered in a way that would 
 have made Pooh Bah seem a jolly, harum-scarum 
 democratic dog. I never saw such sneering in my 
 life. Honestly, it was like some sort of professional 
 or artistic work. I think I may say he snorted. 
 He treated everybody else with the same savage con- 
 tempt, and not a soul ventured to so much as look 
 a protest."
 
 The Last Word 
 
 " Even a waiter in a cheap restaurant ought to 
 know a lady. He should have had a lesson for 
 classing you with the people he abuses daily." 
 
 " I was afraid to explain that I was ' there for 
 a purpose,' and endured his contumely in silence. 
 He resented my not talking more, and giving him 
 opportunity to vent sarcasms upon me (he could 
 riot understand it; wasn't I a woman?), and the last 
 thing he did was under cover of his office to 
 skilfully jerk the chair from beneath me, just before 
 I rose." 
 
 " This is past a joke," remonstrated Frank. " I 
 want your promise. You see, don't you? that you 
 need me to take care of you." 
 
 " No, I think I managed admirably," I returned. 
 " I haven't ridden Texas ponies, and walked, and 
 ran, and climbed, and rowed, and swam, and chased 
 bears and cats (reversed order, you know) for noth- 
 ing. I was too quick for him. I got up like the 
 price of eggs near Christmas. He went back with 
 the disencumbered chair in his hand, into a very 
 fluid dinner that was being brought in to a very fat 
 old man ahead of me. It consisted of a big bowl 
 of hot soup, and a big glass of cold beer ; and while 
 he stood, blind and helpless for one moment, with 
 these beverages running off every projection, I 
 said, feeling coarse and low and common all over 
 (three days of this would do for you, too), ' I guess 
 not/ and then walked out." 
 
 Frank rose, and fixed his laughing eyes on me. 
 " Are you done ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Why, yes," I responded, somewhat taken aback, 
 " that's all." 
 
 " Well, let me inform you that I don't believe one
 
 * "The Eaters and the Eaten" $ 105 
 
 word of it. Let's see how right I am. Over in a 
 pretty room in the corner of that tall building the 
 Seven Black Slaves wait to spread the feast for 
 you and me. Now, Mademoiselle Scheherezade, if 
 (as I have said) this was a tale invented to entertain 
 and torment me, you will refuse, in your calm 
 way, to go and share the banquet. But if this har- 
 rowing recital was really a true one, starvation will 
 drive you to say yes which is it? " And he stood 
 studying my countenance with what seemed to me 
 a disproportionately intense scrutiny and challenge. 
 
 " Well," I returned, slowly, " the tale is all true 
 -just a plain, honest report. Also, I am hungry, 
 and " I hesitated, glanced up again at his smil- 
 ing face, then finished " and I think it would be 
 lovely to run away and dine with you. But it is also 
 true that the Corcorans have invited civilised per- 
 sons to come and see me at dinner. I am It, to-night. 
 It lies upon me to be there." 
 
 We walked out to Seventy-fourth Street. I 
 thought he would have left me, for one of the down- 
 town lines his apartments were, Iknew, in Irving 
 Place, at Gramercy Park but he walked with me 
 to our door. 
 
 As we stood lingering a moment, quite isolated, 
 in the vestibule, he said, suddenly, " People ? " 
 
 I glanced about blankly an instant; then re- 
 membrance enlightened me. " To dinner this even- 
 ing, you mean?" I returned. "Well, the vague 
 and stately toga drapes a single personality." 
 
 I found it surprising that any feeling could have 
 put this man so far from his ordinary as to allow 
 him the expression of curiosity in such a connection. 
 Then I glanced up. Frank's face was flushed, the
 
 io6 9 The Last Word & 
 
 fine nostril trembled ; I saw, beneath his moustache, 
 the lower lip caught hard between the white teeth. 
 
 It came to me as it always does to a woman 
 at this point to assure him promptly that the ex- 
 pected guest was not a man. We do so long to give 
 the sugar-plums to the loved child naughty enough 
 to demand to even storm for them. 
 
 But before I could frame the words, he had recov- 
 ered himself. He raised his hat, saying, " I must 
 not be inconsiderate I have already detained you 
 and you must dress." 
 
 I put out my hand, which he took, and clasped 
 and held it warmly, and then was gone.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Of the Making of Books 
 
 " But this you must know, that as long as they grow, 
 
 Whatever change may be, 
 You can never teach either oak or beech 
 To be aught but a greenwood tree." 
 
 AFTER this there were two formal calls from Mr. 
 Francis Garnett Randolph. To the eye of the casual 
 observer his visit would, in each instance, have ap- 
 peared to be addressed to the entire household 
 prominently including Teddy, for Frank was as suc- 
 cessful with children as with the pure line. But the 
 household assured me that he had called upon them 
 but once a year before my advent, and warmly urged 
 me to regard the honour of his present social ac- 
 tivity in this direction as a legitimate offering at 
 the shrine of my attractions. 
 
 Twice only, during the two evenings, did we fall 
 into anything like personal conversation. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Corcoran were engaged in searching for a new 
 book at one time, and had responded to some call of 
 Teddy's at another; so that for a moment we two 
 sat upon one side of the room, while our lovers (by 
 which convenient term I designate Phyllis and her 
 beau) occupied the other. There was very little 
 said, each time, that all the parlour full might not 
 have heard, except that he promptly alluded to our 
 
 107
 
 io8 f The Last Word -$ 
 
 former meeting, which I then remembered he had 
 never done in the presence of the others. 
 
 " Are you liking it here? " he asked me. " Are 
 you homesick ? " 
 
 " Never ! " I returned, stoutly. 
 
 " You know do you ? that I think you ought 
 to be at home," he went on. " A woman like you 
 should be tenderly cared for, and find her happiness 
 in making sunshine for others." 
 
 " I have rather a hankering for sunshine myself," 
 I observed, disrespectfully. 
 
 " And you think, like Diogenes do you ? - 
 that a man is a thing which keeps off the sunlight." 
 
 " Who was talking about a man ? " I asked. 
 
 " I was," he answered, briefly, and turned to re- 
 ceive the book Mr. Corcoran had brought in. 
 
 The second time that we spoke together, without 
 the assistance of the others, he expressed a desire 
 for another good, long talk with me. " I am a re- 
 served man," he said. " By choice I am a listener 
 rather than a talker." 
 
 " An uncomplimentary way of explaining your 
 liking for conversation with me," I laughed. 
 
 " Oh, no," he objected. " It is not the explana- 
 tion at all. I am as garrulous as an old gossip 
 with you. If I am ever silent when we are together 
 if you find me a silent person, that is it is not 
 for the same reason that other people do. With the 
 world at large, I either lack ideas in common, or I 
 am disinclined to expose my opinions to others. 
 With you, I am sometimes held silent by the fear 
 that I cannot make you see things as I do." 
 
 He leaned a little toward me, with the remem- 
 bered bend of the head, and lowered his voice to
 
 9 Of the Making of Books 9 109 
 
 those tones of irresistible sweetness those tones 
 so unreasonably moving and pleading. Even in the 
 moment of it, I thought angrily that if he had but 
 leaned toward me so, looked at me with such eyes 
 and spoken in those tones, he might have said 
 " twice two are four," all would have been one to 
 me ; my treacherous heart would have flown to open 
 the door to the eyes and the voice, regardless of 
 what the voice said. With a movement, a glance, a 
 tone, he had thrust away all the time since our first 
 meeting, all my resentment and pain. With the 
 changeful eyes fixed on mine, and the voice at its 
 most caressing tone, he said : 
 
 " When I look at you, my heart is so eager, my 
 mind so full of things I want to show you to 
 make you see and I so fear and tremble lest I be 
 misunderstood, that I am sure it often precipitates 
 the very event I dread. When you speak to me 
 reply to me I perceive that it is so. But to 
 be silent to to withdraw pray understand 
 me help me I mean to assure you that I realise 
 how a negative course may be more distasteful, more 
 wounding to you than than almost anything else." 
 
 I saw his trouble. It came upon me like a flash 
 of illumination that his position, to a man of such 
 pride such arrogant pride and self-will so tied 
 up in prejudice and conservatism and preconceived 
 ideas of how things ought to be, and with all the 
 determination to make them be that way, if they 
 had the bad taste not to do it themselves to such 
 a man, Frank's position toward me a position 
 into which he had been dragged, like myself, by 
 a mere cloudburst of ungovernable emotion was 
 certainly trying. Also, he was the man; it was he
 
 no 9 The Last Word $ 
 
 who must take any initiative ; all all was ex- 
 pected of him who knew not his own heart, 
 his intentions or wishes in the matter. And he 
 might wound me by too great deliberation, or offend 
 me by assuming too much. 
 
 I turned to him, smiling, and said, " I see 
 I understand. And we have gotten the cart so be- 
 fore the horse, that now it is pretty hard to straighten 
 things out, or do anything naturally or simply. 
 We've focussed a microscope on anything we may 
 say or do now, haven't we ? given a frightful 
 size and significance to it ? " 
 
 Frank's face had looked relieved, glad, then a 
 trifle uneasy. Now he broke in, " Oh, you mustn't 
 think for a moment " 
 
 " Wait! " I interrupted, in turn. " I have it now. 
 Do you like me? Do you believe you would find 
 interest in me, just as in other companionable peo- 
 ple to whom you are attracted ? " 
 
 " Oh, you know "he began, with low-voiced 
 vehemence, but I went on. 
 
 " Well, then, why can we not give ourselves a 
 reasonable chance? Why not take away the micro- 
 scope, and begin again like rational people who see 
 in each other a possible valued friend, and " 
 
 Here Teddy came swarming up Mr. Randolph, 
 and over this frizzly head I received a glance and 
 smile of comprehension, answer, and assurance. 
 
 It was during this call of his that I had told Frank 
 I did much of my work forenoons in the Astor 
 library. I was writing a little story of the Georgia 
 coast and the sea islands, in 1740, just after the 
 settlement there by Oglethorpe. The morning after, 
 I was in the library, deep in a collection of pamphlets
 
 $ Of the Making of Books <9 1 1 1 
 
 quaint old things printed with spidery type and 
 long ss letters, reports, and diaries of Wesley. 
 Whitefield, and of Oglethorpe himself. They illu- 
 minated the points of my story, and I was eagerly 
 absorbed in them, when a voice said to me, in a 
 murmur just above a whisper and it reverberated 
 along the remotest confines of consciousness like a 
 trumpet " Good morning ! " 
 
 As though that voice had called it there, the blood 
 rushed to my face. I smiled, and whispered back, 
 " Good morning." 
 
 Then he offered me explanations so voluble and 
 elaborate of his presence there at that hour that I 
 finally stopped him. 
 
 " You know there would be no actual affront in 
 it," I said, mildly, " if you had come with the hope 
 of seeing me." 
 
 He looked offended, and I saw he was in one of 
 what I called his Grand Lama moods. Then he 
 glanced again at me, his face changed, with that 
 quick, lovely change I knew so well, he rose, and 
 murmuring, " Come out here where we can talk," 
 drew me with a sort of gentle imperiousness to a 
 remote and ill-lighted alcove. 
 
 When we were seated, he began, looking me over 
 narrowly and jealously, " I will not be offended ; 
 you shall not offend me. You are irritable because, 
 you are unhappy. I warned you this life would 
 not suit you." 
 
 " Go right ahead and forgive me do! " I urged. 
 " It would be the last straw." 
 
 But he only shook his head and smiled. " I have 
 a purpose," he said, " and I am not to be turned 
 from it. Please be sweet and reasonable."
 
 112 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 "I will," I agreed, every fibre of my being. re- 
 laxing beneath the tone, the smile, and the kind 
 bearing. 
 
 " That is good," he said, and again smiled. " I 
 want to talk to you seriously, may I ? " and he 
 seated himself in front of me. 
 
 " That sounds rather ominous," I hesitated. 
 " Don't people always say that when something 
 very unpleasant is coming?" 
 
 " No, no," he reassured. " It is about your work. 
 You " 
 
 I half rose, startled, my face burning now pain- 
 fully, my mind suddenly flooded with vague, galling 
 surmise. 
 
 " The work ! " I cried. " It it doesn't it - 
 does Mr. DeWitt " 
 
 " Oh, pray pardon me ! " he urged eagerly, taking 
 my hands, and pushing me gently back into my 
 chair. " You must not be hasty ; let me finish. 
 What I wished to say is that you are doing bril- 
 liant, magnificent work now but can you keep 
 it up? Are you not wearing yourself out work- 
 ing out your vein? It is of you I am thinking, not 
 of DeWitt nor the office. Your work is only too 
 good for such ephemeral uses. And isn't it costing 
 you too much ? " 
 
 There was Frank. I was an irresponsible crea- 
 ture, unable to take care of myself. " Oh, no," I 
 said, " you know I adore work. I glory in it. It 
 does me good always. It makes me happy it 
 makes me well when nothing else can." 
 
 "And you think I am jealous of your work?" 
 (I had not said so.) " Well, perhaps I am. I am 
 of a jealous disposition, and it comes out where I
 
 Of the Making of Books $ 113 
 
 feel strongly. But maybe you need the work to keep 
 your mind from getting restless ; only it ought 
 to be under somebody's guidance." 
 
 "Why? " I asked, with rising resentment. "Why 
 should my work be planned by another, any more 
 than yours ? and you know you wouldn't stand 
 it a minute." 
 
 " I do not mean in the planning or conception 
 of the work. Your own genius is your best guide 
 there. But in everything else, you need a " 
 
 "I need a boss, do I?" I retorted. "Well, I 
 haven't found one yet." 
 
 Mr Francis Garnett Randolph hated to hear a 
 " lady " use slang. Its use, with many other priv- 
 ileges, was reserved in his mind for the stronger 
 half of creation. He flinched now at the word 
 " boss." 
 
 " You need to love and to be loved deeply," he 
 said, after a long pause, in the fullest tones of that 
 great, wooing voice, and bending upon me a look 
 of sudden tenderness. " It is in loving" that a true 
 woman's strength lies." The heart within me 
 the weak, foolish heart sprang to answer him. 
 But I knew better. I shrank back from the lure 
 of tone and glance, and put up the protesting hand 
 of an accusation, with 
 
 " Nobody but you calls me weak ! " 
 
 " Nor do I call you so. You are restless, unsat- 
 isfied ; and you always will be so till your heart 
 finds peace," he answered, gravely, and with the 
 undiminished sweetness that so daunted me. When 
 Frank chose to be sweet, he was to me terrible as 
 an army with banners. 
 
 Put to my utmost defence, " Please." I said, pee- 
 vishly, " let's talk of something sensible."
 
 H4 *> The Last Word 9 
 
 Frank's haughty spirit was up in arms instantly. 
 " I came to talk of something sensible this morn- 
 ing," he began. 
 
 " Oh, you did come to see me, then ? " I observed. 
 
 " I did. I want to discuss a plan for a book. 
 The house is getting out two ; one dealing with the 
 Eastern part of the country, the other with Califor- 
 nia and the far West. I think there should be a 
 third, exploiting what we are in the habit of calling 
 the Middle West the centre." 
 
 " Yes," I assented, vaguely. It was all Greek to 
 me. 
 
 " We have contracted with first-class people for 
 these Eastern and Western books. And now this 
 Middle West volume there is nobody I know 
 who could do that so well as yourself." 
 
 " Oh ! " I groaned. " A whole great big book ! 
 I should hate the thought of it. I should loathe 
 it. I should feel like a slave chained to an oar in a 
 galley." 
 
 But this man could be obtuse, or even forgiving, 
 when he had a point to make. " It would suit your 
 style exactly," he went on. " I have planned a 
 hundred pictures for it. Rouse, Bushrod Floyd, 
 and Max Ulrich are to illustrate the other two 
 books; but I am deeply interested in this one. I 
 want you to see my sketches for the pictures." 
 
 I groaned again. He had not made a book illus- 
 tration for years. His pictures for that purpose 
 were simply not to be had. This enormous con- 
 descension on his part was portentous. 
 
 I began at the wrong end of things, with, " I 
 should make a mess of it. The very thought that 
 there was a whole book to be written, and that it had
 
 $ Of the Making of Books <& 115 
 
 to be written in a certain way, would make me frantic 
 to write it some other way or to put it all into 
 a storiette an item. You surely know, by this 
 time, that a barrier a fence just presents itself 
 to me as something to be gone over, and gone over 
 quick." 
 
 I saw in his face that he considered this unfemi- 
 nine, unwomanly, undesirable. " You do yourself in- 
 justice," he declared. " I am sure you are one of the 
 most versatile creatures I have ever seen. You can 
 do anything you want to do." 
 
 I longed to say frankly that I did not want to 
 do this thing; but somehow my tongue was tied. 
 Already that domineering spirit of his, which held 
 in reserve so much sweetness and tenderness, ruled 
 me utterly ; or rather, it ruled me when I was with 
 him. 
 
 " Take a little time to think about it," he urged. 
 " I have been over that ground just recently. That 
 is what I was about when I found you," and his 
 eyes dwelt upon me for a disturbing instant. " Of 
 course I am not a writer. I should only presume 
 to offer my suggestions as a help. You know what 
 I think of your work. You know what they all 
 think at the office. I do not feel that I dare touch 
 it; but whatever facts I can give you are at your 
 service." 
 
 For some reason, this explanation alleviated the 
 prospect considerably. " You'd take some of the 
 responsibility, would you ? " I inquired. 
 
 " I should be glad to take it all," he answered, 
 promptly. " You'll do the thing magnificently. I 
 shall be proud to have my pictures associated with 
 your text."
 
 n6 <Q> The Last Word $ 
 
 This was, as Mr. Weller would have said, 
 " Comin' it werry strong." 
 
 " I have a little studio," he went on. " It is the 
 room I took when I first came to New York. I went 
 through some pretty tight places in that little studio, 
 and my good fortune found me there. I do my work 
 now, of course, mostly at the office, but I have never 
 been able to give up the room. It stands, little 
 changed from what it was three years ago. Once 
 in awhile it is used by some of the others, for some 
 special work. When we have an artist here from 
 a distance doing something for us, we put him or 
 her there. It is really mine. I do what very rare 
 occasional illustrating I do there. But it has come 
 to be a sort of community possession at the office. 
 I have been making these illustrations for your 
 book down there. I wish you would come with me 
 and see it." 
 
 The words, " Your bock," rather took my breath 
 away. They seemed to fasten the chains on me. 
 " Oh, please do not be so sure I shall write it," I 
 pleaded. " You will be so much the angrier when 
 I do not." 
 
 As usual, I had offended when I meant to 
 avert a quarrel. He turned his head away, and 
 looked out of the window. " I have an unfortu- 
 nate temper," he said, finally, in that tone which 
 means " I haven't any temper at all ; I am a mar- 
 tyred angel, and it is you who are hard to get along 
 with." 
 
 " Think it over," he repeated. " You could bring 
 your manuscript there, and work to the pictures, as 
 I also could get illustrative ideas from your text. 
 The long hours passed so together would be bits of
 
 $ Of the Making of Books $ 117 
 
 heaven to me, but perhaps you would rather have 
 De Witt's directions." 
 
 It was unkindly said. He sat looking from the 
 window, with that impatient face I had learned to 
 know too well. The human heart is a wayward 
 thing. It was exactly true, as he had said, that, 
 so far as any work was concerned, I greatly pre- 
 ferred to be under Mr. DeWitt's guidance. I was 
 happier so. But dared I say it ? Not for worlds ! 
 My days had already begun to be good days or 
 bad days according to whether I saw Frank or not. 
 They were further divided into days of misery or 
 seasons of delight according as I succeeded in 
 pleasing him or not. 
 
 A sudden conception of what it would be to sit 
 for long, delightful hours beside him, both busy, 
 silent or speaking, just as we chose, clutched at 
 my heart. I would do it of course I would ! 
 What a small matter it was, after all, to please him 
 in this. He thought he was helping me; he meant 
 to be kind. I could certainly do no less than meet 
 him half-way. And yet, as I said " Yes," a vision 
 of the heavy, unlovely task before me, an appre- 
 ciation of the blind egotism which had thrust such 
 a task upon me, robbed the conclusion of any hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Frank was elated, boyishly gay, overflowing with 
 tenderness. " The little studio has several keys, 
 my beloved partner," he said, producing one and 
 putting it in my hand. " The janitor could always 
 open it for you, but I w r ill give you this, so that 
 if you want to go there when I am out of town, or 
 should come first to an appointment, you will feel 
 like an independent proprietor. I must tell you
 
 n8 ^ The Last Word *> 
 
 that it will be eminently correct, every way. Miss 
 Salem (our heaviest stockholder, you know; daugh- 
 ter of the house's founder) once had Miss Bucks, 
 and afterward that wonderful Mrs. Parmalee, doing 
 some series of articles there for the service under 
 my direction; and she put in, for their use in the 
 work, a quantity of precious old files of Salem's 
 magazine in priceless cases. And she herself uses 
 the little studio sometimes. This makes it feasible 
 for you as it will be heavenly for me." 
 
 " Yes ? " I returned, smiling a little at his care- 
 fulness. " I hadn't even thought of this question." 
 
 " Besides," he went on, gaily, " there will be the 
 immediate chaperonage of Lemuel, to whom it shall 
 be my pleasure to present you. He is an accom- 
 plished chaperon, but he is yet finer as undiluted 
 literary material. And he shall be yours in both 
 capacities."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The Little Studio 
 
 " Where name of slave and sultan is forgot, 
 And peace to Mahmoud on his golden throne." 
 
 THE little studio had evidently been swept and 
 garnished for my coming. Upon the table, in a 
 long-stemmed, water-green vase, was one half- 
 opened blush rose. Frank explained that he put 
 it there as a portrait of me. 
 
 The janitor came in and out on errands; the 
 door was set wide, and tenants of the studios across 
 or beyond or beside stopped now and again to fling 
 in a jest or a welcome. They took me, as I bent 
 above my work, for a fellow artist or sitter, and 
 usually included me genially in their remarks. 
 
 It was the pleasant coast of Bohemia; the land 
 breeze greeted us sweetly. 
 
 I have mentioned the janitor, but in doing so 
 I have placed his more inconsiderable entitlement 
 first; whereas he was Lemuel first, and a janitor 
 afterward. Lemuel was lacking in the matter of 
 an eye; yet, with the one optic which accident had 
 spared, he saw more deeply into the affairs of the 
 pair who had taken to work in the little studio 
 than any of the two-eyed persons about. 
 
 Frank sat at his drawing-board, I at a table 
 within reach of his hand. Though we seemed in 
 
 "9
 
 I2O $ The Last Word 
 \ 
 
 such easy association with the people who came 
 or went, they had affairs and concerns of their own, 
 and, as a matter of fact, they for the most part 
 regarded us not. We were spiritually as much 
 alone together as though we were indeed upon the 
 desert island of which Frank had talked, that day 
 on the train. 
 
 In spite of the loathed work under my ringers, I 
 was breathing the air of paradise that is to say, 
 the atmosphere of glamour. I looked at the people 
 passing the door, and pitied them. They could not 
 sit by Frank and talk to him, and have him listen in 
 that wonderful way, with the ineffable bend of his 
 head, the lovely softening of those stern gray eyes. 
 Poor people! I hoped Heaven would give them 
 something else not as good, that could not be, but 
 something which, in their happy ignorance, they 
 might think as good. 
 
 Lemuel, dusting from chair legs imaginary specks, 
 in the hope of gratuities which should be more sub- 
 stantial, noted that we spoke little, and bestirred 
 himself for our entertainment. 
 
 " Mebby you would think, now, that I hain't never 
 went with the gals none?" said he, selecting with 
 good judgment a subject in which he plainly sup- 
 posed us both to be interested. " I reckon, ez a fac', 
 I've went with more gals in my time 'n ary un-lame, 
 two-eyed feller you could p'int out. Mebby ye pay 
 'tention to me bein' lame, an' one-eyed, an' a little 
 wizzled-up ol' crowl? Huh! them things ain't 
 nothin'. It's a way 'at counts with gals a way 
 an' " (with a look of abandoned wickedness) " I'm 
 the feller 't's got it ! " 
 
 When Lemuel was gone to other studios and
 
 9 The Little Studio <&> 121 
 
 other chair legs, "How are you getting on?" in- 
 quired Frank, and I suddenly became aware that 
 I was sitting dreaming, chin on hand, my pencil 
 untouched. 
 
 " Excellently ! " I answered, with alacrity. 
 
 " Maybe you would rather have pen and ink ? 
 I think all manuscripts should be made in ink." 
 
 Now, I can never produce copy except with a pen- 
 cil, and a pencil of one particular make and brand, at 
 that. But I answered, airily, "Oh, I could write with 
 a burnt stick." 
 
 " Does it bother you, having me here in the 
 room ? " 
 
 When I really have an inspiration I am apt to 
 double-lock the doors and pull furniture against 
 them, to come as near being sole alone in the world 
 as possible. While the fine frenzy is on me, I do 
 not like to remember that any one else exists. But 
 at this threat of withdrawing the only alleviation of 
 my present hard lot, I panicked promptly. 
 
 " I could not write at all if you were not there 
 with suggestions and plans," I asserted; and he 
 reached over and patted the hand which held the 
 pencil. 
 
 " We are doing famously, are we not, little part- 
 ner ? " he murmured ; and for fifteen minutes I 
 wrote furiously about the Middle West, things the 
 maddest ever penned or pencilled. 
 
 At the end of that time Frank rose and came over 
 to look at my work, as I suppposed. I hate having an 
 incomplete production seen at all; but this was all 
 such utter bosh that I was especially unwilling. 
 I laid my hand over the sheets, but he bent down 
 smilingly to take my pencil and put it in order.
 
 122 f The Last Word <& 
 
 "How do you like DeWitt?" he inquired, cas- 
 ually. 
 
 My happy heart was full of love for all living 
 creatures. " Oh, he has been everything to me in 
 my work," I expanded. " So patient with my blun- 
 ders " 
 
 " Patient with your blunders ! " repeated Frank, 
 then laughed. " That is noble, indeed, of him. 
 Why, you could set Justin DeWitt up in brains a 
 dozen times over." 
 
 " I could no more do the work he does," I de- 
 murred, " than I could write tragedies. He is so 
 satisfactory, so consistent, so exact, so wonderfully 
 clever." 
 
 There was a pause. My pencil had been mended 
 some time Now it was laid down upon the table with 
 decision. " I am not jealous of DeWitt, you under- 
 stand," Frank announced, authoritatively. " I 
 could not be jealous of any one in the ordinary 
 sense of the word. I envy him the opportunity he 
 has of being constantly with you. That is all." 
 
 I opened my eyes very wide indeed. " Constantly 
 with me ! " I cried. " Why, I don't see him for a 
 week at a time, and then only when he gives me his 
 helpful suggestions and ideas." 
 
 I reflected afterward that this was the infor- 
 mation Frank wanted, and that it pleased him. At 
 the time, his attitude was so nearly one of dignified 
 reproof that this seemed hardly possible. 
 
 " Well, then," he amended, " I envy him the 
 opportunity of helping you in your work. Or 
 more properly, I grudge him your belief that his 
 suggestions are helpful for I am not sure that 
 you wouldn't be better off without his attempts 
 at guidance."
 
 ^ The Little Studio -^ 123 
 
 From that first day on, work upon the big book, 
 which Frank had tentatively christened " The Heart 
 of Our Country/' became a part of my daily living. 
 With each meeting I cheated myself into a transient 
 content ; but the whole matter was, after all, a source 
 of suffering. Stevenson, in his " Weir of Her- 
 miston," speaks of the schoolmaster that there is in 
 all men. Frank surely had more than his share. 
 Or perhaps I err ; I am inclined to think sometimes 
 that it was owing to the strong and unwelcome 
 feeling which had possessed both of us since our 
 first meeting, that he showed to me so frequently 
 this unlovable trait. Yet there were days, moods, 
 when he was sweetness itself. 
 
 We had got pretty well started in our work; 
 I had begun to confess reluctantly that I could, 
 though I detested it, do, and do well, this writing 
 which Frank wanted of me, when I ran up to the 
 studio one morning to capture and confine with 
 pencil and paper a brilliant idea I had for the book. 
 
 I had no reason to suppose that Frank would be 
 there, indeed. I believed him out of town; 50 that 
 when I found the door ajar, pushed it open and 
 went in, the meeting which ensued was a glad sur- 
 prise to us both. 
 
 He was at work at his illustrations. Frank was 
 always a very slow and painstaking worker. Lem- 
 uel, brush and pan in hand, was holding forth to 
 him upon that one subject whereon he professed 
 to be an authority. 
 
 ' ? F ye're a-goin' with gals, go with two," pro- 
 nounced Lemuel, sententiously. 
 
 " Always ? " inquired Frank. 
 
 " Yuzzer," maintained Lemuel. " Fer why ? see
 
 124 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 the wisdom of it. 'F one o' the gals gits smart, 
 w'y, there's t'other. They sorter wambles along, an' 
 keeps each other up to taw, 'thout you a-worryin' 
 about it." 
 
 " Competition," remarked Frank. 
 
 " Yaas, likely ; somethin' o' that kind, I guess," 
 agreed Lemuel, vaguely, as he bobbed me one of 
 his absurd salutations and drifted away. 
 
 Grown suddenly industrious, I went at once to 
 my table, and resisted all overtures to conversa- 
 tion till I had finished my writing. Through with 
 it, I sat and mused a bit. After all, it would be 
 a delightful thing to have some one to sit in the 
 room and work when you were working, some one 
 to read things to when you had finished them and 
 thought they were good, to discuss plans with when 
 you were just beginning to sketch out a piece of 
 work. 
 
 I knew who so well ? how perfectly Frank 
 could be all that, and reflected with a sort of grieved 
 indignation how far he was from being it. I might 
 not sit beside him, happy in my own work, in which 
 I delighted. No, it must be something that he had 
 planned, some task he had laid upon me. The very 
 work under my fingers, I dared not show to him, 
 nor read to him ; for oh, wayward me ! I had 
 failed to set down the brilliant idea for the book. 
 It had somehow evaporated, and I had written in 
 its stead a bit of verse. Worst of all, it was verse 
 expressing a rebellious mood, which at the time 
 possessed me, toward this tyranny of affection. 
 
 I raised my head with a start, and found my 
 partner's eyes fixed upon me. Lemuel, still plying 
 pan and brush outside the studio door, was singing 
 as he worked.
 
 $ The Little Studio $ 125 
 
 Lemuel, though gey auld and wrinkled and blind 
 of one eye, is frequently moved to song, when he 
 voices his sentiments in a thin, wavering falsetto. 
 For the gods still smile upon Lemuel, and the young- 
 est and least responsible of them now counselled him 
 to pipe: 
 
 " Oh, I love my love an' my love loves me 
 
 They never was hearts was fonder ! 
 An' I'll jist ketch a-holt of my trew love's hand, 
 An' through this world we'll wander." 
 
 " Let's take a holiday," proposed Frank, " and run 
 away together. I want to go back to that day on 
 the train." 
 
 " ' The moving Finger writes ; and, having writ, 
 Moves on ; nor all your Piety and Wit 
 
 Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 
 Nor all your tears wash out a word of it' " 
 
 I quoted. " You had that marked big and black in 
 your Rubaiyat, as one of your Eternal Truths." 
 
 " Well, it is not true any more," retorted Frank, 
 easily. " I am going to cancel the opinion you 
 formed of me that day. I freely confess that I had 
 not self-possession to be natural. I felt toward you 
 as I had never felt never, toward any one be- 
 fore. I was afraid to let you see it, and in concealing 
 it I concealed the real man as well." 
 
 " Oh, did you? " I jeered. " Well, it is my opin- 
 ion that I saw through you that first fifteen minutes, 
 just as I've been doing ever since." 
 
 "You do not understand me at all," said Frank, 
 with a serious face. " I long since realised the
 
 126 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 futility of trying to express in words most of the 
 things which are really worth expression." 
 
 " But I judge you by the things you do" I an- 
 swered, with determined lightness. 
 
 " I so long," he continued, " to give you my ideas 
 as they seem to me before 1 clothe them in words. 
 I fear always that I seem to you abrupt, stern, 
 strange; not kindred to you as you to me. After 
 I am gone from you when we are apart this 
 fear becomes a reality in regret. You must remem- 
 ber I have not your gift of eloquence. If I had, 
 I should try to tell you to give you just half an 
 idea how moved I was by that first meeting with 
 you, and how mad and irrational the feeling then 
 seemed to me." 
 
 " To you! " I echoed, aghast. 
 
 " Yes, to me," he maintained. " But on your 
 account as well as my own. I have always thought 
 first for your happiness." 
 
 " And your own pride," I added. 
 
 " No. You do not do me justice you never 
 do me justice. I saw you were carried away some- 
 what in the same mad fashion that I myself was 
 oh, I did. It is too late to mince matters and 
 choose words. If I cared, you did, too. I saw that 
 you were distressed and unsettled that you dis- 
 trusted it " 
 
 " As you did," I cut in. 
 
 " Yes, as I did. Let it stand so, if you will. I 
 determined there and then to draw back to be 
 whatever you wanted me to your very good 
 friend, and and but to offer no love till it 
 could be offered with calmness and ac replied to 
 with calmness. It was fair to neither of us to do 
 more."
 
 *& The Little Studio ^ 127 
 
 I stood at the table, turning over drawings which 
 I could not see. " You are kindness itself," I 
 uttered, finally; but my tone robbed the words of 
 grace. 
 
 " I have been kinder to both of us than you will 
 admit." 
 
 " Well," I asked, finally, in a choking tone, " what 
 is all this you are coming to? " 
 
 " When I found that I loved you, Cara sudden, 
 ill-founded as the sentiment might appear I did 
 riot need any sophistry to sustain my self-respect. 
 I have always held the conventionalities lightly, if 
 not in contempt. The feeling itself was one of which 
 I could be proud. My restraint came from a sort 
 of fear of the power of the thing which ruled me. 
 That I should rush at you with an avowal for which 
 you were not prepared, was a thing I could not 
 brook. No, no, Carita dearest let me be hon- 
 est with you; that I should be swept into a posi- 
 tion for which I was not ready, was the thing which 
 angered me. My frankness may cost me your love, 
 yet must I say it. I resented this being possessed by 
 an emotion stronger than my will. I have gloried in 
 my self-control, I have held pride not only in the 
 mastery of my own emotions, but in my ability to 
 rule others, and I would not be mastered. So I ran 
 away." 
 
 This was true all true. I had known it always, 
 nor blamed him for anything in it. What I did 
 blame him for, what I must feel an offence, was the 
 blind, stupid egotism that permitted him to say it to 
 me here, now. 
 
 My head came up, the tears of feeling dried in 
 my eyes. " You certainly need not run away from
 
 128 $ The Last Word $* 
 
 me," I said, gathering up my possessions with un- 
 steady fingers, and preparing to depart. 
 
 Frank came over, smiling, took the things out 
 of my hands, holding both of them in his firm, 
 masterful grasp. " There, now, the queen is angry," 
 he said. " Do you know, dearest, I am always 
 somewhat afraid of you. You are such a little bun- 
 dle of dynamite. It is new to me and not alto- 
 gether comfortable to be so timid. I turn every 
 sentence of yours over and over in my halting mind 
 till I have derived as many meanings from it as 
 a disputatious churchman could get out of the Apos- 
 tles' Creed. And meantime you are away offended 
 hatching up accusations against me." 
 
 " You ! " I cried, a little wildly. " Any one as 
 cold and hard as you are! You don't care whom 
 you hurt, nor how much." 
 
 "How dare you say I am cold?" he asked, 
 quickly, with a touch of the old sternness, raising 
 my face and looking into my unwilling eyes. " How 
 dare you hint that I would intentionally wound 
 you ? I have tried always to think of you first 
 to consider what was best for you in this." 
 
 I longed inexpressibly to say that the possession 
 of my own soul, the courage to assert that it was 
 my own, was certainly what was best for me. But 
 speech of any sort would not come. 
 
 " You are as free as air, my love," he said, gently 
 relinquishing my hand, and dropping to the deep 
 tones that were so irresistible to me. " Cara, you 
 are the brightest spirit, the sunniest, truest, bravest 
 soul I have ever known. You are the sweetest in- 
 fluence, dear, that has ever come into my life. And 
 you have the loveliest eyes, the loveliest smile, the
 
 The Little Studio 8 129 
 
 most adorable presence a woman ever had. Would 
 I want you would I love and wish to keep you 
 for my own? I do love you and want you with all 
 my heart and soul and strength. But I would not 
 lay a finger upon your will. You must come to 
 me of your own motion, if you come at all." 
 
 I was aware, I know not how, that this was not 
 an assurance of generous devotion, but the demand 
 of selfishness. Something in me understood that 
 it meant not only, " I desire your love," but, " I 
 desire that you should offer it to me." And some- 
 where, somewhere, back in my fond soul, I found 
 courage to resist it. 
 
 Though my throat shut on the thing I tried to 
 say, Frank caught the words, " a selfish demand." 
 He instantly drew back a little, in amazement, pro- 
 testing : 
 
 " I am not selfish ; I am not demanding. Ask 
 those nearest me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know," I answered, finding my voice 
 again. " The people who belong to you, the people 
 who surrender their wills and their lives to you 
 you are very kind to them. It is the presump- 
 tion of equality in any one you love that you will 
 not tolerate." 
 
 " Cara! " he cried, with deep reproach. " If you 
 loved me no, I will not say that you do love 
 me; if you were willing to admit it you would 
 not bring up so absurd a thing as the question of 
 equality. You know how far above me I hold you." 
 
 I looked at him with swimming eyes. " Yes, I 
 love you and I am willing to love you," I sobbed, 
 "if I could do so and not be rent distracted 
 destroyed by it" When the words were out, I
 
 130 $ The Last Word P 
 
 saw the offence they contained, and trembled. To 
 my great relief, Frank took them somewhat hu- 
 mourously. 
 
 " Who told you you were to be rent, distracted, 
 and destroyed? I think you must be already a 
 little distracted, and deserve to be destroyed," he 
 said, with the indulgent laugh of one who gently 
 rallies an overwrought child. 
 
 And so a truce was patched between us, but a 
 truce which left my heart sore. The thought of life 
 with Frank came to me after that just as my mood 
 was, either a vision of rapture, an outlook of perfect 
 bliss, utter content; or, when the mood was a black 
 one, a long vista of dreary self-restraint, self-con- 
 demnation, scarred and seared by the marks of 
 impotent outbreaks, upheavals, and explosions, 
 growing gradually feebler and more infrequent, 
 till they ended in the dead level of complete re- 
 linquishment. 
 
 It had power to wake me in the night with an 
 icy finger laid upon my heart, and a whisper, " To 
 this favour you will come aye, for all your fine 
 words and your prating about liberty and self-ex- 
 pression, there will come a time when his love will 
 count highest, and you will sell for it your birth- 
 right/; 
 
 I said to myself, when I was utterly wearied out 
 with the conflict, " Yes, I will, and I shall find peace. 
 Just to lay my head on Frank's breast and give it 
 all up, let him think for me, decide for me, live my 
 life for me that would be all; then the conflict 
 would be over. I should be at rest." 
 
 And I remembered, with a start, that these are 
 the words we choose in which to speak of the dead, 
 and added, half whimsically, half sadly,
 
 -9 The Little Studio $ 131 
 
 " Well, I shall be dead then. It is a moral death 
 a spiritual death." 
 
 And yet, not being quite ready for the spiritual 
 sexton to shovel me under, I sought for something 
 to serve as a temporary stay of proceedings. 
 
 To get away that was it away where I could 
 think clearly, where my mental machinery would 
 not be unbalanced by the presence of the powerful 
 magnet of Frank's will; to get some perspective 
 upon this matter that now filled my whole field of 
 vision. And I resolved to find an opportunity to 
 do this or to make one.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "His Proper Gift" 
 
 " If we impinge never so slightly upon the life of a fellow 
 mortal, the touch of our personality, like the ripple of a stone 
 cast into a pond, widens and widens across the seons, till the 
 far-off gods themselves cannot say where action ceases. 
 
 " This man had chosen to thrust an inexpert finger into the 
 workings of another's life." 
 
 WE had actually schemed the big book, the senior 
 partner in the undertaking going ahead and doing 
 most of the work, to encourage me, as one holds 
 out a hand a pace or two in advance of the child 
 who is learning to walk. 
 
 I had never imagined that anything in the way of 
 writing could be such misery to me as was the pro- 
 duction of those first chapters. All my gifts (and 
 I am not modest about possessing a few) were 
 thrown away upon this heavy, statistical work. It 
 was going to be the kind of a book which you can re- 
 spect, but surely not the sort that any one could love; 
 and if I cannot love my work I am undone. 
 
 I wrote away doggedly, savagely, sullenly; put- 
 ting down I know not what heavy stupidity, and 
 growing more and more mutinous with each line. 
 There had been three weeks of this sort of thing. 
 My nerves were on edge, my temper past praying 
 for, and I was ready to break into open rebellion, 
 
 132
 
 9 " His Proper Gift " <&> 133 
 
 when Mr. DeWitt remarked in my hearing that one 
 of his Washington correspondents was shortly to 
 marry a Congressman from a Western State, and he 
 must fill her place. 
 
 " This is the third," he raged. " There is a fatal- 
 ity in it I am not sure but he is from Utah, and 
 all the same Congressman; but for my part I am 
 tired of operating a matrimonial bureau in favour 
 of literary young ladies." 
 
 " Then send me over ; oh, please send me," I 
 pleaded, ardently here was the very respite I 
 had demanded of fate. " I never had a try at politi- 
 cal work. I long to attempt it. You have no idea 
 how much I know about politics." 
 
 " Neither have you, I suspect," retorted my editor, 
 with slashing frankness. " But it is not a political 
 correspondent we want. It is " 
 
 "Fashions?" I broke in, feverishly. "I could 
 do them to the queen's taste in a place like Wash- 
 ington." 
 
 Something seemed to be pulling at the back of 
 my head. Uneasily, I looked around, and found the 
 president standing in the door of his private room, 
 his accusing eyes upon me. He had come in with- 
 out my seeing him ; but since he had heard my re- 
 quest, and was incensed thereat, I determined to be 
 hung there was nothing short of hanging in his 
 eye for the very largest sheep in the pasture. 
 
 "It isn't fashions, either," said Mr. DeWitt. 
 " You must go about to functions, and write them 
 up in breezy style. It is a high-grade society letter 
 we want ; the kind of thing, if my recollection serves 
 me, which you once characterised as 'unspeakably 
 loathsome work.' "
 
 134 *9* The Last Word f 
 
 " Well, I should be glad to do it now," I an- 
 swered. " I have known worse things since I talked 
 that way. If you have any commission that will take 
 me out of New York for awhile, do please give it 
 to me I promise to do my very best. You say 
 that when I try I can always suit you." 
 
 Later, the president came past Bushrod Floyd's 
 desk, where I sat at work, and laying upon my 
 writing-pad a glove which I remembered to have 
 left in the little studio, looked at me with not un- 
 kind reproach. 
 
 No word was spoken between us, and, stepping 
 to Bushrod's drawing-board, he held there a low- 
 toned conversation. My spirit always flinched 
 from sight of these two together. If Frank showed 
 the schoolmaster to me whom he loved and really 
 approved, it was the judge's face he turned ever 
 upon Bushrod. The latter was not only a sus- 
 pected criminal before him, but one whose sentence 
 justly prepared was merely suspended. 
 
 The elder man's attitude was even more distress- 
 ing to me. That worst which was expected of him, 
 he promptly supplied. Light, trashy, idle, imper- 
 tinent he was all of these with his cousin; and 
 perverse in a mad fashion which should have 
 amused, or even touched, the saner man. 
 
 Bushrod Floyd was the one exception I have ever 
 seen to Francis Randolph's vocation for the han- 
 dling of men. It was Frank's talent for adminis- 
 tration, leadership, which had put him, in his youth, 
 at the head of a great corporation like the Salem 
 Publishing Company. 
 
 This house had been for years famous for its 
 magnificent art works. When Frank returned from
 
 <& "His Proper Gift" $ 135 
 
 abroad, he began with them, as a highly paid illus- 
 trator. Later, he had thought best to put his patri- 
 money into its stock, had been first director, later art 
 manager; and when its president died, a few weeks 
 before my arrival in New York, he had been elected 
 to that office. 
 
 Early in those days of enthusiastic work, as I gath- 
 ered from the chance remarks of those concerned, 
 he had gone home to Virginia and found his cousin, 
 Bushrod Floyd, a fairly prosperous young lawyer 
 in a country town. 
 
 The drawing which this country lawyer pursued 
 as an amateur impressed Frank greatly. He urged 
 ambition upon the possessor of so much talent. He 
 rated and rightly his cousin's ability above his 
 own. He offered a temporary position in the art 
 department of the publishing house, and financial aid 
 to the pursuit of proper studies. 
 
 Poor Bushrod ! With a nice discrimination which 
 never failed him at such a point, he accepted just 
 those things, and declined just those others, which 
 ensured him a modified failure or, at best, the mini- 
 mum success. A position where he could work his 
 way honestly, as he phrased it, he took. Money which 
 would have fitted him for anything better, he re- 
 fused. 
 
 The event was, naturally, unsatisfactory to both 
 men. Francis Randolph was left to justify himself 
 as best he might for having (even with the kindest 
 intention) laid hands upon the life of another, and 
 moved so actively in that other's affairs as to feel, 
 in a sense, responsible for his failure. 
 
 Between the two lay, always fresh and available 
 for new bitterness and misunderstanding, the ques-
 
 136 $ The Last Word <9> 
 
 tion of Bushrod's drinking. The few poor facts 
 were these : 
 
 When New York with its larger opportunities, 
 and his cousin's belief in him, began to press too 
 hard upon Bushrod's imperfection, there resulted 
 the first spree. 
 
 Having made this new, hopeful environment a 
 place apt only for failure, having implanted in 
 the minds of all about him a belief in his inevitable 
 falling short, Bushrod added almost nothing to fos- 
 ter this belief; the outbreak was repeated but once 
 or twice. And he endured the resultant atmos- 
 phere of criticism in which he must now live, with 
 a patient dignity that was part of his acceptance 
 of things, and which promised no retrieval. 
 
 Among his own people, all would have been easily 
 forgotten. Back in the little Virginia town where 
 he was born, if this thing happened (as it had hap- 
 pened a few times), why, he was one of the Floyds; 
 there was not a negro on its streets but was ready 
 to " ca'y Marse Bush home," not a hotel or board- 
 ing-house but would have offered him its temporary 
 asylum. 
 
 Here in the great alien city, fronting Frank's 
 chilly disgust it took on a different colour. What 
 had been there a failing, a weakness, was here made 
 a crime, and the doer of it was to my thinking, 
 at least crucified daily for it. 
 
 Bushrod had, for his cousin, the smouldering 
 hostility we feel toward those whom we love and 
 fail to please; the bitterness of the faulty for the 
 well-nigh faultless creature; the pained resentment 
 of the weak, vulnerable, easily influenced nature 
 toward the strong, poised, self-centred one.
 
 $ "His Proper Gift" -* 137 
 
 " Burt tells me you are refusing to submit a de- 
 sign for the Bismarck poster," began the president. 
 
 " Burt informs you exactly," returned the other. 
 
 " I am sorry, Bush," pursued Frank, temperately. 
 " Why do you object to trying? " 
 
 " Because I have no ability for bill-board art 
 rotten stuff," retorted his cousin. 
 
 " The house needs the posters, and you need 
 what it would bring you. You have the very touch 
 for it. I have been tempted to have some of your 
 small designs enlarged for the purpose. Posters are 
 attracting attention just now; it would bring you 
 reputation." 
 
 " Thanks," drawled the big man. " You fellows 
 who have studied in Paris have some queer ideas 
 of art. I'm a bit old fashioned. Best let me alone. 
 Let me draw my little tiddle-de-winks stuff which 
 brings me bread and butter, and of which I'm not 
 ashamed. Get Bernstein to do your posters." 
 
 And Frank went out with the knitted brow and 
 stern lip which he was apt to bring away from an 
 interview with Bushrod. 
 
 Later, when I rose to leave the office, Mr. DeWitt 
 checked me at his desk, and motioned me to sit down 
 in the chair beside his own. 
 
 'These," he began, spreading several letters be- 
 fore me, " are your various passports, letters of in- 
 struction and of introduction." He went through 
 them with his quick, even, luminous clearness, so that 
 my Washington life and work lay before me vividly 
 distinct. 
 
 He took up the last one, and turning toward me 
 said, " This is to our Miss Salem. You know of 
 her?"
 
 138 $ The Last Word *f 
 
 " Yes," I responded. " I understand that she 
 owns she inherited much stock in the com- 
 pany. Her father was its founder, wasn't he? 
 Some one said to me that she would be the presi- 
 dent if she had happened to be a man." 
 
 "Yes. Just so," smiled Mr. DeWitt. "Well, 
 she knows of you; it was she who most warmly 
 approved Mr. Randolph's suggestion that I might 
 bring you to New York. She is fond of your work. 
 Of course she will be both personally and in a 
 business way everything to you in Washington. I 
 should, if I were you, take this letter to her imme- 
 diately on arrival."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Battle of the Sovereigns 
 
 " We commoners stood by the street facade 
 And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade. 
 
 In they swept, all riches and grace, 
 Silks and satins, jewels and lace ; 
 
 In they swept from the dazzled sun." 
 
 BEFORE I left New York, I arranged my exceed- 
 ingly limited domestic affairs satisfactorily. 
 
 Poor little Texas never really gave me his heart 
 nor his confidence. He endured me, as dogs and 
 women think they must endure people who are 
 thrust upon them, patiently, resignedly. The Cor- 
 coran flat I think I have mentioned that the Cor- 
 coran flat was more limited in extent than, for in- 
 stance, a Western plain. It ever seemed to me, when 
 we were all at home, overfull of people; and when 
 Texas, just little, slim-legged, tremulous Texas was 
 added to its inmates, it appeared really bursting with 
 dog. And Texas regarded the Corcoran flat, the 
 Corcoran cat and the Corcoran family, sadly. When 
 they would have caressed him and made him one of 
 them, he developed a valetudinarian air of being 
 slightly ill. 
 
 But when, on a day, I allowed him to accom- 
 pany me to the office, he immediately " took up " 
 with Mr. DeWitt, and he was never afterward
 
 140 f The Last Word ^ 
 
 clog of mine. The two had, it appeared, many 
 things in common. Both were reserved, elegant, 
 fastidious. Both deprecated all vociferation and 
 demonstration. And they sympathised, I fancy, 
 upon the matter of pedigree a sympathy into 
 which I could not enter. 
 
 So, when I was leaving New York for Washing- 
 ton, I took, and formally presented, Texas to Mr. 
 DeWitt, wishing I were sure that he would receive 
 my Washington copy after the same gracious fash- 
 ion in which he accepted my dog, and that I could 
 feel confident he would always be as kind to it. 
 
 So soon as I had well arrived in Washington, 
 I went with my letter to Miss Salem, to find her 
 all that Mr. DeWitt had forecast, besides very much 
 more, which he could not have known or imagined. 
 She was a New England woman of exceptionally 
 fine culture, broadened and strengthened by her 
 business experience. She had a big brain, ham- 
 pered, limited here and there, by a somewhat 
 narrow, passive conservatism which surprised one 
 afresh every time it manifested itself. She was of 
 a disposition most sweet and tender, and she had 
 a quality so fine, a breeding so exquisite that, among 
 all her excellencies of gift and cultivation, this fine- 
 ness and high-breeding were most distinguished. 
 . We pleased each other at once. For me, I loved 
 everything about Priscilla Salem ; and she appeared 
 to find me a welcome feature in her life. 
 
 It was a surprising relation which established 
 itself between us two women, almost from the first. 
 I was Miss Salem's junior by fifteen years, an 
 orphan, absolutely alone in the world, with no for- 
 tune except such as my pencil could conquer for me,
 
 The Battle of the Sovereigns $ 141 
 
 no wide circle of friends a fairly pathetic figure 
 the ordinary thinker would have found me. Francis 
 Randolph so thought, and irked me with his pity. 
 
 She was a rich woman, a distinguished woman, 
 with the honours and advantages of a man, with 
 troops of friends and those who usurped that 
 name because they had interests to serve perpet- 
 ually offering admiration and incense at her shrine. 
 And yet, as I say, from the first, what I felt for her 
 was compassion. I was most sincerely fond of her 
 at once; and it was an unformulated and unex- 
 pressed understanding that I was to cheer her, to 
 comfort her, to give (out of my affluence) something 
 which she lacked. 
 
 Her conventionality seemed at first rather for- 
 midable to me. I was uncertain of her till after our 
 first trip out together. She developed, upon that 
 occasion, just a delicate air of chastened Bohemian- 
 ism which sat charmingly upon her; and we later 
 took many such trips, indulging in a sort of Emer- 
 sonian larking and holiday making that I found very 
 delightful. 
 
 We were coming along Pennsylvania Avenue 
 upon a certain afternoon, on our way home from 
 one of these excursions, when Miss Salem remarked 
 that it was public reception day at the White House. 
 
 I halted instantly, saying, " We'll go." 
 
 " Oh, no," demurred Miss Salem, " we must go 
 there in the carriage, or we shall have to stand in line 
 awaiting our turn. See that line of people half-way 
 to the gate, two abreast? We might be an hour 
 getting in ! " and she looked a dainty cat revolting 
 upon the edge of a muddy puddle. 
 
 But I was firm. I insisted that the spirit of the
 
 142 $ The Last Word *&> 
 
 thing was essentially democratic, and that we should 
 go the whole animal, not availing ourselves of any 
 adventitious advantages we might possess. So we 
 approached the line, I very determined, Miss Salem 
 still protesting scatteringly. In that line we stood 
 a long time, only occasionally moving six or eight 
 inches forward. There was an unkind mist in the 
 air, and the pavement was damp. I was obliged 
 to admit, finally, that I was much more uncomfor- 
 table than I had ever been before in the whole course 
 of an adventurous career. 
 
 The carriage people, driving up and passing 
 directly into the house, gave rise to mutterings of 
 discontent in our ranks. Just behind us, a man with 
 a planing-mill voice spoke with bitterness. I grew 
 less and less happy momentarily. As for Miss 
 Salem, she retired still further into herself. She 
 looked still slenderer, and (without any appearance 
 of arrogance) more distinctly high-bred and patri- 
 cian. She glanced at me with gentle reproach. I, 
 myself, had I spoken truth, would have confessed 
 that my feelings in the matter of this particular 
 enterprise had undergone change, and that some- 
 what less democracy would yet have been demo- 
 cratic enough for me. 
 
 Within the lobby, when at last we entered it, the 
 crush was frightful. The marine band was making 
 delightful music. The surroundings were rich and 
 elegant ; the crowd, that queer mixture we all know 
 in such places, included everything; well-dressed 
 persons of wealth and distinction, country brethren 
 and sisters from far-back counties, many apparently 
 just off the train, and with little grips clutched in 
 their hands of honest toil.
 
 ^ The Battle of the Sovereigns $ 143 
 
 I thought it all very funny, and enjoyed it gaily, 
 not minding in the least the crowding and jamming. 
 Suddenly, in the middle of our progress across the 
 lobby, and in the fiercest of the onslaught, Miss 
 Salem, behind me, ejaculated : " Miss West, your 
 hair is coming down oh, it is coming off! " 
 
 My hair was at that time four inches long. It 
 was my custom to gather up all its rebellion (with 
 more difficulty than a dull country parson expe- 
 riences in getting together a lukewarm flock on a 
 rainy Sunday), stick a hairpin through it, and pin 
 on a knot of my own hair whose original connection 
 with my head had been severed during an illness 
 one year earlier. 
 
 I clapped my hand to the back of my head. Yes, 
 the knot was coming off it was hanging top end 
 down! Neither of us could avert the catastrophe, 
 hampered as we were by our gloves and wraps. A 
 pale, mild-looking young man in a frolicsome coat 
 approached and, seeing something was amiss, 
 showed us the way to the dressing-room. 
 
 We found it impracticable to try to restore the 
 edifice to my head. The hairpins seemed to have 
 been torn out and lost in the hand-to-hand struggle 
 across the lobby, and loose ends were bobbing every- 
 where. " Let the curls go," counselled Miss Salem. 
 " I think they are charming. I never guessed you 
 had such hyacinthine locks." So I rolled the hair 
 up and (having nowhere else to put it) stuffed it 
 into my muff, a fanciful little structure of ribbon 
 and lace with a mighty bunch of odorous violets 
 tied atop of it, and we once more joined the 
 innumerable caravan. 
 
 We crossed the corridor, the red room, and were
 
 144 *^* The Last Word 
 
 precipitated into the blue room, where stood, captive 
 and at bay, the innocent wife of the chief executive, 
 supported upon the flank by several friendly ladies 
 (friendly to her, you will understand). 
 
 A Choctaw version of our names was hurled in 
 with us. We sidled, smiling, past the First Lady and 
 those with her. 
 
 We ran the gauntlet, both there and in the green 
 room beyond (where a crowd of assisting ladies 
 were intrenched behind a barricading sofa and 
 chairs), of forty or fifty pairs of curious eyes which 
 stared with cold and alien looks at the passing 
 stream, as though it had been an interesting zoolog- 
 ical collection, which, I must admit, it did strongly 
 suggest. I thought I knew how the animals in the 
 circus feel; and I confess that the attitude of these 
 women was most offensive to my free spirit. I had 
 a prompting, such as animates the small boy, to shy 
 things at them. However, I passed on, with only a 
 haughty glance. 
 
 Dear Miss Salem was grateful for the Choctaw 
 translation of her name, for the fact that none of the 
 "receivers" (who, I bitterly reminded her, were 
 as bad as the thief) would be expecting to see her 
 in this motley procession of unassorted humanity 
 which filed solemnly past them, and finally, for 
 my tall figure, beside which she seemed to twilight 
 along, safe from detection. 
 
 After many strange encounters and hairbreadth 
 escapes, we met, in the conservatory, the Japanese 
 minister and his wife, dressed in European costume. 
 Mr. Hatsuko charmed me to the soul. His rare 
 and original ugliness made a stronger appeal to 
 my interest than the exquisite beauty of the orchids
 
 f The Battle of the Sovereigns <+ 145 
 
 near which he was standing. I studied with delight 
 his amazing facial architecture, dwelling with equal 
 joy upon his Hispano-Moresque nose and his Queen 
 Anne mouth. I observed that he looked out at the 
 world with a sort of Corinthian squint from under 
 Indo- Japanesque eyebrows. 
 
 " Miss Salem," I remarked, innocently, " the Jap- 
 anese minister's hair and whiskers are pure Ara- 
 besque, aren't they? They are straggling and ran- 
 dom evidently put there expressly for Japanese 
 winds to blow through ! " 
 
 Miss Salem's face flushed. She looked at the 
 minister with open terror, and at me with the most 
 merited reproach and reprehension. Poor dear, she 
 was spared the worst; he had not heard me. And 
 Retribution, in the person of a hurrying female, was 
 at hand. The mere wind of this woman's haste, 
 it seemed to me, tore the little violet-decked muff 
 from my careless hand. The unconscious object 
 of my rude scrutiny, with an instant and kindly 
 courtesy which should have covered me with shame 
 and self-reproach (and did, in truth, do just that) 
 bent at once to restore it to me. He grasped at it, 
 just struck it with the ends of his fingers; it slid 
 gaily away from him, and out rolled in a curly mass 
 my back hair! 
 
 The little man quite jumped back, and uttered an 
 exclamation. Then came numbers of idle people, 
 crowding around to see what the excitement was 
 I believe they thought I had pinched him. Poor 
 Miss Salem's face was a picture of pained confu- 
 sion; I myself felt most uncomfortable. Making 
 a determined dive for my hair and my muff, I 
 swept one up in each hand, thrust the former inside
 
 146 ^ The Last Word <& 
 
 the latter, clutched my companion's arm, and we 
 hurried out. 
 
 I was as much ashamed as it is agreeable to be 
 I was more. Generally speaking, I have small 
 faith in the usefulness of apologies. They are, not 
 uncommonly, both feeble and offensive. But when 
 we had thus made our exit from this last scene, and 
 were walking quietly along G Street, the feeling 
 was strong upon me that something of the sort was 
 due Miss Salem. So I appealed, haltingly, 
 
 " Miss Salem, before you decide never to take me 
 anywhere again, I I wish to say that it isn't 
 always this way with me really, it is not. I can- 
 not honestly claim that it is ever noticeably quiet 
 and correct ; but there are times days together 
 when I seem able to do much better, and things go 
 on quite as they do with other people; certainly 
 they do not commonly run to this height." 
 
 " But " she began, and I broke in eagerly, 
 
 " Please don't be uneasy upon the score of that 
 disgraceful hair. I shall fasten it on tightly, with 
 great shell pins. And I'll never, never try to drag 
 you into a crush again, any more than I would if 
 I knew myself to be cheaply made of plaster or 
 papier mache, and all hollow inside. If you " 
 
 " But," interrupted Miss Salem, and she turned 
 upon me eyes wet with the tears of laughter, " I like 
 you just so. During those peaceful seasons you 
 speak of, the irresistible fascination you possess 
 for me would be least in evidence. 
 
 " As it is, I shall soon be past all fear and anxiety 
 on your account, all hesitation upon my own; for 
 every time the worst again happens, I am again 
 taught to feel confidence that the gods will not per-
 
 $ The Battle of the Sovereigns ^ 147 
 
 mit you to be destroyed. Certainly they should not, 
 for I know there is only one of you. Surely, there 
 was never there never will be another." 
 
 I sighed with relief. " Certainly nobody could be 
 kinder than you are," I declared. " I am so glad 
 you take it that way. Then I am to just go on 
 naturally ? " 
 
 " By all means," she interrupted, " if it is just 
 natural for you to be quite the most preposterous 
 and delightful of naughty girls." 
 
 I glanced at her dubiously, but she was in good 
 laughing earnest. So I said, " Well, the Corcorans 
 are very nice about it, too. They think it rather 
 good fun to take me about." 
 
 " I should suppose so," she returned. " My dear 
 child, you are the modern version of that magic talis- 
 man which changed one's identity; for (at least 
 while I am with you) I see and hear and feel and 
 know these old, stale, weary things I have been 
 doing all my life, with other eyes and ears, other 
 feelings and thoughts. It is alive, somehow. It 
 offers suggestions, avenues, approaches, where al- 
 ways before it was a varnished surface or at best 
 a mechanical toy panorama." 
 
 " Oh, how kind you are! " I exclaimed. " Now, 
 at home in Texas, I mean they don't think any 
 of these things about me at all. I suppose that is 
 because they are all just pretty much like me." 
 
 " That they are not ! " she cried, laughing afresh. 
 " I am well persuaded that there is nowhere not 
 even in Texas, since that is where you pretend to 
 come from anybody at all resembling you." 
 
 The very next day I came suddenly upon Jim 
 Baxter, where he stood in front of Peale's picture
 
 148 f The Last Word *f 
 
 of Washington in the Senate lobby. I knew him 
 instantly, though I had supposed him two thousand 
 miles away in West Texas. I could not be mistaken. 
 What Miss Salem had said of me was certainly true 
 of Jim; there was nowhere anybody just like him. 
 
 A Devil River cattle and sheep ranchman in 
 Texas, Jim had got rich at the business, very rich. 
 That means that he had more grit and courage than 
 another man; that he had laughed at hardship, 
 privation and loneliness, " stayed with " the sheep 
 through good and bad luck, in all weathers and all 
 sorts of seasons, lodging and faring pretty much as 
 they lodge and fare under the open skies ; and 
 that this unflinching pluck and persistence had 
 earned their reward. 
 
 He was twenty-eight or thirty years old, big, 
 handsome like some prehistoric royalty, bluff, kind, 
 entirely fearless, generous, a little quick to anger, 
 but more quickly reconciled, and making haste to 
 claim the greater share of fault. 
 
 I always thought Jim's mind belonged properly 
 to an earlier period of the world; simple, childlike, 
 direct, forceful, he would have shone splendidly as 
 a Saxon king. He had just the qualities for a mon- 
 arch of the stalwart order. It was indicated no 
 less by his physical beauty, superiority and courage, 
 than by the perfectly natural way in which he had 
 taken to purple, fine linen, and all sorts of glorious 
 pomp and circumstances upon meeting them. No, 
 there was certainly nothing like him in size, style 
 and spirit, even in Washington, from the ineffable 
 cock of the expressive soft hat, the great shoulders, 
 squared in entirely natural and unconscious com- 
 mand, beneath his fashionable garments, to the 
 well-gloved hands crossed nonchalantly behind him
 
 f The Battle of the Sovereigns $ 149 
 
 So I went quietly up, touched his arm, and 
 said, as if continuing a recently interrupted conver- 
 sation, " And when did they run you out of the 
 Devil River country, Jim ? " 
 
 He turned his big handsome face and leonine 
 front upon me. The light of recognition broke 
 over him; he lunged at me like a grizzly, grabbed 
 me with both great paws, then abruptly dropped 
 me, drew back haughtily, and angrily brushed the 
 sleeve I had touched. 
 
 " Oh, you make me tired ! " he announced. " Here 
 I come to Washington in the interest of the Western 
 sheep fellows, just loaded down to the guards with 
 authority, and all the ' stuff ' I want, to see that Con- 
 gress does us right in well" (in disdainful 
 recognition of my inferior sex) " in certain matters 
 yes, by George, and to snatch 'em bald-headed 
 if they don't! And blest if you don't come 
 along, a little thing size of my fist, talking right up to 
 me same as you always did, just like I was common 
 folks ! I never could get any respect into you nor 
 out of you. You've got no sort of savey. ' Jim ! ' 
 * Mr. Baxter,' if you please. Say ! Where you 
 going ? Can't I go, too ? I haven't anything partic- 
 ular to do till six o'clock." 
 
 I did not say how glad I was to have him " go 
 too." On principle, I only gave a dignified permis- 
 sion, and immediately took him to call upon Miss 
 Salem. 
 
 We talked much upon the way, and my soul was 
 renewed. For Jim was ever as wholesome and re- 
 freshing as the air of his own Texas plains. Indeed, 
 this little visit with him was like the breath of the 
 gulf breeze itself.
 
 150 $> The Last Word f 
 
 We found Miss Salem at home, and alone; and 
 I was never more pleased with my own Judgment 
 in bringing two people together. 
 
 To our hostess's rather stereotyped inquiries as to 
 how he liked Washington, Jim said, " Why, it seems 
 to me a little like a drug-store where the labels have 
 all got swapped. I mean," in answer to our looks 
 of inquiry, " that the finest-looking men I've seen 
 are nobody in particular. And then a fellow comes 
 shuffling along with an outfit that looks as thoughr 
 his friends had clothed him and they were all of 
 'em odd sizes one way or another. He'll have a face 
 like an early rose potato, and they will tell you that 
 he is the mainest person in Washington." 
 
 " I have noticed something like that," smiled Miss 
 Salem. " It follows the law of compensation." 
 
 " Maybe," agreed Jim. " It just looked like 
 swapped brands to me. Senator Randolph, and his 
 father, Chief Justice Randolph, are almost the only 
 men I've seen who look their parts." 
 
 Miss Salem thereupon rather surprised me by 
 giving Jim an invitation to a reception at the house 
 of Chief Justice Randolph. He was an uncle of 
 Francis Randolph, and we had been twice enter- 
 tained at his home. 
 
 Jim accepted the invitation, and added, " I am 
 going to dinner at his son's house that same evening. 
 Mr. Champe Randolph, the Senator from Virginia, 
 is chairman of the committee I'm worrying to death; 
 and he seems never to get enough of me." 
 
 " Then we meet you at dinner also. The Champe 
 Randolphs make their home with the Chief Justice 
 while Congress is in session," explained Miss Salem, 
 " and Miss West and I are dining there Wednesday."
 
 9 The Battle of the Sovereigns $ 151 
 
 To me, later, she said, " I gave the invitation to 
 the reception because I can see how Mr. Baxter's 
 point of view will be invaluable to you in your work. 
 You play at being a bit naive and Western ; but he 
 really is and so charmingly expansive about it." 
 
 This was an epitome of Miss Salem's ability. She 
 could help others to do things which she did not 
 could not herself attempt. An infallible judge 
 of the best in literature, many a book upon the 
 Salem Publishing Company's list owed its inception, 
 and even much of its subsequent treatment, to her 
 editorial acumen.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 In The Chamber of Echoes 
 
 " I see a voice : now will I to the chink, 
 To spy if I can hear my Thisbe's face." 
 
 IF a man who hath once seen the light a man 
 to whom the true gods have come, in the silence 
 of his inner life, and made him their own fall 
 thereafter into sin and into the making of graven 
 images, to prostrate himself before them and wor- 
 ship them, such an one's punishment shall be greater 
 than that of another. 
 
 I had, till the coming of Francis Randolph, wooed 
 the muse with a single heart. Pure English had 
 been to me as pleasant waters, and the using of it 
 to ends of some importance, as daily bread. 
 
 According to my definition of the word, I was 
 " good " all the time I was in New York. Except- 
 ing the small and temporary aberration of my hated 
 labours on the big book, my conduct as a citizen and 
 a worker was satisfactory. I fled temptation, and 
 was wise in season; doing only those things which 
 pleased me, and thereby grasping the reward of 
 virtue (a present content) in simplest fashion. 
 
 Now, suddenly, because my heart ached whenever 
 my eyes beheld a certain person, I faced about upon 
 
 my ideals, kicked them out at door, and announced 
 
 152
 
 / 
 
 f> In The Chamber of Echoes $ 153 
 
 myself ready to gad about to foolish functions, and 
 describe them not in my own fashion, but with 
 the fulsomeness of a Jenkins. So much Mr. De 
 Witt had led me to see was required, and so much 
 I was mortgaged to do. 
 
 Miss Salem had a beautiful summer home in the 
 New England village where she was born, a house 
 in New York, and an apartment here, so that she 
 might comfortably divide her winters between the 
 two cities most important in the syndicate service 
 of the Salem Publishing Company. 
 
 Her parlours were thronged; there was always 
 something of a festive social, literary or official 
 nature afoot which she thought it would be dis- 
 astrous for me to miss. She laid snares for my 
 feet with the best intentions in the world and 
 I finally gave up trying to keep out of them. 
 
 I went on from Miss Salem and Miss Salem's 
 friends to Miss Salem's dressmaker. I graduated 
 from occasional recreation into dissipation and 
 prodigality. Oh, yes, I must have " two coats 
 and everything handsome about me." 
 
 I wasted my substance my strictly limited 
 substance upon riotous evening gowns and Eng- 
 lishy driving wraps. The deep emotions of my 
 heart, the inspired labours cf my fertile brain and 
 nimble fancy, I gave to nice questions concerning 
 the relative merits and usefulness of gorgeous passe- 
 menteries and plain tailor finishes. 
 
 And what had I for my sins? A nineteenth 
 century version (perversion) of a Louis Quinze 
 coat, with (I said it in deep humiliation, almost in 
 tears) a Medicis collar, leg-o'-mutton sleeves cov- 
 ered with jet nail-heads in short, a sort of dress-
 
 154 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 maker's French Revolution in tissue and beads and 
 silk. 
 
 When I lifted this monstrosity from its box, my 
 key-cold ringers relaxed and dropped the thing upon 
 a couch. I stood before it a garment so much 
 worse-looking than merely an old or a poor dress 
 in deep abasement and mortification of soul. Ma- 
 dame Schwalben's smile was as false as her hair 
 and her teeth; the whole fabric of Madame's walk 
 and conversation was an ancient and carelessly con- 
 structed fraud, like her complexion. Through the 
 odour of her perfumes, various and potent as they 
 were, the raw onion ever spoke remindingly, even 
 as, through all her pretence of elegance and refine- 
 ment, untamable native vulgarity pushed forward. 
 What hypnotism, then, what black magic, had 
 enabled her to thrust upon a freeborn citizen (here 
 I slapped my chest with my open palm) a fit 
 example of Lone Star gallantry, and withal a person 
 of brains and experience a thing (and here I 
 smote my forehead with my clenched fist) like 
 that? 
 
 When the tooth of remorse was deepest in my 
 liver, it happened that Miss Salem called. She ex- 
 pressed some surprise at the air of settled gloom 
 with which I regarded my acquisition, and inquired 
 innocently as to whether or no I liked my dress 
 which Madame had just sent in. 
 
 " Fate or Providence " said I, severely, 
 " has seemed to neglect the justice of this case. It 
 has apparently looked idly on, or paid attention to 
 something else, while this woman, a servant, a 
 barbarian, a mere outsider, has impudently com- 
 mitted her remunerative iniquities "
 
 <Q> In The Chamber of Echoes 9 155 
 
 " Oh, you did not like the dress," murmured Miss 
 Salem, comprehendingly. " You feel put out at 
 Madame." 
 
 " I do not suffer myself to remain in impatience," 
 I returned, with dignity, " nor to be really de- 
 ceived upon the matter. Such crimes " 
 
 " You mustn't be too hard on poor Madame," 
 laughed Miss Salem, indulgently. " Blame yourself 
 a little. She makes very nice frocks for me. I 
 fancy you rather flew to her head. Commissioned 
 to clothe a figure like yours, my young willow-wand 
 princess, she experienced a rush of the divine afflatus 
 without being, in fact, a poet and the result is 
 hybrid." 
 
 " No," I agreed, " she is certainly not a poet." 
 
 " You are cruel," protested Miss Salem. 
 
 When I was really in earnest about things, Miss 
 Salem found me great fun. 
 
 " I am anything but cruel," I assured her. 
 " Previous to this dressmaker episode, I should have 
 described my character as wanting even that small 
 amount of severity requisite to entire justice. But 
 my eyes are now open. I see myself (and with joy) 
 to be the sort of pickle in whose composition the 
 saving ginger has not been spared. I tell you, my 
 dear Miss Salem, it does my heart and my soul 
 and my digestion, my diaphragm and my morals, all 
 good to think how Fate will meet up with Madame 
 for such tricks." 
 
 Miss Salem's sweet face became serious. 
 " Wasn't that your dinner dress for Wednesday ? " 
 she asked, apprehensively. And then she took the 
 structure up and examined its warring factions of
 
 156 9 The Last Word f 
 
 ornament, making little soft inarticulate sounds of 
 surprise or reproach over its absurdities. 
 
 " Why, this will never do at all," she mourned, 
 " and the dinner is to-morrow night ! " 
 
 " I can wear my old white/' I answered, easily. 
 
 " Oh. no," objected Miss Salem. " I am to be 
 in white, and " with one of her rare little flashes 
 " it is a new frock, and rather particularly gor- 
 geous. No, you shall still be in pink as we 
 planned. How about the skirt to this strait- 
 jacket?" 
 
 For answer, I held up the long, shimmering folds 
 of soft purplish pink, with its mere hinting under- 
 tone of the rhododendron, flattering the eye, as two 
 related notes in music charm the ear, with harmony. 
 
 " Oh why that will be all right," Miss Salem 
 declared. " Just have several skirts made of that 
 lighter pink tissue it can be done in two hours 
 each with its little feathery frill. You will look 
 like a big blush rose." (Frank's very words how 
 they pained !) " There is the little plain low bodice, 
 and Madame shall come up and drape it with the 
 tissue after you have it on. Yes, you'll be a blush 
 rose." 
 
 Again the flower of wounding memory. Wash- 
 ington as a place of refuge from pursuing heart- 
 aches fell something short of the Barcan desert, 
 or the Oregonian woods. I might have known, I 
 reflected, that all running away is futile, that life's 
 problems follow life like its own shadow; and I 
 turned from Miss Salem with a sigh. 
 
 She laughed, " Pray, do not look so blue over 
 it. I assure you it is an honour to have Madame 
 come and drape you, and she does it exquisitely.
 
 8 In The Chamber of Echoes $ 157 
 
 She draped me just twenty years ago this winter 
 - for my first big official function in Washington. 
 She will do it, if I ask her." 
 
 Miss Salem was pleased at the ardent interest I 
 expressed in this far-away frock and occasion. 
 
 " I was my father's housekeeper," she told me, 
 " and I had no chaperone, so Mrs. Randolph (the 
 present Chief Justice was a Supreme Judge then) 
 introduced me at a well, a party a German, 
 I believe it was. We did not have teas for that 
 purpose so much in those days, and an evening 
 reception with dancing was quite the thing." 
 
 "Don't you love to dance!" I exclaimed. 
 
 " I used to. I remember I was quite wild with 
 joy that night. I told you Madame draped my 
 bodice. We wore skirts ruffled to the waist. That 
 doesn't sound pretty; but mine was filmy white, 
 edged everywhere with crystal bugles, and it was 
 pretty and becoming. My cheeks were almost as 
 pink as yours, and I felt like a fairy." 
 
 I had received that morning a letter from Bush- 
 rod Floyd. It began without address : 
 
 " You did not give me permission to write you, 
 but you would have done so had I asked it. 
 
 " That is rank presumption isn't it ? And yet 
 I am sure if you could know what a howling wilder- 
 ness and desert the office looks without your sunny 
 face to shine on it once in awhile, you would for- 
 give me for trying, as a poor substitute for the sight 
 of you and the sound of you, to write you one letter. 
 
 " DeWitt is away, looking after some contracts 
 in Boston. He left Texas in my care, and we 
 Texas and I hold long, serious-minded conversa-
 
 158 ^ The Last Word <*> 
 
 tions about you. We think, for one thing, that you 
 are not happy over there in Washington (where 
 we cannot see you), doing those society letters which 
 we know you loathe though, ourselves, we greatly 
 delight in them, and declare them less like society 
 letters and more like literature than anything either 
 of us ever saw in a newspaper column. 
 
 " We wonder Texas and I why you went 
 there; but the movements of the stars are past 
 finding out to a fellow who can only lie on his back 
 in the dark and look up to and worship them. 
 
 " Miss Bucks gave me your last letter to her 
 to read. Miss Bucks is not a handsome angel, but 
 I could see the wing-tips, nevertheless. Poor girl! 
 A fellow feeling makes us wondrous keen-sighted 
 sometimes, as well as kind ! I find I have neglected 
 Miss Bucks. The fact of you throws a new light 
 upon her, as it has upon everything else in my life. 
 I suppose, in our selfish gloom, we are often missing 
 things which might help us out ; but I shall not miss 
 Miss Bucks any more. I have looked at her with 
 new eyes. I have seen her descending from heaven, 
 your letter in hand, and to me she is forever 
 glorified. 
 
 " Even Frank feels the gloom which has enveloped 
 the shop without you, and is savage to a degree 
 heretofore unknown. Corcoran says that there are 
 vague and terrible threats of your remaining some 
 time I will not say permanently, though that was 
 his word. I will not set it down, lest it come true. 
 
 " I wonder how many times you have thought of 
 the office amid the scenes of grandeur which you 
 are now gracing to put the thing up in regular 
 society letter style. And, if you have thought of
 
 ^ In The Chamber of Echoes $ 159 
 
 the office at all, I wonder if the figure of a fat old 
 fellow over in the corner (who looks up expectantly 
 when the door opens and looks down dejectedly 
 every time it isn't you who open it), is part of 
 the thing for you. 
 
 " I consign you, with this, about 'steen lines of 
 verse. If you don't like to read 'em, come back 
 from Washington and defend yourself. 
 
 " Always devotedly yours, 
 
 " BUSHROD FLOYD." 
 
 The letter's presentment might have been de- 
 scribed as de luxe. Its little square of tiny- 
 charactered matter occupied less page space than 
 the wide margins, and upon these latter were the 
 most delicious bits of sketches; Texas and its 
 writer, sitting at the solemn talks; Miss Bucks (an 
 excellent portrait, with but the wings added) de- 
 scending from the clouds ; a sketch of Frank, scowl- 
 ing as he rejected one of his cousin's drawings; 
 Mr. Corcoran at his desk, with Texas beside him 
 begging for sweets, a familiar group. 
 
 This marginalia brought the office up so vividly 
 before me, that I handed the letter to Miss Salem. 
 " There are some things in it which might interest 
 you," I remarked, carelessly, and turned once more 
 to that hopeless coat. 
 
 She was a long time silent, looking over the 
 letter; then I felt her touch upon my arm, and 
 turned to find her beautiful dark eyes shining with 
 tears. " Poor fellow ! " she murmured. " Poor 
 Bushrod Floyd! It is his luck to know the better 
 and to choose the worse or rather, to let the 
 worse choose him."
 
 160 f The Last Word <& 
 
 I put back the letter, with an uneasy twinge. 
 " Oh, you take him too seriously," I objected. " He 
 has always adopted that chaffing, sentimental tone 
 with me it doesn't mean anything." 
 
 "Doesn't it?" inquired Miss Salem, a little 
 absently. Then she added, with sweet gentleness, 
 " I have not only lived longer than you, my dear, 
 but I have known Bushrod Floyd longer. His 
 cousin, Mr. Randolph " 
 
 I winced inwardly, and so I moved impatiently. 
 She looked at me and hesitated, then went on, 
 
 " They are as much alike as black and white. I 
 should never think of defending Francis Randolph 
 from a woman," and she smiled a bit humourously 
 at the suggestion. 
 
 " Well, dear me ! the other one flirts with 
 everything that comes along, doesn't he?" I re- 
 sponded. " He literally flows with sentiment." 
 
 " No," demurred Miss Salem, " there is a differ- 
 ence. There is a distinction to be drawn; a fine 
 one, but then, Bushrod Floyd's nature is fine, almost 
 feminine; and the distinctions in it are delicate. 
 He is, as you say, peculiarly accessible to the influ- 
 ence of women. Any girl who cares to can make 
 love to him, and he will respond ; I suppose he would 
 respond very readily and carelessly. But that he 
 should find strength in his slothful nature, fire 
 among his ashes, to come forward and take the 
 initiative, it is this that is more than touching 
 to me. It is tragic." 
 
 My mind went back over the history of my ac- 
 quaintance with the man, and it misgave me that 
 she was right. With what strangely childlike 
 naivete had he advanced from jesting lightness to
 
 9 In The Chamber of Echoes 9 161 
 
 a more serious tone. In quaint contrast with the 
 physical man was this virginal freshness of feeling. 
 Did not his inches and his years make the compari- 
 son absurd, one would have said that he was as 
 timid in such matters as a young girl. 
 
 " I wish you had not said that," I fretted. " My 
 state is none too blissful anyhow, this morning. 
 Whenever I attempt to write, there strikes through 
 me, from my middle shirt-stud to a spot between my 
 shoulder-blades, a sensation (it isn't a pain exactly) 
 as though Despair's hard glove had laid a most 
 ungentle tap upon my solar plexus; and thereupon 
 that great sub-station answers with a groan that 
 shivers along all its miles of wires." 
 
 Miss Salem was unexpectedly firm with me. 
 " Pretty young women who go about the world 
 casting their beaux' yeux upon all sorts and condi- 
 tions of men shall never lack for such information 
 as I can give them," she maintained. " It may 
 amuse you to put the comether upon Bushrod Floyd, 
 but indeed it is not kind I do not wonder there 
 is an ache under your middle shirt-stud at the 
 results." 
 
 " There isn't," I retorted, indignantly. " If I had 
 never done anything worse than be pleasant to 
 poor Bushrod Floyd, I should not have heartache, 
 and headache. It is the thought of Mr. DeWitt 
 that is troubling me." 
 
 I looked up to find a most curious expression upon 
 my caller's face. " Justin DeWitt," she repeated. 
 " Is he do you " 
 
 She halted, and I broke in, " Oh, he's all that is 
 kind and patient with the slow, the blundering 
 he will even forgive stupidity. But with the un-
 
 1 62 <Q> The Last Word ^ 
 
 ready, the of-laziness-suspected, I've found his 
 temper brief, brief as first love, and crisp as a Sara- 
 toga chip. I tell you it is uncontinuing, sudden, 
 unsure, fragile ! " 
 
 " He is wonderfully clever," was Miss Salem's 
 somewhat irrelevant comment. 
 
 " He is clever enough to know what ails the copy 
 I haven't sent in," I replied. He will be well 
 aware that I have clothed myself in soft raiment, and 
 danced and sung and made merry with the idle and 
 the ungodly, revolving blithely round the savoury 
 fieshpots of Egypt, while the tasks I forbore grew 
 like the evil genius of the bottle." 
 
 Miss Salem was always helpful, and I am sure 
 the cleverest creature to plan work of any non-writ- 
 ing person I ever knew. It seemed to me now 
 that a certain relief added alacrity to the aid she 
 lent me. 
 
 " The coupe is waiting," she said, " and I am 
 going to take you to the Capitol to do the hall of 
 echoes. It will fill out your letter about the homes 
 of Cabinet ministers very nicely." 
 
 I went meekly for my hat and note-book. 
 
 Arrived at the Capitol, Miss Salem found one 
 particular guide who she said knew the echoes 
 better than any other, and had him to show us about. 
 Of those wonderful echoes, I only recall two, be- 
 cause they concerned themselves in my affairs. 
 
 The guide first placed me on a certain square of 
 marble in the tessellated floor, and going back a 
 hundred feet or more, stood facing toward me, 
 when suddenly his voice, tremendously magnified, 
 came down out of the dome and enveloped me in its 
 sonorousness. Every word seemed to wrap me
 
 $ In The Chamber of Echoes $ 163 
 
 about, so enormous were the tones, yet not even 
 Miss Salem, three feet away from me, heard a 
 sound of them, and people passed all about me 
 without so much as looking up. 
 
 The other echo that remains in my memory, that 
 one to display which the guide set me very carefully 
 upon a square near one of the entrances, and taking 
 Miss Salem, went so far away that I could only see 
 them fairly, and, in the surrounding movement and 
 talk, could scarcely have heard them in a Yazoo yell. 
 
 After a moment, a whisper of Miss Salem's voice 
 came vaguely stealing up about my feet from beneath 
 the marble floor. 
 
 I stood there listening to this gentle ghost of 
 her voice conveying to my ear tender nothings con- 
 cerning what we were to have for lunch. The 
 little vocal ghost left off for a moment, when sud- 
 denly came Frank's tones, those unforgettable, un- 
 forgotten, wooing tones, " Carita, beloved, are you 
 tired of quarrelling with me?" they said. "Are 
 you ready, as I am, to forget it?" 
 
 The voice whispered and plead about my knees. 
 The heart in my bosom leaped with a curious flut- 
 tering movement as though it had clapped its wings. 
 I could not, for my life, have uttered one word. 
 
 I knew, of course, that he was standing across 
 there on the stone that was twin of mine whispering 
 to me. The thought that he had cared enough to 
 follow me to Washington was very sweet. He 
 always cared more than he expressed; he always 
 did more than he said. The haughtiest, proudest 
 nature I have ever known, and the most self-willed, 
 he desired to have the thing he wanted offered him. 
 And yet, so far as I was concerned, having tried
 
 164 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 vainly to put me in the position of suitor, he often 
 took the part himself with sudden and sweet 
 humility. 
 
 I was silent so long that the whisper came again. 
 " Dearest, how lovely you look," it breathed. " I 
 can see you past all these people." Then, for the 
 first time, I thought to look over, and caught a 
 glimpse of his graceful, endearing dark head, 
 prayerfully bent, as he stood whispering to me. 
 
 " You won't answer me," he went on. " Are you 
 afraid to? Are there people standing near you? 
 They will not hear. Well, put up your hand to your 
 hair if if it is ' yes.' ' 
 
 My hand rose almost without my volition. " The 
 dear little white toiler," came Frank's vibrant 
 tones, " The blessed flag of truce." And there rose 
 from the stone at my feet a sort of sigh, made, I 
 fancy, by the passing across its twin of his boot, 
 and in a minute or two more his voice said rather 
 breathlessly behind my shoulder, " Miss Salem says 
 I am to take you over to her." 
 
 On our way across, we passed the stone where 
 1 had heard the big enveloping voice. Striving for 
 some commonplace topic to converse upon, I told 
 Frank of it. 
 
 " Wait a moment ! " he exclaimed, with shining 
 eyes. " Oh, here come Miss Salem and the guide. 
 Will you two ladies please remain here while he 
 shows me where I should be to communicate with 
 you." 
 
 I was left standing with my face to the great en- 
 trance and the clock, Miss Salem smiling beside, but 
 not too near me. Suddenly, down from the dome 
 came a torrent of melody and love, Frank's wonder- 
 ful voice, magnified till it filled the universe.
 
 $ In The Chamber of Echoes $ 165 
 
 " Carita Carita ! " it called to me. " What a 
 beautiful name you have. I catch myself repeating 
 it all day long, as if it were a bit of poetry, or a 
 song, or a spell to conjure by. And it is all three 
 to me, love. Have you forgiven me? " 
 
 I glanced guiltily around, and Miss Salem laugh- 
 ingly shook her head. " I hear only a jumble of 
 sounds," she reassured me. " And he could not 
 hear you, if you were to shout." 
 
 Then came the great voice again, wrapping me 
 about with the very panoply of Love itself. " Why 
 did you not answer me when I stood where you 
 might have spoken? " it questioned. " You are an 
 angel, and you have the tongue of an angel. I 
 should have understood exactly whatever you had 
 said. Even the little flag of truce was almost too 
 good to be true."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Through the Seventh Gate " 
 
 " These are blind fancies reason cannot know 
 What sense can neither feel, nor thought conceive." 
 
 IT was arranged that my dress should be sent 
 directly to Miss Salem's apartment, and that I 
 should go there to dress for the Randolph dinner. 
 I was in that uncertain, fluctuating mind, a mood 
 vibrating between half-drugged pain and half- 
 awakened bliss, which always followed upon a 
 reconciliation with Frank. 
 
 I found Miss Salem already dressed, looking 
 unbelievably tall and stately and handsome in her 
 long clinging dinner-gown of lustreless white silk, 
 with clasp and girdle of dull silver, " which just 
 match," she said, " those unkind little ornaments 
 that Time is threading on my temples." 
 
 I laughed incredulously at the thought of there 
 being any silver in her dark hair. " Why did you 
 dress so early?" I inquired. 
 
 " To get unimportant me out of the way," she 
 told me, " so that I might try a not altogether un- 
 skilled hand at making you beautiful." 
 
 The box from Madame's had come up earlier, and 
 by the time that lady herself arrived I was mani- 
 cured, coiffured, and gotten into the pink silk with 
 
 166
 
 f " Through the Seventh Gate " $ 167 
 
 its floating gauzy overlays. These, shifting about 
 me, fascinated my eyes with wonderful hints of 
 sunset cloud effects. 
 
 Madame brought with her some extra yards of 
 the pink tissue, a gross of coral-headed pins, and. an 
 air of grave preoccupation. For ten minutes after 
 her arrival, I was turned, discussed, pulled this way 
 and that, and had pins thrust into me as though 
 I had been a sawdust-stuffed doll instead of the 
 living sort, till I arrived at a very appropriately 
 low estimate of my importance. 
 
 At the end of that time, Miss Salem said, in 
 agreement with the twentieth repetition of an asser- 
 tion of Madame's, " Yes, there must be something; 
 we need a little sparkle some ornaments." And 
 she added, standing back from me and looking at 
 me through narrowed eyes, exactly as though I 
 were any other work of art, " Cara, would you 
 wear some corals of mine?" 
 
 I was not expected to reply. Madame promptly 
 answered for me, and with much satisfaction, " The 
 very thing. Get them at once, please, Miss Salem. 
 We're late." 
 
 When the corals were laid out on the dressing- 
 table, they fairly made me gasp. There was truly 
 some coral about them; but there were more dia- 
 monds than anything else. " Oh, I couldn't ! " I 
 began, impulsively. " These are much too beau- 
 tiful and valuable. Why do you never wear them, 
 Miss Salem?" 
 
 For the first time since I had known her, Miss 
 Salem looked at me a trifle impatiently. " They 
 would be much better on your pretty neck and arms/' 
 she said, " than lying shut up in a box."
 
 i68 -^ The Last Word * 
 
 Her pensive eyes drooped to the glittering orna- 
 ments, and her slender fingers caressed the bosses 
 of soft glowing pink. " Do you know how often 
 I have worn these, Cara ? " she asked, a little sadly. 
 " Never once. Father got them for me, that first 
 winter I was in Washington. They are Florentine 
 work. Like all old-fashioned people, he supposed 
 a dark-eyed girl should wear pink; but they have 
 always been very unbecoming to me; and yet I 
 couldn't bear to have father's gifts broken up and 
 reset. Wear them, child. The corals will just 
 match your cheeks to-night, and I am sure the 
 diamonds are not a bit brighter than those big eyes 
 of yours." 
 
 While Miss Salem and I were talking sentiment, 
 Madame had been busily fastening the ornaments in 
 place, exactly as though there had been from the 
 first no question of their use. Now she led me 
 toward the tall mirror, which I had left to look at 
 the jewels. " There," she pronounced, in her usual 
 and felicitous fashion, " I say you look per- 
 fectly elegant. Those jewels are swell simply 
 swell ! " And dropping back a step or two, she left 
 me, rather breathless and astonished, to make the 
 acquaintance of that new Carrington West who 
 looked curiously out at me from the mirror. 
 
 The hair-dresser had said that she did not care 
 whether my coiffure looked like short hair or done-up 
 hair. She asserted with confidence that she would 
 make " a sort of compromision " of it. The result 
 was a few soft curling locks which ran into what 
 were then called finger-puffs, bound and fastened 
 as a crest upon my head with a curious ornament 
 of coral and diamonds which was more like a quaint,
 
 * "Through the Seventh Gate" <& 169 
 
 shining dagger thrust through than anything else. 
 Such of the wayward locks as chose to escape and 
 curl about my neck and temples were left unre- 
 proved. 
 
 Madame's draping was indeed perfection. No 
 bodice sewed in seams could have had quite the in- 
 effable " cling " of this one which her clever fingers 
 had pinned upon me. Excitement had made good 
 Miss Salem's comparison between my eyes and the 
 diamonds. Taller by an inch than even her 
 tall self, my slenderness sweetly rippled about by 
 skilfully used gauzes, I was ready to answer to 
 my hostess's exultant query, " Now aren't you a 
 beauty ? " " Well, you and Madame have certainly 
 made me one." 
 
 We were going down to the carriage, I bearing 
 the great sheaf of roses which had come with 
 Francis Randolph's card in it, when we met a mes- 
 senger boy with another box of flowers. This one 
 had followed me from my boarding-place, the sender 
 evidently not knowing, as Frank did, that I was to 
 dress at Miss Salem's. Indeed, there was nothing' 
 to indicate who the sender of these exquisite orchids 
 might be. 
 
 " It must have been Jim," I speculated, as I 
 searched through the papers for a card. " He knows 
 I often wear pink." 
 
 But Miss Salem murmured, as we went back to 
 the room and added a few of the gorgeous, soulless, 
 significant blossoms to my roses, " Bushrod is an 
 extravagant fellow." 
 
 The Randolph house is a little out of Washing- 
 ton; that is, it stands upon one of those hills to 
 the west of the city where there were stately country
 
 170 sg The Last Word f 
 
 homes nearly a hundred years ago. This one was 
 built by Justice Randolph's uncle, then Secretary 
 of State. Later, it had passed out of the Randolph 
 family into other hands; but when the Judge was 
 called to the Supreme Court he repurchased it, and 
 the family divided their time between it and the 
 Virginia plantation upon which all of his children 
 were born. It was a very beautiful and imposing 
 house, whose original size and simplicity had been 
 overlaid from year to year with modern adornments 
 and utilities. And yet, there was a usage about its 
 elegance, a wonted air about its most stately appoint- 
 ments, which is sometimes lacking in the homes of 
 even very rich Americans. Everything seemed to 
 say to you, " I am barely good enough for the use 
 of my owner." In other words, the habitation did 
 not, in this case, lend illustriousness to the family; 
 but rather, the family graced their habitation. 
 
 I was always astonished to find myself taller than 
 stately little Mrs. Randolph. When she entered a 
 room, that high-held silver-white head of hers 
 seemed ever the loftiest in it; but she was, in 
 reality, a slender, fragile little person, who might 
 fairly have walked under my arm. She and her 
 large blonde daughter-in-law made Miss Salem and 
 myself hospitably welcome. 
 
 " We four are to be the only Caucasian women 
 at the table," explained Mrs. Randolph. " We have 
 six couples. The others are the Japanese minister 
 and his wife " 
 
 I flinched, Miss Salem shrank visibly, and Mrs. 
 Randolph hastened to add, " They are most agreeable 
 people. Madame Halsuko is especially clever and 
 engaging. Then there is, Ali Rustem Bey, the
 
 $ " Through the Seventh Gate" $ 171 
 
 Turkish ambassador; and as Madame Rustem does 
 not attend other than harem affairs, Rustem Bey 
 brings his private secretary in place of his wife." 
 
 " And you will find the secretary more interesting 
 than the ambassador," added Justice Randolph. 
 " Young Tewfik Bey was born a Turk ; but I think 
 he has lived and to good purpose in every 
 country on the globe. If there is an actual lan- 
 guage which he does not speak, it must belong to 
 some western tribe of Indians, or some northern 
 people like the Eskimos. His enormous utility to 
 Rustem Bey and the Turkish government is his 
 familiarity with all Eastern tongues and dialects." 
 
 I glanced up and saw Frank in the doorway. It is 
 not a test of a man's goodness the way evening 
 dress becomes him; but it certainly is often a 
 touchstone which reveals his birth and breeding. 
 Young Mr. Randolph had said to me, laughingly, 
 once before, that his mother held to their Virginia 
 servants, negroes trained on the Randolph and 
 Floyd plantations, because it made it so easy at an 
 evening party for ladies to distinguish the waiters 
 from the guests. I had heard the jest in other forms, 
 and truly there are good men and great who look 
 like waiters and not head waiters, either in 
 their evening clothes. 
 
 But for Frank, I had never seen him look one 
 half so graceful, so handsome, so perfect as he 
 now did, coming forward to greet his aunt, Miss 
 Salem, his cousin's wife, and then my happy self. 
 
 I saw, by the way his pleased eyes lingered on 
 every curl and ornament, that I had found one thing 
 which I could do in a way which delighted him. 
 
 " You have honoured my roses," he said, smiling
 
 172' ?* The Last Word <& 
 
 down to where their nodding heads lay across my 
 arm. 
 
 " They have the good taste," I answered, gaily, 
 "to be exactly what was needed for the finish of 
 my costume. It was lovely of you to know. Thank 
 you so much." 
 
 " Some one else sent you orchids," he added, 
 touching the bit of air-nurtured, gossamer loveliness 
 caught in among the rose stems. " It is always 
 roses and Cara, to me. I should never think of 
 orchids unless you specially fancy them. Do 
 you?" 
 
 This was Frank at his sweetest. He sought not 
 only to give me what he deemed fitting and appro- 
 priate, but that which I preferred. I hastened to 
 say, " Oh, no, I love the roses best. They seem to 
 me so much more real and wholesome and natural." 
 And even as I spoke, the pink orchid reproached me 
 with its elfin and ethereal beauty, and I heard again 
 Miss Salem murmur, " Poor Bushrod ! " 
 
 The Orientals arrived within ten minutes of each 
 other. Miss Salem and I were happy women indeed 
 when we fully understood that neither Mr. nor 
 Madame Hatsuko was aware of having seen us 
 before. I faltered I could not help it whenever 
 I thought of that crowd of faces pressing around 
 us there in the White House conservatory, where I 
 had apparently pinched the little man. As for Miss 
 Salem, she blushed, extempore, every time he glanced 
 at her. But I realised that we looked so very differ- 
 ent in evening dress that all was secure. 
 
 Justice Randolph took in Madame Hatsuko, Mrs. 
 Randolph went with Mr. Hatsuko; the Turkish 
 minister fell to Miss Salem, and Jim looked very
 
 "'IT IS ALWAYS ROSES AND CARA, TO ME
 
 $ "Through the Seventh Gate" $ 173 
 
 happy and very suitable beside tall, fair Belle Ran- 
 dolph, a Virginia girl who had been in Texas 
 several times and was quite as used to a seat in the 
 saddle as one in a rocking-chair, and much fonder 
 of it. I might naturally have fallen to the share 
 of young Mr. Randolph, her husband, and it pleased 
 me to think that a whispered word I saw Frank give 
 his aunt before we went down, prompted her to 
 send us in together, young Mr. Randolph and the 
 Turkish ambassador's secretary following. 
 
 The table was banked with American Beauties, 
 just then beginning to be most favoured. Frank in- 
 sisted that the decorations were arranged to match 
 my frock. I looked down the softly lighted, snowy, 
 glittering expanse, and listened to the low-toned 
 conversation and laughter. The Turkish minister 
 was a small man; I should have taken him for a 
 Hebrew. He wore a green fez, and his hair and 
 moustache were white. Altogether a silent, stately, 
 intellectual-looking man. His secretary had from 
 the first enchained my attention. Tall, finely formed, 
 with an appearance of absolute health, [ have never 
 seen a physique which, even in speech and action, 
 so fully bodied forth the idea of repose. He was 
 poise itself. Calm, slow-speeched, quiet-footed, 
 graceful of movement, it was not alone his body 
 which seemed unhurried. You might know, when 
 you looked at him, that his soul dwelt always in 
 the place of peace. 
 
 I was studying this man's face, with the full 
 curved lips lying softly one upon the other like 
 those of an idol, his large, calm eyes, with their 
 regular, equal curve of upper and lower lid, so dif- 
 ferent from the fretful Occidental line of most
 
 174 <& The Last Word $> 
 
 American brows, when Frank's voice roused me, 
 saying, " We must have Tewfik read palms or pre- 
 dict destinies after dinner." 
 
 " He looks as though he could do it," I observed. 
 
 " He can," Frank assured me. 
 
 It was a picked company about that beautiful 
 table. From where the Chief Justice, a type of the 
 polished Virginian, the scholarly lawmaker, sat at 
 its head, with Madame Hatsuko's little dark, gem- 
 like countenance on his right, past Champe Ran- 
 dolph's nervous, energetic version of the Randolph 
 type, and Mr. Tewfik's impassive smile, and long, 
 slow-moving eyes ; Miss Salem's exquisitely refined, 
 intellectual face ; to the foot, where stately patrician 
 Mrs. Randolph looked dainty and fragile and exqui- 
 site between the curved beak and dark flashing face 
 of the Turkish minister and Mr. Hatsuko's dis- 
 tinguished oriental ugliness. 
 
 The Chief Justice was a beautiful old man with 
 a great domed head, clear, dark, intelligent eyes 
 that looked so brilliant in their wonderful, hollowed 
 orbits. The nose was fine, and there were delicate 
 hands and feet features, I was beginning to learn, 
 which belonged to the Randolph family. I saw 
 this high type varied somewhat in his son, and 
 further varied in his nephew who sat beside me. 
 Yet in all three it was the type ; regnant, giving 
 not accepting the word. 
 
 I glanced on to Jim. Here was the best example 
 of Western man. There were no traditions behind 
 him. He had stature, beauty, and a physical bal- 
 ance which was good to see; a hawk-like freedom 
 of glance, a stag-like freedom of unconscious move- 
 ment ; a port and bearing that stooped itself before
 
 $ "Through the Seventh Gate" $ 175 
 
 nothing. Yet he said in every line and glance and 
 gesture, " Here come I, with all I am and all I have 
 in my hand and my brain." 
 
 They said in each look and attitude and modu- 
 lated tone, " Here we stand, for our line, for our 
 traditions, beliefs, cultivation." The summing up 
 of their position was, to my thinking, " We repre- 
 sent; we are results. Make then your submission 
 to us, put forward your offerings before us, and it 
 shall be considered." 
 
 He interrupted, " I am Cause itself. Way there ! " 
 
 Something of this, though far from being phrased 
 in this fashion, I said to Frank, and he accepted it 
 smilingly. " Yes," he agreed, " and what of Carita? 
 Is she merely the onlooker ? " 
 
 " I am certainly neither Western nor Eastern," I 
 answered. " I was born in one place, and brought 
 up in so very many others besides Texas that I am a 
 woman without a country." 
 
 " The country of the heart will always belong to 
 you," murmured Frank. " You speak the universal 
 language, Carita. From Lemuel and Uncle Champ- 
 ney (Aunt Helen's butler, who just now moved this 
 epergne to find an excuse for looking at you) up 
 or down, is it ? to me, and the others, we all 
 come to you with full faith that you will understand." 
 
 As his voice ceased, we both noticed that Jim was 
 speaking. Justice Randolph had asked him a ques- 
 tion as to the truth of the statement that large 
 numbers of Mexican sheep-herders go mad from 
 loneliness. 
 
 " They do, indeed, sir," returned Jim. " There 
 are plenty of them in the asylums in Texas. I have
 
 1 76 <& The Last Word ^ 
 
 shaved that fate so close myself that I feel great 
 sympathy with them." 
 
 "Did you ever herd sheep?" inquired young 
 Mrs. Randolph, who was not without information 
 as to life in the Texas cattle country. 
 
 " Why, no, I never exactly herded sheep," an- 
 swered Jim, modestly. It made me smile to hear 
 him tell it so quietly, for though Jim had created 
 almost every dollar of his own large fortune, begin- 
 ning as a very young fellow with a small stock 
 given by his father, yet he was born on a great 
 ranch the size of a small Eastern county. His father 
 before him was a brilliant but reckless cattle and 
 sheep man, who was, according as the market shifted, 
 or his various deals were fortunate or disastrous, 
 a baron or a poor man. 
 
 " No, this wasn't herding," Jim added, " it was 
 something almost as lonesome, though sign 
 riding." 
 
 Everybody was silent, now, listening to Jim. " I 
 had gone up into the Panhandle, to look after some 
 sign-camps on my Staked Plain ranges. You know 
 what a sign-camp is ? " 
 
 The Chief Justice shook his head, and Jim ex- 
 plained, " A sign-camp is a dugout, or a tent or a 
 shack or a 'dobe something two men can live 
 in. You put a line of sign-camps at equal distances 
 around the edge of your range, and you put two 
 as good men as you can get in each of them. In 
 the morning these two men get up, have their break- 
 fast and ride away in opposite directions, till each 
 one meets a man from the next sign camp it's 
 a sort of living fence around your range. They look 
 for sign of straying cattle, and turn them back on to
 
 177 
 
 the range. The distance is supposed to be great 
 enough that this takes half the man's day. He gets 
 down and eats his dinner, perhaps with the man 
 from the other camp; and he takes the rest of his 
 day to ride back to his own diggings." 
 
 " I should think a man might go mad from the 
 monotony of that sort of life," commented Frank. 
 
 Jim smiled. " Why, he's in the giddy whirl of 
 society beside the thing that happened to me. When 
 1 got up to my line of camps, I found, that some poor 
 fellow had come across the plain from Springer, 
 New Mexico, and sickened with smallpox a few 
 hours after he reached one of my westernmost camps. 
 He died and was buried there. Both men in the 
 camps on each side this one simply ran away. At 
 the camp itself, one man had died with the smallpox, 
 and his partner was completely broken down. There 
 was nothing for it but to send him back to head- 
 quarters while he was still able to travel, and to keep 
 that sign-camp the best I could while he was gone. 
 He left a little dog with me, two greasy old packs 
 of cards, and plenty of grub, so that, as he said, I 
 ' ought to be as happy as a king.' 
 
 " For a week I lived there in that 'dobe, alone with 
 the little cur. I rode across those great, dead-still 
 levels every day and all day. I'd pull up Cinco 
 sometimes and sit still on him, and look all around 
 where the plain and the sky met an unbroken 
 line as if the little horse and I were the only 
 created beings. I'd go in at night, and shut the 
 door on that awful loneliness outside, and there it 
 would be standing between the little dog and me. 
 I'd have given everything I was worth, for the face
 
 iy8 f> The Last Word <&> 
 
 to throw it all up, load my pack-mule and hit the 
 trail for the home ranch in Jack County. 
 
 " After a week of this, I began to neglect my 
 riding. Just the thought of those endless stretches, 
 of that horrible loneliness waiting out there, was 
 too much for me. I said to myself, ' Well, the 
 cattle are mine. If they stray off my range it's 
 nobody's business.' And so I began to sit alone 
 day after day in that miserable little 'dobe, till 
 I got to have queer ideas about what the dog 
 was thinking of me. I knew well enough I'd better 
 get up and out; but my pony's opinion had become 
 of importance. 
 
 " In a way I realised what was happening to me 
 I'd seen more than one herder brought in crazy 
 but I couldn't make up my mind to go. I was just 
 afraid of everything, as near as I can remember. 
 I'd never known the feeling before, and it's been 
 my idea of of hell ever since; just to be 
 afraid afraid of everything. Don't you 
 
 " Yes," agreed Rustem Bey, and several other 
 voices murmured confirmation, Mrs. Randolph add- 
 ing, " And what happened, Mr. Baxter ? It's very 
 cruel to leave you in such a situation." 
 
 " Well," returned Jim, " I got worse fast, after 
 I quit riding. That awful loneliness of the plain 
 had come to be a living thing that hung around the 
 window and waited at the door. I was sitting there 
 one morning, almost afraid to look out, longing for 
 some sight or sound or movement, outside of myself 
 and little stump-tailed Navahoe. The thing had 
 narrowed down mighty close on me. I was in a 
 sort of nightmare. 
 
 " Suddenly, Navahoe growled away down in his
 
 * "Through the Seventh Gate" -f* 179 
 
 throat, and the hair rose on his head and neck, as 
 the door darkened. I looked up and saw standing in 
 it a great big man, six feet two if he was an inch. 
 He was well dressed, but his feet were bare and he 
 had no hat on. He came striding over to me and 
 caught me by the shoulder; put his hand on my 
 head, pushed it back and stared in my face. * Why, 
 it's a man ! ' he said ; ' it's a man it's another living 
 man in the world ! ' and then he began to cry ; dh, 
 you've no idea how pitifully, the tears rolling down 
 his big, fine, black-bearded face. And he put up 
 his hands over his eyes and sobbed like a little 
 child." 
 
 Jim's eyes, and all the others at the table except the 
 Oriental ones, were suffused with sympathy. He 
 began again. 
 
 " I was sound and clear the minute he laid his 
 hand on me. And I saw from the first what the 
 matter was ; he had gone crazy from .being lost on 
 the plain. I got up and spoke to him, and put him 
 in a chair, then washed his feet poor fellow, they 
 were all cut and scarred up. He must have taken 
 off his shoes almost as soon as he lost his mind. I 
 got him into my bed, finally. He was in a high 
 fever, and he kept saying over and over to himself, 
 whenever he would Icok at me or feel my hands 
 on him, ' Thank God, I'm not alone ! It isn't true 
 that I'm all alone there's another man in this 
 great, terrible world, and thank God, oh, thank 
 God I've found him!'" 
 
 Jim paused, and there was a long sigh of interest. 
 I looked from the faces about the table, all full of 
 the pity of this recital, to the wrinkled face of Mrs. 
 Randolph's butler, as he stood, decanter in hand,
 
 i8o -^ The Last Word -^ 
 
 preparing to fill Jim's empty glass. Like his betters, 
 he had forgotten his society manner in the thrill 
 of this relation. His dark old face was drawn with 
 emotion. I could fancy that, in another moment, 
 perfectly trained servant as he was, he would ask, 
 " And what then, sir? did the man get well? " 
 
 Jim's voice took up the thread of the story. " I 
 tended on that poor soul three weeks. I shall always 
 know what makes mothers love little helpless chil- 
 dren so. This man was a fine fellow, and young; 
 he must have been handsome, in health, and and 
 winning. But he was all I had on earth and 
 I was all he had; and, sick, pitiful, with his mind 
 all gone, I don't believe there ever was any one not 
 his sweetheart no, not even his mother that 
 loved him better than I did, who tended on him that 
 last week of his life and never knew his name. 
 
 " He would talk to me by the hour talk poetry. 
 He might have been an actor, or he might have 
 been a literary man who knew a great deal of that 
 sort of thing. And what he said was beautiful, and 
 just as clear as anybody's talk. But he always be- 
 lieved that the whole world had been swept away 
 except himself and me, and he couldn't bear me 
 out of his sight for a minute. Sometimes he'd wake 
 m the night, shaking all over, and screaming my 
 name. Then I'd make a light, and " Jim looked 
 around on the rapt faces, half sheepishly, half de- 
 fiantly " and hold his hand and sing to him, till 
 he'd go to sleep again." 
 
 " And you never knew who he was ? " asked young 1 
 Mrs. Randolph. 
 
 " No," returned Jim, " I tried, every way, to find
 
 ^ "Through the Seventh Gate" $* 181 
 
 out his name, but it was no use. He couldn't 
 remember it, he said." 
 
 " And what " began the Turkish minister's 
 private secretary, whose eyes, with their beautiful 
 iook of impersonal kindness, had never left Jim's 
 face, and never showed sign of the emotion which 
 suffused those of his Anglo-Saxon neighbours. 
 
 Jim nodded, understandingly, and answered, " It 
 was this way : One night he'd been so wild and 
 scared that I hadn't slept at all, with working 
 over him. At daybreak he fell asleep like a baby, 
 and looked better than I'd ever seen him. I was 
 outside, getting a little breakfast, when I heard him 
 call me soft, and different. I jumped up and ran 
 in, ready to say, ' God bless you, old man ! ' The 
 minute I laid eyes on him I knew I was right, that 
 he was rational ; and the next minute, when I'd got 
 across the room and caught him as he pitched 
 forward that he was dead." 
 
 There was a long silence after this, and then came 
 Mrs. Randolph's voice, pleasant, composed, from 
 the foot of the table. " What did you do, Mr. 
 Baxter ? I have often wondered what one would do 
 under such circumstances." 
 
 Jim looked a trifle abashed. " The first thing 
 I did," he answered, " was to burst out crying over 
 him, and cry like a baby. Then I managed to strip 
 away some planks from one end of the room where 
 there had been an attempt to ceil it, and make him 
 a coffin, and dress him, and lay him away. 
 
 " I give you my word it was the most heart- 
 shaking experience a man could have. The relief 
 might come to me at any hour it might never 
 come at all. I might be left to die as he had, there
 
 1 82 -^ The Last Word <4> 
 
 on the plain. But I made up my mind, as I filled 
 in his grave and piled the great stones over it, that 
 I would not stay at the sign-camp. I would get my 
 saddle from the house, put it on my pony, and I 
 would never go back inside those four walls again. 
 And as I got to the door with the saddle in my arms, 
 I saw Allen and the others riding up." 
 
 There was a little murmur of relief over this con- 
 clusion. The Turkish minister required enlighten- 
 ment on several points of the story; and in the 
 interval I had an opportunity once more to talk 
 to Frank. 
 
 " You and Miss Salem are going back to New 
 York together, I believe? " he said, smilingly. 
 
 " That is the understanding," I replied. " Mr. 
 DeWitt was kind enough to offer to give me the 
 management of that projected Washington Bureau 
 for social news. That would make me a permanency 
 here, you know." 
 
 We were going into the parlours now. Frank's 
 sunny mood was not ruffled by this suggestion. 
 "You look it," he laughed. "You look like the 
 head of a news bureau. Just glance over there, and 
 see if I am not right. I should take you to be 
 about sixteen, and a frivolous young heart-breaker 
 into the bargain." 
 
 I looked impulsively, and saw again the fresh- 
 lipped, dewy-eyed, apotheosized Carrington West, 
 in her rosy, flowing draperies and shining orna- 
 ments. Truly, the conducting of news bureaus was 
 far from my thoughts then. 
 
 "Are you two crystal gazing?" asked a soft, 
 sonorous voice behind us, and we turned to find 
 young Tewfik regarding us with that countenance
 
 * "Through the Seventh Gate" -^ 183 
 
 too sweet for simple gravity, and too impassive 
 to be called a smile. 
 
 " I promised Miss West that you should read her 
 hand, Tewfik," suggested Frank. 
 
 " Miss West's hand, like my own," returned Mr. 
 Tewfik, spreading abroad his slender, olive-hued 
 ringers, " is an excellent one for the typewriter. 
 She will strike out a fortune from the machine." 
 
 " It needs not a prophet, nor one returned from 
 the dead to tell us that," laughed Frank. " All the 
 office is saying so and the public as well." 
 
 Mr. Tewfik looked at my hands, and shook his 
 head. " Your destiny is in them, Miss West," he 
 declared. 
 
 I fancied that he alluded to the palm, and held the 
 hand palm uppermost before him; 
 
 " No," he said, " I can read what I can read from 
 the backs or the finger tips, as from the palm. 
 Your destiny is in them. With what courage you 
 will conquer it, we shall see." 
 
 As we turned to the table where young Mrs. 
 Randolph and Jim sat looking over some photo- 
 graphs of Western scenery, Frank observed in an 
 apologetic undertone to me that Mr. Tewfik had 
 been commonplace and unconvincing. 
 
 I did not think so, but when he added, " I want 
 him to show you the really remarkable things he 
 can do," I made no objection. 
 
 " Can you show Miss West a face in a crystal, 
 Tewfik? " he asked. " She is, as you say, a writer. 
 Such a thing will have a double interest for her." 
 
 " I have no crystal here," replied the Turk, 
 quietly, " but I will find something." He took from 
 under the pile of Western views, with the assured
 
 1 84 & The Last Word 
 
 touch of one who might have placed it there, a 
 round glass paper-weight of the sort which holds a 
 photograph. He slipped out the picture, drew from 
 his bosom a dull green silk handkerchief, and 
 setting the clear bubble of glass upon it, bade me 
 look therein and behold. 
 
 "If those in whom you are most strongly inter- 
 ested are present while you gaze into a crystal," he 
 explained, in that soft, bell-like monotone of his, 
 " you may get the face of one about whom you are 
 not especially concerned, but who is thinking of 
 you." 
 
 I gazed obedient. There was only a bit of clear 
 glass, taking greenish reflections from the silk be- 
 neath it. Then a face began to grow in the bubble's 
 heart, nebulous, shadowy. At first, it appeared to 
 me the reflected face of Francis Randolph, who stood 
 at my side. I glanced toward him to say so, and 
 when I turned back, up from the depths of the crys- 
 tal looked the eyes of Bushrod Floyd, not as I had 
 ever seen them, but speaking unutterable reproach 
 into mine. 
 
 As the face faded, Mr. Tewfik observed, gently, 
 " There is a letter." 
 
 Disquieted and off my guard, I exclaimed incau- 
 tiously, " Oh, yes, I had one from him yesterday," 
 and then shrank before the absurd naivete of the 
 speech, and the round of laughter that followed it. 
 
 " It is not the letter you received from him yester- 
 day, nor yet that which you shall get from him to- 
 morrow," pursued Mr. Tewfik meditatively. " This 
 which makes itself known to me, is a letter yet to be 
 written. It will come to you sometime in the future, 
 it will come to you he paused, glanced quietly
 
 Through the Seventh Gate" 
 
 about him, saw that we were unobserved, dropped 
 his right hand and, without looking, picked up that 
 of Francis Randolph. With an inconspicuous move- 
 ment, he put it forward to me, palm uppermost, and 
 concluded, " It will come to you by this hand." 
 
 With this surprising and unlikely assertion, he 
 closed his prognostications. 
 
 I had been aware from the first that no one saw 
 what I saw in the crystal. Frank could not know 
 whose letter he was bespoken to bring to me.. But 
 the smiling assurance with which he accepted the 
 suggestion that he should at any time bring any 
 man's letter to me, showed the blissfulness of his 
 mood to be proof against ordinary shocks. 
 
 People were coming in to the reception which fol- 
 lowed the dinner, and it was a relief to turn from 
 Mr. Tewfik's enigmatic revelations to some of the 
 personages Frank desired me to meet. 
 
 But the face in the crystal haunted me. It was 
 more real before my eyes, during a part of the time, 
 than the faces of the people I met. I longed to 
 question Mr. Tewfik about it. 
 
 Yet when, in the course of the evening, I found 
 him for a moment at my side, I merely asked him 
 what make of typewriter he used. 
 
 He informed me gravely that his ir.achines had 
 been specially built for the Turkish government, at 
 one of the large factories, and set, one with Turkish, 
 and one with Arabic characters. 
 
 There fell a little silence, I thinking-, I am sure, 
 of nothing but the incongruity of so Occidental and 
 modern a contrivance as a typewriter being furnished 
 with Arabic letters those characters in which
 
 1 86 <&> The Last Word ^ 
 
 the Koran of Mohammed was written by Zeid, the 
 prophet's amanuensis. 
 
 Mr. Tewfik sat regarding me with that full, un- 
 embarrassed, unembarrassing gaze of his. :< You 
 ask me when," he said finally. 
 
 I knew he alluded to the letter, and I nodded. I 
 had not asked him in words, but it was the thing 
 which, earlier in the evening, I had put mentally into 
 a thousand forms of question. 
 
 " It will be in the autumn time." 
 
 " It is a strange way for a letter to come," I 
 hazarded, finally. " Are you sure ? Where shall I 
 be, that one of my friends should send me a letter 
 by the hand of another? " 
 
 " You will be in New York," began Mr. Tewfik, 
 and I laughed easily. 
 
 " Both of those friends live in New York, and 
 so do I. We meet, almost daily, in the same office. 
 It would be very singular about that letter." 
 
 Mr. Tewfik bowed sedately, as one who agreed 
 that life was indeed strange, and the ways of men 
 past finding out. He would have offered no further 
 explanation, but that I asked him. He came out 
 of a little fit of abstraction, during which I had 
 been talking to Frank, and to a Western man Frank 
 had brought to present, to answer me. 
 
 " I beg pardon oh, the letter," he replied. " He 
 who writes it will have gone upon a journey. He 
 will not then be living in New York. He who 
 delivers it " 
 
 Mr. Tewfik was called upon by some one near for 
 a bit of information. He gave it, turned to me, 
 and repeated, " He who delivers the letter " when 
 it was signified to him that AH Rustem Bey was
 
 $ "Through the Seventh Gate" f 187 
 
 departing, and desired his attendance. My heart 
 had stood still to listen for the conclusion of that 
 sentence. In it seemed to be the kernel of such 
 information as he had given me. As he made his 
 grave adieu to me, I felt an almost uncontrollable 
 impulse to hold fast his hand and beg him, who 
 had told me so much so much which seemed like 
 living truth to me to tell me only a little more. 
 
 I looked after his tall retreating back, when he 
 went to make his devoirs to his hostess, and my eyes 
 were hot. I could have caught at his vanishing robe 
 hem represented just then by the most correct 
 of evening dress and bidden him stay for one 
 word. 
 
 Later, Frank found time and place to tell me that 
 I was not only the most gifted and brilliant woman 
 he knew, but the most beautiful ; not only the chosen 
 companion of his spirit, but the delight of his eyes. 
 He added, with a little touch of reproach, that his 
 enjoyment of the evening would have been perfect, 
 if he might have announced our engagement 
 privately, at least, to his own family. 
 
 He was, however, in a mood so celestial that he 
 forbore to urge this, and only begged that he might 
 write his mother, and get for me a ring which, as 
 she had always said, was for his wife. 
 
 I demurred laughingly, and advised that he wait 
 till it should be proved that our present halcyon 
 season was more enduring than such seasons had 
 been in the past. 
 
 But, in the retrospect, that evening meant for me 
 Mr. Tewfik and his uncompleted revelations; and I 
 said to Miss Salem as we drove home together that
 
 1 88 4& The Last Word *& 
 
 I hardly thought it the proper thing for people to 
 have a young man loaded up with facts like that 
 concerning futures, prowling about at a dinner- 
 party.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The Lord's Freeman 
 
 " Not till men are made of some other metal than earth. 
 Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered by a piece 
 of valiant dust ? To make account of her life to a clod of 
 wayward marl ? " 
 
 I HAD finished the Washington matter (cursing 
 my evil star, which was surely in the ascendant when 
 I begged for so much of it), and had got back to 
 New York. Work on the great book was resumed. 
 Frank was still in an angelic mood. He would 
 have let me off for as much as a week ; but I, being 
 something of an angel myself, insisted upon making 
 long days. 
 
 Indeed, I found it my best defence. To the 
 future I would not look. For the present, this book 
 work kept sentiment somewhat in abeyance, and 
 Frank excellently contented. There were long, 
 happy mornings in which we scarcely quarrelled at 
 all. There were brief skirmishes, whose reconcilia- 
 tions appeared to more than make up (to Frank 
 at least) for any pain they caused. 
 
 For mv part, alas! the scar was always left by 
 them. They prophesied to me ultimate defeat, or 
 the rending of this bond which had become so dear 
 to me. 
 
 189
 
 190 $ The Last Word ^ 
 
 One morning, when he had welcomed me eagerly, 
 he added that I was hardly ever out of his thoughts. 
 
 " Since the first day I met you until this moment, 
 Cara," he said, " you have been the supreme idea to 
 me most of the time, and the undercurrent always." 
 
 I did not tell him how nearly this had been 
 true with myself, but only answered that it was 
 sweet to hear him say so. 
 
 " I look back to that day," he went on; " think 
 of it, dearest, twelve golden hours ! If we had them 
 now twelve beautiful hours all to ourselves, in 
 which we should not quarrel, nor apprehend, nor 
 doubt it would be a lifetime of joy, wouldn't it? 
 With a week of such days as that, I should be a 
 Methuselah of bliss." 
 
 " Oh, yes," I answered, " but where will you 
 find the days in which we shall not quarrel ? " 
 
 " Right here now, and in the future, till we live 
 to be a hundred." 
 
 " I am afraid you refuse to learn by experi- 
 ence, Frank," I said, a little sadly. 
 
 " But it will be different," he urged. " To a man 
 who has not worn his heart upon his sleeve, this 
 sudden tide of sentiment was well-nigh painful. It 
 was certainly unwelcome and disquieting." 
 
 " I found it so," I answered. 
 
 " But we have had time to think it over, and we 
 shall never disagree, if only you will bear in mind, 
 young lady, that nobody is going to eat you up 
 no matter how much they may feel inclined to." 
 
 " I wonder," I said, " if you are experiencing now 
 that remarkable emotion which you defined to me 
 that day on the train as love. I must think to 
 the contrary, for you were going to love the person
 
 f The Lord's Freeman <Q> 191 
 
 in that case, whatever she was, whatever she did, and 
 you have always been intent only on making poor 
 me over." 
 
 " Indeed, no," he murmured, fondly. " I would 
 not have one atom of you changed. I should myself 
 be in some awe of you if I did not know what a 
 very woman you are how clinging, how depend- 
 ent, how timid, how in reality you love to be dic- 
 tated to. It is your kaleidoscopic inconsistency 
 which gives me courage. I am best pleased when 
 I find you so brilliantly and femininely unreason- 
 able." * 
 
 I sighed impatiently. I wished he would go 
 away and find the girl who corresponded with this 
 description, for surely it was not I. Our recon- 
 ciliation meant, it seemed to me, only a renewal of 
 torture. " Floating islands of the night, shouting 
 lies to each other through the blackness and across 
 the sliding water," I misquoted as I went down the 
 stairs. 
 
 Then, in the midst of my worries, came Mr. 
 DeWitt with the very natural suggestion that, as 
 I had done Washington so well for the syndicate, I 
 go to Boston, and, as he phrased it, " do the same 
 trick." 
 
 At first I was aghast. Then, after a week more 
 of Frank and the book, I said to myself, " I will go 
 anywhere. I will do anything. I will take in cross- 
 ings to sweep for my living anything but this." 
 
 I came down to the studio the morning after reach- 
 ing this point, afraid to tell my partner, yet knowing 
 it must be done. 
 
 " I think I will not write this morning, Frank," 
 I remarked, standing by the table, and mussing over
 
 192 ^ The Last Word 
 
 my manuscript. " I have been neglecting my regular 
 work too much of late. I should plan out my new 
 series, and to do that I must go home and be alone." 
 
 " I wish you would not think any more about the 
 new series. I want to plan that for you," he 
 answered, sweetly. 
 
 I must have looked astonished and somewhat 
 frightened, for he added, laughing a little, " You 
 need not accept my plans after I make them, you 
 know ; but, Cara, it grieves me to see you worrying 
 over such things." 
 
 "I am not worrying," I answered, "I never worry. 
 The work comes to me in just the way it ought, 
 when I have to do it." 
 
 " There are some things," Frank went on, " about 
 which I think my advice will be of more use to you 
 than that of a fellow writer or a writer fellow. I 
 get the point of view of the general public the 
 average reader." 
 
 " Mr. DeWitt gives me that," I said, incautiously. 
 " He is an ideal editor." I saw the old look, the 
 jealous darkening of the face, and knew that I had 
 offended again. 
 
 " I wish you would give up the work, at once," 
 said Frank finally, " and go home to Texas 
 till you are willing to let me come for you. You will 
 have to give it up sometime, you know." 
 
 It had come at last, the challenge I had been 
 expecting. I must answer it. 
 
 " Frank oh, Frank, dear," I said earnestly, 
 " look at it a minute. You would never ask me 
 to sacrifice anything material for you my hair, a 
 hand, an arm, any physical member my life itself 
 but "
 
 ^ The Lord's Freeman $ 193 
 
 Frank gazed on me in amazement. " Cara ! " he 
 cried, " what on earth " 
 
 But I interrupted, " No, hear me out. I say you 
 would not ask of me as proof of my love, as a 
 tribute to your power over me, and an adornment 
 of your triumphal progress through life the sacri- 
 fice of any of my members, or of my life itself. But, 
 Frank, dear, consider, what of the soul? What of 
 its life and welfare? If you take from it its precious 
 labours and activities, if you shear and lop and rob 
 it, shall " 
 
 " But does not love " he began, with shining 
 eyes. 
 
 " Frank," I said, " my work is my soul's health 
 and dignity. These talents that have been given to 
 me these talents that it is death to hide you 
 would have lodged with me useless. It would be all 
 one to me, if you possessed millions of dollars. To 
 my thought my understanding there is no way 
 of making life good and clean and satisfactory, but 
 by each day earning the right to be here. Only so 
 only after thus much would happiness be possible 
 to me." 
 
 "A woman's home, is not that her sphere?" 
 questioned Frank. " Cannot she find work there 
 employment for her powers ? " 
 
 " Well, say we were to have a home," I conceded, 
 " a home, a place for us two to live in ; to rest and 
 be acquainted with each other, and be happy in; 
 should it usurp the larger activities of either of us? 
 I shall not cook its food nor scrub its floors nor 
 wash its windows, any more than you perform the 
 equivalent of these labours at the office. My real 
 work "
 
 194 *& The Last Word $ 
 
 " The work the work " Frank repeated in a 
 dazed tone " You can't give up your work ? You 
 need it to make you happy? Why, dearest, haven't 
 I told you that you have touched me with heaven's 
 own fire, made of me a better, a larger, as well as 
 a happier man? If you believe me but ordinarily 
 grateful for such a boon as that, you must see that 
 I shall wish always to make your happiness. 
 Happy ? The angels will envy us ! " 
 
 To be put in a heaven oh, to be fairly chased 
 into it and told sharply, by inference at least, 
 to stay there now, like a lady, while somebody made 
 my happiness for me! He had not understood one 
 word of my appeal. He might as well not have heard 
 it. Should I try once more? Should I press the 
 truth upon him till I saw all the love and tender- 
 ness driven by bewildered resentment leave his 
 face, to be followed by the look I knew, the set-to of 
 bitterness, of arrogant and unbending will, that finds 
 no limit to tyrannical demand and exaction? Why 
 not just pass the issue? Fate would take care of it 
 for me, one way or the other, soon. It would make 
 its own conclusion, inevitably, yes, or no, and that 
 quickly. Why not, just for a few minutes, leave 
 the cup of sweetness at my lips ? the cup my pre- 
 saging soul told me it would never be mine to drain? 
 So I only said, weakly, " Oh, heaven is such a 
 solemn place I should never have the face to be happy 
 there." 
 
 " Ah, but we are going to laugh in our heaven," 
 comforted Frank. 
 
 " I don't believe I would suit heaven, I am too 
 faulty," I persisted. 
 
 "The dear little touch of human failing! It is
 
 < The Lord's Freeman $ 195 
 
 what encourages me about you. Of course you are 
 an angel. Of course I have to look up to you, 
 wrapped in cloud, high above me. The little faults 
 or things which you call faults are almost my 
 only hope. I really mean it, love. It is like having 
 you slip your dear white hand down into the clouds 
 a bit, and whisper ' Where's Frank ? ' Here he is, 
 honey, always reaching a hand to climb to you 
 my hope, my inspiration." 
 
 This was not the kind of speech, you would have 
 said, to force me into the open, to thrust me into 
 the honest, courageous course. Certainly, it was not 
 what I had weakly looked forward to as furnishing 
 the inevitable call for a solution. But Truth's mes- 
 sengers arrive by various roads, and she knows many 
 and curious ways to compel us to her service. 
 
 And so it was, that this lover's speech of Frank's 
 seemed to show me the hopeless difference in our 
 points of view. Having failed to be brave and reso- 
 lute when I ought, I must now be harsh and offen- 
 sive. 
 
 " I never asked," I said doggedly, " to be any- 
 body's hope and inspiration. I am not requiring 
 somebody to be a hope and inspiration to me, and 
 if I were I should not get it. Your idea which 
 appeals to you so much is, to be to me a kind of 
 extinguisher, a sort of grand quietus." 
 
 " Cara! " in a tone of horror. 
 
 " Oh, I may as well say it. You know I'm think- 
 ing it all the time. If I were in your place I should 
 ret want anybody about me full of rebellion and 
 anger and despair; but you seem to think that, so 
 lor. g as I do not say " 
 
 Frank rose, white with wrath. He came over and
 
 196 $ The Last Word *& 
 
 laid a steady hand upon my shaking one, which 
 gripped the pencil. 
 
 " Say it," he told me. " Never pause for wound- 
 ing a heart that is all your own. Never halt for 
 trampling on the most ardent, tender, fond emotions 
 of a man's Oh, women are all alike ! " and he 
 flung my hand aside and strode over to the window. 
 
 I looked at his back as he stood there, and drew 
 my breath sharply. I had been asked to speak, and 
 speak I would. No thing should now be left unsaid. 
 
 " In the first place," I began, " I want the privi- 
 leges of a mere human being." 
 
 " You do not appear to appreciate the superiority 
 of being held above the ruck of humanity, regarded 
 as an angel." 
 
 " No, I do not," I went on steadily. " Angels 
 never get their dues. Who would think of paying 
 a debt to an angel? We all understand that there 
 are no pockets in angels' robes. They are not ex- 
 pected to get or keep anything for themselves." 
 
 " And so. when I call you an angel," commented 
 Frank, with something very like a sneer, " it is be- 
 cause I grudge you everything?" 
 
 " Yes, it is. You grudge me the least breath of 
 freedom, and that is everything. I am to have for 
 my life, for my body and brain and soul, nothing, 
 except what comes through you. When are you 
 going to give up your work ? " 
 
 " Ah, but that is different," ejaculated Frank, 
 almost kindly, turning and coming toward me. 
 " Don't you see I am to work for us both ? My work 
 matters to me now, because it is for you all for 
 you; every dollar, every bit of fame, just for 
 Carita."
 
 $ The Lord's Freeman *& 197 
 
 I think he was honestly deceived in the matter, 
 1 believe most men are; yet his words left me cold, 
 and a little angry. " You would be very foolish if 
 that were true, Frank but it is not," I said. 
 " You just think it is. You were absorbed and 
 happy in your work before you ever saw me. Talk 
 about every dollar you make being for sake of her 
 you love, then let your wife take you at your word 
 and attempt to dole back to you an allowance, and 
 listen to the explosion that would follow ! " 
 
 " You sordid little wretch ! " exclaimed Frank, 
 laughing. The hopeless thing was that, unless I 
 wounded and made him angry, he would never take 
 me seriously. " How dare you talk about allow- 
 ances between you and me? I see, honey, that you 
 are going to stipulate for special terms mixing up 
 finance and love it is like money-changers in the 
 temple ! " 
 
 I felt the futility of my brief rebellion. I felt that 
 no one thing I had said had been the right thing. 
 I laid down the manuscript abruptly, thrust my 
 pencil into my hair, and remarked in as calm a tone 
 as I could command, " I am going over to Boston 
 for a week or two. Mr. DeWitt has given me a 
 commission there. I am going to say good-bye to 
 you now, Frank, and go to-night." 
 
 Frank's pale face flushed with anger, and his 
 eyes took on their stern look, as he said, " There ! 
 Now you see why I object to your work. Any man, 
 any fool, can order you about and send you places, 
 while I have no word to say." 
 
 There were a very great many answers I could 
 have made to this remark. The things it gave me 
 privilege to say piled up before my mental vision as
 
 198 + The Last Word ^ 
 
 quite a library of argument and reproach. Time, 
 however, would have permitted the rehearsing of 
 comparatively few of them, and I had ever an objec- 
 tion to accepting an abridged privilege; so I said 
 quite another thing from any of them. 
 
 It was, " I am going to Boston because I want to. 
 If I did not like the commission, I should not 
 accept it. I never take things I do not want," and 
 I was hastening, shaken with angry emotion, out 
 of the room, when Frank intercepted me at the door. 
 
 " You know this is final, do you? " he demanded, 
 almost menacingly. " You understand, of course, 
 that I would not endure such words as that from any 
 woman, no matter what I felt for her." 
 
 " Then let it be so let it be! " I cried, between 
 weariness and anger and shame. " It would 
 better, God knows. I " 
 
 There was no voice to say more. I could have 
 sunk under my sense of humiliation. After all my 
 clear understanding of the matter, my resolution to 
 make it plain to Frank, my grief at the fear - 
 almost a certainty that the tie which was so pain- 
 fully sweet and dear to me was doomed to be broken 
 for all this, it was not in dignified calmness, what- 
 ever the sorrow, but in an angry quarrel, that the 
 precious, impossible bond had been rent. 
 
 My regret and self-reproach were bitter, and I 
 fairly quailed beneath them. As I gazed speech- 
 lessly at Frank, who had, I knew, all his own stern 
 heart could support of pain and disappointment, he 
 mistook my drooping attitude, and caught willingly 
 at the supposed repentance. His look softened beau- 
 tifully upon me. He stretched out his hands to me 
 with an inarticulate murmur:
 
 The Lord's Freeman *$* 199 
 
 " My little wilful sweetheart oh, Carita little 
 creature " 
 
 " No, no! " I whispered chokingly. And tearing 
 my heart away from those compelling, beseeching 
 eyes, I hurried out and down the stairs.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A Doctor of Philosophy 
 
 " The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel." 
 
 THE point of view of each human creature must 
 necessarily be his own. 
 
 I put this in the form of an announcement a 
 statement rather than as a suggestion or remark, 
 because I have observed widely and studiously in the 
 matter, and all my observations have proved this to 
 be true. I perceive that persons may be so destitute 
 that they must beg from others all the necessities 
 of life, so impoverished that no sheriff's writ, no 
 search-warrant, could discover a vestige of means, 
 of assets; but this one bit of portable property is 
 inalienable, and the bankrupt or the beggar is 
 seized and possessed of his own personal, individual 
 point of view, equally with the bishop, the senator, 
 and the millionaire. 
 
 And I have seen, also, that two people of much 
 the same general size and shape, the same class 
 socially, working side by side in the greatest amity, 
 at the same undertaking, will regard the whole 
 matter from points of view as widely separate and 
 dissimilar as can well be. 
 
 All this was suggested by my conversation with 
 Mr. DeWitt the afternoon before I went to Boston. 
 
 200
 
 $ A Doctor of Philosophy $ 201 
 
 When he had with his usual cleverness, brevity, 
 and perspicacity delivered all instructions and 
 suggestions necessary, and was satisfied that I had 
 them properly sorted and packed in my mental port- 
 manteau, Mr. DeWitt relaxed and addressed me 
 upon the social plane. His touch was light and 
 correct (though Mr. De Witt's years were few if any 
 beyond my own, as a citizen of the world I was ever, 
 beside him, a gawky infant) ; and, pleased, I pro- 
 duced in response some of the many things which 
 happened to Miss Salem and me while I was in 
 Washington. I thought us such an odd pair, like 
 the soda and the sour of baking-powder, walking 
 around hand in hand, ready to make things rise. 
 
 ;< You appear to have seen a good deal of Priscilla 
 Salem/' he suggested. 
 
 " I did," I answered. " We were together almost 
 continually, when I wasn't busy; and you know I 
 spent the last week at her apartments." 
 
 " A good opportunity for you," he observed. 
 
 " Wasn't it? " I agreed. " I believe if anything 
 could reform me, and make a man of me, Miss 
 Salem's companionship would do it. She is one of 
 the loveliest women I ever met." 
 
 " She holds more stock than the president, in the 
 concern you are working for," supplied my editor, 
 with that little suspicion of a sneer which I hate, 
 hovering about his lips. 
 
 " I am not working for any concern," I said 
 sharply. 
 
 " But for " he interrogated, with those coolly 
 raised brows which always drove me to say foolish 
 things. 
 
 " For undying fame," I rejoined shortly. " And
 
 202 *& The Last Word 
 
 incidentally, for bread and butter. For your ap- 
 proval, or that of the janitor, or any other honest 
 man who reads and cares for my stuff." 
 
 " I am afraid that you are impractical," sighed 
 my mentor. " A week in Priscilla Salem's house, 
 and no axe ground ! I should have been trembling 
 for my own position I know that every time I 
 change your punctuation, or say you use too many 
 adjectives, you feel sure I am incompetent, and that 
 you could fill the place better." And he laughed 
 genially at the guilty assenting blush which silently 
 answered him. 
 
 But I went back to that hateful thought. " I shall 
 not let myself care," I cried, " if you have said she 
 is worth three-quarters of a million. Why should 
 I? I knew that before. She is fine and true, and 
 one of the most companionable creatures I ever met, 
 notwithstanding, and and she and I are full part- 
 ners!" 
 
 " You are ! " he echoed, with a hint of unflatter- 
 ing surprise, then leaned his head on his hand and 
 considered me thoughtfully for five minutes. 
 
 " No, you don't know how to grind an axe at all, 
 do you ? Here you have been actually a member of 
 Miss Salem's household for weeks, and seem to have 
 turned it to no account whatever." 
 
 " To what earthly account could I try to turn it ? " 
 I inquired. 
 
 " Just this," he answered, " you write well enough 
 you know that yourself you know we think so 
 here. With her influence, you could have simply 
 anything that's going." 
 
 " God pity the rich ! " I burst out, " to whom is 
 denied even a little honest liking from the stranger
 
 A Doctor of Philosophy $ 203 
 
 within their gates ; and whose own kin now that 
 you remind me of the conditions must, I see, wish 
 them dead three times a day." 
 
 " Oh, come now, come," remarked Mr. DeWitt. 
 " That is put with your usual force and felicity ; but 
 we're not in a sketch. This is mere reality. Just 
 tell me, don't you know that woman's a power in 
 this office?" 
 
 " Well, so am I," I returned, and flourished out 
 of it, taking my point of view along with me, leaving 
 (very gladly) Mr. De Witt's there with him. 
 
 But that was in New York. When I had been in 
 Boston less than a week, it would have been stating 
 it very mildly to say there was no strut or bravado 
 left in me. In West Texas, girls had not been 
 plenty. They were the most welcome and desired 
 citizens, treated with much favour and partiality. 
 
 My sensations in Boston were those of a spoiled 
 and petted only child, accustomed to attention and 
 consideration, who goes upon an evil day to 
 visit in some relative's family, where children are 
 overplentiful, and deprecated, not to say despised. 
 To such a child in such a household, the mere ordi- 
 nary round of its life, without any special accident 
 or outbreak, is a continual pain and wounding; yea, 
 he is killed all the day long. 
 
 Miss Salem had given me some letters to her 
 Boston friends. These made for me at once a little 
 circle of acquaintances all women. I found them 
 agreeable and helpful to me, both socially and in my 
 work. When I called to present one of these letters 
 (it was to a cousin of Miss Salem's, scarcely more 
 than a girl, but a clever young doctor, and " the 
 best and brightest of the lot," as Mr. DeWitt said).
 
 204 f The Last Word t 
 
 there were several women friends in the room; two 
 of them were medical students in her office. One 
 of the visitors, and a typical member of the great 
 army of superfluous women, indeed, it struck me 
 that she might fairly be expected to be some- 
 what superfluous anywhere, faced round upon me 
 abruptly, and demanded : 
 
 " Why did you come here to do the work some 
 Boston woman ought to have, to take the place she 
 cught to fill, to take the bread out of her mouth ? " 
 
 I was so astonished at her onslaught, so bewil- 
 dered by her method of reasoning, that my usual 
 levity deserted me, and I failed to make the flippant 
 but truthful rejoinder that I came because I, and 
 not " some Boston woman," was wanted, and that 
 I did not like, and could scarcely conceive of circum- 
 stances under which I should consent to eat, bread 
 out of somebody else's mouth. 
 
 But Doctor Thorndyke interfered in my defence, 
 with a quiet smile, and her aggressive friend was 
 placated. Later, I arranged to stay with the doctor, 
 who had but just set up in a modest flat, for such 
 time as I should be in Boston. She was a fine ex- 
 ample of the best sort of girl bachelor, about twenty- 
 seven years old, clever, broad-minded, a writer of 
 good ability, of an excellent disposition, as frank and 
 kind a friend and companion as heart could desire. 
 When, from time to time, I came in to her, wailing 
 aloud how bitter a thing it is to be a woman in 
 Boston, I could never be sure whether she would 
 chaff or sympathise. She was notably excellent at 
 either, and I found the two methods equally agree- 
 able and effective in soothing my hurts or diverting 
 my mind from them. Again, she chaffed so feel-
 
 $ A Doctor of Philosophy 205 
 
 ingly, or sympathised with such a hint of sarcasm, 
 that I had much ado to tell t'other from which ; and 
 in my efforts to discriminate I forgot my bruises 
 entirely. 
 
 One morning I stood waiting for my car, upon 
 the accustomed corner, at the accustomed hour, when 
 a good-looking, well-dressed person came up and 
 waited near me, holding a paper in his well-kept 
 hand. He was a handsome man a really superior 
 looking man; and when as I thought he regarded 
 me approvingly, I was idly pleased thereat, and 
 smoothed my feathers consciously. Meantime an- 
 other woman stopped, and then another both of 
 whom were young and pretty. A car approached; 
 this man gave us one comprehensive glance, walked 
 almost half a block toward it, caught it before it 
 stopped, got in, secured the only vacant seat, un- 
 furled his paper and read serenely, leaving us sus- 
 pended to the straps before him, like so many fowls 
 dangling in a poulterer's window. 
 
 This tale I told to the doctor, in positive gloom 
 and humiliation of spirit. She laughed, as usual, 
 told me what she called some early lessons of her 
 own, and concluded in her inimitable manner: 
 
 " Now, my child my dear young Western sis- 
 ter I did not tell you these things to exacerbate 
 your already outraged feelings. Far otherwise. 
 Look at me. I have lived through it, and grown fat 
 upon it" (the doctor was as slender as a reed). 
 ' What does that teach you ? ' 
 
 " Ours is the case of any animal thrown unpre- 
 pared amid new and unfavouring conditions. It 
 must, if it is to persist, develop, we will say, a 
 longer snout, a higher rate of speed, or grow a
 
 206 f The Last Word <& 
 
 new set of legs outright, in order to cope with the 
 difficulties of its new environment. 
 
 " And they do, you know. Oh, they do ; they call 
 upon Mother Nature, or the Oversoul, or something, 
 and she or it provides 'em. Oh, I assure you 
 the legs and snouts are forthcoming. And what 
 these creatures do in the course of a few hundred 
 generations, you must set your wits to do at once. 
 Grow weapons of aggression or defence, and that 
 quickly. Either a thick skin or quick tongue both 
 for that matter." 
 
 "I " I began, still complainingly. 
 
 " Well, do you care greatly ? " interrupted the 
 doctor, unexpectedly. 
 
 " N-n-no," I responded, reluctantly. " But it 
 
 well, you know, I have an ever present and 
 crushing belief that I am an error, a mistake; nay, 
 even worse possibly a crime ! I feel apologetic all 
 the time. I have developed from deprecatory into 
 abject, and " 
 
 " Have you ? " said Doctor Thorndyke, a little 
 dryly. " Well, I should say, then, that you needed 
 exactly what you are getting. I don't find myself 
 very abject. You are from Texas, n~ry child that 
 is, you are a spoiled baby. Stop thinking you are 
 a woman, or worse yet ' a lady,' and be an individual 
 
 be willing to stand on your merits as a worker, 
 ,, " 
 
 et " 
 
 " Say no more ! " I cried, with a burning face. " I 
 don't need another word. I see I perceive I 
 understand." 
 
 We both laughed, and passed, with a reenforced 
 mutual understanding, to other matters. 
 
 One evening, a little later, we were brushing out
 
 <Q A Doctor of Philosophy $ 207 
 
 our hair and exchanging confidences even a suc- 
 cessful young physician may still be woman enough, 
 I found, to care for the alliterative relaxation of 
 kimonas and confidences. 
 
 " And so you know Francis Randolph, do you ? " 
 inquired the doctor, drawing a shining tress medi- 
 tatively through her ringers. " How long have you 
 known him ? " 
 
 " Ever since I came to New York," I answered. 
 " I met him on my way up. It was " 
 
 The doctor turned her clear eyes on me, and I 
 finished hastily, " a remarkable coincidence," and my 
 face flushed annoyingly. 
 
 " Um-m, yes ; and you are the very sort of girl 
 Francis Randolph would fancy," she went on, 
 quietly. " Most people would not say so ; but you 
 are." 
 
 " I believe you are mistaken," I returned. " I 
 have hardly any of the qualities he commends in 
 woman. He told me once about his ideal woman, 
 and I arn just diametrically op " 
 
 The doctor burst' out laughing. " Oh, of course ! " 
 she agreed. " He thinks he admires a tender, cling- 
 ing, modest-violet sort of creature who would 
 drive him to drink and destruction from pure weari- 
 ness and disgust, within a year." 
 
 " He thinks? " I suggested, rather diffidently. 
 " Why do you say that ? Why shouldn't he know 
 what he wants? I do." 
 
 " I doubt it," returned the doctor. " Women have 
 a little more self-knowledge than men; but I'll ven- 
 ture a guess that you are thinking, about now, that 
 Frank Randolph is an ideal sort of fellow you 
 would be likely to, if he fancies you."
 
 2o8 +> The Last Word ^ 
 
 " Oh, but I don't ! " I broke in. " I lo like him 
 immensely; but I find him overbearing, crude, and 
 narrow. He is strong almost cruelly strong ; - 
 clear-headed, resolute; and he has fine gifts. Where 
 he is indifferent I mean where that bitter pride of 
 self-mastery and invincibleness has not been aroused 
 or challenged he has the most perfect, the most 
 graceful and charming bearing I have ever known. 
 He it seems to me that, in this humour, he would 
 be I mean it seriously irresistible to any one he 
 desired to make love him." 
 
 " Yes," said the doctor, " I quite agree there." 
 
 " But it would be a woman of childish mind, or 
 a slavish nature, or one lacking knowledge and 
 experience, who would yield to the emotion, once 
 she knew him a little." 
 
 The doctor only nodded. 
 
 " He ought to be everything fine and admirable 
 and desirable," I went on. " He has it all in him. 
 But it is obscured by a strange sort of ancient igno- 
 rance, arrogance, wilful blindness; and a capacity 
 for serene tyranny that ought to appal any girl." 
 
 " Go on," prompted the doctor, as I paused. 
 
 " Well, it has always seemed to me that if he 
 could be brought to see these faults they would drop 
 away from him ; but that is what I find in him, now. 
 I am afraid life would have to do terrible things to 
 him before he would be what he thinks himself now 
 ready to ' make a woman's happiness.' ' 
 
 Then I saw what I had admitted ; but there was 
 no going back. 
 
 " Bravo ! " cried the doctor. " You are worth 
 saving. I see how it is, and I would not have be- 
 lieved that any girl of your age could have brought
 
 f A Doctor of Philosophy $ 209 
 
 so much level-headed common sense away from close 
 contact with Francis Randolph's fascination. I 
 don't see why you are not the girl for him, after 
 all!" 
 
 " Oh, no," I murmured. " We quarrel all the 
 time. He wants me made over into something else 
 
 into the kind of person that I should loathe." 
 " And that he would, too," put in the doctor. 
 
 " Do you think so? " I debated. 
 
 " Certainly," she maintained. " That is a mascu- 
 line characteristic, and it runs particularly strong in 
 men of unusual force. I have a theory on the subject 
 
 I have on most subjects. You see it is like this : 
 There is a certain set of traits which a man admires 
 in a woman ; which he really admires, I mean, though 
 he may not himself know it. These traits he wishes 
 to see in their full perfection in the woman he loves ; 
 so he picks out a girl who makes a good showing of 
 them, and he begins unconsciously to test her for 
 them." 
 
 " That sounds awfully cool-headed," I laughed. 
 " Maybe they fall in love that way in Boston ; but 
 down South in Texas " 
 
 " Oh, he doesn't do it consciously," she inter- 
 rupted. " It is purely subjective. And subjective 
 movements, in such matters, are all that count. 
 There speaks the soul itself. Take your own case 
 as an example. Mr. Randolph really in the 
 depths of his being, and unknown to himself ad- 
 mires, above all else, intellect and force and inde- 
 pendence in a woman the capacity to guide her 
 own life, and the resolution to do so. He thinks he 
 does not, but he does. And, unknown to himself, he 
 is continually encroaching, to find whether you have
 
 2io <&> The Last Word $ 
 
 enough of the strength which he admires, to with- 
 stand him the independence and force which he 
 really loves, to resent his overbearing attitude and 
 live your own life in spite of him. If you have 
 them, if you can do that, can hold your own with 
 him, he'll adore you for ever. Selah ! I have spoken. 
 
 " I told you I had theories to fit all cases ; but 
 I never give an ounce of advice. I diagnose, you 
 see; but I don't prescribe. So you need not be 
 frightened. Good night!" and she was gone. 
 
 I had, of course, no word from Frank. 
 
 Miss Bucks's letters were unexpectedly delightful. 
 "Why the delight should have been unexpected, I can 
 scarcely say. She possessed a wonderfully terse, 
 direct, forcible style, which had always, to my think- 
 ing, sat upon her " Fashions and Fancies " with the 
 appropriateness of a suit of chain mail on a ballet 
 dancer. She was not, however, writing Fashions 
 and Fancies to me, and I had the full benefit of an 
 epistolary manner so brief and trenchant that it 
 omitted all mention of Frank. 
 
 Starved upon a diet of her letters, two brief offi- 
 cial communications from Mr. DeWitt, a note from 
 Miss Salem, and the fattest of round robins from the 
 Corcorans, I finally made myself believe it would be 
 quite the thing to write to Bushrod. I had had 
 letters from him while I was in Washington why 
 was it not just courteous and proper for me 
 to answer? 
 
 And in less than half an hour after I arrived at 
 this dishonest conclusion, I went in to lunch and 
 found beside my plate a tiny envelope, only a size 
 bigger than a visiting-card.
 
 f A Doctor of Philosophy 9 211 
 
 It did contain a card, and upon it was written in 
 Bushrod Floyd's dainty chirography 
 
 " There was once a very foolish man, who had a foolish way 
 Of looking for a letter, every day Oh, every day ! 
 He almost fainted at what time he heard the postman's call; 
 And when that letter never came just never came at all 
 He fell on heavy pondering (he was foolish past belief) 
 If folks perish just of longing, and if many die of grief? 
 Oh, when no letter ever came, this man his heart was sore ; 
 He said in bitterness of soul he'd never look no more. 
 Would he not ? He's looking looking looking for it still. 
 His life is just an empty place that nothing else can fill ! " 
 
 There was no signature, but I felt I held in my 
 hand the key to the difficulty. Bushrod had writ- 
 ten me twice while I was in Washington I ac- 
 tually owed him a letter. What more natural than 
 that I should write him? 
 
 It is one of the proofs of the evil of such a pas- 
 sion as then ruled my heart, blind, overbearing, im- 
 perious, that it makes those who experience it cruel 
 to all other suffering because of their own. 
 
 Any right-minded person, who had read poor 
 Bushrod Floyd's verse, would certainly have spared 
 him, and, having nothing to offer, would have let 
 him alone. 
 
 But I was scarcely a right-minded person. I 
 feverishly put aside this clear, kind view of the 
 case, calling it nonsense, conceit, vanity. I told 
 myself many plausible untruths, none of which I 
 believed for an instant, and wrote to Bushrod. 
 
 I professed an ardent admiration for the amount 
 of news, pictorial and otherwise, contained in the 
 first letter he wrote to me, in Washington. I told
 
 212 ^ The Last Word *& 
 
 him all the things that had happened to me, what I 
 had done and thought and felt it was like what I 
 imagined talking to one's mother would be writ- 
 ing, or talking to Bushrod ; so sure was one of full 
 sympathy and understanding. I urged a present 
 longing for full details of the office doings. I in- 
 ferentially held out hopes of other and better letters 
 to follow, if this were promptly replied to. 
 
 And I received, in just four and twenty hours, a 
 voluminous letter, of which this is a portion: 
 
 ' You are as wonderful as I thought you were 
 going to be, plus all that I did not know enough to 
 expect in the world. 
 
 " That letter ! It was an energetic thing to come 
 from the immediate hand of the meek man who is 
 substituting for our postman. I dote on that man. 
 He has a bad eye, a bad breath, a green, greasy, 
 lacerated coat, and he is shy one finger on the hand 
 that holds the letters. But he was the divinely 
 appointed factor in the transmission of your precious 
 document. Let the breath and the finger go; he is 
 the man for me. 
 
 " I knew by my sixth sense (which is devoted 
 entirely to matters concerning you) from whom the 
 missive was. I thought him outrageously cool. I 
 wondered that he walked so slow, and I speculated 
 that he would certainly hear my heart bouncing 
 against my spareribs. It gave an extra tremendous 
 bump when he handed me your letter. What riches ! 
 I could have kissed him ! And as I have told you, he 
 is a very plain man. 
 
 " I looked out of the window and trifled long with 
 my happiness before I opened that letter. It had 
 come by the last delivery. The sun was going down.
 
 $ A Doctor of Philosophy $> 213 
 
 It could go down, and be hanged to it I had the 
 aurora borealis in my fist ! " 
 
 After giving me various sprightly details of per- 
 sons and things for which he well knew I cared little 
 (poor Bushrod! he was of that oversensitive, over- 
 considerate class which would hand a blind man the 
 morning paper to convince him that his affliction 
 had not been remarked) after all this, he said: 
 
 " Just as I finished giving it its seventeenth read- 
 ing, Frank came in; and, for the first time in our 
 lives, he seemed to me a common, unsuccessful sort 
 of person ; and poor he had no letter from you. 
 I hasten to add here, that this observation was no 
 intrusion upon private, personal affairs. He who 
 runs may read. There could be no mistake made. 
 Nobody could look at Frank's face and not under- 
 stand at once that he has no letter from you. 
 
 " Ah, next to your dear self, which is surely best 
 of all created things, is a letter from you." 
 
 That was all, but it made me wish What ? 
 What? That I had not written? No, hardly just 
 that. Well, then, the wish being indefinite, the tears 
 it brought to my eyes and the ache it left in my 
 heart were concrete enough.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 As Solomon Says 
 
 " Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am 
 sick of love." 
 
 I WAS about to say that just before I went to 
 Boston there came a new boarder to our house. 
 
 But to say so would not be to state the thing with 
 impartial truthfulness. He did not board with us 
 at all, he was only our constant visitor, to speak 
 frankly, our sister's beau, this young man. 
 
 When I came to live with the Corcorans, he and 
 Miss Phyllis were in the acute stage which has hot 
 fits and cold fits and intermissions. Now their 
 engagement was announced, and the young man had 
 become chronic. 
 
 They intended to be married some time and go 
 to live in Mexico, where he had an uncle, and where 
 it was thought he would " do well." 
 
 Meantime, he brought to our house many volumes 
 of travel, Mexican guide-books, Spanish lexicons, 
 and phrase-books. Every evening after dinner, he 
 and she mingled their tresses over these studies, 
 which included much whispering and giggling, and 
 a very little Spanish. 
 
 I could not know when I came so gaily and gladly 
 to dwell in this pleasant little home that it was soon 
 
 214
 
 ^ As Solomon Says $ 215 
 
 to shelter a pair of blissful engaged lovers. Would 
 I have come if I had so known? Would I have 
 remained away? Who can say? Of what avail to 
 escape one such pair when the street-cars, the fer- 
 ries, the offices, homes, highways and byways were 
 alive, in short, the whole world was swarming with 
 them ? 
 
 I was singularly haunted and beset. For 
 some time I sought vainly the explanation of my 
 strange prepossession this thing which I called a 
 sending of young lovers. No need to ask what 
 enemy had sent it; there is a state of mind which 
 renders one clairvoyant to similar conditions in 
 others. This talisman draws to him who carries it 
 (whether hidden or worn openly) knowledge and 
 sight of others in that same brotherhood of pain, 
 until the whole world seems to be initiate, its 
 rnemberhood throbbing with his ache, failing with 
 his failure, or taunting his lack with its perfect 
 fulfilment. 
 
 There was our cook. Now a cook, you would 
 say, might reasonably be expected to be fat and 
 red-faced. 
 
 Not if she -cooked where I lived. No; not if I 
 boarded where she cooked. Ours was young and 
 good-looking, and she had a young man who knew 
 this, and was much pleased about it. 
 
 The waitress was also pretty, and she and her 
 beau, when they went out of a Sunday afternoon, 
 were an ecstatic and devoted pair. 
 
 But the waitress next door was the prettiest 
 creature on the block. She had curly red hair, a 
 saucy nose, and great, deep Irish blue eyes ; and so 
 fair as she, so deep in love was the grocer's young
 
 2i6 $ The Last Word $> 
 
 man, who was also her young man. My window 
 overlooked their bit of flag-walked and velvet- 
 swarded back yard, commonly the theatre of their 
 little love scenes, her coquetries, and his protesta- 
 tions. 
 
 As I walked along the street (brooding, maybe, 
 over a heartache, but intent upon my own business, 
 and I do protest, harming no one), fond couples 
 came around corners and met me face to face, or 
 overtook and passed me hurrying to leave man- 
 kind and escape to the blissful solitude of their own 
 society. And if I went into an office, even for a 
 moment, the bookkeeper would instantly forsake his 
 desk to go and lean over the stenographer, who 
 replied to his fond glances with glances as fond. 
 
 Those, our own young lovers, the sister of the 
 house and her swain, were Phyllis and Cory don in 
 the flesh. Oh, they were " plumb symbolical," as 
 Jim said. And I had them, like the poor, always 
 with me. 
 
 I was not indeed, and in good faith I was not 
 sour, nor crusty, nor cynical, nor envious. I bore 
 the sight of their fond looks, their sweet oblivious- 
 ness to all the outer world, at all sorts of odd hours 
 of the day and several evenings a week, without a 
 murmur of cheap witticism. They were, both of 
 them, pretty and agreeable, and I liked them. I 
 wished them all possible joy, and rejoiced for them 
 that their engagement was to be a long one, that 
 they might yet for months even years wait in 
 this sweet vestibule, which was made fair and beau- 
 tiful with all hope and trust, warmed and irradiated 
 by the great sun which shines in the sacred hall 
 beyond; that they might still sing this tender and
 
 ^ As Solomon Says f 217 
 
 harmonious prelude and walk about in this soft and 
 lovely Beulah, holding each other's hands, looking 
 in each other's eyes, where all wine is nectar, all 
 music harmony, all airs balmy, all thought rapture. 
 
 But I did think it pretty hard, when the weather 
 was bad, and when what the little red-haired wait- 
 ress next door, with whom I had scraped acquaint- 
 ance that I might learn the secret of her perennial 
 bliss, called " the Littra-cher bisness " was dull and 
 a burden, while Frank still looked at me with alien 
 eyes, and the key of the little studio rusted unused 
 in my jacket pocket, that my homesick and over- 
 wrought heart should be so persistently flouted, 
 as it were, and affronted by the sight of their clean- 
 swept, cut-and-dried, set-in-order felicity, and made 
 to feel with poor Orlando, " What a bitter thing it is 
 to look into happiness through another man's eyes." 
 
 In all this swelling chorus of love and dove, of 
 bliss and kiss, and eyes and sighs, and wiles and 
 smiles, poor Genevieve alone struck a minor chord. 
 
 When I came back to New York, I found that 
 my Boston work had been giving special satis- 
 faction. 
 
 I had a bit of extra matter with me not to shirk 
 the truth, it was verse I had called it 
 
 A LITERARY LOVELACE. 
 
 I will not think me light that I 
 
 Amend me of my pain, 
 Turning, with cheeks but lately dry, 
 
 To smile at life again. 
 
 Sure, a new sweetheart now I woo, 
 
 The fickle charmer Fame ; 
 And seek, synthetically, to know 
 
 What goes to make a name.
 
 2i8 The Last Word 9 
 
 This is inconstancy, yet still 
 
 Yourself will own, I know, 
 I could not woo her half so well 
 
 Had I not loved you so. 
 
 So ran the rhyme which Mr. DeWitt was pleased 
 to commend as warmly as even I thought it de- 
 served. It turned out later that he was in one of 
 what I had come to call his melting moods. 
 
 " That's all, then? " I said, as I rose and gathered 
 my belongings for departure ; when " Let me keep 
 this till to-morrow," fell in dulcet tones upon my 
 ear, and Mr. DeWitt covered the bit of verse with 
 his hand, delivering pointblank at me what a Fiji 
 Islander would have recognised as a languishing 
 glance. 
 
 But I was looking for business, not sentiment, and 
 in my impenetrable stupidity, I could not see any- 
 thing else. 
 
 " Why, no ! " I shouted, in alarm, " I'll need that 
 to-night if I am to get it in shape for the next issue." 
 
 I had reached the door before the curious, abashed 
 look with which he huffily handed it over, and his 
 ruffled silence, began to be significant to me. He 
 had been at leisure, in an expansive humour, and 
 had thought to do a little casual philandering for 
 my behoof and his own amusement. The sudden 
 enlightenment struck me rigid. 
 
 " Here," I said loudly, wheeling and presenting 
 the thing at arm's length, " you keep it if you want 
 to; I can use the rough draft to work over. I 
 beg your pardon. I didn't realise that you wanted 
 to be sentimental about it." 
 
 He looked at me dangerously, and I added with
 
 $ As Solomon Says $> 219 
 
 kind generosity, " It is never my way, and you 
 know it, to spoil a bit of practice like that." 
 
 " Go away, you unspeakable barbarian," he 
 answered, a little fiercely but he was laughing. 
 
 So I went. But outside the door something 
 stopped me. I stood there seeing mentally Gene- 
 vieve's patient English tan eyes following him about 
 the room, dumbly interrogating his well-fitted back 
 what time he was pleased to be brusque with her; 
 answering with that loving gratitude you see in the 
 eyes of a spaniel if he bore himself toward her with 
 amiable complaisance; or kindling with naive and 
 pitiful delight poor girl when he was seized 
 with the rare fancy for passing her out some such 
 slovenly unhandsome lump of sentimental confec- 
 tionery as this I had just been offered. 
 
 The big room was silent and empty. It was lunch 
 time; all the others were out, while Mr. DeWitt 
 had not yet gone. I turned, opened the door, and 
 put in my head. 
 
 " Don't don't do it," I fired at him, with tone 
 duly lowered to miss a distant stenographer clicking 
 away at her machine. 
 
 " Do what ? " he ejaculated, looking up startled, 
 from some proof-sheets. 
 
 " Why, this sort of thing," I explained, carefully 
 introducing a hand and arm to gesticulate and dem- 
 onstrate with. " Of course you're entirely welcome 
 to try your wiles upon me as much as you like I 
 don't, mind. But I am almost useless where quick 
 artistic appreciation is required. I'm absent-minded, 
 and never notice a thing ' until the earthquake hath 
 passed by ; ' and then you are mad." 
 
 " Oh, no! " he exclaimed, " you do yourself rank
 
 iio $ The Last Word f 
 
 injustice. I never met a more dexterous flirt. Think 
 of the exquisite coquetry of your rejoinder a mo- 
 ment ago. I've " 
 
 Mr. DeWitt was funny. I always liked him when 
 he was funny; but I was not to be diverted. With 
 my eye fixed seriously upon him, I continued as 
 though he had not spoken. 
 
 " And as for anything er anybody else 
 it is well, it is too easy, don't you think ? It is not 
 worthy of your talents ? " 
 
 " You flatter me," he began, in what tried to be 
 a sarcastic voice, though his eye, honester than his 
 intention, fell before mine, and the red rose in his 
 face ; " you suggest an altogether too high estimate 
 of my fascinations." 
 
 " I tell you," I declared, growing in assurance, 
 " you are animated by exactly the same lofty spirit 
 which fires the bad, mean little boy who steals apples 
 he doesn't want, for the mere purpose of ' showing 
 off." 
 
 " Hold there, my fiery young Western Advocate. 
 You are just like a woman " 
 
 Mr. DeWitt had made this observation (in a 
 modified form and where I could not well resent it) 
 many times before. Now, the instant he said it, I 
 came inside and slammed the door behind me. 
 
 " You say I am just like a woman, Mr. DeWitt ! " 
 I exclaimed, bearing down upon him so rapidly that 
 he looked a trifle wild. " That's a strange accusation 
 for you to bring against me. It seems to me that if 
 a man, even the average man a creature of very 
 ordinary brains and comprehension compared with 
 you would sit down, put his head in his hands, 
 and try with all his might to think, he might make
 
 + As Solomon Says $ 221 
 
 a shift to realise the the foolishness of such a 
 charge." 
 
 " The deuce he might ! " echoed Mr. DeWitt with 
 some warmth. 
 
 " Yes, I think he might. Just like a woman ! 
 What would he expect a woman to be just like, 
 should you say? What do you suppose he would 
 wish to have her like ? What should you, yourself, 
 for instance, choose to have a woman like? A 
 camel? A weasel? An ostrich? Or, worse yet, 
 a man ? " 
 
 Mr. DeWitt, whose fine temper never stays riled 
 long, murmured something which sounded like 
 " dove," but it regarded me not. 
 
 " When I do my unhoused free condition put into 
 circumspection," I said, " and take a husband " 
 (" Poor soul ! my heart bleeds for him ! " ejaculated 
 Mr. DeWitt parenthetically), " he will undoubtedly 
 have some faults and failings possibly very bad 
 ones." 
 
 " Heaven send he may," said Mr. DeWitt, cor- 
 dially, " for you need 'em him, and the faults." 
 
 " Being a man," I continued, " he may nay, 
 he will forget to mail my letters. He is like to 
 swear more than reason " 
 
 " Being your husband," interjected Mr. DeWitt, 
 " he may have provocation." 
 
 " He may even, on rare occasions (not loudly nor 
 vulgarly, but in a quiet, gentlemanly way), get drunk 
 and beat me " 
 
 "Sure!" cried Mr. DeWitt, heartily, "sure 
 what's he there for ? " 
 
 " Well," I said, " I admit these things as possible 
 to befall, and for sufficient compensating advantages,
 
 222 $ The Last Word ^ 
 
 to be borne; but he must never, never go so far 
 as to accuse me of being just like a woman. For 
 whatever betide, I shall never remind him that he 
 is like a man. I shall want him to be like one. 
 Indeed, unless he is so like that you would take 
 him to be one, I shall not want him at all." 
 
 " And don't take him, anyhow," counselled my 
 editor. 
 
 " However, all this is beside the question 
 I began, but he jumped up suddenly. 
 
 " I'll be hanged if I put up with it ! " he exclaimed. 
 " Say another word about about your nonsense, 
 and I'll fire you, miss and without a char-ack- 
 ter, too!" 
 
 As I backed warily outside, made ready to with- 
 draw my head and shut the door, he said something 
 about a Woman's Rights club, and giving my tal- 
 ents a show, and then laughed genially. 
 
 But I observed that it was somehow impossible 
 to him thereafter at least when I was about 
 to put Genevieve through her paces in quite so 
 wanton a manner as had been his custom. It was 
 true, she looked always depressed. Her mutely 
 questioning eyes, raised from articles on " Plaid 
 Silk Hose," or " Taffeta for Hats," dumbly inter- 
 rogated Mr. DeWitt's uniformly polite and unre- 
 sponsive profile. But I would rather see her thus, 
 than walking about in a fool's paradise, smiling fatu- 
 ously because his " yes " or " no " or " good morn- 
 ing " had been said to her in a " tone of voice," or 
 accompanied by a " look." And though it did pain 
 me the utter uselessness of it all, or what in mere 
 mortal eyes seemed useless and uncalled for I said 
 to myself grimly, " I have demonstrated in my
 
 As Solomon Says f 223 
 
 own proper person that heartache is not fatal. Gene- 
 vieve has a good, stout constitution. Let her take 
 her medicine. It will not kill her; and since she 
 seems to be a simple fool, why, she needs must have 
 it, and the sooner the better." 
 
 Always and always in those weary days, I was 
 fighting the desire to go back to the little studio 
 and what I told myself was happy bondage. I 
 had not met Frank once at the office, and realised 
 now that our frequent encounters in the past had not 
 been altogether the result of chance. 
 
 The little key in my pocket tempted me, and 
 laughed at my barren strength of denial. " Go to," 
 whispered the bit of metal to my finger ends, " am I 
 not the talisman to unlock the door. to your treasure 
 room, where is held waiting for you all the wealth of 
 all the Universe? " 
 
 To go meant, of course, surrender. To remain 
 away, never even to get my manuscript, would be 
 held, I knew, all unkindness, all forsaking. 
 
 Finally, choosing the hour when Frank, under any 
 circumstances, would surely be at his lunch, I put 
 the key in my pocket and went. 
 
 There was nobody about, but the door was un- 
 locked. I surmised that Lemuel was within, 
 cleaning. 
 
 But no, the room was empty. I looked about it, 
 and my eyes filled with tears. The dear, dear little 
 room ! scene of so much bliss, and so much misery. 
 No other four walls could ever shut in a space which 
 would be to me the same. 
 
 Then there was a long impatient sigh, and Frank 
 rose up from the easel which had concealed him, and
 
 224 $* Tne Last Word -^ 
 
 came toward me. Such a strange, worn, sorrowful 
 Frank such a radiant Frank! 
 
 " O dearest ! " he cried. " You did come back. 
 You couldn't hold out against love and me! " And 
 straightway his arms were about me, and I was at 
 peace. 
 
 " You don't know how I have missed you," he 
 went on, when after a time we sat together, talking 
 things over. " Maybe you think I've been able to do 
 one stroke of work since my wayward sweetheart 
 deserted me. Maybe you think I've been a pleasant 
 person to have about. Maybe you think I didn't 
 come down to this old shack forty times a day and 
 ask Lemuel if there'd been any angels in since my 
 last call." 
 
 He came over and knelt beside me. " Yes, it's 
 Cara," he whispered. " Those are her very same 
 eyes. Those are her hands you'd never come 
 back and leave any of the sweetness any bit of 
 the heart of my girl in Boston." 
 
 I admitted, in suitable language, that not Carring- 
 ton West, an individual, but Francis Randolph's 
 sweetheart, a thing, had returned, complete, to him 
 who desired and owned her. 
 
 " Bless your flashing sunny soul ! Maybe it isn't 
 good to have you back maybe I won't keep you, 
 now I've got you ! " he murmured. 
 
 Alas, for the doctor's excellent theories! Alas, 
 for my more than excellent resolution to profit by 
 what I knew to be the truth ! 
 
 " O Frank," I hurried on, " I am so glad you 
 can care to have me back again, and that you aren't 
 going to scold me or find fault with me." 
 
 " Fault ! " echoed Frank, in open horror. " Why,
 
 ^ As Solomon Says $ 225 
 
 where do you suppose your faults are? I have never 
 found any in you yet." 
 
 " Oh, I've got them all right," I answered ; and 
 of course should have added, " So have you. We 
 are two very faulty people who could be much to 
 each other if we would but recognise this and be 
 reasonable." 
 
 " You have faults, have you ? " inquired Frank. 
 <: Well, when do you suppose they are going to put 
 in an appearance? According to theory, you would 
 be tame without them, but it is a mistaken theory 
 after all. Your good points are so fascinating, so 
 irresistible, so interesting, that you don't need any 
 defects to set them off. What is the good of a 
 defect anyway ? I've half a mind to get rid of some 
 of mine." 
 
 Do you believe, with so sweet a bid as that for 
 the things an overfond heart is always too ready 
 to say, that I let him go on supposing I could see any 
 defect in him? Not I! For what was I given a 
 gift of eloquence if not for this sole use that I 
 should burn more beautiful incense than another 
 woman could at the shrine of Frank? 
 
 It was a halcyon time. I knew, and perhaps 
 Frank did as well, that there was no foundation, no 
 stability to our peace ; yet I closed my eyes to doubts 
 and questionings and enjoyed the blissful present. 
 
 " What happy days we shall have working to- 
 gether," murmured Frank, finally. 
 
 "The dear, blessed work!" I echoed. "I shall 
 do better than I have ever done. I feel that I shall 
 be able to please you, because it is for you. Nothing 
 but the best is good enough for it." 
 
 " Don't think, dear," said Frank, " that I do not
 
 226 -P The Last Word <* 
 
 consider all of your work superb, if I say that I 
 believe you will indeed do better. Why, look at it ! 
 Such affection as ours is a fire of inspiration. It 
 is not devastating. It burns on the altar of peace. 
 It warms and enlightens. How can you help doing 
 finer things than you have ever done ! " 
 
 I was beginning to feel unhappy. Indeed, Neme- 
 sis had me, her scrawny arm locked tight about my 
 aching throat. I clearly recognised in myself that 
 pitiful being who goes to the dentist to have out a 
 bad tooth a notoriously bad tooth, and one roundly 
 and publicly devoted to the forceps; whose poor 
 heart fails him at sight of the cold steel, his faltering 
 tongue inquires the time of day, or asks if Mr. 
 Smith be in, and his craven feet creep thence with 
 him. 
 
 From this unwelcome picture of my spiritual 
 self, I turned feverishly to discussion of the big 
 book. " Show me your drawings," I urged, " all 
 that you did while I was gone. I have an idea that 
 I want to write out and submit to you. It will 
 need special pictures." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you I did no good while you 
 were gone ? " Frank asked. " That was because 
 we parted in anger. Oh, you are a power, little 
 girl. You can make and unmake me as you choose. 
 I never take up my pencil now without thinking of 
 yours. It is so sweet to think of their going into 
 battle together. We'll put up a great fight, won't we, 
 dearest ? " 
 
 I was a power because I could make or unmake 
 him! 
 
 Even in the midst of my blindness, I had sense to
 
 $ As Solomon Says 227 
 
 know and remember that I should be a power only 
 as I made or unmade my own soul. 
 
 " Frank," I announced presently, " I consulted an 
 oracle while I was in Boston, and she told me just 
 why you love me. You don't know the real reason." 
 
 " Ah, but I do," he answered fondly. " I love 
 your fine soul, your big brain, your tender heart, 
 mother-like as well as lover-like, your priceless 
 humour and unsmotherable wit, your delightful 
 presence, your lovely, graceful body, your unalter- 
 able honesty, and incapacity for any kind of hy- 
 pocrisy oh, and qualities one cannot set down in 
 the most affectionate catalogue. But I love you 
 not because I can explain you. There is only one 
 eternal, unanswerable explanation and justification 
 for love we love because. And yet, you know 
 dear, if I wanted to, I could give more reasons for 
 loving you than would justify half a community for 
 loving the other half." 
 
 It appeared to me time for the book to receive 
 some attention. There were occasions upon which 
 I was even grateful to the book. We planned and 
 worked long and earnestly, but Frank was in a 
 rarely tender mood this day. As we sat, he at his 
 drawing-board, I at the table, he called suddenly but 
 guardedly across the room to me, 
 
 "Carita!" 
 
 "What, Frank?" I answered, startled. 
 
 " Nothing," he told me softly, " only I wanted to 
 remind you that I'm still loving you you might 
 forget, you little wild thing." 
 
 We did excellent work. Lemuel was with us a 
 goodly portion of the time, and a young artist from
 
 228 -^ The Last Word ^ 
 
 one of the studios beyond came in to show us a 
 poster design. 
 
 Frank had an engagement, and left before I was 
 ready to go, Lemuel departing with him. They had 
 been gone but a moment when I heard a quick light 
 step upon the stair. The door flung open and Frank 
 hurried in. 
 
 " Forget something? " I inquired, my fond glance 
 running to welcome and caress and delight in the 
 loved face and form. 
 
 " No, I came back to tell you that I love you/' 
 he replied laughing. He stood beside my table 
 and dropped an arm lightly about my shoulders as 
 I sat. " I believe I have mentioned it before and 
 in almost those very words," he whispered. 
 
 " I think I remember your alluding to something 
 of the sort," I whispered back, looking up into his 
 face with utter content. 
 
 " Well, it is a good idea of mine," he maintained. 
 " It will bear repeating." 
 
 But, despite the light speech, he looked down 
 upon me with eyes of passionate tenderness. 
 
 As my eyes met the gaze, love swelled in my heart 
 like pain. Still looking in each other's eyes, he drew 
 my hands from their work. " Frank, O Frank ! " 
 I said, almost with a sob, " you are all of love to 
 me you have my whole heart." 
 
 And as he took me gently into his arms, my face 
 on his breast, his cheek pressed to mine, his deep 
 voice murmured in my ear, " Little sweetheart my 
 little darling my lamb and so have you all mine, 
 and all of me. And we will be so tender of each 
 other's love, and heart, and life. We will shut out 
 all pain and unlove. Mine mine mine," he
 
 ^ As Solomon Says $ 229 
 
 whispered again and again, in love's own accents of 
 breaking tenderness and music. And then the sweet- 
 est lips that ever said " I love " came seeking mine. 
 And in my heart I cried, " Oh, if I could go now! 
 If I could close my eyes, here on his breast, his lips 
 upon mine, his arms around me, his heart beating in 
 harmony with mine only love and peace between 
 and about us ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " For A Hawk A Horse 
 or A Husband" 
 
 " Come, wilt thou see me ride ? 
 And when I am o' horseback, I will swear 
 I love thee infinitely." 
 
 IT had been a late season, but spring was upon 
 the land at last. And my uneasy, presaging heart 
 stirred with spring longings for the old, free, whole- 
 some life of my Texas plains. 
 
 I had found something touching in that earlier and 
 abrupt bursting forth of all New York into light 
 fresh garments. It seemed the city dweller's devoir 
 to the jocund season, his method of indicating that 
 he, too, as well as his country brother, knows that 
 spring is come. 
 
 Before the eye of memory between me and the 
 copy I toiled upon was persistently spread that 
 wonder of gracious loveliness, a Texas prairie in 
 spring flower. Along the irrigating ditches and in 
 every bit of shadow, here and there, they clustered 
 and crowded, blossoms of pale pink, deep rose, 
 purple, violet, and pure white. My introverted sight 
 beheld the broad gaze of the sun to fall upon whole 
 slopes of vivid scarlet and acres of daffodil yellow, 
 burning gold, the very concentration and radiance of 
 
 230
 
 " A Hawk A Horse or A Husband " 23 1 
 
 the living sunshine itself. There were the mesquite 
 trees, just in leaf, looking like tender green wil- 
 lows ; the cacti unfolding their splendours of orange, 
 blood red, and rosy pink ; sufficient of themselves, in 
 their blooming time, to glorify a whole region. 
 
 Now was the season of round-ups, and sheep dip- 
 pings and shearings. Continually, above the city's 
 brazen roar, I heard a trampling of many hoofs, a 
 tossing and clashing of myriad horns, a multifold 
 lowing and bleating, the voices of the herder, the 
 dipper, the rustler, the brander, the hot iron, and 
 the bellowing, protesting Texas calf. 
 
 I could not choose but know how, out there, the 
 streams were up, the array os running full; the 
 whole face of earth laughing back to the laughing 
 skies ; the air wooing, seductive, intoxicating. The 
 beeves would begin to be sleek and fat, and your 
 saddle-pony, that was turned into the pasture a 
 month ago to rest up, as broncho as a wild mustang 
 of the plains. 
 
 And whether I would or no, I must think of 
 Nipper and Glass-Eye and Little Bronc, galloping 
 loose over the stretches of the Ojo Bravo pastures, 
 my saddle hanging in the ranch-house storeroom. 
 And a kind of sickness would blow across me. 
 
 I know that I chanted this sort of thing con- 
 tinually, at the house, at the office, and to Jim 
 Baxter, who had come over from Washington, and 
 at once captivated all the hearts at both places. 
 
 Seven times a day did I praise my native pastures, 
 celebrating the perennial charm of their vernal re- 
 newing, and the delights of their spring drama, until 
 what time my editor heard the sound of the cornet, 
 flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds
 
 232 * The Last Word ^ 
 
 of instruments tuning up for the accustomed over- 
 ture, he called a halt in pretty clear, round terms; 
 and Genevieve, and even Mr. Corcoran sustained 
 him. 
 
 " Hold hard there, my prairie blossom," Mr. 
 DeWitt interrupted me one day. " If you keep up 
 that stroke much longer, you'll convince us it was a 
 mistake to transplant you." 
 
 Genevieve gave me a significant look out of her 
 solemn eyes, as one child says to another who is 
 under discipline, " I told you you'd be whipped if 
 you kept on." 
 
 And Mr. Corcoran came in gravely, " Yes, he is 
 right, Young Lochinvar. You have about filled up 
 the measure of our instruction on the plains, the cat- 
 tle business and broncho riding. We're not capable 
 of much more. As I see it, we've got to get this 
 thing checked in you, or you'll have to turn loose 
 your job here, go back to West Texas, and attend to 
 the neglected matter of breaking your neck." 
 
 The president was passing us at the moment, 
 going toward his private room, and stopped to listen 
 to the discussion, giving me, unobserved, a tender 
 glance and a fleeting hand pressure. To the amaze- 
 ment and mystification of the others, he warmly 
 seconded the suggestion that I go home to Texas, 
 urging that I needed a vacation. 
 
 No one knew but Miss Salem, who ever kept her 
 own counsel, how the Middle West was being writ- 
 ten, and none guessed, save probably Bushrod Floyd, 
 that there was more than the usual business and 
 literary interest between Frank and me. 
 
 Now, when the president had left us, Mr. DeWitt 
 suggested,
 
 " A Hawk A Horse or A Husband " 233 
 
 " Try a substitute. Go up to the region of the 
 riding academies, and sample some of them; see 
 some real riding. You might undertake a round or 
 two yourself if you have the nerve we'll foot 
 the bill, if you make some good copy out of it. 
 What do you say ? " 
 
 The thought that I was due at the studio to work 
 on That Book, which had just come to a portentously 
 stupid portion like a heavy, dull, sodden pudding 
 bestuck with bitter, dark plums of statistics that 
 I was to go and write, I pray you recollect, while 
 Frank would not be there was even then eating 
 into my heart. And 
 
 " You may come with me," supplemented Gene- 
 vieve, " I am going up there this afternoon. I can 
 give you some points." 
 
 "On ?" I said. 
 
 " On riding," she retorted, with unexpected spirit, 
 " though I am going to get a number of personal 
 items. I have ridden since I was six years old 
 until I came to America." 
 
 As I hesitated, eyeing her, I heard Mr. Corcoran 
 chuckle ; and Mr. DeWitt muttered to him, " Sick 
 'em ! It'll be interesting. Texas plains against Eng- 
 lish 'cross country. I'll bet on the Texas girl." 
 
 "Well, I think I'll back Albion," debated the 
 shameless Mr. Corcoran. " She doesn't make so 
 much noise, but she's a stayer, Miss Bucks is." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to go, Miss Bucks," I said, 
 cordially, " are you quite ready? Then, if you like, 
 let's go right along." And I followed her out, turn- 
 ing back at the door to include the two men in one 
 glance of comprehensive scorn. 
 
 Outside we met Jim Baxter coming in, he an-
 
 234 $ The Last Word f 
 
 nounced, to loaf with us a little while, if he should 
 be allowed. Jim because, I suppose, he is so big 
 and simple, so whole and harmonious a creature - 
 is at once understood, liked, and desired by the most 
 widely different people. 
 
 I have never seen Frank more sweetly and pleas- 
 ingly himself than he always was with Jim. Bush- 
 rod openly loved the tall Texan ; Mr. DeWitt showed 
 him a half-humourous affection; while the whole 
 Corcoran household and the orthodox, conventional, 
 rigidly-limited Miss Bucks all delighted in him. 
 
 So now Genevieve and I gladly annexed Jim, and 
 the three of us went up to one of the big fashionable 
 riding academies near the park. 
 
 We beheld horsemanship as she is taught, Gene- 
 vieve with looks of respectful approval, we Texans 
 with alien, derisive, prejudiced eyes, of course. 
 
 "Isn't it funny?" I demanded of Jim. 
 
 " It is the best of exercise," interfered Miss Bucks, 
 jealously. 
 
 "Oh, yes," I assented (as Jim remained silent), 
 " plodding around this ring is no doubt good exer- 
 cise. It costs a young fortune, and ought to be good 
 for something. But if you've learned to ride as you 
 did to talk or walk, if you've loped across the plains, 
 with neither hill, hollow, nor your pony's humour 
 to interfere with your galloping from dawn to dark, 
 where the sky was the only boundary the eye could 
 reach, as it closed over your vast brown-green floor 
 like an inverted bowl why, this seems pretty 
 tame." 
 
 " But do you not see," protested Miss Bucks, 
 " that these people are doing, and doing well, some-
 
 " A Hawk A Horse or A Husband " 23 5 
 
 thing much more difficult than that common canter- 
 ing 'cross country, of which you are talking?" 
 
 " Yes, I see it," I answered. " I am perfectly 
 aware that I could not, on a little flat saddle and 
 with short stirrups, ride a spirited horse at a rough 
 trot, without labour and practice. But I cannot 
 imagine why anybody should wish to do it." 
 
 " For the exercise it exercises every muscle in 
 the human body," pronounced Miss Bucks solemnly 
 almost religiously. 
 
 " Oh, that ! " I cried in disgust. "If that is all, 
 I'd rather buy one of these household whing-whangs 
 with weights and handles, and pull and haul it by a 
 diagram, till I had got the ' exercise ' needed. Then 
 I suppose I might be permitted to get on a smooth- 
 gaited horse, and ride him as I pleased, simply for 
 fun." 
 
 " Fun," echoed Miss Bucks, with a strange falling 
 inflection. 
 
 " Oh, Jim ! " I cried, " do you know what vision 
 that smug riding-master, with his English whiskers 
 and his English top-boots, brings up to me? " 
 
 " Well, no," hesitated Jim, eyeing the man. " He 
 don't remind me of anything I ever saw before." 
 
 " Why, he brings up to my mind your Baldy," I 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Baldy was a glass-eyed, dish-faced pinto, invet- 
 erately broncho, for whom the Devil River region 
 was ever too small when he got on a rampage, and 
 whose digestion troubled him if he did not rampage 
 at least once a week. 
 
 :< This chap and Baldy would make a good pair to 
 draw to, wouldn't they ? " agreed Jim. 
 
 " Fancy," I said, " the surprise of this immaculate
 
 236 $ The Last Word <& 
 
 and consummate individual on Baldy's back, when 
 he should feel Baldy's spine arching like that of a 
 high-strung cat upon the approach of a dog. Think 
 of his well-bred horror when the saddle should sud- 
 denly shoot up some six feet, and come down on four 
 legs as rigid as iron, with a sickening plunk ! What 
 disapprobation he would feel for Baldy's trick of 
 standing on his hind legs and playing the ' Carnival 
 of Venice,' with all the runs, variations, and heavy 
 bass on an imaginary piano ten feet long, with his 
 fore feet; or his ballet-girl accomplishment of hop- 
 ping clear off the ground, reversing himself in mid- 
 air and coming down with his head where his tail 
 had been, and vice versa." 
 
 " Yes," assented Jim, mildly, " Baldy's a mean 
 horse. Jake Shorter's riding him this year, an' him 
 an' Baldy'd been having it up and down the last 
 time I saw 'em together. Yes up and down it 
 was. But Jake didn't make any complaint. He 
 just remarked, ' I've seed buckin' ponies, and as a 
 broncho buster I've rode buckin' ponies; but that 
 there glass-eyed, pole-necked, spotted-skinned hye- 
 ner's got more kinds of buck'n a greaser's got kinds 
 o' lies!'" 
 
 " Well," I said, laughing, " when this sawdust 
 knight is inducted into the approved method of riding 
 a bucking broncho, may I be there to see ! " 
 
 " Why, yes," spoke up Genevieve, with some heat, 
 " and I, too. I dare say you would find it excellent 
 sport ; for I don't doubt he can do it perfectly ! " 
 
 I laughed again, incredulously and unpleasantly, 
 and the red flamed up under Genevieve's transparent 
 skin.
 
 " A Hawk A Horse or A Husband " 237 
 
 Jim's voice fell upon the rising storm, and 
 quenched it. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he agreed, heartily, with his large, 
 placid toleration ; " I expect he could do it all right. 
 We don't admire this sort of thing, Miss Carry," 
 indicating the mass of riders with a wave of his 
 hand, " but it isn't safe to suppose that a fellow who 
 rides that way can't do anything else." 
 
 Miss Bucks gave him a grateful glance, and leav- 
 ing them to harmonise, I turned to look at the 
 riding, when coming toward me from the entrance 
 door I saw the face and form that were never far 
 from my thoughts. Where was there ever any one 
 like him ? so masterful, so compelling, so irresistibly 
 lovable, my heart's tormentor and darling, its grief 
 and delight. 
 
 He had come hoping to catch us, he said; he 
 wanted some rough sketches of horses and riders. 
 Miss Bucks and I both went to the dressing-rooms 
 and put on habits, and Frank made several rapid 
 sketches, vigorous, masterly things, of us and Jim 
 mounted and variously grouped. His work was 
 admirable. I looked at it and was filled with satis- 
 faction. I could indeed feel proud of him as an 
 artist ; and as he talked to the others, and I observed 
 the distinctive charm of the man, as he helped me 
 on and off my horse, his eyes dwelling tenderly upon 
 me, his touch caressing me, his whispered word of 
 admiration and approval in my ear, I told myself 
 that he was the flower of gentlemen as well, and the 
 prince of lovers.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 The Highest Places 
 
 " Wisdom crieth upon the highest places of the city." 
 
 " BUT, Mr. DeWitt," I demurred, " do you think 
 it will make a story at all? It seems to me there's 
 very little in it." 
 
 " Very little in what ? In the Island matter, or 
 in that skull of yours ? " 
 
 " Oh, if you mean that "I began. " And then 
 I can't always be " 
 
 Mr. DeWitt looked at his watch, and announced, 
 " My dear Wild West, I think I have twenty minutes 
 till those proofs come in which may be profitably 
 devoted to your education." 
 
 Here, I know, he detected some restless motion on 
 my part, and a threatening light in my free-born 
 Texas eye, for he exclaimed, somewhat hastily, 
 " Hold there ! I'll give it to you easy, in the form 
 of a story. Come now, I'm not often purely benevo- 
 lent; but this is intended wholly for your good. 
 You want to be educated out of a sort of wooden- 
 headed literalness to which you are so wedded of 
 which you are so respectful. You simply must get 
 rid of that idea that a story will come to you whole. 
 You'll find your very best ones are one-third outside 
 stuff and two-thirds from yourself." 
 
 238
 
 $ The Highest Places *9 239 
 
 " Well, go on with your instructive talk," I said, 
 sullenly. " Does it begin ' Once upon a time/ or ' A 
 was a ? ' 
 
 Mr. DeWitt honoured this speech as it deserved, 
 and proceeded. The story he told me was that of 
 a lank and somewhat seedy provincial contributor 
 who came to New York, and, being curtly advised 
 by a savage, overworked editor to go to the top 
 of old Trinity and write an article about what he 
 saw, accepted the satiric suggestion literally, went, 
 looked, was inspired, and wrote an article which 
 " took the town." 
 
 My editor wound up impressively, " So this is 
 what happened to the man who not only could make 
 his story out of himself, but who knew it. I now 
 dismiss you, with my blessing, to New York in 
 general, and yourself generally, particularly, and all 
 the time. Go forth into yourself my dear 
 young literary and journalistic postulant, and return 
 bringing in your sheaves." 
 
 Words failed my sulky resentment. " Huh ! " I 
 announced, and walked slowly and truculently out, 
 Mr. DeWitt's glinting eye fixed steadily on me to the 
 last, so that on my way to the door, I only dared push 
 distressfully against his overcoat which lay across 
 a desk, upset a photograph as I swept up my belong- 
 ings, and step gingerly on Texas, whose yelps, along 
 with Mr. DeWitt's steely glance, pursued me all the 
 way down the eleven stories and out onto the street. 
 
 Frank went down in the elevator with me. " I 
 heard DeWitt administering that old story of his 
 about the Trinity steeple fellow, Cara. Surely you 
 wouldn't call that stuff advice, or attempt to take
 
 240 $ The Last Word ^ 
 
 it literally. Can you come on up to the studio? I 
 have a plan at last for that tenth chapter." 
 
 " I'm sorry, Frank," I answered, untruthfully, 
 " but I must get up my week's story." And he left 
 me at the corner, evidently offended. 
 
 When he .was gone, the effect of Mr. DeWitt's 
 recital returned upon me. My anger evaporated 
 as my enthusiasm rose. I said to myself, " Beshrew 
 me, but I also will climb up on a high place and look 
 down." (Alas! the wooden-headed literalness so 
 perceivingly touched upon by Mr. DeWitt was al- 
 ready displaying itself. ) "I will be struck with the 
 vastness of the human swarm beneath me, saddened 
 by the contemplation of its mournful destiny, amused 
 at its vapid follies and mole-like blindness. I will 
 be uplifted, pitying, pathetic, cynical, humourous. I 
 will ponder, philosophise, scintillate. And I, even 
 I, will also take the town ! " 
 
 Having settled that it was a deed to be done, and 
 there being, with me, only one suitable time to do 
 any approved thing, the present instant, I se- 
 lected as my point of operations a sky-scraper far 
 above the tip of Trinity's spire, and started out from 
 the house after lunch blithe and hopeful, armed with 
 a large red note-book, a freshly sharpened pencil, a 
 batch of poetical quotations which I knew should 
 occur to me at certain points in my observations, and 
 an unshaken confidence in my ability to feel as many 
 different ways in a given time as anybody. 
 
 I journeyed with common people up to the seven- 
 teenth floor, in an elevator that went so fast it swept 
 out of me before we reached the tenth story every 
 sensation but a big, pale gray astonishment, leaving 
 my mind in a charmingly blank condition to receive
 
 $ The Highest Places ^ 241 
 
 any impressions which I felt the view ought to make 
 upon me. From the seventeenth floor, where the 
 elevator abandoned me, I climbed up and up on 
 foot, till I began to fear that some thoughtless 
 person had, in cruel jest, purposely removed and 
 secreted the end of the stairway. 
 
 These fears were unfounded, for I presently 
 crawled up the last little ladderway, through a large 
 rat-hole, and out into the air. I stepped up on to the 
 narrow circular platform, and, poking my nose 
 incautiously over the stone coping, looked directly 
 down. Then I shut my eyes and jerked my head 
 back exactly in the maner of a turtle. The dome 
 rocked to its foundation. A vague rushing filled 
 my ears, and inward trembling possessed me. I 
 wondered if anybody of just my weight had ever 
 been up there before, and hastily laid down my note- 
 book by way of throwing out ballast. 
 
 This was not a promising start, but I gathered 
 myself together and cautiously tried again. I 
 avoided looking directly down, and confined my 
 attention to the more remote streets, where the tiny 
 horse and elevated cars moved along like minute 
 and ingenious mechanical toys ; where the continual 
 streams of people, meeting, passing, hurrying to and 
 fro, made no impression of individualities upon the 
 mind. I was about to be struck with the multitudi- 
 nous human life of the great city, and the first quo- 
 tation was just going to occur to me, when my medi- 
 tations were interrupted by a deep educational voice 
 behind me, issuing a mandate to some one below 
 deck. 
 
 I glanced hastily around and saw, ascending 
 through the rat-hole, a long drab visage surmounted
 
 242 *> The Last Word $ 
 
 by a forbidding black bonnet. I guessed but too 
 truly, from the sounds that now came up the flume, 
 that she was a preceptress from some outlying semi- 
 nary, convoying a class of girls on a sightseeing 
 tour, and bent on dosing them with ingeniously in- 
 correct information. 
 
 Now, could anything worse have befallen! 
 
 They were as lively as so many young crows ; and 
 as the preceptress lectured upon the surrounding 
 objects they soon exhausted their little stock of 
 adjectives. 
 
 The Brooklyn Bridge, I learned, was " sweet," the 
 various tall buildings around " awfully nice," the 
 shipping, the engirdling arms of the North and 
 East Rivers, " too cunning for anything; " and the 
 way Madame explained everything was " just 
 grand." They scuffled so recklessly that my heart 
 was kept in my mouth. By the time they went 
 down, all my thoughts on " No. I uplifted " were 
 in a state of chaos. I collected my faculties with an 
 effort, and went determinedly on to the second stage, 
 the sad, reflective, philosophical one, the quotation 
 for which was, 
 
 " We scheme and plan, the cry of love 
 Mounts upward from the seething city." 
 
 The very thought of " the moonlit mount, where 
 silence sits to listen to the stars," which I had igno- 
 rantly hoped to work in somewhere, made me weary. 
 
 I had no more than got to the " seething city," and 
 into a dusky, remote, pensive frame of mind, when 
 with a volley of little soft exclamations, and much 
 helping of Mamie and Lula and Maudie, by George
 
 $ The Highest Places $ 243 
 
 and Charlie and Arthur, not one pair, but a whole 
 platoon of honeymooners invaded me. Of all the 
 honeymooners I ever saw, these were the most 
 virulent and confluent, the most flagrant and aban- 
 doned. So far from trying to conceal their besotted 
 condition, they only feared lest one might fail to 
 observe it, and put themselves to continual trouble 
 to make it plain to one. George held Mamie, who 
 was too venturesome ; and Lula clasped Charlie, who 
 was wildly reckless. They all chewed gum with an 
 ardour and devotion I have never seen equalled. 
 
 But I would fain draw the veil of silence over the 
 sufferings they inflicted upon me, and only say that 
 they finally left me; they took their beaks from out 
 my heart, and took their forms from off my door. 
 
 I had not come to New York to succeed in journal- 
 ism only to be balked by an even half-dozen of 
 honeymooners not I. So I thrust far from me the 
 very remembrance of them, and schemed out what it 
 seemed to me ought to make a pretty fair article of 
 a bitter, pessimistic sort, if not the dazzling prose 
 poem I had expected to write. I had opened my 
 note-book upon the stone coping, when a voice 
 behind me, the sweetest voice in all the world, but 
 wholly unwelcome there and then, said, softly, 
 " Carita." 
 
 I turned to find Frank looking quite as fond as 
 any of those bridegrooms. I was enraged. I was 
 reduced to the last drop of patience. It was plain he 
 thought a bit of sentiment some hundreds of feet 
 above the rest of the world would be rather nice. Of 
 course he did, and I remembered with inward quail- 
 ing the grins of those young Benedicts just departed. 
 
 I rose abruptly. " I'm just going down, Frank,"
 
 244 + The Last Word 
 
 I said. And my note-book must have taken the hint, 
 for it flopped off the edge of the coping like a big 
 awkward bird, and went flapping down to the street. 
 
 " Don't hurry away," Frank urged. " I never 
 have a moment alone with you that isn't spoiled by 
 work. Let us sit and talk a little while." 
 
 The work at the studio was work, you see. This 
 matter, which was only a commission from Mr. De- 
 Witt, and concerned my weekly column whereby I 
 earned my bread, was plainly regarded as a bit of 
 child's play, to be pushed aside disrespectfully. It 
 was not a propitious beginning. 
 
 " Cara," Frank went on, as we sat on the big 
 ledge and looked down at the city, " I want you 
 to let me announce our engagement privately 
 to a few friends only," as he saw instant protest in 
 my face. 
 
 " Wait a little. It it's all so new now. We 
 scarcely know yet oh, let's wait awhile," I 
 pleaded, incoherently. 
 
 " I want the privilege of calling upon you often, 
 dear. We want to go out together, to begin to 
 belong to each other. I should like to tell Mrs. Cor- 
 coran," urged Frank, wistfully. 
 
 At first, the prospect of frequent calls from Frank, 
 the association of our leisure, was alluring. Then 
 I thought of our young lovers, and the vision which 
 came before me of them upon one side of the tiny 
 parlour, hanging over their lexicons and exchanging 
 glances which were in themselves dictionaries of 
 love; with Frank and myself upon the other side, 
 oblivious of them, and gazing in each other's eyes, 
 was so absurd that I laughed out. 
 
 This sounded unkind, and I was obliged to ex-
 
 $ The Highest Places ^ 245 
 
 plain the cause of my mirth. I went on from 
 Corydon and Phyllis to speak of the sending of 
 blissful lovers which had so harassed me a month 
 before, and concluded by telling him of my recent 
 honeymooners. 
 
 " There comes a pair of them now ! " I exclaimed, 
 as a blonde head appeared in the stair opening. " I 
 can always tell them by the way they brush their 
 hair." 
 
 The man in the stairway came swiftly up the 
 last steps. He had the quick, light foot character- 
 istic of some heavy people. His hat was in his 
 hand, and the fair curls were held in damp rings 
 upon his forehead by perspiration. He emerged, 
 breathing a little quick and smiling. It was Bushrod 
 Floyd. " I was down-stairs seeing about some cuts, 
 and the elevator man told me you were up here, so 
 I came " 
 
 He caught sight of Frank behind me, paused, 
 those quick-expanding pupils made his blue eyes sud- 
 denly black, and the three of us, perhaps the most 
 uncomfortable trio at that altitude in New York, 
 stared at each other for one miserable moment. 
 
 Then I found voice to say, " I was just going 
 down when you came." 
 
 " Miss West complains of interruptions," began 
 Frank, in a kindly, natural tone. " She says that all 
 the world is in a conspiracy against this one article 
 she is trying to write. Suppose we go down, Bush, 
 and leave her to such solitude as she can find." 
 
 But I protested, and the three of us went down 
 together, recovered my note-book, and separated 
 at the step of my car. 
 
 It was an overwhelming desire for an appreciative
 
 246 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 audience, and the fact that I shrank from mention- 
 ing the occurrence again to Bushrod Floyd, and 
 was thus denied his sympathy the only available 
 which blinded my eagle intellect, led captive 
 my fine judgment, and betrayed me into the idiot 
 weakness of telling this thing (with some reasonable 
 reservations) at the office yes, to Mr. DeWitt, the 
 light scoffer, himself. 
 
 He received my tragic recital so quietly, and with 
 such unusual absence of wounding comment and 
 humourous interpolation, that I fatuously deemed 
 him touched for once. When I had gotten so far, 
 and paused, he said: 
 
 " Proceed. I perish to know what you did when 
 these predatory honeymooners left." 
 
 " Well," I returned, " you know yourself that if 
 there is any redeeming feature in a calamity it is 
 my cheerful way to find it out ; so, as the last snigger 
 died away down the rat-hole, and I was alone again, 
 I said to myself, ' Number one and Number two are 
 lost. There is not a dust of benevolence left in me; 
 my natural milk of human kindness is turned to 
 Dutch cheese. If all those people I see running 
 around down there have no more sense than these 
 samples they pass up to me through the flume, I 
 want them to have corns and be disappointed in love. 
 They deserve it. It will be salutary for them. And 
 if they are not sad or in pain, they will be able to 
 devote all their time and energies to the making of 
 others so.' ' 
 
 Mr. DeWitt gave me a sort of reluctantly approv- 
 ing grin. " You are brilliantly right," he remarked. 
 " You seem to be distinctly coming out." 
 
 I continued, encouraged : " I could not, to save
 
 f The Highest Places $ 247 
 
 my life, be pathetic over the misfortunes of a lot of 
 creatures who have nothing better to do than to chase 
 a person around, interrupt him in the pursuit of his 
 legitimate avocation, and refuse him a moment to 
 reflect or emote properly. I said to myself that all 
 was not lost, however. Number one and Number 
 two were impossible, but there was yet Number 
 three. And what a frame of mind I was in to be 
 cynical! I embraced the idea of being brilliant, 
 scornful, withering! I decided to set going the 
 ever-ready, cruel laughter of the world, which never 
 sees the great ostrich that it is laughing at 
 itself." 
 
 " Yes, quite so ought to be good stuff why 
 are you so gloomy and savage about it? Let's see 
 it," said Mr. DeWitt. 
 
 " See it ? There isn't any," I responded, miser- 
 ably. " I stretched out my hand for my note-book, 
 which had been kicked by the foot of the last de- 
 scending bride onto the giddy edge of the coping. It 
 slid coquettishly away from me. I clutched for it. 
 It spread its red wings abroad, fluttered its white 
 leaves, and sailed down toward the pavement below, 
 carrying its disgracefully innocent contents." 
 
 " ' Disgracefully innocent,' is an ill phrase," inter- 
 rupted Mr. DeWitt, " a vile phrase." 
 
 " It may be so," I returned, doggedly, " but it fits 
 the case. There were no ' Descriptive bits ; ' there 
 wasn't any ' Eloquence,' any ' Pathos/ any ' Mellow 
 Humour ' or ' Sparkling Wit,' only a handful of 
 blank leaves where these all should have been ! This 
 was negatively bad ; but in the back of the book was 
 the disgraceful innocence a few recipes for freckle 
 lotions, bandoline, tea biscuits "
 
 248 $ The Last Word *^ 
 
 Mr. DeWitt roared joyously and unaffectedly. 
 
 " Oh, laugh by all means," I almost sobbed; " it's 
 so healthful, you know." 
 
 Mr. DeWitt compassionately straightened out his 
 face. 
 
 " I recovered it afterward," I went on. " That 
 building is a miserable failure, because the observa- 
 tory above the tip-top point of old Trinity spire 
 hasn't got any really good place to have emotions 
 in; no place where you can be sure that the feelings 
 you know you ought to have will not get all mixed 
 up and confused with those feelings thrust upon you 
 by trivial and irritating interruptions." 
 
 Mr. DeWitt roared again, enjoyingly, but plainly 
 more at his own thought than at anything I was 
 saying. 
 
 " Talk about ' wooden-headed literalness ' ! " he 
 cried, " but my dear Lochinvar, this breaks even 
 your record. Where on earth was your individual- 
 ity? your originality? To go up on a high place! 
 You might at least have gone and fallen down a 
 deep place or or " 
 
 " Mr. DeWitt," I interrupted, with bitterness, 
 " writing things is evidently not my vocation ; you 
 were right beyond all doubt as to the folly of trans- 
 planting little local fledgling celebrities, and Mr. 
 Randolph was all wrong. Here is Thursday's copy. 
 I shall not take the town with this story, but when 
 I consider the sort of people it seemed to be rilled 
 with, I no longer think I want it." 
 
 And I went out, resolutely gloomy and depressed, 
 followed by Mr. DeWitt's good-humoured rally- 
 ings and laughter.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "Underneath the Bough" 
 
 " Wherefore within the city fire illumined 
 Are not these punished, if God's wrath be on them ; 
 And if it be not, wherefore in such guise 
 Are they condemned ? " 
 
 THE first ardour of summer had dropped upon us 
 like a steaming blanket. 
 
 It was suddenly burning hot one morning. At 
 lunch time came a grand old, insolent, bellowing 
 storm, blew the dust rudely, brutally; thundered, 
 pelted the just and the unjust with big, hard, 
 low-bred rain, and then for a time it was cool, and 
 life (which many people had been seriously debat- 
 ing abandoning) again became feasible. But just 
 as I was beginning to lift my drooping head a bit, 
 it returned upon us hotter than before, and grinning 
 broadly as though it said, " Hah ! fooled you that 
 time!" 
 
 Hot weather is a great developer of character. 
 When the boiling heats come on, things in various 
 persons' dispositions transpire, to your great sur- 
 prise and edification and theirs. 
 
 I drooped into the office that glowing afternoon, 
 laid a moist wad of copy on Mr. De Witt's desk, and 
 
 perspired some such reflection as the above. 
 
 249
 
 250 f The Last Word <9> 
 
 My editor, crisp and fresh as usual, looked up, 
 with his little tolerant smile. 
 
 " Yes, that seems to be true, my dear South- 
 west," he agreed. " I myself have observed that 
 when the mercury begins to go up and up, and your 
 spirits, your collar and your energy down and down, 
 when the zest of life evaporates, when the heat palpi- 
 tates off buildings and sidewalks, when the day is 
 a sore burden, and night a weariness void of repose, 
 then the ' savageness in unreclaimed blood ' breaks 
 out," and he smiled again, and looked a little cooler. 
 
 It was so evident that he did not include himself 
 in these observations, that I interjected, 
 
 " If anybody had any savageness or any 
 blood, even ! But you " 
 
 " Among the tenements on the East Side," pur- 
 sued Mr. DeWitt, smoothly, " this turbulence mani- 
 fests itself in street brawls, free fights, and connubial 
 lammings. Among gentler and more enlightened 
 people, like ourselves, it is quite commonly expressed 
 in the scarcely less baleful picnic." 
 
 " Picnic ! " I echoed. " Why do you mention a 
 picnic? " 
 
 " I will (if permitted) tell you presently, my dear 
 Wild West," returned he. " As I was observing, 
 we suffer, we perspire, we become exasperated and 
 irritable beyond measure; we are really homicidal; 
 we long to massacre and destroy. But as all the 
 traditions of our class are against the gratification 
 of such impulses, as our training and habits debar 
 us from the more generous and direct relief of cut- 
 ting throats and breaking heads, we simply explode 
 into a picnic. The picnic virus is now seething in
 
 S "Underneath the Bough" $ 251 
 
 Mr. Baxter's veins. He was in here nearly an hour, 
 endeavouring to infect me." 
 
 " Poor Jim ! " said I. " Out on his ranch, the 
 winds sweep up from the gulf, over miles and miles 
 of open prairie. His front yard would make a New 
 York county." 
 
 " Where have I heard something like that be- 
 fore?" murmured Mr. DeWitt. 
 
 " Poor Jim! " I repeated (adding, mentally, " and 
 poor me "). " Pent among brick and mortar, and 
 cut off from all outdoor life! I've been noticing 
 ever since spring opened that he was as nervous and 
 restive as a mustang tied to a mesquite in a bare 
 place, watching the rest of the bunch out in the high 
 grass." 
 
 " It has appeared somewhat as you say to me," 
 concurred Mr. DeWitt, " though I fear I should 
 never have been able to express it so felicitously. 
 Well, he pleaded most fondly the charms and bene- 
 fits of a picnic; and as it is hot, and a Sunday pic- 
 nic is a madly vulgar contrivance, and our evil star 
 was unquestionably in the ascendant, we listened to 
 the voice of his charming Miss Bucks and myself 
 and we fell. That is, we fell in with this fell 
 picnic scheme Ugh! how criminally vulgar. 
 That big Texas fellow is a hypnotist. I am con- 
 vinced that he could persuade me to wheel a baby- 
 carriage up Broadway." 
 
 Mr. Corcoran came over from his desk and im- 
 parted to me that he and Jim were to secure the 
 means of transportation, for Jim scorned all trains, 
 cars, boats, and other public conveyances, and said 
 a picnic was no picnic unless you had your own rig 
 and a team no other fellow could drive around.
 
 252 -^ The Last Word $ 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran and I were to accumulate the lunch. 
 Miss Bucks and Mr. DeWitt were to be our guests. 
 
 The young lovers were to contribute themselves, 
 and the spectacle of their felicity. Indeed, I do not 
 think it ever occurred to any of us to so much as 
 consult them. It was too well understood that they 
 would go smiling along with us asking no ques- 
 tions for a leap into the bottomless pit, so they 
 were but suffered to go together. Mr. DeWitt and 
 Miss Bucks, who each boarded above Seventy-fourth 
 Street, were to come down to our house Sunday 
 morning, any time before ten o'clock, and the as- 
 sembled picnic was to proceed from there to some 
 point which Jim had, as he explained, " scouted 
 out." 
 
 When I asked Bushrod Floyd how he was inclined 
 for a day in the woods, he answered me, somewhat 
 whimsically, " A day ! A day in the woods ! Why, 
 is there any such possible subdivision of time as 
 a day? What can anybody do with an inadequate 
 day? No, no, I'm not complaining You and a 
 day! Why, I think it will answer." 
 
 And as he concluded this characteristic speech, 
 looking up at me from his drawing-board with Bush- 
 rod's gentle, half-melancholy smile, Frank, whom 
 I had not supposed to be in the building, stepped out 
 of his room and came toward us, his eyes fixed upon 
 my face. 
 
 I had made myself the subject of uproarious 
 laughter and ridicule by announcing rny intention 
 to invite him to the picnic. They had confided to 
 each other, in my presence, that it needed some one 
 from the remote wilds of West Texas to come and 
 invite the president of the Salem Publishing Com-
 
 <& " Underneath the Bough " $ 253 
 
 pany to invite even that exclusive and unapproach- 
 able gentleman, Mr. Francis Randolph to a 
 Sunday picnic. 
 
 So now, unpropitious as I felt the occasion, I 
 turned smilingly to Frank, and said : " Mr. Ran- 
 dolph, will you come and play with us at our picnic? 
 We are going over into Jersey, Sunday, for a day 
 under the skies." 
 
 And, as he came to a stop beside us, I saw that 
 Frank's face was pale, his eyes hard. He glanced 
 slowly from Bushrod to me, and back again, then 
 returned, " We? we? " and smiled coldly. 
 
 The blood rushed to my face till it blazed pain- 
 fully for all the world as if he had slapped me. 
 Every unregenerate impulse in me sprang up with 
 a stick in its hand. I looked at him and hated him ; 
 each beauty and grace and talent he possessed made 
 weight upon the side of my anger, resentment, and 
 hatred. I had asked him because I loved him and 
 he loved me, and I was not afraid to do so to 
 come and spend a day in the woods, where I should 
 be one of the party; an invitation Bushrod had 
 thanked me for so eagerly, and which it seemed to 
 me my own avowed lover need not have scorned; 
 and he had answered and before another's eyes 
 with a cold sneer. 
 
 I was too deeply wounded, too confused with pain 
 and anger to venture upon any retort. Bushrod, I 
 felt, comprehended the scene, and would have 
 spoken ; but I never meant to do anything but stand 
 by my guns, so I said quickly, meeting Frank's cold 
 look with one of bitter defiance : 
 
 " Yes, we Mr. Floyd and I the Corcoran
 
 254 $* The Last Word $ 
 
 household, Mr. DeWitt and Miss Bucks; and Jim 
 Baxter, the originator of the plan." 
 
 The " Mr. Floyd and I " went home, as I had 
 meant it should, and I saw Frank's pale face grow 
 yet paler. But, " You could not fail of a delightful 
 day whether in Jersey or elsewhere with so 
 bright and congenial a party," he said, courteously; 
 and added, " I only regret that I shall be out of 
 town Saturday, and Sunday forenoon." 
 
 My eyes were fastened upon his; I would have 
 suffered anything rather than wince or recede, and 
 he finally replied to them, " I give you all my good 
 wishes," and with another glance which included 
 Bushrod and me, and a most graceful salutation, 
 he passed out. 
 
 Poor Bushrod held his eyes down, his face all 
 pink with distress. But I thrust the pain and anger 
 away from me, and with a gay word or two left him, 
 nor was I at the office again before our picnic. I 
 was strangely able to dismiss the ugly scene from 
 my immediate thoughts. It was as though I said to 
 it, " Stand back, please, and wait your turn." 
 
 And through all our tumult of gay preparation 
 and anticipation, I was singularly light-hearted and 
 happy. 
 
 When, on Sunday morning, those men drove up 
 with the turnout, Mrs. Corcoran and I were watch- 
 ing from the front window. She clutched my arm. 
 "Look at that thing it's a patrol-wagon!" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 I myself had been occupied with admiring the fine 
 horses Tim had brought; but when I examined the 
 vehicle in question I was obliged to admit, Polonius- 
 wise, that it was backed very like a patrol wagon.
 
 <&> " Underneath the Bough " $ ' 255 
 
 On the driver's seat, in front, sat Jim and Mr. Cor- 
 coran; and behind that, seats ran along the two 
 sides of the thing. The big red wheels and the 
 high dashboard, with its double lamps, were points 
 of fatal similarity; the brake handle suggested the 
 gong, and even the big handsome team and heavy 
 harness, all glorious with knobs and rings and orna- 
 ments of brass, increased the degrading resemblance. 
 
 This was a check, and we all felt it so. The 
 lovers, who were exchanging whispered remarks as 
 they finished packing the last lunch-basket, came 
 hurrying hand in hand to the window, and looked 
 out. There was a pause in the cheery bustle of 
 preparation. 
 
 But Miss Bucks, who had just arrived in a hat of 
 the wash-basin variety, around which some semi- 
 transparent stuff was skimpily festooned, a streamer 
 of it dangling lank and weedy at the back, Miss 
 Bucks opined that what she had passed at our door 
 was " a very smart turnout." And Bushrod Floyd 
 having come down the street, big, fresh, and looking 
 most unusually well in speckless white flannels, also 
 laughed good-naturedly at our dismay. Moreover, 
 when the fevered ardour of picnickery is coursing 
 through your veins, it will take more it will take 
 much more than a little matter of a distasteful 
 conveyance to cool it. And something approaching 
 this ardour was visible in every eye. Even Mr. 
 DeWitt showed a hilarity which, considering his 
 usual manner of quiet alertness, might be called little 
 short of boisterous. So we went down and climbed 
 into the penal chariot, and fled away toward Jersey 
 with light hearts. 
 
 And it was a lovely spot Jim had found, a spot
 
 256 $ The Last Word -^ 
 
 astonishingly secluded, in the midst of so close a civi- 
 lisation and cultivation, dim, still, withdrawn, apart, 
 with big trees whispering sedately, a bit of water, 
 rocks, and glimpses of sky. 
 
 Genevieve, the English girl, and lover of out-door 
 life, was particularly happy in these surroundings. 
 And they suited her. I thought I had never seen 
 her so harmonious and so likable. But when I 
 looked at all the others in turn, it seemed to me it 
 was much the same with each. Our day, our condi- 
 tions and our mood, all seemed favouring and 
 happy. 
 
 So we settled down blissfully in a beautiful shady 
 spot, beside a clear pool. The voice of one reading 
 aloud, the running response of pleasant laughter, 
 lapsed occasionally into comment or reminiscence. 
 All was peace. 
 
 " I here take occasion to confess, in justice to our 
 Western members," remarked Mr. DeWitt, lowering 
 the book and looking across the undulating green- 
 ness, " that this isn't nearly so bad as I painted it." 
 Then his clear, pleasing voice took up the narrative 
 which so amused and interested every one of those 
 widely varying tastes and intelligences. There 
 showed Mr. DeWitt's clever intuition. 
 
 I had never guessed till that day of the picnic 
 how charming a companion Bushrod Floyd could 
 be. Big, strong, even-tempered, self-effacing, he 
 was the ideal man for such an excursion. It was he 
 who brought the cushions from our hated vehicle, 
 placed them against the boles of giant trees, and 
 made comfortable couches on which we women could 
 lounge; going then and lying down on the grass,
 
 UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH
 
 ^ " Underneath the Bough " <& 257 
 
 his hat tipped over his eyes, and promulgating strong 
 and varied assertions of perfect comfort. 
 
 It was he who provided the book from which Mr. 
 DeWitt read. " I put it in as my contribution to the 
 lunch," he explained, gravely. " People who sit 
 about under trees on a day like this and fail to 
 read some poetry, will go home spiritually hungry. 
 You dropped this, Miss Cara. It was the book- 
 marker I made when I thought you were going to 
 read to us. I don't think it appropriate for DeWitt." 
 And he turned with his arm under his head, and 
 looked in dreamy content off toward the little line of 
 sparkling water, where a tiny river ran between the 
 trees. I took my souvenir and read: 
 
 " A book of verses underneath the bough, 
 A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou 
 
 Beside me singing in the wilderness 
 Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow." 
 
 The lines were framed with one of his inimitable 
 decorative borders. A half-seen figure, hidden 
 behind the tree trunk, the bended arm and slender 
 hand reaching down to clasp jug and loaf, the book 
 laid open, and the suggested beauty of dappled sun- 
 shine and shadow in its handling. 
 
 I, alone, of course, noted the curved little finger on 
 that hand, and smiled. When the dainty thing in 
 going the rounds reached Jim, he howled melodi- 
 ously. He had had the arrangements too much on 
 his mind to eat any breakfast, and the sight of that 
 frugal meal which Omar sang was too much for 
 him. He declared noisily that he was dying of 
 hunger, that no coyote was ever torn by the pangs 
 of famine as was he at that moment.
 
 258 ^ The Last Word <&> 
 
 " Oh, say ! Let's have dinner," he pleaded. 
 " Don't you know that's what a picnic is ? It's 
 dinner away off out-of-doors somewhere ; but 
 it's dinner, you know. Great Scott! I'm starving. 
 I could eat a " 
 
 " There, there," interrupted Mrs. Corcoran, laugh- 
 ing, " you shall have dinner." And so the lunch 
 was got out before anybody but Jim was ready for 
 it. The rest of us nibbled a little, then agreed to put 
 the lunch away and go about on an exploring tour 
 for exercise and appetite. 
 
 Jim naturally did not feel so restlessly inclined, 
 so he lay down on the grass with a book and his 
 cigar, to guard the picnic belongings. 
 
 We returned, nearly two hours later, from a long, 
 rough, hot, happy tramp, in high spirits, and as 
 hungry as Jim had described himself to be. 
 
 Now I admit, of course, that we were picnickers, 
 wilful, premeditated picnickers, and as such, fair 
 sport for the gods, and deserving of no sympathy; 
 but when our hurried investigations discovered Jim 
 fast asleep, and no food no, not a crumb in any 
 basket, we were none the less sunk in despair. Even 
 the lovers looked blue. 
 
 " Jim ! Sit up, here. What the deuce " began 
 Mr. Corcoran; and when Jim sat sleepily up, we all 
 stood about him and told him in anguished tones 
 of the robbery which had been committed during his 
 guardianship. 
 
 " Oh, no," deprecated Jim, a little bewildered, " I 
 guess nothing's been stolen. I was right here, you 
 know." 
 
 A general laugh relieved the tension for a moment. 
 Then Jim exclaimed, " Oh, yes, I remember I
 
 $ " Underneath the Bough " $ 259 
 
 gave a fellow some stuff. There's plenty left, 
 though," reassuringly. " I never took a thing out 
 of that basket over there." 
 
 " No," cried Mrs. Corcoran, wildly, jerking off 
 the lid, " I know you didn't, for there's nothing but 
 napkins and china and silver in it, except some 
 wretched pickles ! " 
 
 " He was hungry," explained Jim. " Great Scott ! 
 I couldn't help but sympathise with a fellow that was 
 starving! I only gave him a square meal." 
 
 " ' Square meal ' must be a very elastic term in 
 Texas," observed Mr. DeWitt, airily. 
 
 " Well, he kept liking things, and I kept giving 
 them to him. Then he said he had a wife and six 
 children, and I knew they'd need something " 
 
 " And you'd had your dinner," cut in Mr. Cor- 
 coran, morosely. 
 
 " So, I reckon I must have given him the rest 
 of the cold grub," finished Jim. 
 
 Then, that punishment which fits the crime of 
 picnicking overtook us. We fell out. There was 
 rancour, there were open recrimination and bitter- 
 ness. We forgot our Christianity, our humanity, 
 our manners, and were as abusive as picnickers 
 always are when their fate meets them, in whatever 
 guise is predestined, rain, a fall in the water, a 
 basket containing the can-opener and the cork-screw 
 left at home, or a wrong road taken by the self- 
 appointed guide and leader. 
 
 In this slough of shame and degradation, Mr. 
 DeWitt showed much the decentest of the lot of us; 
 his worst gibes were only mildly sarcastic, not bru- 
 tally abusive like those of the others; and at the
 
 260 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 last he laughed, lit a cigar, and, smoking, held his 
 peace. 
 
 The dancing rapier of his light raillery was as 
 a harmless toy beside the assaults of Mr. Corcoran's 
 sulky broadsword, Jim's defensive axe, Mrs. Cor- 
 coran's javelins, my club, or Genevieve's vast and 
 well-planted chunks of sodden truth. 
 
 Casting these enormous, dense, moist missiles 
 copiously, and as untiringly as would a powerful 
 piece of mechanism, Genevieve presently swamped 
 and utterly squelched the whole uprising. We were 
 glad to withdraw with life and breath and hearing. 
 We were, all and singular, absolutely shut up. I 
 looked upon the girl with admiration not untinctured 
 with awe. Never before had I conceived the force 
 of the saying that Truth is mighty and will prevail, 
 as I did now, watching Genevieve sling, like some 
 terrible brazen android, these great slabs of cold, 
 soggy fact. 
 
 Mr. DeWitt sat apart on a hospitable-looking 
 stump, serenely smoking, but undeniably finding a 
 delicately malicious enjoyment in the whole shindy 
 and its curious extinguishment. 
 
 During the fray, which may be characterised as 
 " the late uncivil war," Bushrod Floyd had done 
 what was possible to pacify all parties. He backed 
 Jim's assertions, till Mrs. Corcoran let go the real 
 offender, turned upon Bushrod tartly, and suggested 
 that, although he never ate at all, a most unkind 
 allusion to his bulk, he might have some consid- 
 eration for us, since we were mere material people, 
 and actually lived upon food. 
 
 Hastening to enroll himself under her banner, 
 he received some grumbling assaults from Jim. At-
 
 <& "Underneath the Bough" ^ 261 
 
 tempting to agree with Mr. DeWitt, we all attacked 
 him; and, his courteous pacifications getting in the 
 way of Genevieve's catapult, he was quite buried 
 under the precision of her accusations. 
 
 When the clash of arms sank into silence, Mrs. 
 Corcoran said at Jim : 
 
 " Well, I've got some more of what you call ' cold 
 grub ' at home. I think we would better go there 
 and get it. I feel quite weak with hunger." And 
 we all climbed into the hated patrol-wagon in 
 gloomy silence, and drove back toward home. 
 
 The lovers gazed wanly into each others' eyes as 
 they went up over the big red wheel. Poor babes! 
 They hadn't chirped since the cloud of calamity 
 burst upon our heads. 
 
 Bushrod begged plaintively the privilege of sitting 
 beside me. " It's the old story of the man and the 
 boy and the donkey," he said sadly, " who tried 
 to please everybody and pleased nobody." 
 
 " And you are the donkey, I suppose," added Mrs. 
 Corcoran, coarsely. 
 
 And in this very low spiritual state we began our 
 return drive, publishing to any one who had cared 
 to observe, how little the human animal, when hun- 
 gry, differs from the (supposedly) more greedy and 
 violent of his four-footed brethren. 
 
 Jim and Mr. Corcoran sat in front as before, Jim 
 driving. Entire good feeling began visibly to grow 
 again between the two big, honest, forthright male 
 creatures ; but Mrs. Corcoran and I, at the tail end 
 of the vehicle, opposite each other, gazed at Jim's 
 broad shoulders and exchanged Masonic glances 
 expressive of our common hungry resentment and 
 unabated rancour. The lovers sat in piteous, Mr.
 
 262 f The Last Word $ 
 
 DeWitt in philosophic, silence; Genevieve, though 
 hushed for the moment, plainly ready to burst out 
 fulminating more bulk truth upon the least provo- 
 cation. 
 
 We crossed the river and were just driving away 
 from the ferry, when we met a handsomely appointed 
 victoria. I caught, at the moment, only the flashing 
 silver mounting of the turnout, the rich liveries, 
 and a beautiful parasol. We had nearly passed the 
 equipage, when I saw a signalling hand wave from it, 
 and Jim drew up with his usual skill. Then I dis- 
 covered Miss Salem's smiling face beneath the chif- 
 fons of the parasol ; and beside her Frank. 
 
 Miss Salem was a person whom it was ever pleas- 
 ant to meet, the more, rather than the less so, if you 
 were in a mess; for she herself was always in the 
 conventionally correct path, and ready to lend a hand, 
 or failing that, to at least be sympathetic and heartily 
 amused at whatever was toward. 
 
 I had just leaned forward, laughing, to a position 
 whence I could see and speak to her, when I caught 
 sight of Mr. DeWitt's countenance. He had in- 
 stantly drawn back, and the expression on his 
 flushed face was one of displeasure and embarrass- 
 ment. Evidently, he would have been glad to 
 escape the encounter. Why? I wondered in blank 
 surprise. 
 
 "I believe you people have been picnicking!" 
 called Miss Salem, gaily. " How delightful ! " 
 
 " Yes, isn't it ? " cried Mrs. Corcoran, feverishly, 
 from behind me, bending around my shoulder to 
 smile at her friend, then glancing anxiously at Miss 
 Bucks, as though fearing that enfant terrible might
 
 * " Underneath the Bough " *&> 263 
 
 make a sudden revelation of our fallen state, all in 
 a few words. 
 
 " Quite a family party," added Frank, glancing 
 with hostile eyes to where Bushrod and I sat, quiet, 
 content, the only really peaceful people in the assem- 
 blage. 
 
 " Why, yes," returned Mr. Corcoran, " the office 
 is pretty well represented." 
 
 I saw Miss Salenrs glance travel to Mr. DeWitt, 
 who had not spoken at all; and I, too, looked at 
 him. Then, while she turned to Mr. Corcoran and 
 gave him the message which she had stopped us 
 to deliver, I continued to study the face of my editor. 
 Put out, thrown off his habitual balance, as he was, 
 his countenance seemed to me to reflect like a mirror 
 his whole mental attitude. We were a parcel of 
 employes (employes! hated word red rag to the 
 bull of American independence), in a hired livery 
 turnout, halted before the elegant carriage of the 
 rich stockholders. He was embarrassed, angry, re- 
 sentful. He hated the position which, in his own 
 mind, he had assigned to us. 
 
 " Well," I thought, " we must all have our weak- 
 nesses." Here was one who could come with unruf- 
 fled grace through the ordeal of that dreadful picnic ; 
 and he was finding galls, wounds without cause, in 
 a fancied humiliation, a mean little sordid thought, 
 which had touched no one else in the whole party 
 least of all, Miss Salem. 
 
 He sat silent and glum throughout all the excite- 
 ment of our subsequent terrible adventure, and I 
 saw no reason, then or thereafter, to alter my con- 
 clusion. 
 
 We drove through the body of town, mile after
 
 264 f The Last Word <& 
 
 mile, in almost complete silence, and were going 
 along up Ninth Avenue, approaching the region of 
 the park, when there burst upon the Sunday quiet 
 a sudden clang and clattering, and with the sharp 
 sounding of a gong, a police patrol-wagon dashed 
 down the avenue, stopped a moment to take in a 
 disfigured man, a screeching, protesting woman, and 
 three or four white-hatted officers, turned and drove 
 up the avenue ahead of us. 
 
 Then there was performed before our eyes one 
 of the great city's tricks of prestidigitation : Where 
 not a soul had been seen, a crowd collected, whose 
 component units materialised out of void space. 
 They evolved. They were transformed out of the 
 viewless gases of the atmosphere. From the unre- 
 garded vapours of air were they made manifest. 
 They produced themselves spontaneously out of 
 sheer emptiness. From the very heart of blank noth- 
 ingness they sprang, full-grown, and clamorous 
 with inquiry. 
 
 The patrol-wagon, with its ugly freight, went 
 rapidly up the avenue. 
 
 Then it became apparent that we had not tasted 
 the full bitterness of the cup appointed to us. The 
 sight of the speeding team ahead was to Jim what 
 the smell of battle is to the nostrils of a war-horse. 
 He straightened himself like a plains Indian; he 
 forgot everything; his surroundings melted away 
 from him; there remained but one object in life 
 to pass that team in front. He leaned forward and 
 laid the whip across his flying horses. They jumped 
 ahead, they held their own, and we hung persistently 
 upon the wheel of the fleeing patrol-wagon. The
 
 $ "Underneath the Bough" *& 265 
 
 policemen looked around at us and grinned. We 
 ourselves smiled a little, at first. 
 
 But we soon found that this had been a notable 
 arrest, for the avenue was lined, block after block, 
 with curious spectators, and it was their frank and 
 outspoken comments which first awakened us to 
 the fact that we were occupying a position of loath- 
 some prominence in the pageant. 
 
 " That's the McGuire gang in the second section," 
 cried a fellow at the curbstone. 
 
 An old Irishwoman standing in front of a saloon 
 shook her fist at the officers. " Yez hain't got me, 
 this time! " she yelled. They replied cordially, and 
 as our wagon came abreast of her she greeted us, 
 " Luk at 'em, the murtherin' divils, in the'r foine 
 clo'es!" 
 
 " This is horrible," gasped Mrs. Corcoran, " like 
 a bad, bad dream. Oh, try to stop him ! " 
 
 But it was useless remonstrating with the blue 
 serge expanse of Jim's back; he was demoniacally 
 possessed, deaf to our entreaties, blind to our shame- 
 ful position, and impervious to pinches and frantic 
 lunges from umbrellas. 
 
 Mr. Corcoran refused to interfere. He sat there 
 beside Jim, and laughed until he wept. The great 
 tears bounced out of his eyes, skipped down his 
 cheeks, and hopped into his beard, giving him the 
 appearance of a very penitent criminal indeed. 
 
 We tore ahead now as in a nightmare. The 
 crowds along the curbstone surged and gaped and 
 discussed. Windows were flung up, and immediately 
 filled with delighted spectators. They commented 
 upon our good clothes, our morning-glorified hats 
 which we had trimmed so blithely for the festive
 
 266 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 occasion they thrust their tongues in their cheeks 
 and gibed at us; they were sympathetic, ironical, 
 expostulatory, abusive, and altogether happy. 
 
 At last at last the welcome turning of Sev- 
 enty-fourth Street appeared ahead. Respite was at 
 hand! 
 
 But, no, it was not to be. 
 
 When that horrible Juggernaut, whose big red 
 wheels were grinding over our heart-strings and 
 our self-respect, came abreast of the opening through 
 which our agonised eyes saw escape and safety, it 
 swung around the corner and swept into the quiet 
 street in advance of us! 
 
 Thus were we escorted to the very door of our 
 respectable home, brought back from our picnic by 
 a patrol-wagon, a squad of police, and a hooting 
 mob! 
 
 I should have been sure our neighbours would 
 enjoy it. But we were not obliged to depend upon 
 mere moral certainty. Their pleased surprise was 
 made entirely manifest.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The Breaking Gulf 
 
 " Ah, do not tear away thyself from me I 
 For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall 
 A drop of water in the breaking gulf 
 And take un mingled thence that drop again 
 Without addition or diminishing, 
 As take from me thyself and not me too." 
 
 WHEN I remembered that moment in the office, 
 when Frank had stood confronting me, looking from 
 Bushrod to me with angry, hostile eyes, and sneering 
 lip; and that other encounter, on our way home 
 from the picnic ; when I thought of the fierce resent- 
 ment and hatred that had torn at my heart, the 
 belief was forced upon me that Frank and I had 
 come to the end of all things between us. Even apart 
 from these occurrences, work on the big book under 
 the most untiring of taskmasters had grown to be 
 intolerable. Whether it was the work itself, or 
 Frank's jealous affection that was like a leg-chain, 
 I was too wearied to say. It appeared to me that I 
 never drew a free breath in those days. I was al- 
 ways inordinately expectant, or disproportionately 
 disappointed. 
 
 Poor Bushrod ! he, I knew, saw the whole thing. 
 Of course eyes like his would read such a situation 
 as though it had been print, and then he too had 
 
 267
 
 268 & The Last Word -$ 
 
 been under that iron will that steely disfavour. 
 He knew what it was to have his best rejected be- 
 cause it had been offered when his cousin's mood was 
 unpropitious. But most of all, he knew what it was 
 to have, when writhing under self-condemnation, the 
 weight of Frank's displeasure added. 
 
 Monday and Tuesday I did not see Frank at all. 
 And all that time the question asked itself in my 
 heart, " What now? " On Wednesday afternoon I 
 came to a place in my work where I must have a 
 note-book which was lying in my table drawer in 
 the little studio. " As well now as later," I said 
 to myself, and took a Broadway car down to Tenth 
 Street. 
 
 When I walked quietly in at the studio door, 
 my partner was standing by that table with that 
 drawer open, and upon his face was the expression 
 of a woman who has unearthed a nest of young 
 mice. Before him, unfolded and scattered, was a 
 little bunch of Bushrod's verses, which had been, 
 from time to time, given me. 
 
 They were none of them those rhymes I had first 
 read, but were all under whatever title and in 
 whatever guise addressed to one person. They 
 breathed utter devotion; they voiced passionate 
 sadness. There was nothing asked, nothing expected 
 in any of them; but a heart was laid bare to you 
 with all its love, with all its longing, to make such 
 plea as it might. 
 
 " For heaven's sake ! What is this mess of 
 trash ? " cried Frank, indicating the manuscript 
 with his pencil, at some little distance, as though 
 it were indeed the unexpectedly found vermin. 
 
 I had afterward no knowledge of how I reached
 
 $ The Breaking Gulf 269 
 
 the table and my rifled drawer. " Who opened it ? " 
 I asked, and my voice came strange to my ears. 
 
 Frank felt himself, of course, wholly in the wrong 
 in this matter. But in those days, to be in the 
 wrong meant to Frank to fight harder, to go further, 
 to do more, in the same line. 
 
 " I opened it," he told me. " I was looking for 
 a rubber of mine which you borrowed the other 
 day. It was a special size, and 1 happened to need 
 it. I saw that fellow's handwriting, and I took the 
 stuff out and read it as much of it as I could 
 stand. I never dreamed of any one being such 
 an idiot." 
 
 " You read it ! " I repeated. 
 
 " Had I not a perfect right to read it ? " he de- 
 manded. " Will you deny that I had a perfect 
 right to read it ? " 
 
 " Just as much right as you have to go down to 
 the office and open Mr. DeWitt's desk and read his 
 private correspondence," I returned, steadily. 
 
 " Justin DeWitt is not a woman, and I am not 
 going to marry him," he retorted. 
 
 " Nor are you going to marry me! " I cried. " I 
 would sooner be dead oh, I would sooner die 
 right now ! than look forward to a lifetime passed 
 with such a man as you, Frank." Then, in silence, 
 I began gathering up poor Bushrod's verses. For 
 once, I gained, and by that means, the upper hand. 
 
 " Were those things addressed to you ? " asked 
 Frank, as I still uttered no word. 
 
 " It is a matter which certainly does not con- 
 cern you," I returned. 
 
 "It does not concern me?" he inquired. "Not 
 concern me that a creature like that should presume
 
 270 9 The Last Word $ 
 
 to address in such terms the woman I am going to 
 marry ! " 
 
 " Frank," I said, " that is the second time you 
 have made that assertion, and I tell you again it 
 is not true." 
 
 He caught my wrist and pulled me toward the 
 light. " Are you in love with that that thing? " 
 he demanded, fiercely. 
 
 I had about gotten my belongings together when 
 he spoke. Now, as he released me, I pushed them 
 into the drawer, all excepting the verses, which I 
 retained in my hand. I could send for the stuff later. 
 At present, my chief anxiety was to get away while 
 I could make a decently composed exit. 
 
 " That thing, as you call him," I said, " has more 
 real love for me, and more respect, than you ever 
 had, and I will not hear you speak so of him. You 
 should be ashamed to speak to him as you do. It's 
 all over between us, Frank. This is final. But you 
 need not blame him. The trouble did not come 
 through him. It is yourself who have given a final 
 answer to the whole question. And I thank God 
 that you have at last left me no shadow of alter- 
 native not the least little loophole where a decent 
 self-respect would allow me to crawl back ! " 
 
 If I had looked for one spark of relenting, I should 
 have been disappointed. Before, when we had quar- 
 relled, there had been no jealousy in it, or, at most, 
 the jealousy had been abstract. Now, I was to see 
 that side of Frank's character which was bitterest 
 and narrowest. 
 
 " Oh, the unutterable pettiness of it all ! " I cried. 
 " In love with him ! I must be that must I ? 
 before I can treat a fellow creature kindly ! "
 
 $ The Breaking Gulf <& 271 
 
 The door was swung open and the old pencil 
 vender, with whom and at whom we had often 
 laughed, put his head into the room. 
 
 " Want a pencil to draw 'er picture with ? There's 
 a hundred pictures of her and a thousand love letters 
 to her in the lead of every one of 'em. Better buy a 
 bunch. You'll never be tired of looking at the pic- 
 tures, and she'll never be tired of reading the letters." 
 
 He pushed his way into the room, and under cover 
 of his importunity, I put Bushrod's despised verses 
 into an envelope and prepared to depart. 
 
 I felt deeply that it was a pitiful outcome to 
 such a scene. I knew that I should have defended 
 myself and the poor absent one, whose pathetic devo- 
 tion had been made the subject of bitter jest and 
 taunt; but I was silently following in the wake of 
 the departing pencil man, when Frank's voice re- 
 called me. 
 
 "Do not go," he said; "you and I will never 
 have a better opportunity to talk these matters over 
 and settle them, than here and now." 
 
 I turned back and faced him. " No," I said, 
 " there is no time like the present if there is 
 anything more to be said. For my part, I have told 
 you that everything is at an end between us, and I 
 mean it. Why then should I listen to your re- 
 proaches or you demand my excuses?" 
 
 " You put me in the wrong," Frank answered. 
 " I am demanding no excuses. I merely ask I 
 plead for some explanation of this thing which 
 has been so strange and so humiliating to me." 
 
 I was aghast at the statement. I could scarcely 
 believe that he alluded in these terms to such a 
 pitiful and empty relation as that between his cousin
 
 The Last Word 
 
 and myself. And yet I swiftly realised, when I 
 thought of it with such light upon the matter as 
 these verses might give, that to a man of Frank's 
 jealous, overweening pride, the situation might call 
 for some explanation. 
 
 " Ask me," I said, " ask anything you like. I 
 am here ready to answer you now." And I added 
 mentally, " I never shall be again." 
 
 The permission seemed to daunt my hearer. It 
 appeared that he had no question ready. 
 
 " Ever since I saw you two together returning 
 from that famous picnic," he began finally, " I have 
 felt I have wondered How long has this 
 thing been going on ? " 
 
 " What thing? " I inquired steadily. 
 
 " Why, this hole-and-corner love-making. This 
 secret spooning, these drivelling rhymes and 
 letters ? " 
 
 Certainly, now, he had arrived at the extreme of 
 insult. I answered him fiercely, furiously, burn- 
 ingly. I struck with all my mind's power at the 
 spirit behind that white face and those steely eyes 
 bent upon me. 
 
 Frank, beside himself, laid half-unconscious hands 
 upon me, so that the shaking of his frame shook me 
 also. And at the utmost mark of my madness, in 
 the very excess and ecstasy of furious resentment, 
 something outside the bruised, stung, scorching, pal- 
 pitating girl, standing confronting the agony of her 
 life her heart's tragedy saw, felt, understood 
 the man's pain and rage and blindness saw 
 where he stood, and how he was moved. Something, 
 which was yet myself, too, as truly as this suffering, 
 raging girl was myself, something calm and great
 
 9 The Breaking Gulf $ 273 
 
 and all-knowing and benignant, had kindness past all 
 words for him and for the rage and pain which made 
 him strike so deep, so deep, the heart he loved. 
 
 There was nothing now but to give Frank up; 
 I doubted not for an instant that this never could be 
 mended or patched, as other tiffs and quarrels be- 
 tween us had been. But through it all, this some- 
 thing outside of my own agony talked to me of his 
 suffering. I saw him for an instant as he was, 
 blinded by jealous rage, moved by the most un- 
 worthy motives, and yet the man I loved, the man 
 whom I needs must love, as it seemed to me even 
 then, in the depths of my suffering, through all my 
 days. 
 
 " Frank," I said at last, " I do not intend to 
 make any explanations to you about Bushrod. Such 
 explanations are not due you. You know that I 
 have often, in the last six months, been miserable 
 and half heartbroken. If it has predisposed me to 
 accept, thoughtlessly, some marks some expres- 
 sion of a devotion so utter, a love so selfless that 
 it even suggested no return, the one to whom apolo- 
 gies and atonement are due is Bushrod himself." 
 
 I was hurrying on with more, but Frank broke 
 in fiercely, " I find your explanations worse than 
 the offence. You tell me that you have been 
 wretched, these last months. The inference is ob- 
 vious that I, an overbearing, jealous, insufferable 
 brute, have made you wretched; and Bushrod 
 Floyd a paragon of all the virtues, of course 
 has been looked to for comfort. Oh, it is intoler- 
 able it is abominable ! When I think of that 
 man's life the opinion he holds of women and 
 see him permitted such intimacy with a pure girl
 
 274 *$* The Last Word $ 
 
 like yourself, I could beg you, even if it were not 
 for my love, even if you cast me off, to deny yourself 
 to him. The one unbearable thought in it all is, 
 not that I must lose you, terrible as that is to me, 
 but that you admit this fellow into the holy of 
 holies in your pure heart, the place where I dreamed 
 no man save I could ever come." 
 
 I knew that most of this was simply jealousy and 
 wounded pride. I knew poor Bushrod's peccadilloes 
 and failings. Everybody knew them. They were 
 open as the day to all comers. I was not deceived 
 into believing him the monster Frank would have 
 hinted. I felt, too, that this quarrel, while it had 
 been precipitated by Bushrod's verses, had really 
 nothing to do with any person in the world save 
 Frank and myself. And I tried to put this into 
 words. 
 
 " Frank," I said, " it is not Bushrod nor any one 
 else except yourself who causes me to say that I 
 will never go back to that which you call an engage- 
 ment, and I call abject bondage. I am done with it, 
 once and for ever. As much as 1 love you, I loathe 
 to think of being bound to you. It is not that you 
 are jealous of Bushrod. If it had not been that, it 
 would have been something else. The thing which 
 comes up, in such a quarrel, is supposed to be a 
 cause. It is not; it is a mere effect. Here, it is 
 the effect of your jealous, overbearing tyranny to 
 which I can not and will not submit." 
 
 Frank answered me with a sort of sob in his voice. 
 " Cast me off if you will, dearest ; but let me love 
 and protect you still. Promise me promise that 
 you will never that such things as this," he pointed 
 with a contemptuous gesture to the package in my
 
 f The Breaking Gulf ^ 275 
 
 hand, " shall cease. You don't know, you can not 
 know how should you ? what beasts men can 
 be. The woman I love should be kept in an ivory 
 tower, if I had my will. Oh, Carita, my darling, I 
 have only loved you too well. I would have hedged 
 you about with my care, that no profane thought, 
 even, should come near you." 
 
 Again there surged through my soul that kind- 
 ness for poor Frank and for myself. I seemed to 
 stand outside apart away from it and see us 
 both, poor children, battling in the dark. Again 
 it shook me hard with a passion of pity and yearn- 
 ing which had almost no kinship with the over- 
 whelming adoration I felt for him. 
 
 I might have told him, perhaps, that such love 
 as he spoke of was itself the merciless cruelty of 
 which I complained, but I did not. As he stood 
 before me, pale with feeling, I gazed long at his face 
 those features which I had studied with a heart 
 full of choking tenderness, with eyes of such blind 
 doting passion; searched with love and pain and 
 despair ; the face that had been my sky, my weather, 
 my all ; that put itself with young, crude arro- 
 gance between me and all my aims and purposes ; 
 that laid its spell upon me so that, in the teeth of 
 my own knowing better, my captive heart declared 
 there was not one thing in life worth setting against 
 the seeing of that face smile upon me. 
 
 Going closer, I said, very low, " There is no fibre 
 of my heart, Frank, that is not utterly yours, whether 
 I am always conscious of it or not. The thought 
 of you fills every waking hour. It underlies every- 
 thing, colours everything. It seems to me now that, 
 until I met you, I lived only a half life. Whether
 
 276 f The Last Word $ 
 
 the thought of you is sweet and lovely, or only a 
 grief, a cruel pain, I must still return to it. 
 
 " It has always been so always from the 
 hour you left me in the train at Chicago. I am 
 twenty-five years old, Frank, and not without experi- 
 ence of life; but, at this age, and in this skeptical 
 day, what happened to me was, in the phrase which 
 serves to make us merry, love at first sight. I have 
 never been my own since we sat and talked together 
 that day. That passion, absolute, overmastering, 
 descended upon me. I never grew to love you no 
 choice was ever left me. I adored, worshipped, 
 longed for you every instant of consciousness. I was 
 ravished away, as though plucked by the fierce hands 
 of love's high priest, and poured out, heart, soul, 
 and body, in passionate love, in tenderness and long- 
 ing unspeakable. 
 
 " You came between me and God and heaven, and 
 every hope and aim and purpose of my life. I tell 
 you, when I look down into my heart, Frank, I see 
 there, since that day we met, only you. There has 
 been in my heart since that day one hope, one long- 
 ing to possess its love ; one fear, one terror to 
 lose it. I have known since then but one joy, one 
 good our agreement, our companionship; one 
 evil, one anguish separation. 
 
 " This is the truth. I tell it you. No woman's 
 pride counsels me to withold any pitiful part. Be- 
 cause I say that this thought of you, this love for 
 you, which is like a mania, a possession, an addic- 
 tion, I will be free of; I will, or die; for I would 
 rather die than live and be a slave to it." 
 
 In the first part of this speech, Frank had again 
 put out his hands, half consciously, I thought, and
 
 38 The Breaking Gulf f 277 
 
 drawn me toward him, so that I both saw the suf- 
 fusion of his eyes, and felt him yield and shiver 
 when I had laid bare my love for him. 
 
 More than once, as I went on, his look had 
 yearned upon me, heart-breakingly, and he had 
 moved, as if to speak. But when I had finished, 
 he loosed my hands, put me coldly and steadily from 
 him, and said, in a voice of quiet bitterness that 
 was like a blade a white-hot blade in my heart : 
 
 "All this being so, you are certainly quite right 
 Cara. God only knows you never can what it 
 costs me to give you up, my Cara that was, the 
 brightest spirit I have ever known, and mine, I be- 
 lieved, for I always knew I had your heart, my 
 bonny, sunny, pure-souled Cara. But no woman 
 should ever say she was slave to me, to my tender 
 love, or to her own love for me. She should never 
 be anything to me. I tell you, Cara, I would put 
 her from me if it tore the heart from my breast, 
 the light from my life, and God who made us as 
 we are knows it does." 
 
 " You have spoken coals of fire to me. You have 
 made the thought of living with you which was 
 my earthly symbol of heaven as dreadful to me 
 as you say the thought of being mine is to you. 
 I only wish I had never to see your lovely face, nor 
 to hear your sweet voice again." 
 
 His cheek grew, if possible, more colourless, his 
 eyes more steely, I could hear his breath catch, 
 and see his nostril flicker as, drawing quite away 
 from me, he dashed these words at me: 
 
 " Go now I do not keep you I will never 
 while I live ask anything of you again. I only 
 dread to think how small the world is."
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A White Night 
 
 " Whither shall our way be whirled 
 Through what vast and awful spaces 
 With a white light on our faces 
 Spirit over spirit furled ? " 
 
 THEN began the procession of blank, wooden- 
 faced, meaningless, vacant days, and fierce, terrible, 
 sleepless, mad nights. 
 
 Through those days I won and not so ill by 
 dint of sheer spiritual biceps. I worked unceasingly. 
 I was never idle, never quiet or unoccupied a 
 minute. I did not allow the feverish haste of the 
 mind-sick to lay hold on me ; thitherward I knew lay 
 madness. " Without haste, without rest," it was 
 with me; and so, I won through the days. 
 
 But when the day was done, with its affairs, its 
 labours and activities; when the evening was past 
 and the latest sitter had left me; then, in the soli- 
 tude and silence of my own room, I faced the alter- 
 native, work or bed; and I could not work not 
 a stroke and the bed was a terrible thing from 
 which I mentally fled, running, so to say, with my 
 arms over my bent head. 
 
 When I finally lay down, in mere exhaustion, the 
 hosts of Pain descended upon me indeed. After 
 
 what seemed hours of such agonising as I thought 
 
 278
 
 A WHITE NIGHT
 
 * A White Night <& 279 
 
 must leave my hair white and cut lines deep into 
 my face, I would hurry out of bed, light the gas, and 
 stare wildly around my little room, with a sense of 
 strangeness, as though I had been long away, and 
 it ought to have changed much. 
 
 That first terrible night after my parting with 
 Frank, a curious deadly lassitude deceived me into 
 believing that I might sleep. I crept to my rest 
 with thankfulness, and a well-nigh instant uncon- 
 sciousness seemed to graze me. 
 
 Then, almost immediately, I wakened, having 
 barely slept, and started up from bed in a suffocating 
 agony. I threw a dressing-gown around me, and 
 wandered from room to room, reasoning, strug- 
 gling, trying another room, a different chair, sofa, 
 window, mental attitude, spiritual position. 
 
 In my own little sleeping-room, so narrow and 
 stern and dim-lit, the matter pressed hard upon me 
 its one naked, terrible aspect of irrevocable loss. Out 
 in the cheery dining-room, with much gas blazing, 
 flutterings of hope and solace stirred and flitted 
 uncertainly. The robe-hem of Peace seemed once 
 to whisper past me, and the hand of Resignation to 
 touch my head. But so awful was the speed of 
 my soul on these travels, that, as I passed back 
 again to my own room, Despair shut down, down 
 upon me in the chill darkness of the little hallway. 
 
 Thereafter, standing cold and dazed at a window, 
 gazing out upon the silence of the street, which 
 looked not to be merely a city street, empty of traffic 
 and void of daylight, but a desolate place forsaken 
 of men and forlorn of God's smile, I heard a little 
 chirruping, fluting note from the room beyond the 
 dining-room Teddy's royal sleeping apartment.
 
 28o $ The Last Word $ 
 
 I found the baby sitting up in a broad streak of 
 moonlight, in his pretty white and gold crib, de- 
 manding of the kosmos a " dink," in the notes of 
 a hidden woodland brook. 
 
 Glad, thankful, in the lonely isolation of my 
 anguish, to serve some other living thing, I found 
 and brought the desired " dink " to the thirsty 
 baby lips that, after, kissed me with many grateful 
 cooings. Then I sat and held the warm, nestling 
 little thing upon my aching heart till he slept, and 
 stirred in his sleep, fretting against his unusual 
 attitude. I laid him down reluctantly, and went 
 back to that white, moonlighted world which held 
 only me and my desolation. 
 
 I had carried home those verses Bushrod had 
 first given me those he had called a valentine 
 and put them in my desk, and then forgot them. 
 They had never been opened nor read. It is the 
 fate of some people to have their best thus passed 
 over. Nobody would take pains for poor Bushrod. 
 Why, who should, when he set so fine an example of 
 indifference to himself? 
 
 Now (as I roamed from place to place in that 
 species of aberration known to a sleepless night, and 
 which amounts to insanity) reflecting on the later 
 verses which had performed so strange a part in 
 Frank's destiny and mine, I remembered these earlier 
 ones, made a light, drew them out, and read. 
 
 FROM AN OLD GRAVE-STONE. 
 
 My heart and I on our way had wrought, 
 
 Till our desolate journeyings reached the place 
 
 Of doubt and despair, where all is nought ; 
 And I stayed, and questioned it for a space,
 
 <* A White Night <& 281 
 
 Saying " Heart, where now shall our steps be turned, 
 Now that mine all hath been done and failed? 
 
 I have tried, and followed, and hungered, and yearned, 
 And struggled and what hath the thing availed ? 
 
 That which I would not, life brings me to do 
 How is it, my heart, with you ? " 
 
 Said my heart to me, " You have meant me good, 
 
 But wrought me evil through evil days ; 
 You fed me on Hope's false smiles for food, 
 
 You have led me far in weary ways. 
 And I ? O, never, never I found 
 
 My sweet delight, which ever fled ; 
 I was lonely, I ached like a poisoned wound 
 
 In your breast, and I dragged like lead like lead. 
 Was one day good, when all was done ? " 
 
 And I said to my heart, " Not one." 
 
 I said to my heart, " There's a quiet place 
 
 That, though it is narrow and dark, indeed, 
 Hath room for us in its straitened space, 
 
 Safety, and comfort, and all we need. 
 But he who enters that chambered rest 
 
 Must leave his joys, and the light of day; 
 And, wrapping its peace about his breast, 
 
 Give him to moulder in dull decay. 
 Would you fear that portal, dark and low ? " 
 " Fear ! " said my heart, Let us go ! " 
 
 Said my heart to me, " Let us go to that place ; 
 
 There is nothing now that I want but Peace. 
 There is no joy, no boon, no grace 
 
 So sweet as silence and soft surcease. 
 The cruel siren, Hope, may come 
 
 And sing, low leaned to our low stone door. 
 But your ears shall be stopped, my pulses dumb ; 
 
 She can pierce, and thrill, and delude us no more. 
 Will you take me, indeed, to that rest I crave ?" 
 
 And I brought my heart to this grave.
 
 282 9 The Last Word ^ 
 
 Tears of sympathy of pity filled my eyes. 
 Bushrod's face came before me, sensitive, gentle, 
 appealing, adoring. 
 
 I was aware of building up a fictitious sentiment 
 regarding him. But I felt resentful at Frank's arro- 
 gant strength, and sympathetic toward poor Bush- 
 rod's weakness and fineness and tenderness. I was 
 strung up to have revenge of Frank for all the poor 
 Bushrods and Caras, and weak loving creatures over 
 whom he walked with ruthless feet. 
 
 This feeling was with me when I went down to 
 the office the next afternoon. I knew Frank was 
 to be in Philadelphia that day, so there was no 
 danger of meeting him. Of Bushrod I had no 
 dread; and I was justified. Bushrod's compre- 
 hension and sympathy were as gentle, as impersonal 
 and as comforting as the sun's light, or the kindly 
 warmth of a fire to one lost in the cold darkness. 
 It was so to me then and always. 
 
 At first, I suffered deeply for sleep. But later, 
 when this agony had lived with me for a week of 
 what in my pain I called idiot days and lunatic 
 nights, it was sleep I feared and dreaded. 
 
 For, so long as I was awake, I could defend 
 myself from the worst. But almost instantly upon 
 the coming of sleep, my rebel mind and heart opened 
 the gates of consciousness to the host of sweet, 
 bitter, lovely images and remembrances and dreams 
 of Frank. 
 
 The dream that almost slew me in my sleep 
 that waked me weeping, or cold and shaking and 
 sick, was only a dream of standing dumb, motionless 
 with despair, looking after Frank, my fascinated 
 eyes never leaving him as he walked away away
 
 ^ A White Night <+> 283 
 
 away from me for ever, with that aggressive roll. 
 It was as though I, the body, stood there while the 
 life walked thus away from me, racking me with 
 the agony of death indeed. 
 
 From this dream I would start awake, and He 
 there helpless for pain's myrmidons to work their 
 will upon me. 
 
 Air drawn, significant against the dark, there 
 floated before my aching eyes the lovely room, the 
 small disordered place, with the rose (which could 
 never fade) in its vase upon the table; with an 
 immortal Lemuel ambling in and out, pan and brush 
 in hand, and Frank Frank my Frank there 
 waiting for me. 
 
 There, was rest there, was relief there, I 
 might go and say one little word which would change 
 the world for me. 
 
 Night after night, as I lay in the dark, my eyes 
 aching for the sleep which was denied them, I was 
 building upon the encompassing gloom, this picture 
 of the little studio. 
 
 I would make it a June morning there, with 
 the cry of the street venders and the rumble of 
 the city coming in at the open window ; or the dull, 
 dripping close of a September evening, when all 
 within seemed doubly kind and sheltering and sweet. 
 
 But whatever hour I set was love's hour, for 
 was not Frank there? I would see him, moving 
 about, carrying my captive heart at every step; or 
 sitting at his work, turning to speak to me, and 
 smile upon me. 
 
 My robbed and bankrupt heart remembered the 
 days when it had leaped at passing that threshold, 
 had swelled with such a passion of tenderness that
 
 284 f* The Last Word f 
 
 I would fain have kissed the thumb which crossed 
 the shaft of a newly sharpened pencil he might hand 
 me. Now, cold and spent and aching, it could but 
 build again and yet again its ruined paradise. 
 
 I used to fancy that something some wraith of 
 what I felt must find its way through that door 
 and stand within that room. 
 
 What, I asked myself, would it have met there? 
 Frank loved me, I knew, as I loved him. What was 
 it, then, that kept me from him? I would have 
 braved death itself did death threaten to go to 
 him. 
 
 But it was not death, it was life which menaced 
 me. When I would have pictured to myself the 
 rapture of going back, of bringing in my poor, piti- 
 ful, rebellious provinces, making my submission, 
 asking him to set his sovereign heel upon their 
 necks, of being held again in his arms, his heart 
 beating against mine, the anguish of regret and 
 loneliness and longing past, my lips and eyes and 
 heart fed and comforted, an implacable something 
 within reminded me how brief this bliss had ever 
 been; how almost instantly the clasping arms be- 
 came chains, and the watchful glances of love, a 
 jailor's jealous eyes. 
 
 I said to myself, " It would be so easy. It is so 
 near. Not much time has elapsed. Shall I not 
 some day think of this, aghast to remember that I 
 moved no step to go to him while yet I might? 
 Shall I not pray with strangling tears for this oppor- 
 tunity which now I neglect ? " 
 
 Yet I knew that, whatever pangs came to me, I 
 should not turn back now that I must not could 
 not.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 In the Trough of the Seas 
 
 " One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it, 
 One feeling too falsely disdained 
 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For prudence to smother, 
 And pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than that from another. 
 I can give not what men call love ; 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above, 
 
 And the Heavens reject not ? " 
 
 I WAS at the end of everything, it seemed to me, 
 when, one morning, I went down to the office, with 
 no copy prepared, and no idea where any copy was 
 to come from, almost ready to confess defeat and 
 give up. 
 
 When I went in, Mr. DeWitt was not there. Mr. 
 Corcoran, Miss Bucks, Bushrod, and one or two 
 others were standing talking desultorily. I caught 
 Frank's name, and the information that he was gone 
 somewhere on a sudden summons. 
 
 None of the others saw me, but Bushrod turned 
 his head instantly as though I had called him. He 
 silently withdrew from the group. Passing his 
 drawing-board, from which he lifted a handful of 
 
 285
 
 286 f The Last Word -^ 
 
 sketches, he came at once to me, laid them on his 
 desk, at which I sat, and bending naturally over 
 me, said, quietly: 
 
 " Our president is gone home to Virginia. They 
 telegraphed him that his mother my aunt is 
 ill." 
 
 "Oh," I said, with dry lips. 
 
 " I do not imagine it is very serious, or they 
 would have included me in the summons," went on 
 Bushrod, moving the sketches about on the desk 
 before us. " But Frank always fairly worshipped 
 his mother and she him. Lee Frank's sister, 
 Mrs. Paige would be sure to telegraph for him 
 if the least thing were amiss with Aunt Virginia." 
 
 I answered mechanically, and Bushrod's kind, low 
 voice ceased. I sat there at the desk with my back 
 to the others, bent over some papers; and all the 
 pain and grief and bereavement of these past weeks 
 went over me in a flood. 
 
 There was one longing I could not brook the 
 longing to see the studio once more. It came now 
 hand in hand with the imperative need to be alone. 
 
 Rising, I shut down the desk, resumed my gloves 
 I had not taken off my hat and coat and, Mr. 
 DeWitt being not yet arrived, went blindly out, and 
 took a Broadway car up to Tenth Street. 
 
 I went up all the flights of stairs checking, strug- 
 gling, arguing wildly at every step, and arrived at 
 the door, which I could not see for tears, crying 
 inly, " Oh, little door oh, little, little door! And 
 am I shut out for ever from that before which you 
 stand?" 
 
 Trembling and cold, I took out my key, opened 
 and closed the door, and was alone in my poor
 
 9 In the Trough of the Seas $ 287 
 
 abandoned heaven. I stood and looked slowly 
 about. 
 
 Each small humble thing in the place had its 
 own knife for my heart. The easel, the brushes, 
 the chair ah, his working jacket ! As I looked 
 at it, sheer longing mastered me. " Oh, where is 
 he?" I whispered. "My God, my God! Is it 
 can it be true ? Can I live and not see him ? " 
 
 Suddenly, it grew very dark in the room. I 
 reached out my arms gropingly, and just as it 
 seemed the floor yielded and moved in a sickening, 
 sliding way under my feet, the door opened sharply, 
 and some one came quickly in. 
 
 " Bushrod ! " I cried ; and strong arms lifted me 
 to something safe and solid; warm, strong hands 
 held mine, and chafed them. 
 
 The darkness swam away, and I sat up by Bush- 
 rod. A very convulsion of weeping seized and 
 shook and tore me. I clung to Bushrod' s hand, 
 warm and kind and living, my bursting head was 
 leaned against his arm, as he sat beside me. He 
 never spoke at all, only sat by me, and clasped the 
 hand that clung to his. 
 
 When the paroxysm had spent itself and me, and 
 I cowered, weak and exhausted, against his big 
 shoulder, I whispered, "How did you know?" 
 
 " Forgive me, dear, I followed you," he answered; 
 and then again there fell a long silence between us. 
 
 I dared not begin examining, finding fault, blam- 
 ing myself that I accepted this comfort which might 
 come to me through the grievous wounding of 
 another. I turned in positive fright from any 
 analysis of the situation. I know now, when time 
 has softened it all, left only the sweet and good,
 
 288 f The Last Word ^ 
 
 and stolen away everything that was sad and bitter, 
 that what led me astray where Bushrod was con- 
 cerned was the having of a human creature, a fine, 
 interesting brilliant man, at that, and unapproach- 
 ably shy to many, offered to me for my own, as a 
 mere stop-gap, to do with as I list and no return 
 asked. In every adoring look of his big blue eyes, 
 he gave himself, all that he had, all that he was, to 
 my service; or thanked me as for a boon, if I but 
 appeared willing to accept some portion of his gift. 
 
 The silence was finally broken by Bushrod be- 
 ginning, in what tried to be a very cheerful tone, 
 " You have been working too hard, Cara. Don't 
 you think you ought to go about and play a little ? " 
 
 I sat erect and wiped my eyes. Steadying my 
 voice with a painful effort, " Yes," I said, " I am 
 going to go about and try to amuse myself. And 
 then my work will be good for me again, presently." 
 
 Bushrod looked at me wistfully, and said, 
 " DeWitt had come in and was asking for this week's 
 column, when I left the office." 
 
 In my misery I had forgotten that such things 
 as columns and syndicate services must go on in 
 the world, however hearts may ache. I rose with a 
 sort of groan. " I have been using up everything 
 in my desk," I said, " and everything in my head 
 and heart so, for weeks, that I don't know what 
 to do. I don't like to beg off, but it it looks 
 like failure just now." 
 
 Then Bushrod showed me, more than in anything 
 that had gone before, the absolute difference between 
 the two cousins. " I have something here," he hesi- 
 tated, flushing, fumbling in the breast pocket of 
 his coat, and bringing forth finally a neatly folded
 
 f In the Trough of the Seas <& 289 
 
 manuscript. " I did it on the typewriter," he added, 
 in some embarrassment, " so that if there is any- 
 thing in it you can use, it will not need to be re- 
 written." 
 
 I opened the sheets and read them. I have said 
 that Bushrod Floyd was a brilliant man. He had 
 caught, with the wonderful fidelity which seemed 
 part of his absorbing tenderness, my exact spirit, 
 just my literary attitude. My " column " which 
 was usually two or three columns consisted 
 weekly of stray bits of reflection, description, phi- 
 losophising, and little stories, humourous and pa- 
 thetic. It ran under the heading, " The Heart of 
 Things," and was signed, " Young Lochinvar." 
 
 " It is a poor parody," my companion deprecated, 
 as he watched me reading. " I have been a sort 
 of moon, to absorb your sunny brightness. Surely 
 now, when you have need of it, I should be able 
 to throw back a pale glimmer of your radiance." 
 
 The work in my shaking fingers was exquisite. 
 Fragmentary, and in that sense unfinished, it was; 
 but the divine fire was in it. It seemed a piteous 
 thing that it should be offered to go in a syndicate 
 service offered in another's name. I said so to 
 Bushrod, but he was only too happy and content 
 in that the beautiful things had pleased me, and 
 smoothed one little wrinkle from my couch of pain. 
 
 " Now, that's settled," he said, cheerfully, " and 
 we will plan about going some places, won't we? 
 We shall ride and drive and go all over this big city. 
 Why, the museums, galleries, theatres everything 
 everything has been waiting for us all this 
 time, and the solemn truth is that I have been wait-
 
 290 *$* The Last Word $ 
 
 ing all my life to go to see everything with 
 you." 
 
 " What ! " I cried, in amazement, " haven't you 
 been to all those places you who have lived in 
 New York for years?" 
 
 " No," he answered, softly and seriously, " never 
 been to one of them with you. They are all 
 waiting, fresh and undiscovered, for me to find them 
 and look at them through your eyes." 
 
 I can blame myself now for accepting this willing 
 service. Then it seemed he made it seem a 
 kindness to him. It was always so; he always 
 held it so. He had never any concerns of his own 
 which need be considered, if I would accept him. 
 His cleverness was mine to divert me, his abilities 
 at my call to assist, himself to serve and cheer and 
 comfort and solace his adoring love to spread 
 beneath my feet, that they need not touch the com- 
 mon earth. 
 
 :< You always seem to me so poised, so sufficient 
 to yourself, such an independent little person," said 
 the big man, looking at me with his loving blue 
 eyes. " Do you know, I have been wishing ever 
 since I first met you that there would come a tide 
 in your affairs sometime, which would carry you off 
 your feet a little not drown you at all, but just 
 disturb your balance a bit, and that then it might 
 be given to me to catch you quickly and gently, and 
 set you once more safely on your feet where the 
 tide could not trouble you. To think that such a 
 dream as that should have come true ! " 
 
 Presently, I was calmed and righted, and we 
 prepared to go down to the office together. " I will 
 help you with these columns for awhile, if you will
 
 $ In the Trough of the Seas ^ 291 
 
 let me," Bushrod suggested, hesitatingly, as we rode 
 down-town. " I have a lot of odds and ends knock- 
 ing about in my desk and in my mind, which you 
 may be able to make use of until you feel more like 
 work. My stuff is just about good enough for news- 
 paper use. It is a shame to see such magnificent 
 matter as you have been giving them used in that 
 way. Do you never feel it so? Do you never want 
 to put it in more permanent form in a book?" 
 
 The thought of the big book, whose last chapters 
 still lay in the table drawer in the little studio, made 
 me heartsick. I suppose my face showed it, for 
 my companion hastened to add, contritely, " Do you 
 feel that I am arrogant and presuming because I dare 
 to think about you so much ? Is it overbold for me 
 to be finding paths for your feet? Indeed, dear, I 
 never see myself walking in those paths beside you 
 I am not such an idiot as that but I love to 
 make pictures of you strolling right up the mountain 
 of success to the temple of fame with its big white 
 dome." 
 
 That such an atmosphere as this was balm to one 
 who had been abraded by the chains of Frank's 
 exacting, possessive affection, needs not be said. 
 Now, as we rode down-town together, we were plan- 
 ning outings and planning work, each trying des- 
 perately to make believe to himself and the other 
 that this was a natural and reasonable state of 
 affairs. 
 
 " I have always been a lonesome old fellow," said 
 Bushrod, " always until you came. And now, if 
 you are three days out of the office, I nearly perish 
 just of stark loneliness and longing to have a sight 
 of you."
 
 The Last Word 
 
 And after this day, I set out upon the many days 
 and weeks when Bushrod Floyd cared for and sus- 
 tained and shielded me as a mother might an ailing 
 child ; when he wrote my column for me, or encour- 
 aged and coaxed and helped me to write it; when 
 he scanned my appearance with a guarded solicitude 
 which caused no embarrassment, managed that 
 Genevieve should drag me about to things I did 
 not wish to do or see, yet which served to divert 
 me somewhat from my misery; when he developed 
 a habit of being upon imaginary errands, that he 
 might go with me from the office to the car, or 
 timidly sought to please and coax me into stopping 
 with him for a bit of lunch, or to eat some fruit, 
 pleading that he was hungry and could not eat alone. 
 
 I was drugged, sinking under the opiate of de- 
 spair; and he worked with the desperate eagerness 
 of the physician or nurse who keeps such an one 
 moving, that the life-blood may not stagnate. 
 
 That I was never afraid nor ashamed of what I 
 accepted from him is not true; and yet he made 
 it so natural, so simple, so inevitable, that I felt 
 less uneasiness than would have seemed possible. It 
 was generally a pretext of work, or exercise, or some 
 outing that brought us together, and it was only 
 occasionally that he said things which showed me 
 the enormity of my fault. 
 
 I remember once, when he had made such a 
 speech, his looking round at my face of dismay and 
 saying to me, " Can you be patient with a man who 
 is sometimes waked in the night with the dew of 
 fear upon his face fear that he may not hold such 
 daily companionship, such favour as you are now 
 giving him? Forgive me. Could I be more of a
 
 $> In the Trough of the Seas $ 293 
 
 dolt than to admit that to you ? It sounds as though 
 I felt you were promising me something, when, God 
 knows, my only longing is that you will allow me to 
 give all, and never trouble your dear head about it, 
 except to think how kind you have been to me in 
 receiving it." 
 
 I was not altogether blinded by my own suffer- 
 ing. I knew I was building ill, and tried feebly to 
 demur, to withdraw a little, but it was long, and 
 long too late. 
 
 When I began to speak, Bushrod's eyes dilated 
 upon me with love and pain and fear. " No, no, 
 Cara," he protested, "you are wholly free; no 
 shadow of a tie or obligation binds you anywhere. 
 You need me a little now, and it is my only happi- 
 ness. To lose this privilege of seeing and being 
 near and serving you I I cannot well, there 
 is no need, you know, dear. 
 
 " What I feel is not the desire of a man blind 
 from his birth, who longs for the sunshine, the 
 precious gift of sight. That might have been the 
 way before you came. Now, to lose my chance of 
 doing something for you, and being with you, would 
 be to endure the agony of one who had loved the 
 light and all it gave, and who has the terror of 
 seeing it taken away, and his soul left in a darkness 
 that is all he will ever have." 
 
 " Bushrod," I said, " I am I suppose I am not 
 just well, and I am very unhappy. You nobody 
 knows or understands as you do; nobody else can 
 help or Bushrod, do you think I may I 
 ought " 
 
 " Indeed, I know you may, and ought," he de- 
 clared, cheerily. " Let's be done with all such talk,
 
 294 * The Last Word f> 
 
 and go on to our work and play, accepting what the 
 gods send daily. We shall all all be rich and 
 famous and happy by and by." 
 
 So I said no more, and Bushrod's love and care, 
 his belief and help and encouragement, led me back 
 to my life and its labours and opportunities, as a 
 mother's hand leads a tottering little child. 
 
 I went down to the office one day, and was re- 
 ceived by Mr. DeWitt with unexpected geniality. 
 
 " These last things of yours are superb, Miss 
 West," he said. " I really think they are the best 
 work you have done since you came to New York." 
 
 Bushrod Floyd was standing by his desk, and he 
 stole a furtive, humourous look at me, as of a de- 
 tected culprit. I had opened my lips to tell Mr. 
 DeWitt the origin of most of the brilliance in my 
 recent productions, when Bushrod, evidently expect- 
 ing something of the sort, hastened to praise it in 
 such glowing terms (all the while looking at me with 
 side-glances of defiance), that I was estopped from 
 giving any information on our mutual work.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A Spartan Three 
 
 " You are dying for me, and I am dying for another." 
 
 IT had always been that when I was heartsick and 
 well-nigh despairing, I knew of no method by which 
 I might help myself except to build up the health of 
 that portion of my soul which is visible and palpable 
 my body. My cure for a heartache was a long 
 walk, or a bit of vigorous exercise taken, for pref- 
 erence, with agreeable companionship. 
 
 Despite all the difference between Genevieve and 
 myself, all the wide and marked divergences of taste, 
 feeling and belief, there was one meeting-ground 
 upon which our souls could fraternise. 
 
 Whether she thought as I did about the value of 
 exercise or no, it is certain that an unquiet heart 
 drove her forth as it drove me, and when we found 
 ourselves owning a bit of coincident leisure we went 
 to a gymnasium of which she knew, and where she 
 was undergoing a very complicated " course," or we 
 took long walks. 
 
 To the company of these latter, Bushrod Floyd 
 was, upon his diffidently put forward plea, admitted. 
 He would fain have given no reason for his desire 
 to join us " whenever we could put up with him ; " 
 but Genevieve having demanded one in her usual 
 
 295
 
 296 ^ The Last Word <f 
 
 inexorable fashion, he stated that sitting all day 
 over a drawing-board was making a second Fat 
 Boy of him, and it was a question between this and 
 banting. 
 
 So we three poor souls, each with his little fox 
 gnawing at heart, bearing the nips as best we might, 
 covering the pain with such smiles and jests as we 
 could, tramped long miles together. 
 
 Did you ever consider the enormous psychological 
 significance of certain very simple actions? Take 
 for instance the looking out at windows, and the 
 going upon long, aimless walks. Who that is content 
 or happy ever falls into either of these practices? 
 
 It is generally the miserable woman, who may 
 not go forth to accost Fate, who must sit at home 
 till the event comes battering at her door with its 
 great brutal bludgeon, who haunts casements, who 
 goes from one sill to another and gazes drearily 
 forth to behold, if she may, the solution of the 
 dilemma approaching. 
 
 As for aimless walks, women, too, take most of 
 them. There are other methods of relief in action 
 open to men. 
 
 We were, in spite of our incongruity, a congenial 
 trio, agreed upon more matters than merely a state 
 of mind which made long walks salutary. 
 
 We found, as the acquaintance ripened, much to 
 love and admire in each other. We saw, now, that 
 none of the people at the office knew Miss Bucks. 
 
 Bushrod and I discussed together the astonishing 
 fact that Genevieve wore rubbers, and a trailing 
 skirt which she carried tightly gripped, and so raised 
 as to impede every step. We agreed that such a 
 course upon her part destroyed that cherished one
 
 $ A Spartan Three $ 297 
 
 of our illusions which concerned the wearing by 
 Englishwomen of thick-soled shoes and short skirts. 
 
 " Miss Bucks," he ventured one day, " I thought 
 English ladies didn't wear rubbers. I imagined 
 they called them galoshes, and scarcely stooped to 
 own a pair." 
 
 " Galoshes ! " she returned sharply, rounding 
 those mild light eyes at both of us. " Pray, why 
 should I call gum overshoes galoshes? And why 
 should I not wish to keep my boots tidy, and my 
 feet dry, because I am an Englishwoman ? " 
 
 And he hastily admitted that there was no suffi- 
 cient reason. 
 
 " Fancy ! " she continued to mutter, " galoshes ! " 
 
 I am not a fish, like Genevieve; I must come up 
 to blow ; and I had, in the midst of my misery, spells 
 of wild gaiety almost hilarity. That I was trying 
 to her at these seasons, I well know; but I think, 
 too, that I must have done her good by diverting her 
 mind from one unresponsive young man. 
 
 As for Bushrod, it was worth while to counter- 
 feit high spirits, only to see how absolute was his 
 content on such occasions. 
 
 There were moments when I was even exuberant 
 enough to forget myself and whistle. Of course 
 this only happened two or three times, away up in 
 the remote solitudes of Harlem, or on some secluded, 
 pensive, and policemanless pathway in the park. I 
 always stopped it the instant I realised what I was 
 doing; for though Genevieve commanded herself 
 nobly I was entirely alive to her anguish on such 
 occasions. 
 
 One day, having caught myself at this " exces-
 
 298 f The Last Word $ 
 
 sively ungenteel " performance, and stopped with in- 
 stant contrition, I inquired earnestly : 
 
 " Miss Bucks, what on earth do you suppose you 
 would do if I should ever be able to sufficiently forget 
 myself or forget New York to indulge in a 
 real Yazoo yell ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you something," returned Genevieve 
 abruptly, and with a preternaturally wise side glance 
 at Bushrod. " The only really wild and alarming 
 things I've ever observed in you are your threats! 
 In the matter of actual behaviour, there is very little 
 really discreditable about you." And she looked 
 us both straight in the face with the utmost bland- 
 ness. 
 
 While we hesitated, our glances inquiring wildly 
 of each other if it were possible Genevieve could 
 mean to be sarcastic or clever, and if not, what then ? 
 she continued, " But a Yazoo yell what is that ? " 
 
 I examined her face and her tone of voice criti- 
 cally, decided that my suspicion was a mad one, and 
 replied : 
 
 " A Yazoo yell, Miss Bucks, is not a thing you 
 describe, you just do it. Shall I show you how ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, thank you. I " 
 
 " Miss Bucks," I continued, feelingly, " did you 
 never yell at all ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, certainly, as a small child, I used 
 to be quite a little savage, I'm sure. I had no 
 sisters, so I ran rather wild with my four hobble- 
 dehoy brothers. I remember that when we played 
 * Red Indian ' we howled fearfully." 
 
 " Well, and weren't you much happier and health- 
 ier for it," I pursued, intensely, " than you've ever
 
 9 A Spartan Three $> 299 
 
 been since the trammels of social usage were fastened 
 upon you, and " 
 
 " Oh, nonsense 1 " broke in Genevieve, briskly. 
 " I suppose she is chaffing, as usual ; isn't she, Mr. 
 Floyd? Certainly I was a happy little heathen, as 
 a youngster ; and certainly I loved bread and treacle, 
 and to race about and howl. And now I'm a moder- 
 ately successful and discontented woman, and no 
 longer care for treacle or howling; but I see no 
 direct connection." 
 
 "Yet, it is there!" I cried, feelingly. "I tell 
 you I have a theory on the subject." 
 
 ("I do not doubt it," murmured Genevieve. " If 
 you had not, it would be the first subject you failed 
 to fit with a theory.") 
 
 I looked at her in amazement. There was no 
 denying that Genevieve was blossoming out. What 
 was the developing influence, I wondered the 
 DeWitt affair, or our stimulating society? But I 
 continued, with dignity : 
 
 " My belief is, Miss Bucks, that yelling a small 
 amount, at least, of daily yelling subserves some 
 excellent purpose in the physical economy, promotes 
 some important life function; and that in the man 
 or woman who never yells, who never utters a 
 hearty shout, something droops and pines into 
 harmful desuetude. I am convinced that no tribe 
 or community of people can entirely abjure and cease 
 from all yelling without paying the natural penalty. 
 Indeed, I am at this moment, in my own proper 
 person, an example a living illustration of the 
 evil effects which follow the sudden and complete 
 breaking off of this joyous and healthful habit. It 
 has now been months months since I uttered
 
 300 f The Last Word f 
 
 anything approaching a hearty, spirit-lifting yell; 
 and I tell you I feel it. 
 
 " I feel it; and I would have in all cities just 
 as I would have baths and gymnasiums space 
 devoted to this cheerful, agreeable, and important 
 exercise; yelleries, you might call them, or shouta- 
 toriums, attractive places where one might go to 
 shout as a simple health measure, or to have a yell 
 with a friend, with no suspicion of the ridiculous 
 attaching to one, but all in seemliness and as a 
 matter of course." 
 
 I saw Genevieve screwing up her mouth, prepara- 
 tory to giving me a good setting down. I decided 
 I would not have any setting down that day; so I 
 continued in a much louder and more enthusiastic 
 tone, 
 
 " Why, this thing develops as one considers it. 
 It unrolls, it opens up undreamed-of possibilities. 
 Why not yelling contests with judges and a crowd, 
 like the Olympian games, you know ? " 
 
 And Bushrod added, " Why not progressive yell- 
 ing matches, with prizes and consolation prizes ? " 
 
 Genevieve was silent, but not sulky she never 
 sulks. She simply confessed herself beaten, and we 
 went on amicably to other things. 
 
 " Miss Bucks ! " I announced suddenly one day, 
 when we were sloshing around in what she told 
 me was very bad form and high spirits in that gym- 
 nasium where we do a morning's work twice a week, 
 " Miss Bucks ! I know now why fellows swagger 
 who cultivate their muscles instead of their brains." 
 
 " Because they are usually that sort of fellows," 
 returned Genevieve, with her strange, heavy, British 
 coldness. It was always startling to me to see Gene-
 
 ^> A Spartan Three f 301 
 
 vieve so cold mentally when she was so warmed up 
 physically her face flushed like a great pink cab- 
 bage rose, her pale, tan-coloured eyes fairly glowing 
 with red-brown light. When the blood's in my head 
 like that, whether from dancing, or racing my horse 
 or my wheel, swinging clubs or no matter 
 whatever brought it there, when it's there like that, 
 why I could kill people, or love 'em to death, or 
 die to save 'em. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " it is because they are that sort of 
 fellows. I don't wonder, nor blame them a bit. I 
 smile, to myself, every time I see one of them, and 
 I say, ' Yes, I know. So would I, if only I dared.' 
 It is being a woman and having to dress as women 
 dress, alone, that deters me. The impulse the 
 good will is there." 
 
 " Yes, I fear it really is," put in Genevieve, 
 primly. 
 
 " Yes, you're precious right," I retorted. " I tell 
 you, when the blood runs through my veins laughing 
 and singing and whistling, the limitations of civi- 
 lisation, social conventionalities, may and do 
 oblige me to look and walk and speak demurely, 
 but " 
 
 " Oh, no ; they don't seem to oblige you to " 
 began Genevieve, but I w r alked right over her. 
 " But it is no more than an outward seeming, an 
 enforced tribute to the powers that be. My body 
 may walk, but my spirit dances; the flesh may 
 deport itself civilly and discourse seemly, according 
 to the canons of society ; but the soul chucks its hat 
 on the back of its head, its hands in its pockets, 
 kicks up its heels, and shouts aloud ! " 
 
 Genevieve opened her mouth to say something. I
 
 302 f The Last Word 9 
 
 knew by experience what it would be like, so I burst 
 in ahead of her. " Good heavens ! Miss Bucks, is it 
 common among English people to be so absolutely 
 fishlike? Or is it only a personal, not a national 
 peculiarity? S'death, and zounds, and gadzooks! 
 I'd rather suffer; I'd rather have ups and downs, 
 and awful times, and and fits than to be 
 such a positive fish!" 
 
 Genevieve said one single word. This word was 
 " Humph ! " and she looked so significant that I 
 felt a little uncertain of my ground. 
 
 But to return to this business of physical activity. 
 
 " I long ago discovered," I told Genevieve, " that 
 circulation enough circulation is, seriously, the 
 remedy for all the ills of life. I know that it will 
 cure indigestion, headache, heartache, despondency, 
 despair! And, I dare say, hydrophobia, leprosy, 
 pessimism, remorse, bankruptcy, and annihilation, 
 if it were only given a fair trial. I am convinced in 
 my own mind that it was the Nepenthe of the clever 
 Greeks, that potion which rocked asleep all sorrow 
 and disappointment, and gave the sick and wounded 
 heart health and peace. And it was their Lethe, as 
 well ; the pulsing stream in whose renewing currents 
 all past griefs and failures are forgot, all future 
 joy and success are made possible." 
 
 " It must indeed be so, if you say so," she replied, 
 " for I have noticed that you seem to know a vast 
 deal about ancient matters, rather especially the 
 Greeks and other classical persons and things." 
 
 This was little short of brutal on Genevieve's part, 
 in view of my very limited and, so to say, third- 
 hand acquaintance with the classics, and the fact
 
 $ A Spartan Three 9 303 
 
 that she, a Girton girl, had a rich and ample knowl- 
 edge thereof. But I could not blame her. 
 
 " Well," I said, " I at least know by actual per- 
 sonal experiment that when you have kicked for 
 five minutes at a bit of paper stuck up on the wall 
 at about the height of your ear, hitting it one time 
 out of ten, losing your shaky balance, at an average, 
 every third kick, and falling back in fits of laughter 
 on to a mattress humanely placed there for the pur- 
 pose, until every pulse in your body bounds, you 
 don't care a fillip whether the wind's in the east 
 or west ; and you wonder with good-natured amuse- 
 ment what thing it was what little, sneezy, con- 
 temptible thing that hurt and fretted you so yes- 
 terday. You would not wish to hit the world too 
 hard, for fear you might hurt it; but you want it 
 to keep a mighty civil tongue in its head, and do 
 you about right." 
 
 " You mean that you feel that way," corrected 
 Genevieve, still fishily cold. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I do," I admitted. "I can't 
 reasonably mean that you do." 
 
 But despite Genevieve's lack of enthusiasm 
 which lack I am sure she exaggerated when she 
 discovered that it afflicted me she continued to be 
 to me an interesting and, in some sense, congenial 
 companion, because she was simplicity and genuine- 
 ness incarnate ; and then she was so fine in all these 
 physical activities, and, in her queer, depressed way, 
 so perennially fond of them, so ready for, and inter- 
 ested in them. 
 
 Miss Salem's New York house was now in the 
 hands of repairers, renovators, decorators, and fur- 
 nishers, and she had been for some weeks at one of
 
 304 The Last Word $ 
 
 the most splendid of the up-town hotels. Here 
 she invited me to spend a week with her. I lived 
 that week, quite soothed and steadied and at my 
 best so it seemed to me in her pleasing society, 
 during my leisure time. Miss Salem's aura was 
 certainly a benign one, if that is a proper character- 
 isation of an aura. 
 
 To my mind, the great modern American hotel 
 is a place of rest, comfort, and beauty, with its big 
 spaces, and its consummate perfection of service. 
 There, if you please, one might think and write. 
 
 A repose like that which dwells in the groves of 
 the oracle pervades its private rooms, back of thick 
 stone or brick walls, admitting upon the one side 
 cnly a diminished echo of the city's noise through 
 deeply embrasured, heavily draped windows; and, 
 on the other, abutting upon the beautiful silence, the 
 dim, calm twilight and spacious airiness of the long, 
 velvet-floored corridors. 
 
 It was here in Miss Salem's great palace of a 
 hotel that I made the acquaintance of a cunning con- 
 trivance called the teleseme, a glorification and blos- 
 soming of the sober little electric bell. It was a 
 very wonderful thing, I then thought. Its benignant 
 face beamed upon me from its station on the wall 
 beside my door. At first I was only interested, then 
 a bit incredulous, and finally, too happy for words. 
 
 I read attentively all around its dial, whereon 
 are printed the names of nearly all the things a sick 
 or weary body might desire. There were set forth 
 food and refreshment, both bodily and mental. 
 Sweet waters and bitter waters of all sorts were 
 there, one might say, suggested. Salutary draughts 
 and sinful intoxicants, by the pint or quart, were
 
 *f^ A Spartan Three > 305 
 
 offered, with great number and variety of persons to 
 do almost any bidding. I read the directions, too, 
 printed up strongly as they were in red, instructing 
 the guest to turn the crank until its end rests over 
 the name of the thing he desires, then press the 
 button and the order will be filled at once. 
 
 When I read these directions the rapturous antici- 
 pation of Aladdin flooded my fancy. " Now oh, 
 now shall I have my heart's dear wish ! " I 
 thought. " They can not have omitted so important 
 a thing. Why, it is what we all want ; the uncom- 
 municated yearning which drives us all, restless, un- 
 satisfied seekers up and down the earth. Where all 
 wants have been so thoughtfully anticipated, they 
 will never have overlooked the great want. "Pis 
 but to turn the crank, press the button, a moment 
 of waiting, and I shall kiss the lips of my desire." 
 
 Again I read round and round that dial that held 
 so much I did not want; but, ah, it was not there! 
 And in the face of this bitter disappointment, but- 
 tered toast seemed a mockery and sherry cobbler 
 little better than an insult. 
 
 " Not there, not there, my child ! " No, it wasn't 
 there any more than it has ever been anywhere else. 
 Or - " But, no, I will not do that," I declared, " I 
 will not accuse and discredit and cripple the future 
 - my beautiful, beautiful, capable, copious, fruitful, 
 omnipotent, omnibus future, where I know that ' it,' 
 and all other good things, are waiting eagerly for 
 me to be brave enough and good and deserving 
 enough to come and get them. And (to be honest 
 and just) I understand that if what I thought I 
 wanted wasn't printed on the teleseme's face, and 
 ready for me at the other end of the line, it is because
 
 306 9> The Last Word $ 
 
 the prizes and rewards are (very properly) not dis- 
 tributed before the races are half run, or the tasks 
 half accomplished." 
 
 On Friday my weekly " stunt " was due. There 
 was no Bushrod to help me out; he had been sent 
 away by the house, on a business matter, at the 
 time I came to Miss Salem. And Thursday evening 
 found me alone in our beautiful apartments, the re- 
 luctant entertainer of an uproarious and cataclysmal 
 headache, writing away at my story, a la Catherine 
 I cannot remember just what Catherine sign- 
 ing her will, I believe some state document, 
 anyway, propped up with pillows and things. 
 
 I had got into the midst of a sentence where 
 various parts of speech fought hand to hand, verbs, 
 substantives, and adjectives, all in one furious and 
 unseemly scrimmage, when the door opened softly, 
 and Genevieve walked in. She shut the door behind 
 her, came over and looked down at me quietly, and 
 remarked, " I knew it ! " 
 
 " How? " I inquired seriously, grabbing my head 
 between my two hands and looking up at her with 
 a bloodshot eye. 
 
 " Oh, I simply know things sometimes," she re- 
 turned, smiling for once Genevieve smiled and 
 I I could not. 
 
 " Genevieve," I began, and Miss Bucks started a 
 little, and looked keenly at me; " Genevieve," and 
 my head crashed like smitten cymbals " this pic- 
 ture you may not recognise. It is Catherine What's- 
 her-name, signing her what-you-call-it. It resembles 
 a Chinese play, in that only the chief actor is on the 
 stage. All the scenery and accessories are left to 
 the imagination of the audience that's you, you
 
 $ A Spartan Three $ 307 
 
 know. So the weeping lords and ladies, the attend- 
 ant vassals, the impossible greyhound and cataleptic 
 priest may be filled in to your fancy. They are at 
 the other end of the teleseme, Genevieve you see 
 the teleseme up there along with the Hot Waffles, 
 Cold Turkey, the Waters of Pleasantness and the 
 antidotal Waters of Bitterness, the Letter, the Time 
 of Day, the Private Maid, and Milk Punch. Oh, 
 Genevieve, Genevieve! My head must inevitably 
 explode. But I'm going to get out this week's copy, 
 alive or dead Oh ! " 
 
 Miss Bucks made me no immediate reply. She 
 looked long at me with what I must describe as 
 a sort of affectionate contempt. Then she gathered 
 the litter of books, papers, " copy " and writing 
 tools off the bed, smoothed out its convulsed and 
 distraught draperies, straightened me up, shaded all 
 the light off me, took into her own hands the clip 
 and pencil with which I had been wrestling and, 
 sitting down beside me, remarked in a quiet, reflec- 
 tive voice : 
 
 ' You poor thing, you are partially crazy with 
 your headache; but I fancy it will not make any 
 difference. So, to put it in your own chaste style, 
 ' Fire away with your stuff/ if Mr. DeWitt must 
 have it to-morrow. I will take it down in shorthand 
 and type it for you." 
 
 I shut my eyes, and fired away promptly and con- 
 tinuously, thanking heaven for this kind heart, these 
 capable hands and wits. 
 
 When I made an end, Miss Bucks laid down the 
 finished work, came and bathed my head, and did 
 it up soothingly in cool wet things. Then she ob- 
 served,
 
 308 f The Last Word $ 
 
 " It is very singular. You went through all that 
 stuff smartly enough. It doesn't seem to me any 
 madder than most of the things you write. Yet, 
 when I came in, you were well, you didn't really 
 know me. How are you feeling now ? " 
 
 I blushed, and my first impulse was to equivocate. 
 But I strangled it, and taking the cool, kind hand 
 upon my head in my own, I said, " No, Miss Bucks, 
 I knew you perfectly. It was only that, in the dis- 
 traction of this deafening, blinding pain, I inad- 
 vertently called you by the name I gave you the first 
 time I ever saw you. I " and I looked up reso- 
 lutely "I always call you Genevieve, to myself. 
 You never were anything but Genevieve to me; " 
 and I paused anxiously. 
 
 " Fancy ! " she commented, but very gently ; then 
 laughed a sweet little full-throated laugh. " How 
 odd ! But it is quite like you. I don't mind in the 
 least, you know." 
 
 She sat there for some time, holding my hand, 
 bathing my head. And slowly, slowly quieted down 
 the uproar and anguish inside my skull. When it 
 got to be that I could talk with some ease, I said, 
 
 " If you'll sit a bit nearer here, I'll tell you a 
 little thing which runs in my mind." 
 
 Genevieve drew her chair closer and leaned her 
 head down toward me, and I began : "I met this 
 morning, in a little square just east of us here 
 as I have several times met it before a ready- 
 made figure, a simile, that could be used advanta- 
 geously to point a variety of morals or adorn 
 almost any sort of tale. (I'm going to use it 
 presently to illustrate and adorn these existing cir- 
 cumstances, so let me pursue my own way.)"
 
 f A Spartan Three $ 309 
 
 Genevieve pressed my hand in silent assent, and 
 I went on. " It was well, you might call it a 
 peregrinating parable. It consists of two little 
 boys, or girls (it was girls this morning) with their 
 arms around each other, and sharing a pair of roller 
 skates, each one wearing a skate and holding up the 
 skateless foot. Now, would it not serve admirably 
 to illustrate a sermon on Free Trade and Reci- 
 procity? As a clincher to a matrimonial homily, 
 how could it be beaten? Why, it would make the 
 very jewel of a ' Husbands and Wives ' tract ! I 
 shall offer this figure to preachers, free trade orators, 
 and writers on the ideal marriage, to all and singular 
 of whom I am sure it might be serviceable. In fact, 
 when one thinks upon the matter, its application is 
 almost unlimited. What are we all, dear Gen " 
 
 " Genevieve," she prompted, smiling. 
 
 " Well, dear Genevieve, what are we all but 
 children with one skate on? I do not believe it has 
 ever been given to man to have two. I do not be- 
 lieve there is or ever was a soul of us, on this 
 big bridge, stretching from the darkness of the 
 Was into the darkness of the To Be, that wears 
 more skates than one (and quite commonly a bad 
 corn on the other foot, into the bargain), and we 
 need some one on that off side, the strongest and 
 best of us. We can skate along a little while, as 
 these children can, we can frolic about and disport 
 ourselves, that other foot with its bad, bad corn 
 held safely up; but when we begin to wabble, as 
 the most skilful of us is bound to wabble sooner or 
 later, the one-skatedness of us is ruthlessly exposed, 
 and there is an instant reaching out for help on that 
 off side."
 
 310 $ The Last Word 
 
 Genevieve did not say a word about my oddness, 
 or my queer talk. She pressed my hand again, 
 and just murmured, " Yes, I understand." 
 
 " You know," I went on, " I thought if anybody 
 ever did have two skates on, it was I ; and it was my 
 religion to stand on my own feet, and depend upon 
 nobody and nothing else than myself. I would have 
 declared any day that at least my feet had a skate 
 apiece. And now look at me. I " 
 
 "Oh, come now, nonsense!" she interrupted, 
 cheerily, " you have two good skates on two good 
 feet, and all the skill and courage to use them. You 
 forget that even people so equipped do fall down 
 sometimes, or are knocked over. They simply get 
 up and laugh, and skate on again." 
 
 When Genevieve had her hat and gloves on, ready 
 to go, she inquired, " Now, where is the finished 
 matter you wish me to take down along with this I 
 have?" 
 
 " It is across in Miss Salem's room," I answered. 
 " You can go through the sitting-room, here, and 
 get it off her table she is out." 
 
 " Yes, I know," returned Genevieve, " at the 
 Authors' Club reception." 
 
 " And she's going to see that wonderful ball 
 before she comes home, too," I added. 
 
 Genevieve fetched the big envelope, and stood 
 turning it over absently in her hands. Finally she 
 suggested, with her gaze fastened upon the manu- 
 script, " You like her very much, don't you? " 
 
 " Like who? Miss Salem? " I asked, a little sur- 
 prised. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " Why, yes. Yes, indeed," I responded, heartily.
 
 $> A Spartan Three $ 311 
 
 " She is an attractive woman, very genuine and com- 
 panionable. I should think any one she liked would 
 be very apt to like her." 
 
 " Yes," assented Genevieve, " I suppose it is just 
 so. And how delightful ! To be so so strong and 
 admirable and attractive that any one whom you 
 liked would be sure to like you."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A Plaster Eros 
 
 " O Love 1 What shall be said of thee 
 The son of Grief, begot by Joy ? 
 Being sightless, wilt thou see ? " 
 
 SOMETIME in the deep night I wakened abruptly 
 but quietly, and lay looking at the shadow of the 
 lace curtain as the strong white moonlight painted 
 it upon the door. I was possessed utterly by a 
 sense of ease and peace and thankfulness such as 
 I had not known for many months, after the pre- 
 posterous racking of that fierce and senseless head- 
 ache. It was the door into the parlour between 
 Miss Salem's room and mine which was shadow 
 painted ; and as I looked at it, it opened silently, 
 and Miss Salem came in, exactly as Genevieve had 
 come through the other door a few hours before. 
 
 She would have gone back at once, when she 
 found the room dark, but I called to her, " I'm wide 
 awake. Come in and turn on the lights. I am 
 glad to have you." Then, as the lights flashed out, 
 I added, " How splendid you look ! What time is 
 it?" 
 
 " Three o'clock. I have just left the ' world- famed 
 ball,' " she replied. She was flushed a little beyond 
 her wont, and looked very fine in her grand toilet. 
 
 3"
 
 f> A Plaster Eros $> 313 
 
 " I thought I would come and see if you were 
 awake I imagined you might be writing. I have 
 scarcely seen you since breakfast, and there is only 
 one more day of our living together. Put on your 
 dressing-gown and come over to my room, Cara, 
 and tell me what wild adventure you met with 
 to-day." 
 
 I smiled at a sudden recollection, and observing 
 my mirth, she said, " There it is, tell it to me." 
 
 So, while Miss Salem removed her evening dress 
 and adornments (for with all her generous, even 
 lavish manner of living, she never kept a maid), and 
 arrayed herself in dressing-gown and slippers, I 
 produced the desired adventure. 
 
 " It was on the bridge," I began. " This after- 
 noon I find a good deal of my experience, and 
 make many of my observations on the bridge this 
 afternoon I had been to Brooklyn. You know I am 
 very fond of walking over the bridge, so I walked 
 very slowly across it, and sat down on a bench 
 on the New York tower, because I was nearly half 
 an hour too early for an engagement. I was going 
 to present a very nice letter of introduction to a very 
 important person. The letter, you will understand, 
 was written by a man who couldn't well help himself. 
 He was under some obligations to a very warm 
 partisan of mine back in Texas, and needed the 
 support of a still warmer one in the matter of a little 
 office." 
 
 Miss Salem began to laugh, and shook her head at 
 me. 
 
 " Oh, that's right ! " I cried, " I am just telling 
 it to you straight. Well, then, it would show very 
 poor judgment, indeed, don't you think? to go
 
 314 & The Last Word f 
 
 early to such an engagement. So, meaning to occupy 
 the spare half -hour, I sat down and opened a book 
 you know I always carry one with me." 
 
 " Yes, I know you do and never read it." 
 
 " But people are much more interesting and at- 
 tractive to me than books ; and I always take them in 
 preference, when I can get them. Failing people, 
 a book is a great thing." 
 
 " Certainly I ought to agree to that," she smiled. 
 
 " Well," I continued, " having opened my book, 
 I looked about to see if I couldn't find some living 
 interest instead. Sure enough, not three feet away, 
 there sat what Sam Weller would denominate ' a 
 old file.' He was a very picture-book figure, a stage 
 old man, long, thin, seedy, with fluffy white hair 
 and glittering black eyes eyes as black as the vil- 
 lain's purpose. He fixed me with these burning eyes, 
 and he says, says he, * Did you ever study Om- 
 nology?' 
 
 " Now now," objected Miss Salem, reprov- 
 ingly. 
 
 " He did," I declared, " he did say Omnology. 
 And he called it something else presently as you'll 
 see, if you'll let me get on with my story." 
 
 " Well, well," allowed Miss Salem, " go on." 
 
 " He inquired, then," I reiterated, " * Did you ever 
 study Omnology ? ' and I blushed hotly, for I thought 
 of that rosy letter in my pocket, which stated that 
 I had been subjected, as it were, to a very superior 
 education ; and here was an old file requiring of me 
 an ' ology ' I'd never even heard of before. So I 
 faltered, ' Well ah only superficially. I ' 
 
 " ' Just so,' interrupted the ancient man, ' it is 
 ever too abstract for the female mind. It is to
 
 9 A Plaster Eros <* 315 
 
 psychology what algebra is to arithmetic. Beautiful 
 science wonderful, ennobling study! Now, you 
 are a woman' (I bowed humbly), 'but you have 
 an intelligent eye' (I brightened), 'and I have a 
 system by which I can explain to you the true princi- 
 ples of Omnetrics ' (Omnetrics," I repeated, im- 
 pressively, to Miss Salem. " I told you he called it 
 something else later), 'a system by which I can 
 explain to you the principles of Omnetrics in an 
 hour's time.' (I collapsed.) 
 
 " ' Look at this bridge,' said my old man, ' the 
 vast, powerful edifice. Note its massive towers, iron 
 girders, cables, and pillars. Does it not seem great 
 and wonderful to you even as a mere bridge a 
 feat of engineering and mechanical skill? Yet all 
 the structures of man, the monuments of his strength, 
 the fabrics of his skill and cunning, are cryptograms, 
 wherein lie hidden the soul's thought. All these 
 thoughts and images, fit reading for an angel or a 
 god, you may decipher if you once learn the magic 
 key. Now to begin ' 
 
 " I glanced at my watch. I had just thirteen 
 minutes to go on. 
 
 " ' But,' said he, with a note of reproach in his 
 voice, as he observed the action, ' I am detaining 
 you, I see. You wish to go. You are but a woman, 
 a young woman at that, and these things ' 
 
 " This tone piqued me. ' You are much misled ! ' 
 I cried. ' You do me wrong ; you fail to reckon 
 with my higher self; and you have simply no idea 
 of my yearning after the unattainable. I should 
 love to remain here on this ingeniously uncomfort- 
 able bench through blissful ages, listening to you on 
 Omnology. But, alas! I must go and do things to
 
 316 *& The Last Word ^ 
 
 earn bread and butter. It is now two-seventeen 
 o'clock. At two-thirty, sharp, I must be " there " 
 tc " see a person," or the particular jig which I am 
 engaged in promoting is up. I do not know I 
 may never, never know Omnetrics. But I know 
 a little bit of arithmetic, enough to enable me to 
 count small sums of money, and tell time. The 
 difference between seventeen and thirty is still, as it 
 was in my infancy, thirteen. Thirteen minutes from 
 here to Printing-House Row! It is not, I trust 
 you believe, that I lack the finer appreciation. 
 " Time, time doth thrust me from thine arms ; good- 
 bye, sweetheart, good-bye ! " ' And I fled away to 
 New York." 
 
 During my recital, Miss Salem had laughed till 
 the tears came. Now, as I made an end, she was 
 silent; and her face, turned toward me, was tender 
 and reminiscent; a mist of remembrance seemed 
 to have arisen in those always beautiful dark eyes of 
 hers. 
 
 " It was an adventure worthy of you," she said ; 
 " but your old man, your quaint old Yankee of 
 course you know he was a Yankee has carried me 
 back to my childhood ; he has brought freshly back 
 to me things that I had scarcely thought of since 
 they happened thirty years ago." 
 
 " Oh, yes," I agreed, " he was a Yankee of the 
 Yankees. That's one reason why I thought he would 
 amuse you.' ? 
 
 " That is why he does much more than amuse 
 me," she added. " Do you know, he reminds me of 
 my great-uncle Ansel who lived with us my 
 mother and me the last ten years of his life."
 
 $ A Plaster Eros 9 317 
 
 " This old file of mine," I suggested, a little hesi- 
 tatingly, " had er wheels in his head." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I understand," she laughed. " Uncle 
 Ansel was not entirely free from wheels. He was 
 father's uncle. Mother understood him about as 
 much as well, as you understand Omnetrics. If 
 he had lived somewhere else than in East Benton 
 or its likes, he might perhaps have been a poet, or 
 a great mathematician, or an inventor he had 
 genius. As it was, he was tinkering with a per- 
 petual motion machine in the woodshed. He was 
 eighty then. Long before I saw Uncle Ansel, his 
 environment, hostile, scoffing, contemptuous, had 
 overwhelmed and destroyed him. He was a gentle, 
 drooping, silent, dark-eyed old man, with that pa- 
 tient, settled melancholy which seemed so much a 
 part of him that it was hardly sad. 
 
 " Mother was always, in her way, kind to him ; 
 practical kindness, you know, of all sorts. But," 
 and she laughed softly to herself, " how could he fail 
 to perfect his perpetual motion machine, with such 
 a model as she was always before him? A woman 
 notable for her indomitable energy, her thrift, and 
 her unending activity, even at East Benton, where 
 such traits, you would think, could make themselves 
 conspicuous only by their absence. And so for a 
 confidante, Uncle Ansel was thrown upon me. And 
 the story of your old man and his Omnology brought 
 up to my mind the vision of myself, a very small 
 girl in a very large apron, sitting on the woodshed 
 step, with some light task considered suitable for my 
 youthful hands, listening while Uncle Ansel lectured 
 me upon his latest abstruse mechanical or meta- 
 physical theory. And my mother, the silent, impa-
 
 318 f> The Last Word $ 
 
 tient, capable New England woman, went endlessly 
 about that labour which supported him and me and 
 herself and sometimes, when things went badly, 
 father, too, who was considered visionary and im- 
 practical, and who was down here in New York 
 much of this time. 
 
 " I used to be half-crazy with sheer joy during 
 father's visits home. He was always concerned with 
 books and bookmaking. You know he was working 
 here at his trade that of a printer but still 
 trusting to establish the publishing business of which 
 he finally did make such a great success. To me, a 
 child whose only real life was in the few books he 
 could bring me, he was a prince, my ideal of grace, 
 and of courtesy and refinement and so dear, so 
 very dear." 
 
 Miss Salem sat gazing with reflective eyes at the 
 rings she was taking off and putting back upon her 
 slender fingers. All that she had said sounded very 
 strange to me; for knowing, as I now realised, very 
 little of her, I had never imagined her without her 
 appropriate setting of power and affluence. Now, 
 I smiled a little at the remembrance of Mr. De Witt's 
 recent embarrassment before her victoria, her liv- 
 eried servants, her Paris costume; for it was cer- 
 tainly before these, not before Priscilla Salem, that 
 he felt embarrassment. 
 
 " You are very like your father, aren't you, Miss 
 Salem ? " I suggested. 
 
 " Why, yes. Yes, in many ways," she returned. 
 f< I look like him, and I certainly have his gift of 
 knowing unerringly what will make a lastingly popu- 
 lar and profitable book. That was the thing he 
 put into the firm which made its great success. His
 
 f A Plaster Eros <& 319 
 
 partner was exclusively a financial man. But I 
 must have inherited some of my mother's faculty; 
 for I have always, in all circumstances, been my own 
 financier." 
 
 Miss Salem laughed reminiscently. " I will tell 
 you a funny thing I did when I was a child, that 
 showed the curious working of the two natures in 
 me. With my mother's unflagging energy and 
 fidelity of purpose, I picked blueberries, all through 
 the season, the year I was seven for that was the 
 only way an East Benton child could have earned 
 a little money to get enough to buy a gift for 
 my father, when he should come home at Thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 " My mother had too clear an appreciation of 
 human rights to take the money from me, or even 
 coerce my choice, as most New England women of 
 her time and circumstances would have done. But 
 she did suggest one or two articles of apparel which 
 she knew would be welcome and needed. 
 
 " When at last I found myself in the store, with 
 more money than I had ever had in all my 
 life together, I was dazzled by the bewildering 
 possibilities in a dollar and a quarter. But all my 
 doubts were soon ended. There was a small statu- 
 ette representing Love; a poor little thing, of course, 
 in every sense; but the whiteness of it, and beyond 
 all the idea it carried, so charmed me, so over- 
 whelmed me with delight, that I felt sure father, 
 once in possession of it, would be perfectly happy. 
 It was, I remember, a dollar and three shillings; 
 and the store-keeper let me have it for my dollar and 
 a quarter 'seeing's 'twas me, and a present to my pa.' 
 
 " Mother's helpless anger before it, when I car-
 
 320 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 ried it home, in a perfect fever of delight and 
 anticipation; her bitter regret that she had allowed 
 me such latitude, are things I understood better 
 later. 
 
 " Poor, thrifty, sorely tried soul ! She got small 
 comfort in the matter out of either of us; for I 
 would not be penitent, and father persisted in being 
 delighted because I had bought for him the thing 
 that I loved and cared for, with full confidence that 
 he would understand and love it, too. This com- 
 forted me entirely; besides, Uncle Ansel admired 
 my purchase warmly, if clandestinely; so that, 
 though we were not individually influential, we had 
 mother in a numerical minority." 
 
 We had turned off the lights some time ago, to 
 see if it was getting to be day. It seemed strange 
 to me to think of Priscilla Salem, even as a child, 
 being swayed or driven by unruly emotions, way- 
 ward desires. I had always held her a sort of 
 model of all the discreet and serviceable virtues, and 
 a nature rarely poised and reposeful. Now, it 
 occurred to me that this poise was what might be 
 expected in a woman whose ambition appeared to be 
 attained, her material desires gratified. 
 
 I realised now, as I looked at her shadowy face 
 with its large luminous eyes, that though she was, 
 as she had so frankly told me, forty years old, there 
 were in these features still all those youthful possi- 
 bilities of spendthrift emotion. When she should 
 meet in the shops of life her next little bogus statu- 
 ette, T believed she would once more be capable of 
 paying- for it all she possessed. 
 
 " You must be almost entirely like your father," 
 was my conclusion.
 
 <+ A Plaster Eros $ 321 
 
 " Oh, yes," she assented, " I am a Salem. And I 
 suppose I may be glad of it. Such beauty as there 
 is in the family comes in on that side. Uncle Ansel 
 was the type, and he was a beautiful old man. I love 
 his looks, because I fancy he was such a man as 
 father would have looked had he lived to be old. 
 And I could always imagine that, when he was 
 young, he had looked as father did." 
 
 She rose and brought to me a daguerreotype, a 
 slender-faced young man, with a great dome of fore- 
 head, serious, lambently emotional eyes, a beautiful 
 but deficient lower face, and an expression of shy 
 abstraction. 
 
 "Why, it's the 'Young Prophet,' it's my 
 * Young Isaiah ! ' " I cried, using a name I had given 
 to an oil portrait, done with much vigour and grace, 
 signed by a modern name, which hung over the 
 chimneypiece in the main editorial rooms down 
 town. 
 
 " It is my father," said Miss Salem. And I 
 remembered that Mr. DeWitt had said one day when 
 I used the same words in regard to the big por- 
 trait, " It is the founder of the house." 
 
 Now we pushed the lace curtain aside, and I 
 looked seeking resemblances from the face in 
 the daguerreotype to Miss Salem's face bent above 
 it, the cold gray daylight bringing out sharply every 
 feature and line. As I thus searched for resem- 
 blances and for differences, it occurred to me that 
 the portrait I so admired must have been made when 
 her father's age was nearly what Miss Salem's now 
 was, and that my tribute had been to the immortal 
 youth which looked out of his eyes, the youth of 
 soul, rather than to any special evidence of physical
 
 322 f The Last Word $> 
 
 youngness. Priscilla must have got something, just 
 here, from her mother, for, handsome and expressive 
 as her face was, sweet and luminous as were her 
 eyes, no such spirit of youth looked forth from them. 
 Rather, she was fully old for her years, and she 
 wore the look of one who would, as her material, 
 conventional mother had done, expect and accept 
 age. 
 
 " Then," I thought, " if she does find her little 
 statuette, and set her heart upon and buy it, and 
 it is bogus, that will indeed be tragic." 
 
 Miss Salem glanced up at me suddenly and inter- 
 rupted my reflections by saying in a curious, half- 
 conscious, half-jesting, wholly pathetic tone, " Cara, 
 should you suppose did you ever what do you 
 say to running away together from all our problems 
 and and tempt to running away for a time? 
 Were you ever in Old Mexico? " 
 
 " Yes, I should say yes to both questions. I have 
 been in Old Mexico twice, and found it wonderfully 
 fascinating; and I think it would be serving our 
 fates a very clever and saucy trick to run away 
 and go there together. Our relative positions would 
 there be changed. I could show you much th.at the 
 tourist does not see." 
 
 There had never been any confidences between 
 Miss Salem and me. Only, she had been kinder and 
 drawn closer to me in these last weeks. And on her 
 part, she had not sought to conceal from me that 
 something an anxiety, a regret or apprehension 
 was weighing upon her heart. 
 
 Now we talked a little while of Mexico, where 
 she who had travelled all over Europe, and even to
 
 A Plaster Eros 
 
 Japan, had never been. We constructed a hypo- 
 thetical itinerary, and agreed quite heartily that 
 such a journey would be most enjoyable. 
 
 And I kept saying to myself : " We will never 
 go to Mexico. No, no; it is here, the thing that 
 disquiets and yet attracts her. And she fears it, 
 dreads it, maybe, hesitates at it and is drawn and 
 held by it. She only half wants to run away." 
 
 We separated a few minutes later, going each to 
 her bed; and she kissed my cheek as I rose to go 
 a mark of affection I had never seen her offer 
 to any one. 
 
 I was to leave the next day the day which was 
 already begun, indeed. I meant to go before she 
 should be awake, and did so, later. 
 
 Now, after my head was upon the pillow, the 
 word Mexico, Mexico, began dancing through my 
 thoughts. It took to itself other little words ending 
 in its round sonorous vowel ; it caught hands with 
 others and yet others, adding them to its tripping, 
 balancing, swaying train. 
 
 And the country of my mind, the land through 
 which this resonant verbal procession wound danc- 
 ing, was Old Mexico. So, presently I rose, and sit- 
 ting wrapped in my dressing-gown, in that pale, 
 chill, saddening gray of dawn, beside the window, 
 wrote them down on a slip of paper which, stealing 
 softly into her room, I pinned to Miss Salem's 
 pillow edge; then came silently back, slept two or 
 three hours, rose, packed my belongings, and was 
 back at the Corcorans' for lunch. 
 
 This is what my dancers said, and what I pinned 
 to Miss Salem's pillow :
 
 324 $> The Last Word $ 
 
 And when we're off at last to Mexico Mexico 
 To the land of Montezuma, and the land of Cortez, O, 
 Where dusky old cathedrals, and wool and cacti grow, 
 Where the mountains are so high, and the state of morals low, 
 I'll be your most devoted, thoughtful, entertaining beau. 
 You will be head, of course, and I'll be end-man of the show; 
 And we'll hoist our little sails to all the frolic winds that blow, 
 Caring not for time or tide, recking not of fast or slow, 
 For we'll leave them all behind, the griefs that haunt and vex 
 
 us so, 
 
 Drifting out to sea, just which way the currents go, 
 Or rocking in some eddy, to the ebb and to the flow, 
 Dreaming all that checked and thwarted us was years and 
 
 years ago, 
 
 And that sorrow's grave is deep, where heartsease and pop- 
 pies grow. 
 
 But a string, a string is to us, let us wander high or low ! 
 A little string that tightens, yet, the further that we go. 
 I'll tell you ! Let us break it, with one determined blow ! 
 (Just a snap, and all is over ; it won't hurt long, I know) 
 Let's change garments with some shepherdess, and live in 
 
 Mexico. 
 There, the rains they will not wet us, rude winds they never 
 
 blow; 
 
 The sun, it only shines to lend to cheeks a warmer glow ; 
 Pitying skies will smile above, the kindly slopes below 
 There's no such thing as happiness, on earth, of course, you 
 
 know, 
 
 But rest, I think that we might find, and peace in Mexico. 
 So, if it's peace you're seeking, say yes ! Is it a go ?
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Flawed Vessels 
 
 " Shall the thing formed say to him who formed it, Why 
 hast thou made me thus ? 
 
 " Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump 
 to make one vessel unto honour and another unto dishonour ? " 
 
 BUSHROD, Genevieve, and I had been taking our 
 last walk together for the present. Mrs. Randolph, 
 it seemed, was worse. They had written Bushrod 
 to come to her, and he was to go that night. 
 
 Mr. DeWitt had needed some one in Chicago 
 for a bit of special work, and upon my promising 
 that my own column should not suffer thereby, had 
 agreed that I might go. So that I was leaving the 
 next day. Genevieve had parted from us at the 
 Park gateway, and Bushrod and I were separating 
 at my door. 
 
 No man but Bushrod Floyd would have been 
 willing under the circumstances, knowing that I 
 had not heard from Frank, that my heart was sore 
 and aching because I had not heard not a line, a 
 word, a message, even an indirect one to suggest 
 carefully veiled, second-hand information. But 
 Bushrod's only thought was to offer whatever would 
 most please or help me, and so he said, at the last 
 
 3 2 S
 
 326 $ The Last Word -$ 
 
 moment, " This will be my address in Richmond, 
 Cara," handing me a little card, and adding, " Are 
 you going to stop at the Shrewsbury, as DeWitt sug- 
 gested?" 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " he has arranged for me to be 
 there." 
 
 " Then I shall have your address from the first," 
 observed Bushrod. " You know I must write to 
 you ; " then lightly, " it's got to be a kind of blessed 
 habit," and we said good-bye, bidding each other 
 be of good cheer, and separated. 
 
 No letter reached me from Bushrod during my 
 brief stay in Chicago. When I came home, greatly 
 disquieted, Mr. Corcoran told me they had been 
 notified at the office that he had not arrived in Rich- 
 mond; and, as Mrs. Randolph still grew worse, 
 being now considered in a dangerous condition, they 
 had telegraphed the office, his boarding-place, and 
 the Randolph kin in Washington, hoping to find 
 him. 
 
 I had selfishly counted on long, loving letters 
 which should give me, under guise of general news, 
 all details of Frank's life, appearance, and, as nearly 
 as another man could guess it, his present state of 
 feeling. To have no news from Virginia was a dis- 
 appointment, of itself; but the way in which it had 
 failed me was chilling, ominous. 
 
 Mr. DeWitt was short for humourous copy in 
 the service, one of his funny men being down with 
 the grip, and he appealed to me. " You could do me 
 such a column very cleverly, Miss West," he blan- 
 dished. " If you would take some of the street 
 scenes, which you handle so well, and make them a 
 trifle more farcical, it would be just what I need.
 
 Flawed Vessels f 327 
 
 Why not try one of the police courts ? I used to get 
 much of my humourous copy at the Tombs." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. DeWitt," I protested, " there isn't an 
 ounce of fun in me haven't you some nice obitu- 
 ary work for me ? I am in the mood for it, 
 exactly." 
 
 My editor smiled broadly, then gave me a keen, 
 kindly glance, which suggested that he examined my 
 drooping head for a garland of willow. I read, or 
 thought I read, in his eye the dictum that whether 
 I could write funny or not, I myself was monstrous 
 amusing. 
 
 I accepted the Tombs commission with undue 
 haste, and went away to hunt up Jim, who, Miss 
 Bucks being in Canada visiting friends, was the one 
 strong, cheerful face left in my daily life. 
 
 The next day but one, I brought in my copy. It 
 was not the humourous matter for which my editor 
 had asked. As I laid the package upon his desk I 
 said, " There. I wish I had never attempted the 
 mission; but there are the results, as near funny 
 as I could make them." 
 
 He gave me a quick, inquiring glance. " Wasn't 
 my suggestion a good one? " he asked. " Did you 
 not find stimulating material in it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I found myself stimulated to question 
 all the plans of God," I answered. " It has ham- 
 mered in my brain all day, * Why ? Why ? What 
 is the purpose in all the misery of this miserable 
 world?'" 
 
 " Didn't you get anything at the Tombs ? " asked 
 Mr. DeWitt. " I have always found so much in it 
 both tragic and humourous." 
 
 " Yes," I repeated, bitterly, " I found it there
 
 The Last Word 
 
 I got it there the whole, everlasting, horrible, 
 maddening problem. Oh, I got it, fast enough I 
 got it bad. Now I want some one to tell me what 
 to do with it ! " 
 
 I looked I had learned to look for a smart 
 rejoinder from Mr. DeWitt; a sarcastic suggestion, 
 perhaps, that I remit my herculean and exhausting 
 labours upon mending the world's condition, and 
 attend strictly to the production of humourous copy ; 
 but the things which had chanced to me, on that 
 miserable hunt for material wherewith to build a 
 funny column, still clutched at my throat and de- 
 manded utterance. 
 
 What he did was to lean forward, put his chin 
 on his hand, and regard me quietly and intently. 
 
 " Yes," he observed, after a long pause, " it was 
 a mistake. I was wrong to send you there. I sup- 
 pose the very outside appearance of the place struck 
 chill to your soul ? " 
 
 " Why, no," I returned, " not forecasting what I 
 should meet within, I was rather fascinated by the 
 mere outside of it. The long, low, gloomy pile looks 
 like a scrap out of the sombre Eastern past, dropped 
 by some queer accident into the heart of to-day. Do 
 you know who designed it ? " 
 
 " I have known the story of the thing, but I can't 
 recall it just this minute," answered Mr. DeWitt. 
 
 " I wonder if its architecture came and camped 
 down upon the outskirts of his consciousness among 
 the Oriental phantasmagoria of a hashish dream," I 
 parleyed. I was already repentant that I had said 
 so much to my editor, anxious only to have him 
 allow that the stuff I had brought in would do, and 
 let me go.
 
 Flawed Vessels f 329 
 
 " Why, yes, I think it did, hashish, or some of 
 its congeners," he returned. " But tell me what 
 hurt you, personally, in all that ruck of wretched- 
 ness? I am curious to know." 
 
 I had been standing beside Mr. DeWitt's desk. 
 At a sudden recollection which his words brought up 
 to me, I turned and sat down, shading my eyes with 
 my hand. Then, aware that he was looking at me 
 very curiously, and that my attitude must be inex- 
 plicable to him, I said, with an attempt at cheerful- 
 ness, " It's a really wonderful looking building. It 
 should have groups of ebony soldiers, bare-legged, 
 wearing curiously folded head-dresses and bearing 
 great spea'rs, to stand motionless at its entrances, 
 instead of the blue-coated, brass-buttoned police- 
 man. A person only fairly supplied with imagi- 
 nation needs but to half shut his eyes, as I did, and 
 look expectantly at its portals, to see Cleopatra sur- 
 rounded by her fan-bearers, attended by Charmian, 
 and Iras, and all her shimmering train, issue from 
 the dark arch and sweep down the broad flight of 
 steps, to vanish into the glare of Centre Street." 
 
 " That's all right," remarked my editor, sitting 
 up. " What's the matter with that ? Why didn't 
 you get up something along that line? Or maybe 
 you did. Is this," partially unfolding my copy, " in 
 that vein ? " 
 
 " No," I answered, in a broken voice, " that stuff 
 is supposed to be funny : but if people shed the tears 
 over reading it that I did over writing it, you will 
 carry out that old-time threat of yours and discharge 
 me without a character." 
 
 "Why didn't you stick to the poetic vein? that 
 was good in its way," said Mr. De Witt.
 
 33 ** The Last Word 9 
 
 " Why, indeed? " I cried, " because we went in- 
 side!" ' 
 
 " < We ' who ? " he inquired. 
 
 "Jim and I," I answered; "Jim Baxter. I got 
 him to put off that beloved trip up the Hudson till 
 next week, and go with me instead." 
 
 " That was a mistake," said Mr. De Witt. " The 
 big Texas man is an infant in matters of that sort. 
 If anything painful was to be met, he would be safe 
 to go all to pieces over it." 
 
 " Well, we went in ready to be amused ; for I 
 recalled that you had told me you once got such a 
 funny story there." 
 
 "Oh, I!" remarked Mr. DeWitt, "with my 
 blunted sensibilities, my cynical city man's point of 
 view. No, I see it was not a bright idea for me to 
 send you there to find fun. Then you must needs 
 annex a worse booby, a more besotted philanthropist 
 than yourself! You two were indeed a pair of 
 dewy-eyed babes for a stunt like the Tombs police 
 court! I should as soon have thought of asking 
 Miss Bucks to write up a prize-fight," and he 
 chuckled. 
 
 " Well, we looked about inside, and agreed that 
 the room where court is held had a certain grotesque 
 resemblance to the interior of a country church, with 
 its rows of benches on each side a central aisle, its 
 rail across in front of the pulpit-like judge's seat, 
 and its amen corner full of fine-looking, well- 
 groomed policemen." 
 
 " But that isn't bad, either," put in my editor, 
 meditatively. " It seems to me, after all, that you 
 did find much which you could make use of, though 
 it wasn't humourous,"
 
 Flawed Vessels $ 331 
 
 " Oh, but when we came to see the material from 
 which the ' fun ' was to have been made! " I cried. 
 " No country mourner's bench or anxious seat ever 
 supported such piteous penitents; no village parson 
 ever exhorted, comforted, or reproved such wrecked 
 and ruined temples of humanity." 
 
 " I suppose the two of you got your first sight 
 of ' the criminal classes ' about which you had read, 
 and found you had no real conception of what they 
 really are." 
 
 " Yes, just that," I responded with some relief. 
 " No conception no notion ; I don't believe that 
 anybody has who lives in the country, in a village, or 
 in the West, where there is room and a chance for 
 all, or, indeed, anywhere outside of the large cities. 
 What horrified us was that these are not people who 
 have committed a crime or misdemeanour ; they are 
 those if I might use the expression who are 
 to commit crimes. Look at them, and say if they 
 do not carry their doom with them. It is born 
 with them at their birth, of vicious and depraved 
 parents; the air of vice is in their baby nostrils, 
 the aptitude for crime, the impulse of long past 
 evil, is in their veins. Crime is expected of them 
 everything impels them to it they are fore- 
 doomed consigned to it." 
 
 " You take it too hard ! " deprecated my editor. 
 "Of course it is a grim theatre; but I tell you 
 they are all actors, more or less. Every one of the 
 pitiful crew which crowd its greenroom and elbow 
 each other upon its stage, watches the judge's face 
 to see what role will have most effect upon him, 
 and each does his level best to play the part." 
 
 " It is a squalid tragedy," I sighed.
 
 332 $> The Last Word *& 
 
 " No, it is that newer thing in stage work, the 
 vaudeville " 
 
 " Frightfully dismal vaudeville," I insisted, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Oh, yes, there are ugly features," my editor 
 assented, " but everything is included from 
 tragedy down to the broadest farce in one morn- 
 ing's performance. And consider that, if the 
 scenery is a bit scant and monotonous, at least there 
 are no waits to speak of. The action is prompt, and 
 in the strain of living interest one forgets to note 
 trifles. Things go through with a rush ; the heavy 
 villain elbows the ingenue, the low comedian treads 
 on the skirts of the emotional tragedienne." 
 
 " Yes, if you come to that," I said, " there is as 
 small lack of feeling and spirit as of promptness and 
 action. A theatre, is it? A vaudeville? Well, 
 never have I seen ' little parts ' infused with such 
 sentiment and energy. There was one such part 
 there to-day which contained only two spoken words ; 
 but I tell you their tone, and the look and gesture 
 that went with them, form a recollection to which 
 I have ever since sought vainly to give the slip. 
 ' Six months,' that is all there was to it. A white- 
 faced, haggard man had the part, and he raised his 
 hand vaguely toward his head with a movement of 
 utter despair, and turned blindly from the bar 
 toward the bench where the sentenced ones wait for 
 the black Maria. He had not looked up nor spoken 
 before. When the charge of assault was made, a 
 young sprig of a police-court lawyer beside him had 
 repeated, in answer to the judge's question, ' Guilty/ 
 after bending toward the man's moving lips; and 
 had added an explanation and a plea for a sick
 
 Flawed Vessels f 333 
 
 young" wile and little children, who would be left 
 among strangers. Oh, I tell you " 
 
 " There you go, taking it all in deadly earnest," 
 interrupted Mr. DeWitt. " Now, I saw a little play 
 there at the Tombs one morning that discounted 
 anything I ever met in the regular way of acting. 
 If you will ' cease your complaint and suppress your 
 groan ' for the moment, I will give it to you 
 maybe you can use it. 
 
 " I just strolled in there, on a sort of vagrant, 
 unauthorised impulse one morning, and after they 
 had ground through three or four commonplace 
 cases " 
 
 " Commonplace ! " I breathed. " Save the mark ! " 
 
 ' Yes, deadly commonplace," reiterated Mr. De- 
 Witt. " they brought in another batch. Among 
 these was a remarkably handsome young man of 
 very elegant dress, manner, and bearing. He was 
 really a picture; a Poe-like figure. But he was 
 considerably damaged and showed plainly the effect 
 of a night's debauch. The judge let fly at him 
 promptly, and gave him to understand he would very 
 much like to have him show cause why he should 
 not get six months on the Island for resisting an 
 officer. 
 
 " The youth threw out his chest, clasped his hands, 
 and turned an electric battery of eloquent dark eyes 
 on the judge, and the room was still to hear him as 
 he answered, ' Judge, I was drugged. I don't drink, 
 your Honour, and I wasn't drunk last night; I was 
 drugged.' 
 
 " I think every one of us, the judge, and the 
 Irish policeman who brought the fellow in, began 
 to weaken and misdoubt probabilities. The officer
 
 334 *& The Last Word $ 
 
 scratched his head dubiously, and finally said, ' Well, 
 your Honour, I'll tell you what he had on him when 
 we run 'im in. 'Twas a pair o' brass knucks, an' 
 a slung shot, an' siventeen pawn tickets we found 
 in his pockets. An' if there hadn't been two of us 
 on the job there'd have been murder done getting 
 him in the wagon.' 
 
 " While the officer was saying this, the young 
 fellow's face beat anything I ever saw. There went 
 across it, in the most wonderful way, astonishment, 
 horror, and a perfect anguish of shame. At the end 
 he burst out, ' My wedding night my wedding 
 night ! I was to have married the sweetest girl in the 
 world last night, judge. I remember going into a 
 place to have something with a man I never drink, 
 but he asked me to come and drink to the happy 
 occasion. And merciful heaven ! I don't remember 
 any more, judge. That drink was drugged as sure 
 as there's a power above us ! ' Here he looked wildly 
 round the court-room, and his fine eyes suddenly 
 announced the horror of a new thought. ' I never 
 went near her, I never sent her any word what 
 must she think of me? Oh, what can I ever say to 
 her ? ' He groaned, and I tell you I felt mighty 
 uncomfortable. The judge himself had looked first 
 puzzled, then interested, and finally as sympathetic 
 as I felt. 
 
 " The appearance of the young fellow was now as 
 near abject as so handsome and spirited a figure 
 could well be, and I declare it somehow went to my 
 heart to see it. Yes, it actually did. 
 
 " The judge was plainly hesitating. The pris- 
 oner suddenly leaned forward and said in a low, 
 feverish, hurried voice, ' Judge, I must go to her
 
 Flawed Vessels $ 335 
 
 at once just as I am and explain. I haven't 
 a cent on me to pay my fine ; but you'll be merciful 
 and let me go, won't you? And you won't ask 
 my name in this place nor hers.' 
 
 " I suppose his Honour was once young himself. 
 He looked at the working, eloquent young face and 
 pleading young eyes; he cleared his throat and 
 began : 
 
 " ' Well, young man drugs, or no drugs even 
 if you were drunk, I think you've had a pretty good 
 lesson, and I'm inclined ' 
 
 " But we never knew exactly what his inclination 
 might have been, for at that interesting juncture a 
 disturbance broke out near one of the doors, and 
 I saw a stout, red-faced Englishwoman pushing her 
 way toward the bar, muttering as she came. She 
 brought up in front of the prisoner with a startling 
 snort. 
 
 ' Yah ! There y' are ; h'all yer good clothes 
 in a muck, an' a fine t' pay fer yeh ! ' 
 
 " His eye lit on her, and the young man collapsed. 
 
 " His Honour braced up as if he had never 
 weakened, and asked the woman, ' What is the 
 prisoner to you, madam ? ' 
 
 " ' H'only my 'usband,' she snorted. And we 
 all laughed gladly. 
 
 " ' Why didn't you hold your gab ? ' said the 
 fellow, coming out of his collapse with a perfectly 
 amazing air of jaunty indifference. ' His Honour 
 was going to let me off to go to me girl,' and he 
 winked a wink that caused several policemen to roar 
 with laughter; and even the judge to smile reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 " But with his wife, it was the red flag to the
 
 33 6 *$> The Last Word > 
 
 bull. ' W'y didn't h'l ? ' she demanded. ' Because 
 h'l was too dratted mad ! You a-marryin' a lovely 
 gal Yah ! Took a h'old fool like me t' 'ave 
 yeh.' 
 
 " The woman had the fine to pay, so the judge 
 made it light. An Associated Press man whom I 
 know told me afterward that the fellow is or was 
 an actor. He's a clever one, I'll certify. It seems 
 he was a talented, dissolute chap who had perpetrated 
 one thrifty act in the course of an exceptionally reck- 
 less and disgraceful career, in the marrying of his 
 landlady. You see he assured himself, in this way, 
 a permanent home and plenty of purple and fine 
 linen, whether he employed his abilities on the regu- 
 lar stage, or only in pleasing little domestic come- 
 diettas. * Great is art, used to great ends,' you 
 know. I tell you, Miss West, they are all actors, 
 more or less conscious. But this young man brought 
 tc the work professional training, and he gave us 
 a good show for our trouble. Don't you think so? " 
 
 " Yes. Oh, yes," I agreed, glad to get away from 
 the remembrance of what I had seen there, and the 
 problem it left beating away in my mind. " It 
 is so, too, that in all strenuous aspects of human 
 life the laugh lies close to the tragedy. Even I saw 
 a funny thing in that sorrowful place." 
 
 " Why didn't you say so, then, instead of " 
 
 " I am saying so now," I broke in. " She was a 
 pippin-faced little old Irishwoman; and when the 
 judge asked her what she had to say to the officer's 
 charge of drunk and disorderly she put her head 
 on one side, stuck her elbows out and assumed the 
 very attitude of a disputatious sparrow. Her round,
 
 Flawed Vessels $ 337 
 
 wrinkled, rosy face fell into the most explanatory 
 and ingratiating expression. 
 
 ' Judge,' she said, in a confidential tone, ' I was 
 drunk, I was just drunk - that's the truth. I keep 
 a little stand down on Canal Street. All the byes 
 come to get an apple of me. Me an' the byes all 
 the bootblacks an' newsbyes, an' some of the coppers 
 is good friends. Well, I have been a-havin' the 
 grip; havin' it bad. I was sick abed for more'n a 
 month; an' when I got out the byes was all that 
 glad to see me they wouldn't listen to nothin' but 
 I must have a drink with ivery one of 'em. I 
 reckon I did yes, I reckon I had a drink with 
 ivery one of 'em for I don't remember much more 
 till Johnnie, here ' (jerking her head toward the 
 six-foot officer beside her) ' woke me up in the jug 
 awhile ago, and brought me here. 
 
 " ' Say, judge,' she wheedled, cocking one eye 
 with irresistible drollery on his Honour's relaxing 
 face, ' I reckon you better let me off. I didn't go 
 to do it, fer a fact; but the byes was that glad to 
 see me an', to tell the truth, I can't drink as I 
 used to drink.' We all laughed even Jim." 
 
 "And the judge?" 
 
 " Oh, he let her off. She came out of the dock 
 smiling like a cherub, hanging on to ' Johnnie's ' 
 arm, and travelling at a sort of two-step," I an- 
 swered. 
 
 " But you say I take it too hard. May I tell you 
 a thing that made Jim and me wish we had gone 
 up the Hudson or Salt River or any place 
 but there to that well, don't suppose I'm swearing 
 if I say that accursed police court? Please let me
 
 338 ^ The Last Word ^ 
 
 tell you. I'll be quick. I want to see if you think 
 it funny or commonplace." 
 
 " Certainly. By all means. You can have as 
 much as fifteen minutes of my valuable time," he 
 agreed. 
 
 " I will only take about three," I returned, assur- 
 ingly. " This was a part which had no lines at 
 all, a mere walking part ; but it made its impression 
 on poor Jim and me as a branding-iron does. I had 
 seen something like it before. When I was quite a 
 little girl, I caught a rat in a trap a marauding, 
 ravening rat, which had burglarised my small stores 
 of possessions and murdered my little nestling, 
 orphan rabbit. And when I went and looked at the 
 thing, it silently fled round and round the trap, at 
 such an awful bay of pure, base, brutish fear, it 
 looked at me with such eyes of sheer, deadly terror, 
 that my childish soul was shamed. When I wept 
 over the fur and bones of my baby rabbit and baited 
 my trap, I had not taken any thought as to the 
 final disposition of the criminal. I probably would 
 have said it must be killed some quick and merciful 
 way. But it was as though the creature took its 
 revenge upon me, accusing me by inference, with 
 that terror, of meditated cruelties unspeakable. Its 
 frenzy of grovelling desperation painted those cruel- 
 ties with lightning swiftness and distinctness upon 
 my shrinking mind." 
 
 " My luxuriant and bounteous Southwest," 
 urged Mr. DeWitt, laughing, and using one of my 
 many sobriquets which Mr. Corcoran had made 
 popular in the office, " I should infallibly burke about 
 thirty per cent, of those adjectives if you gave me 
 this stuff in copy, instead of "
 
 Flawed Vessels 339 
 
 " I wish you could burke the recollection which 
 they endeavour to clothe with some little semblance 
 of reality," I responded, meekly. " I was going to 
 say that the look on this poor little, gray, pinched 
 face was the same look of mute animal terror." 
 
 ''' Yes what face?" suggested my editor, 
 kindly. 
 
 " Well," I explained, " she was a pitiful creature 
 seventeen or eighteen years old, who had thrown 
 her baby into the East River. She didn't really 
 belong anywhere in our morning's program our 
 vaudeville. Her trial from the day before 
 was to be continued in some special court; she was 
 brought in only to arrange some legal point before 
 our judge. They read her statement. It was a 
 very simple statement, which set forth that she was 
 near starving when she did it. She could do nothing 
 for the child nor for herself, with it. She threw 
 it in the river. She nodded, without a sound, when 
 asked if this was correct. And after some little con- 
 ferring and discussing they went away, the two well- 
 dressed lawyers, several large, stout officers, and 
 this small and abject creature. In her little face, 
 in the leaping glances of her eyes, and the instinctive 
 crouching of her body, there was that awful agony of 
 dumb terror that arraigned all mankind. 
 
 "Jim simply groaned over her, and proposed 
 that we go, and we well, we came away." 
 
 Mr. DeWitt opened his lips to speak; and I, 
 expecting a sarcasm, made an impatient movement. 
 
 " No, no ! " he interposed, " I was not about to 
 chaff you. I thought I would drop into poetry as a 
 friend do you understand ? as a friend ! " 
 
 I was silent, looking contrite and submissive and
 
 340 & The Last Word 8 
 
 grateful, and Mr. DeWitt went on. " Your own 
 dear Omar describes it. 
 
 " ' Impotent pieces of the game he plays 
 
 Upon this checker-board of nights and days, 
 Hither and thither moves, and checks and slays, 
 And one by one back in the closet lays.' 
 
 " That is what he said about it eight hundred 
 years ago. It was unorthodox then; it is just as 
 unorthodox now. But I never pretended to be 
 orthodox. If the old Tent-maker were running a 
 column in say the Evening Sun, in what es- 
 sential do you suppose his verse would differ? We 
 are here two or three millions of us in these 
 cities. We epitomise the world at large. Every 
 fellow chases his phantom, hugs his delusion. We 
 are stimulated and sustained by hope, maddened 
 by despair, or dull and apathetic with weariness. 
 We are content or wretched; turning each one, to 
 pleasure, or profit, or wisdom, to good or evil, to 
 happiness or misery but we turn of a necessity, 
 and we cannot know why. There appears to be a 
 seed of fate in each of us, that must grow to its pre- 
 destined form and stature, blossom in its appointed 
 time, and bring forth fruit according to its kind." 
 
 Now, I had just seen, for the first time, the low 
 heads and brutal or vicious or weak faces of those 
 who habitually come before the bar of a police 
 court; the petty thief, the drunkard, the abject 
 travesties of womanhood, poor tossing waifs and 
 wreckage of humanity. Enough, one would say, to 
 beget in me a mood of cosmic discouragement. I 
 had, beside, sustained there in that place a shock
 
 Flawed Vessels f 341 
 
 of which I did not tell Mr. DeWitt, a shock which 
 still reverberated through all my being. Yet his 
 submissive fatalism roused some scattering of my 
 more usual healthful hope and courage. 
 
 The thing of which he knew not was too terrible 
 it touched me too close. In the face of it, I 
 dared not despair. I realised that the attitude I 
 had held was weak, unworthy. I must speak the 
 word of hope for all pitiful creatures who were 
 unable to speak it for themselves. So I answered 
 him earnestly. 
 
 " What you say is, in a measure in a sense 
 true. And yet these things, I know, must needs sub- 
 serve some useful purpose. These beings are going 
 their progress ; they are swinging through the dark 
 part of the circle. When I look at such, can I 
 believe that the Power which beheld the growth 
 and formation of that low skull, with its great 
 room for things fierce and base, and its cramped little 
 chambers for the housing of any higher intellect, 
 beheld ay, and ordered the moulding of those 
 weak, irresolute features, outward sign and blazon- 
 ment of the feeble will within, will crush and de- 
 stroy the creature for not being other than a fixed 
 law made it? " 
 
 " Crush them ? " interjected Mr. DeWitt. " They 
 are crushed now. Life has done that to them." 
 
 " No," I declared, " I know it seems so. But I 
 do not believe it. They are progressing, just as 
 everybody everything is ; on a way that is 
 wholly dark to them, largely dark to us, to even 
 the highest, the most spiritualised intelligence; but 
 they are progressing. And there is cause, reason 
 for it all ; and hope hope hope don't tell
 
 342 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 me I know it, I feel it there is hope while a 
 human heart beats or a breath flutters ! " 
 
 " Yes," returned Mr. DeWitt, " people of our 
 class, who have had a chance in the world, have no 
 right to judge them. When one of us who has had 
 the light falls, ' He falls like Lucifer, never to rise 
 again.' ' 
 
 The words came as a spur to me. " You must be 
 always playing Job ! " I cried. " No. No. No, 
 I say. Nobody falls never to rise again. I am so 
 sure of it that I can forget all I saw there at that 
 place yesterday. I can be cheerful. I can be funny, 
 now. Give me back that stuff I handed you it is 
 not really humourous. I can go write the funny 
 Coney Island story I feel like it now. I'm glad 
 I talked to you." 
 
 " In your fine enthusiasm," began Mr. DeWitt, 
 " you overlook little fond considerations of time. It 
 is at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, that I have 
 a use for something to fill that space." 
 
 " I will have it here on time," I assured him. 
 " And you will find it funny, too. It will be funny, 
 d'ye mind ! ' Seed of fate ! ' ' Turn of a necessity 
 and we can't know why ! ' I will tell you : This 
 ' impotent piece ' is the one called the queen, who 
 believes that none can say ' check ! ' to her, unless 
 her own self pronounce or accept the injunc- 
 tion. And she can believe that of all the others, too." 
 
 " It appears to me that I shall receive some sur- 
 prising copy to-morrow morning," Mr. DeWitt 
 observed, in a general way. 
 
 "You will," I told him. "The story the 
 Coney Island story is the thing! I will remove
 
 Flawed Vessels 9 343 
 
 all brakes. For once I'll write as funny as I can, and 
 let you and the readers take the consequences." 
 
 " I declare," said Mr. DeWitt, with deep and 
 kindly seriousness, " I declare, my young and sunny 
 West, I'd rather have your buoyant ardour than my 
 brains." 
 
 " Oh, good gracious, yes ! " I cried, hastily. " So 
 would I! But just consider, I've got it, and my 
 brains ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The Pity of It ! " 
 
 " O changed in little space ! 
 
 O God, O God of grace I 
 Cover his face." 
 
 AND now, the thing which I had not told Mr. 
 DeWitt, which still lay a secret between me and 
 Jim, and clipped the wings of my humour and hung 
 heavy on my pencil when I would gladly have 
 written the funny Coney Island story for my 
 editor, was this : 
 
 After we had, as I had described to Mr. DeWitt, 
 seen all these pitiful creatures come and go, I was 
 sitting with my head bent over my note-book, writ- 
 ing, when a smothered ejaculation from Jim made 
 me look up. There in the prisoners' dock, between 
 two policemen, was the form of one I knew. There 
 was Bushrod, who had left the office a week ago 
 to hasten to the bedside of the woman who had 
 been all the mother he had ever known. 
 
 1 looked with horrified, incredulous eyes. It 
 was the same tall, broadly built figure, and the same 
 face but different. He was in evening dress - 
 evening dress ! Where had he lived, through what 
 strange, dark, unknown scenes and experiences had 
 
 344
 
 &> " The Pity of It ! " -* 345 
 
 he been, this week, to come at last to the eyes of 
 his friends in this place, and in evening dress? 
 
 Bushrod was always dainty and immaculate, fini- 
 cal as a fine lady about his wear. Now, the exquisite 
 linen which his low-cut vest exposed was soiled and 
 rumpled. There were ragged holes where studs 
 and sleeve links had been torn from it. His patent 
 leather shoes were bursted, muddy, their laces hang- 
 ing loose upon the floor. The curls of his fair hair, 
 even, were matted down and spattered with mud. 
 He had evidently fallen in the streets, more than 
 once. 
 
 But that which chained my agonised attention 
 was his face, discoloured, swollen, and the blue eyes 
 those soft, fond eyes without any light of 
 reason in them. 
 
 As we looked up, the judge was speaking to him. 
 " Well, my man ! " he began, brusquely. " The 
 officer says he brought you in fighting drunk last 
 night. What have you to say for yourself ? " 
 
 Bushrod laid a shaking, white hand upon the 
 rail. His hands were slender, nervous, capable- 
 looking members, the hand of the artist; speaking, 
 too, of generations of good blood. Now he stood 
 supporting himself against the rail, curiously 
 humped and sunken, and drew forward the torn 
 hole in his cuff where the sleeve link had been. He 
 stared at it vacantly, and muttered something which 
 I did not catch. Jim told me afterward that he was 
 saying he had been robbed. 
 
 " The officer states that you pulled those things out 
 yourself," responded the Judge, " and spent them for 
 drink." 
 
 Bushrod gazed at the torn linen, and at his finger
 
 346 -^ The Last Word <& 
 
 where, as I well remembered, there had been a ring, 
 and nodded. " Oh, yes, sir," he agreed, " certainly, 
 sir." And then, trying vaguely to pull himself to- 
 gether, he went on with a kind of groan, looking 
 piteously about him, " I am a very sick man, sir. 
 Will nobody give me a drink of water ? " 
 
 At this, the person next me, on the other side from 
 Jim, turned suddenly round and looked at me, at 
 which I discovered that I was moaning, " Oh, oh, 
 oh," softly, as one half unconscious with pain 
 moans. Nothing no loss or grief or failure of 
 my own had ever torn my heart just as this thing 
 did. 
 
 For the first time in my life, I felt that I should 
 faint. " Jim ! " I gasped, clutching his arm. " You 
 must go and help quick. Can't I get away with- 
 out passing without going close to him ? I'm 
 afraid I'm going to faint, and I cannot go past where 
 he is." 
 
 " He wouldn't know you, child," said Jim. " He's 
 crazy wild. Lord ! I've seen lots of them like 
 that after a week's spree, and that is what Bush has 
 been doing. Why don't they get him a chair ? " he 
 added, angrily. " I've got to go over there and help 
 him." 
 
 We rose at the same moment. The policeman was 
 speaking now. 
 
 " Well, your Honour, I'll tell ye what he done. 
 He began in the respectable places, an' he drank 
 himself so woild that he was turned out of all o' 
 them. Then he comes down here on the lower 
 Bowery an' thried to clane out ivery dive on the 
 strate. He was murtherous, an' whoopin' like a wild 
 Injun. In some o' the places, they done 'im up and
 
 ^ " The Pity of It ! " <& 347 
 
 t'rowed 'im out; an' in some o' the places he done 
 some o' them up. He's a fighter all right." 
 
 While the officer spoke, I could not keep my eyes 
 from Bushrod's face. He was hearing nothing of 
 it, I felt sure. There was a cut on his forehead, and 
 the soft curls were matted into it," where it had bled 
 uncared for. Beside the havoc made of his clothes, 
 there were a dozen hurts or bruises upon his face 
 and hands. His eyes were fixed and unseeing, and 
 as he sank into the chair which had now been 
 brought to him he began a troubled muttering, and 
 the policeman put a hand upon him to hush him. 
 
 He lay back in the chair; his head was dropped 
 over the back of it at a curious, unlifelike angle, so 
 that his eyes gazed, blank and sightless, upon the 
 ceiling. His face was ghastly white, with unnatural 
 mottlings of dark red. 
 
 The countenance which I had last seen rounded 
 and dimpled like that of infancy, showed strange, 
 abrupt depressions. The mouth was open, the 
 features twisted to one side like the lines of a faulty 
 peach; and as I looked he began to sing, and the 
 policeman shook him rudely by the shoulder to 
 silence him. 
 
 " ' And the stars shall fall, and the angels be weeping. 
 Ere I cease to love her, my queen my queen ! ' " 
 
 The words came in a small, whispering, flatted 
 echo of that big, rich, tender, mellifluous instrument, 
 Bushrod Floyd's voice, which, again, was a modifi- 
 cation of Frank's matchless, heart-satisfying tones. 
 
 Jim and I had been making our way toward the 
 rail as well as we could. Before we reached it, the 
 judge exclaimed testily :
 
 348 * The Last Word * 
 
 " Silence that man or take him out ! " 
 
 The ghastliness of the thing gave me strength. 
 " I'll go, Jim," I said. " I can get out quite well 
 alone. I'll sit outside in the lobby, and you 
 must " 
 
 " Oh, I'll make it all right," declared Jim, hurry- 
 ing me toward the door. " It's not the first time 
 he's been drunk, and run in, poor fellow ! " 
 
 " Nay, but 'twill be the lasht toime," whispered 
 the little apple-woman, who stood not far from the 
 dock rail, gazing at him. "If iver I saw death in 
 a face, 'tis in yon." 
 
 Jim came to me, after nearly half an hour. He 
 had gotten Bushrod sent to a hospital, not to the 
 Island. By bringing in a physician from the out- 
 side and convincing the judge of the truth, that 
 the prisoner was very ill, and his friends ready to 
 pay for his treatment, and answer for his reappear- 
 ance in court when he should be able, Jim had ob- 
 tained permission to send him to a private place. 
 
 " And the best in town," he assured me eagerly. 
 
 I saw the four trim uniformed young fellows, 
 headed by a fine-featured, kind, sagacious-looking 
 physician, carrying Bushrod down to the ambulance. 
 They went lightly and skilfully with their neat, cov- 
 ered stretcher; and when they had driven away Jim 
 said to me, with a strong effort at cheerfulness : 
 
 " Now, he'll be all right, Miss Carry. We will 
 not tell anybody about it. I don't see why we need. 
 I'll write to Richmond and say to them that Bush 
 is here with me, that he's sick, not able to travel." 
 
 ' You are as good as gold, Jim," I returned. 
 " What about the people at the office ? " 
 
 Jim's face darkened. " I'll just let 'em understand
 
 f "The Pity of It!" & 349 
 
 that he's in Virginia, or on his way there," he said. 
 " Hang the office, anyhow ! It's none of their 
 business. He left there a week ago, to be gone 
 indefinitely." 
 
 I looked at him doubtfully, and he burst out : 
 
 " DeWitt's a pleasant enough fellow. / haven't 
 any fault to find with him. But he needn't be so 
 self-righteous. He follows the lead of " 
 
 He broke off, flushing, and amended lamely, 
 " That is, they all act as though Bush was a sort of 
 acknowledged failure. I'll tell them as near nothing 
 as I decently can." 
 
 " Yes," I agreed gladly. 
 
 " I don't intend to ever let Bushrod know you saw 
 him like this," Jim went on. " It couldn't do any 
 good such a humiliation as that only breaks a 
 fellow down." 
 
 I was choking. " Yes," I whispered. " Oh, no, 
 never tell him." 
 
 " Don't be scared, honey," added Jim, kindly. 
 " He's in bad shape now, but he'll come round all 
 right. Bush is a big stout fellow, you know; and 
 he's been on more than one tear like this, before 
 you ever saw him." 
 
 " Not like this, Jim. I don't believe I " 
 and halting, unable to continue, I held out to my 
 companion the current number of the Weekly. 
 
 It had come into the office just as we left, and I 
 had carried it unopened in my hand since. 
 
 As I sat waiting in the lobby, I had tried to 
 divert my mind by turning over its pages; and 
 there upon one of them I found, over Bushrod's 
 pseudonym, and with a wonderful initial, which
 
 350 $ The Last Word *9 
 
 carried an incredible load of pain and despair within 
 its inch-square space, three verses called 
 
 AN INVOCATION 
 
 Dear my Lord Death, hast thou called me ? 
 Long have I waited to spouse thee, 
 And prayed, but no prayers would arouse thee 
 
 Well-beloved Death, hast thou called me? 
 
 Lo, my Lord Death, I am ready, 
 
 For Life it hath spurned me and shamed me, 
 The World it hath shunned me and blamed me. 
 
 Lo, lovely Death, I am ready. 
 
 Yea, my Lord Death, I am waiting, 
 
 Waiting the kiss of my lover, 
 
 And his merciful cloak for my cover. 
 Yea, blessed Death, I am waiting. 
 
 It was a pitiful little coincidence that, when Jim 
 had finished reading these verses, he made the same 
 comment Bushrod himself had made when handing 
 to me those first lines of his. 
 
 " Fellow must have felt pretty bad when he wrote 
 that," Jim said, huskily, his big brown eyes filling 
 with tears, his lip trembling, while his hand 
 clenched shaking on the magazine with the grasp 
 of a hurt child. 
 
 It was true that my editor had not seen fit to 
 jest as much as usual when I told him such portion 
 as I felt I could tell him of my visit to the Tombs. 
 Yet he was never, at best, one to whom I could 
 willingly lay bare a thing like this, which was to be 
 held, a carefully guarded secret, in the possession 
 of Jim and myself for many days.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 " The Amazing Marriage ' 
 
 " Pipe cat, dance mouse ! 
 We'll have a wedding at our good house." 
 
 I TOLD myself that I had become accustomed to 
 the belief that all was indeed finally over between 
 Frank and me, as people become accustomed to the 
 thought of death. And I knew perfectly, down in the 
 depths of my soul, that no one ever did accustom 
 himself to the thought of death, other than as an 
 abstraction, or really believe that he himself should 
 die. The pain was, I thought, less acute, less press- 
 ing and choking, because Frank was away ; and was 
 not. absolutely deadly, because he was going to 
 return. 
 
 Endurance resignation I could never com- 
 pass that ; but, give me a little time and much work, 
 I could always achieve some happiness. 
 
 And Jim's news of Bushrod had been so very 
 good, that that last insufferable load was greatly 
 lightened. Every day I saw him, at the office or 
 the house, maybe only for a few moments; and he 
 brought me, in the goodness of his kind heart, all 
 the details of Bushrod's condition that his simple 
 mind could grasp or carry. 
 
 Our patient had recovered consciousness on the 
 351
 
 The Last Word 
 
 third day ; and appeared to be getting- well most 
 properly. 
 
 At this point I asked eagerly if I might go to 
 see him, along with Jim. At first Jim was a little 
 embarrassed; but finally his frank good sense pre- 
 vailed over hesitation, and he spoke to me like a 
 brother. 
 
 " You see, he's getting along all right, so far 
 as his body is concerned," he explained. " His mind 
 is where the trouble is. He don't talk he hardly 
 ever speaks only to say ' I'm all right, old man/ 
 or ' God bless you/ or ' Don't bother about me.' So 
 I don't know, and the hospital people do not, what 
 he really thinks or believes. There is something 
 held back. He hasn't asked yet how he came to be 
 in the hospital. I can't tell, you know, how much 
 he remembers where he began to forget." 
 
 " Yes I suppose," I said reluctantly. 
 
 " I know I'm right, Miss Carry," Jim insisted. 
 " I know how Bush thinks of you. I never happened 
 to do any drinking, but well, you just be good 
 and wait ; Bush has to be well, and strong, and his 
 old self before he sees you. And it won't be long. 
 He's doing fine. They all say so at the hospital." 
 
 So I needs must be content. I was glad to think 
 of Bushrod, mending, and coming back to himself. 
 Meantime, since Jim told me he should be in New 
 York for several weeks and should always see 
 Bushrod every day, I suddenly made up my mind 
 to go away somewhere for a week or two, to make if 
 possible a break in the icy paralysis which was set- 
 tling upon me, to work out my problem, to patch 
 and rearrange my broken life edifice. 
 
 I had never asked for a leave before; but I knew
 
 $ "The Amazing Marriage" $ 353 
 
 my request came at an inconvenient season, and I 
 approached my chief with a respectful deference 
 which was, I fear, quite foreign to my usual manner. 
 
 Mr. DeWitt received my cap-in-hand civilities 
 with unexpected geniality, and remarked with ap- 
 proval, as he graciously accorded the desired boon, 
 
 " It seems you do know how to grind an axe a 
 bit, when it is an implement you really need to have 
 sharpened. I do not doubt that, under sufficient 
 pressure, you would develop a touch of blarney." 
 
 The closest friend I ever had, and one of the 
 shrewdest, wholesomest characters I ever knew, used 
 to call me The Cork for a by-name, because, she 
 said, the harder I was plunged to the very bottom 
 of the flood of pain and sorrow, the more prompt 
 and vigorous the " plop ! " with which I came up. 
 
 I had certainly been dwelling beneath the waters 
 of pain and bereavement for some time, and now 
 there occurred a small, cheerful plop. 
 
 " Huh! " I cried, with much more independence 
 (I had got the leave, you know), "a bigger and 
 better-looking man than you told me that, and more 
 too, no longer ago than yesterday." 
 
 Mr. DeWitt bore my coarse ingratitude with un- 
 changed sweetness. I thought he was rather pleased 
 to see so much spirit in me. " Indeed," he returned, 
 "both bigger and better-looking? Where did you 
 discover this colossal and beautiful creature? " 
 
 I explained : 
 
 " He stood at a certain corner in Brooklyn, 
 where I used to take a car every day when I boarded 
 over there. It is a place where cars meet and pass ; 
 whole strings of them go along on one line awhile, 
 and then branch off on different ones, you know."
 
 354 ** The Last Word ^ 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Mr. DeWitt, with a broad 
 grin. " You've a fresh, artless, narrative style." 
 
 " D' ye want to hear this thing, or not?" I de- 
 manded, my spirits rising as I proceeded. 
 
 " Go on, go on," he returned, pacifically. 
 
 " Well, there stood there a big, heavy man with 
 a rosy face, and dimples that would make the fortune 
 of a professional beauty, wearing a long, handsome 
 overcoat and a soft hat, and with a thick cane in his 
 hand." 
 
 " Stoo'1 there stood there ? Was this a graven 
 image, or a wooden figure?" 
 
 " Well," I answered, " he seemed to be what Omar 
 Khayyam calls ' The master of the show.' He made 
 the heavy trucks and wagons move on; he stopped 
 and started the cars, and ordered about every 
 wheeled thing on the street. And each time, when 
 he got affairs straightened out, he would wave his 
 stick to the next car and call, 'Come up! Come 
 up!' 
 
 " Oh, the inspector," commented my listener. 
 
 " Yes," I assented, " the inspector. One day, 
 when he had, as usual, stopped the car I wanted, 
 lifted and chucked me into it as carefully and skil- 
 fully, but with as little personal notice, as though 
 T had been a valuable glass article, I asked the 
 conductor, ' Who is that man ? Is this his city ? ' 
 The conductor laughed, and informed me that the 
 man was the street-car inspector of the line. 
 
 " I came along there the other day when there 
 was a tremendous concourse of cars; and about 
 every four seconds this big bass voice was calling 
 out, ' Come up ! Come up ! ' When my car came 
 in sight there was a little delay in getting me to it,
 
 $ "The Amazing Marriage" 9 355 
 
 and I seized upon the occasion to say to the man, 
 ' I want you to get St. Peter's job, so that when 
 I come to apply for admittance you will be there 
 to look good-humoured and say, " Come up, come 
 up!" 
 
 " He was just landing me in the car as I promul- 
 gated this; and he looked at me with the tickled 
 astonishment you would feel if one of the inanimate 
 objects you daily handle should suddenly rise up 
 and make jokes at you. 
 
 " He turned to the next car, shouted ' Come ' 
 glanced back at me, broke out laughing, changed it 
 to ' Move up ! ' and the last I saw of him he was 
 shaking his head, and the dimples were dancing in 
 and out of his rosy cheeks. 
 
 " I came past there yesterday, and the minute he 
 caught sight of me he began to laugh, and called 
 out, ' Oh, you're all right ! You don't need me up 
 there. You'll just fire a joke at St. Peter, and 
 while he's doubled up laughing, in you'll go. Yes, 
 and blarney some one out of a good seat, too, I'll 
 bet.' ' 
 
 "Yes, I see; as you did me (a gentlemanly 
 angel) out of that two weeks' leave here when 
 there's so much to do, and we are already short- 
 handed. But do not be too puffed up. Don't lay it 
 all to your blandishments. I am good-natured this 
 morning. You may have noticed that I was very 
 complaisant in the matter of the leave," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " Not more so than I deserved ! " I broke in 
 hastily. 
 
 " You may, I repeat, have noticed it. Did it
 
 356 9 The Last Word 
 
 not occur to you there might be a reason for it? " 
 he inquired. 
 
 " Why, aren't my just deserts " I began. 
 
 " You'd better thank the gods you never get 'em 
 at least in this office," he declared, testily. 
 
 "Well, you were about to say?" I ventured, 
 civilly. 
 
 " I was about to tell you that the person known 
 to your betters as your boss is going to have a 
 leave, too, a long one," he announced. 
 
 "You?" I cried, "are you going away?" and 
 I sat down feeling suddenly rather blank. He 
 nodded, as I sat looking at him, realising in a flash, 
 as I had not yet done, how extensively Mr. DeWitt 
 figured in the practical aspect of my life here in 
 New York. I had always had his acute, kindly 
 criticism, his discriminating judgment. He had 
 resolutely held me to the best I could do, willing 
 to accept of me, or for me, nothing less. This many- 
 sided man turned always toward me a side wholly 
 good and healthful and tonic. Whatever pain and 
 error and disappointment had come into my life 
 here in New York, it had never had any relation to 
 my work or its doing. There, all had been fair and 
 hopeful and satisfactory; and this it seemed to me 
 was largely attributable to Mr. DeWitt's clever 
 intuition and admirable management. Already be- 
 reft and darkened, what a heartbreakingly desolate 
 place the editorial office would be to me without his 
 bright, keen, spirited face, and alert, well-groomed 
 figure, his cool, capable, restful personality, to 
 relieve its gloom. 
 
 "Are you going soon?" I asked, rather feebly. 
 " I hope it won't be before I get off to Texas."
 
 $ "The Amazing Marriage" f 357 
 
 " I think it will," he hesitated. " It is a European 
 trip quite an extended tour and we have moved 
 forward the date, rather unexpectedly. Some cir- 
 cumstances " 
 
 I undoubtedly lack many feminine virtues, and 
 am free from a few feminine vices ; but I was woman 
 enough to see in this ambiguous phraseology the 
 portent of a wedding journey. " I believe," I cried, 
 with sudden inspiration, " that you are going to be 
 married ! " 
 
 " Do you know that I believe so too," he re- 
 sponded confidentially. 
 
 " Who " I began, and he interrupted. 
 
 " I supposed you had been told of the engagement 
 when you were there last month." 
 
 My mind whirled rapidly. "There?" Where 
 had I been ? 
 
 " Who," I urged, " who has been mad 
 enough " 
 
 " Miss Salem and I were speaking of you," he 
 pursued gravely, " of some plans for your work 
 when we return ; and I got the impression that she 
 had told you." 
 
 "Miss Salem?" I repeated densely, "what has 
 she to do with it?" 
 
 " She has a good deal to do with it," said Mr. 
 DeWitt, in a very quiet tone. " We are to be pri- 
 vately married next week, instead of in January, 
 as was at first intended. We shall be abroad three 
 months, and when we come back the new magazine 
 is to be started. It was in connection with the maga- 
 zine that we were speaking of you." 
 
 Miss Salem! The absolute astonishment in my
 
 358 <& The Last Word <&> 
 
 mind, the turmoil of ideas and thoughts which burst 
 in upon it, forbade speech. 
 
 He thought she had told me of the engagement, 
 the approaching marriage, while I was staying with 
 her at the hotel. The suggestion brought vividly to 
 me the remembrance of that one night's intimate 
 talk, which had made me really know Priscilla 
 Salem. And as I recollected it all, in the light of 
 this announcement, her disquiet, her uncertainty 
 and smothered apprehension were illuminated for 
 me. 
 
 He had choosing one of the two courses open 
 to him in the matter elected to make his announce- 
 ment without even a conventional pretence of senti- 
 ment. I recalled her voice, with its deep tones of 
 human kindness and tenderness; her face, as it 
 showed in the gray morning twilight full of emo- 
 tional promise and possibilities, and wearing already 
 the pathetic prophecy of age. The story of the 
 statuette came back to me, importunate with its illus- 
 tration. Here, then, was her little plaster Eros 
 her bogus Love. And she was paying for it all she 
 had all she was as I had divined she could. 
 Apparently, she had not even had the heart to tell 
 me, but had left it to come to me thus. 
 
 Mr. DeWitt's voice suddenly recalled me to the 
 situation, as I sat staring past him into blank space. 
 
 " Your remarks are hardly polite, Miss West." 
 
 I started guiltily. 
 
 " I make no comment upon the absence of con- 
 gratulations," and the ugly little sneer I hated 
 was in his voice and around his mouth, " but the 
 amenities (might I say the decencies?) of life are
 
 $ "The Amazing Marriage" <9> 359 
 
 discredited, or at least seriously blown upon, by such 
 sincere and outspoken rudeness. Well ? " 
 
 I searched clumsily and hastily through all the 
 available spaces of my consciousness for one thing 
 to say to him one thing that I could say and 
 sat there silent, the blood surging steadily to my face 
 until it burned painfully beneath his deliberately 
 inquiring glance. 
 
 To say, " I congratulate you both, and wish you 
 all the happiness you deserve," when I knew, when 
 I saw as plainly as though it were a matter of pack- 
 ing oranges in a box, that only that in him which 
 was least good, least worthy of respect, went into 
 this marriage, and when he himself showed me 
 he knew I saw it I could not. The words stuck, 
 not in my throat, but back in my consciousness, 
 before even they could be formed. 
 
 When the silence became insupportable, I finally 
 blundered out, " You must excuse me " 
 
 " This is what I have been doing/' murmured Mr. 
 DeWitt courteously. 
 
 My face burned afresh, and I struggled on. 
 " But I was so surprised I never thought of such 
 a thing " and I lapsed again into a discouraged 
 silence, aware that my remark suggested only how 
 thoroughly I felt the unsuitability of the match. I 
 was in no way helped by Mr. DeWitt's composed 
 voice, quietly pursuing this line of comment. " Oh, 
 certainly, it is plain that the thing strikes you as 
 preposterous. You " 
 
 " Mr. DeWitt ! " I cried in distress. " Of course 
 you can utterly put me to rout at this sort of thing; 
 you always could; I am not quick or clever. You
 
 360 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 can easily make me seem a fool an offensive 
 fool. But do you want to do it ? " 
 
 Mr. DeWitt's sneering mood fell away before 
 this direct appeal, as I had not believed it could. 
 " Indeed I do not," he answered with hearty kind- 
 ness, and he reached his hand toward me ; a simple, 
 natural thing I had not had the wit to think of 
 doing. 
 
 " Besides," I added, as I gladly took the offered 
 hand, " what earthly difference does it make what 
 I think what sort of views or ideas I hold? " 
 
 " Why, as you infer, none in the world one 
 would say. And yet Well, I feel, somewhere in 
 me, a laughable necessity to be understood." 
 
 And I was well aware that it was not by me that 
 he needed to be understood; I had only offended 
 him by understanding him too well. It was before 
 that better self of his which he had always shown 
 me, and which I, therefore, in a sense represented, 
 and gave back to him, that he sought uneasily to 
 be justified. 
 
 I rose to go, saying that I should see Miss Salem 
 that afternoon, and that I was very glad he had 
 told me. We were once more good friends. 
 
 " Tell me," began he, abruptly, with that air of 
 pushing aside conventionalities and going to the 
 heart of things, which had always been between 
 Mr. DeWitt and me a possibility, one lacking in the 
 relations between me and many an older friend, 
 " tell me when you come sidling, red and silent, 
 into the office, with your finger in your mouth, to 
 confess to me that you have determined to commit 
 matrimony oh, you will do it sooner or later ! 
 and I am coldly silent or openly disapproving (I
 
 $ "The Amazing Marriage" $ 361 
 
 shall be), I should just like to inquire, as a matter 
 of curiosity, not for purposes of publication at all, 
 but between ourselves as man and man tell me 
 what reason, what excuse you will offer." 
 
 Whatever had prompted Mr. DeWitt to ask me 
 such a question, whatever he might know or guess, 
 or think, I at least had, as always, no thought but 
 to stand by my guns. If he even misdoubted that 
 I lacked the courage of my beliefs, or thought to 
 find me in this timid of my views, he was mistaken. 
 His words struck out, like a blow, one of the con- 
 victions, which, through whatever doubt and pain 
 and error, never failed me. 
 
 " My excuse will be the only one there is," I 
 returned, steadily, though I felt the red again rising 
 in my face. "Love!" and my eyes smarted and 
 my throat ached. 
 
 Mr. DeWitt looked down at the proof sheets 
 before him. I took breath and repeated : 
 
 " Love love. What all the world is seeking 
 what it's starving and freezing for the founda- 
 tion of all practical life the bottom plank of all 
 human building the only key to unlock, the only 
 door which gives access to, all other good, comfort, 
 advancement, all permanent welfare, happiness, prog- 
 ress. I would marry for love," I said, " with 
 love; only with and for and because of love," and 
 I looked up at him unflinchingly. 
 
 " Yes," he agreed, soberly, " and where will you 
 find it?" 
 
 I knew then that he was quite ignorant of my 
 love affairs, quite innocent of ulterior meaning when 
 he began to question me. 
 
 " Well," I answered, haltingly, for the aching in
 
 362 f The Last Word <> 
 
 my throat increased, and my eyes were rilling, " it 
 it is here," touching my own breast. " I have 
 conceived it it is mine ; and so it must exist 
 also somewhere else. But but say I never find 
 it in another. Shall I therefore content myself with 
 less abjure it throw it away place myself 
 where it is no longer possible for me to have it, 
 though conceiving it and believing in it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I see," he hesitated, a little wistfully, " for 
 you " 
 
 " Oh, for me ! " I said. " Why not for you, or for 
 any soul that will not accept less? Nobody but 
 Justin DeWitt sets your limitations. No one, no 
 thing save yourself can compel you to a lower 
 place at the spirit's table." 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes," he assented, not unkindly, but 
 wearily. " It is all one with having ideals, and 
 living up to them. Living up is tiresome work, Miss 
 West," and he smiled at me deprecatingly. 
 
 " Well well well. We all have our vanities. 
 Mine is the career I have chosen. It is the thing 
 I can do. I'll strike a good sort of gait, you 
 know I can do that, and keep pretty well up to 
 the head of the procession. And I care for it, 
 you know." 
 
 " About yourself you are right. Anything else 
 would be intolerable to you. You must seek it ; I'm 
 glad you do." And he looked at me with a surpris- 
 ing, half-wistful kindliness and sweetness, then 
 added, with his inevitable humour, " It's a well, 
 there should be some one about the office who does 
 that sort of thing. It is as you say a thing 
 that don't need finding." Again he held out his hand.
 
 $ "The Amazing Marriage" f 363 
 
 " Trot along then and seek it, and take a sinful 
 man's blessing with you." 
 
 I had been on the verge of sobs more than once 
 during the latter part of this talk. Now, as I 
 looked up, I saw, with a shock of surprise that was 
 almost terror, that my editor's keen, brilliant eyes 
 were swimming with unshed tears.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 The Pun Therapeutic 
 
 " The good and great will ever shun 
 That shameless and abandoned one 
 Who stoops to perpetrate a pun." 
 
 FOR some uncertain period after I left Mr. DeWitt 
 I was swamped. I walked aimlessly, seeing not 
 whither. 
 
 But when I got righted a bit, got the sea water 
 out of my eyes and began to take stock of the 
 situation, the thought of Genevieve flashed upon me. 
 It was an hour when she was always at her desk in 
 the office. Her place there had been vacant. I was 
 instinctively aware that she had received the 
 announcement of the approaching marriage, and, 
 finding some pretext, had crept away to work out 
 her little sum. 
 
 Should I go to her? Could I help her at all to 
 set the figures straight to find possible errors ? 
 Could I point out to her where she had failed to 
 " carry one? " Could any one ever do any of these 
 things for another? And if one could, and could 
 thereby bring the correct answer, the true solution, 
 would it be well ? Would it be, to the one so helped, 
 a present help and an eventual hindrance and injury ? 
 
 When I arrived at the end of all this debatement, 
 364
 
 9 The Pun Therapeutic e 365 
 
 I found myself mounting the steps to Genevieve's 
 room. 
 
 " Who is it ? " her voice inquired, when I 
 knocked. 
 
 " Genevieve, it is I," I answered. 
 
 " Oh! Come in, then," said she. 
 
 I opened the door and stepped in, then drew 
 back to close it and go away. 
 
 " Oh, no, don't do that. Come in," Genevieve 
 repeated. She was sitting at the table, her arms 
 thrown out on it, her head laid down sidewise upon 
 them. She had evidently wept herself into a state 
 of exhaustion. The visage, turned toward me, was 
 ashen and drawn, the great, soft, tan-coloured eyes 
 swollen and inflamed. This was the girl at whom I 
 had raged for being cold as a fish. 
 
 " Sit down. I am so glad you came. I want 
 to talk to you. I will go bathe my face," declared 
 this surprising young woman. In the doorway she 
 turned her pale countenance and tragic eyes a mo- 
 ment toward me, and added, with a little catch of a 
 laugh, " I suppose I am some sort of salt water fish 
 to-day. I certainly do seem to swim in it ! " 
 
 I could hear her splashing heartily, manfully; 
 and presently, glancing through the doorway, I saw 
 her vigorously towelling her face, so like Genevieve 
 and so unlike a weeping woman's dabbing, flinch- 
 ing action. 
 
 " There," she announced, coming back, " I proba- 
 bly look less like a fool, and more like a human 
 being." 
 
 It was Genevieve's way, too, to take hold of 
 the situation as though the unacknowledged under-
 
 366 f The Last Word $ 
 
 standing between us had been an openly expressed 
 one. 
 
 " You think," she began, very quietly, " that I am 
 acting like a fool now; but I give you my word, 
 these are my first sane and sensible moments for 
 months." 
 
 " You do me good ! " I cried. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am through I am done. I have 
 cried my eyes out, and there's an end." 
 
 " I'm sorry I am going back to Texas so soon," 
 I observed, with some vague impression that I had 
 just met Genevieve and would like to pursue the 
 acquaintance. 
 
 " I am sorry, too," she answered, simply. 
 
 " Don't you want to go with me? "I exclaimed, 
 impulsively. 
 
 Genevieve laughed actually laughed. " What a 
 baby you must take me for," she commented. " Run 
 away! No, indeed. My work is here. My place 
 is here. Nothing is changed." 
 
 " No," I agreed, hesitatingly, " I believe you are 
 right." 
 
 " I do not know that I should wonder," she re- 
 marked, consideringly, " that you take me for a 
 spineless imbecile. You have never seen anything 
 in me to suggest the contrary. You do not even 
 know how abject an idiot I have been. Why, Miss 
 West, I had come to have so little confidence in so 
 little respect for myself, my own force and dig- 
 nity, that I almost thought the only thing to do 
 was to run away away from my own silliness and 
 weakness, you know! About two weeks ago, I 
 had an ofifer from the Ladies' Work Basket people 
 and was for days on the point of accepting it."
 
 f The Pun Therapeutic $ 367 
 
 " I suppose they are sound," I ventured, " arid 
 and pay pretty well." 
 
 " Sound ! Yes, they are sound ; and they offered 
 me a fair salary. Miss West, you do not know I 
 will warrant you have not an idea what my 
 qualifications are, what I was brought over here 
 to do. Have you? " 
 
 " Why, no," I admitted, " I supposed your fashion 
 work " 
 
 " Fashions ! " flung out Genevieve. " But I can- 
 not wonder. And I imagine what my people would 
 think of me set to edit a household paper ! ' How 
 to Take out Ink Stains/ 'A Pretty Pink 
 Luncheon ! ' 
 
 " But, Genevieve " 
 
 " Wait," she interrupted me, quietly. " Miss 
 West, I was brought over here to edit and revise 
 scientific text-books. I was supposed (when Miss 
 Salem met me at my uncle's, in Oxford he is one 
 of the lecturers at Magdalen) to be quite a coming 
 person in biology." 
 
 I was as astounded as though Genevieve had told 
 me she was a consummate tight-rope performer. I 
 gazed at her a moment, fairly open-mouth, then 
 sat down feebly. 
 
 It all came over me with a rush. The past months 
 with Genevieve were illuminated. There was no 
 longer anything really queer about her. She had 
 only been made to seem queer by being placed in 
 such a false position toward her whole world. 
 
 I could see it all now, how she had brought to 
 the writing of fashion articles the scientific mind, 
 scientific methods, and training. Her intense un- 
 swerving literalness had been just this. This was
 
 368 *& The Last Word 
 
 the root of her clearness, brevity, and directness, that 
 style which I had said sat as appropriately upon her 
 fashion articles as a suit of chain armour on a ballet- 
 dancer. 
 
 And, after all. how perfectly natural. Miss Bucks 
 was the sort of person who, if she were not actually 
 engaged in doing a thing in showing it forth - 
 simply sunk it. There was no boast, no advertise- 
 ment to her. Indeed, her attainments and abili- 
 ties seemed detached from and of too small impor- 
 tance to her. 
 
 " But why in the world did Miss Salem bring over 
 such a light as you to write fashion stuff ? Couldn't 
 she find any home-bred stock, that she should put 
 Pegasus to plough in that sort of style? " I asked. 
 
 " Miss Salem had nothing to do with it," re- 
 turned Genevieve, energetically. " I have always 
 felt that she was disappointed, if not disgusted with 
 me; she had good cause to be. When I came in, 
 Mr. DeWitt was running in the weekly service a 
 series of articles they called Popular Astronomy. 
 My affairs were not just ready; so, for the mo- 
 ment I was set to revise this astronomy stuff it 
 needed it. 
 
 " He was having continual trouble with his 
 fashion and household departments; there were 
 unreliable people in them. So he asked me one Jay 
 if there was anything about the work I could and 
 would help with." 
 
 I grinned irrepressibly. 
 
 " Yes," assented Genevieve, " I was as well 
 suited to do such stuff as the woman he had at it 
 would have been to do my scientific writing as 
 you were to do the various stupid things he asked
 
 ^ The Pun Therapeutic $> 369 
 
 of you from time to time. But the difference be- 
 tween us was that if he had asked me to scrub the 
 office floor, I should have scrubbed it and scrubbed 
 it to his taste and probably have blacked his boots 
 for good measure." 
 
 " Don't, Genevieve ! " I ejaculated. 
 
 " Oh, it doesn't hurt in the least," she smiled, 
 calmly. " A small brother of mine used to tell a 
 story of a ' natiff nigger,' who was found by a mis- 
 sionary pounding his finger with a stone, and who 
 explained that he did it because it felt so good when 
 he left off. I have left off, and I feel very comfort- 
 able, indeed." 
 
 I found myself more and more inclined to pursue 
 Genevieve's acquaintance. 
 
 " So I am going to remain just here, and do 
 the work I came to do. To show him? To show 
 them? No, indeed. Because it is the work which 
 suits me. I can do it well, and in it lies my sal- 
 vation and my hope of success. I could go home, 
 but such work is much better paid in the United 
 States than at home " 
 
 I laughed out, hopefully. 
 
 Genevieve smiled. " Father always said that I 
 had not an ounce of worldly wisdom; but I think 
 I am quite able to tell upon which side my bread is 
 buttered," she observed, with infantile shrewdness. 
 
 Genevieve's " worldly wisdom " brought to my 
 mind a little talk with Mr. DeWitt, nearly a year 
 ago. He had used the phrase then, and " Worldly 
 wisdom ! " I retorted, " what is that, to your think- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Well," he expounded, looking at me with slightly 
 narrowed eyes, " it is something which is apt to be
 
 370 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 pronounced by the young and untried palate ex- 
 tremely bitter. But it is : owing to this evil 
 vapour which is our atmosphere very wholesome, 
 not to say necessary; like quinine, you know, in 
 the jungles of Africa. It is rarely to be found in 
 small and quiet places, or, indeed, anywhere away 
 from the great centres of life." 
 
 " And therefore I came for it to New York ? " I 
 suggested. 
 
 He nodded, and went on, " It is a thing that can- 
 not be purchased with money at the apothecary's; 
 it is only to be had in exchange for cherished ideals, 
 youthful illusions, a believing heart, and such like 
 toys. But," with a little laugh, " let them go, let 
 them all go that's a plucky girl ! Never com- 
 plain of emptiness and loss, when you've made 
 your trade. You won't, I know. We'll never be 
 called upon to listen to your lamentations over the 
 rifled caskets of these your young treasures. For 
 they are worse than useless, positively detrimental, 
 and you have the sense to see this, and the courage 
 to admit it to yourself. They will only handicap you 
 in the fierce race; while this same worldly wisdom 
 is a precious commodity, possessing which nearly 
 all other things can be attained save those which 
 went to buy it." 
 
 Now, I told Miss Bucks something of this. 
 " Genevieve," I said, " Mr. DeWitt has manifested 
 that which he calls worldly wisdom pretty fully. 
 And what a pitiful thing it is. How poor it makes 
 him. He premises that it is bitter; he admits that 
 he must pay for it what one most loves and values 
 (along with some trash) and we are glad we haven't 
 it aren't we? "
 
 Q The Pun Therapeutic f 371 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes," returned Genevieve, absently. 
 " I think I have enough, of the decenter sort, to get 
 on with." 
 
 I saw with surprise that she was less interested in 
 Justin DeWitt, his theories and his life, than I. 
 I had not believed it in feminine nature to turn so 
 promptly and completely away from sentimental 
 disaster. Her attitude was wholly male. 
 
 Presently she remarked, " I was always supposed 
 to be a hard-working person, with some abilities and 
 very little sentiment. I thought this, honestly, my- 
 self. Now, it appears there was what I have heard 
 you describe in others as ' a fool streak,' which had 
 to be worked out of me. I have had my lesson. It 
 is over and done with, and it is a glad woman I 
 am." 
 
 " Genevieve, Genevieve! " I said; " it's what we 
 all have to have some time. It's the only way we 
 can learn. We must be taught by Life herself; 
 kindly, and with monishings, if we will learn so; 
 harshly, and with birchings, if they are necessary." 
 
 " Oh, I needed what you call the ' birchings/ ' 
 interrupted Genevieve calmly. " I had to have 
 them, and liberally, too." 
 
 " I believe every plucky youngster in Life's 
 school does," I declared. " And do you know, I'm 
 coming to think that those lessons which were most 
 sternly taught are not only most valuable, but ac- 
 tually dearest in the retrospect." 
 
 " Agreed ! " echoed Genevieve, in this new, deep, 
 hearty tone of her fine voice. " Oh, I agree with 
 you there." 
 
 " All honour the birch, then," I cried ; " deep may
 
 372 9 The Last Word f 
 
 its roots strike, high may its branches wave above 
 its fellows in the forest! For me, Genevieve, I 
 would not no, I would not have been spared 
 one thwack that I have gotten in the wholesome 
 fray, nor call back one dear folly which I have lost. 
 
 " Because they have taken away what was to me 
 my fine white bread and red wine, shall I therefore 
 refuse the oaten cake and the homely ale? No, no, 
 I am a hungry creature, I do not like to go fasting 
 and sorrowful, for so I am a grief to myself and 
 those about me. Since those things are gone, since 
 I must not by any means have them back," and now 
 the blessed tears were running down my face, " I 
 will no longer consider them, but eat the more of 
 the honest black bread, and drink more deeply the 
 wholesome bitter of the ale, and and fare the 
 further daily, that I may sleep at night, despite 
 remembrance which follows me." 
 
 " What a gift you have for putting things poeti- 
 cally," exclaimed Genevieve; "you people who are 
 imaginative writers can fortunately for you 
 get your ideas of despair at second-hand." 
 
 " Imaginative writers, is it ! " I echoed, and 
 laughed a little bitterly. " My dear Genevieve, do 
 not deceive yourself. It is the qualification I lack 
 imagination. Don't you know that every human 
 soul that amounts to shucks has been led by some 
 compulsion or other all along this pathway that 
 we that you have been treading ? Why, some 
 of them, that won't learn, go tramping up and down 
 it with bleeding feet the greater part of their lives. 
 You credit me with much imagination, Genevieve. 
 I could never write one convincing word about tooth-
 
 $ The Pun Therapeutic $ 373 
 
 ache, save as I had writhed in the most fell and 
 deadly throes of toothache." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! I never supposed so of you," re- 
 marked Genevieve. 
 
 " But it is even as I say," I returned. " And 
 for despair why, pray, should one despair? While 
 there is life in your body, light in your brain, there 
 is the same chance there always was. The world, 
 I find, moves on while you stop to take stock of 
 your bruises and the thumps which stunned you; 
 it holds blithely and busily and grandly and terribly 
 and wholesomely to its way. Will you go will 
 you go? Quick! Oh, yes, I'll go. Every pulse 
 answers yes to the stirring invitation. D'ye think 
 I'll ever sit in useless twilight and inert sadness? 
 Not I, when I can help it. /'// go. And though 
 I might stagger to the starting-place, yes, though I 
 should limp miserably at the outset, I tell you it 
 would not be long ; for my feet, these feet that 
 have dallied along the little tender, shaded, silence- 
 haunted pathway of the Ideal, to their own wound- 
 ing they love the pace. My whole nature loves 
 the air of labour, of effort, and the stirring com- 
 panionship of my friendly foe. It leaps into the 
 refreshing sweep of competition, rivalry, the square 
 fight where no odds is given, but honest blow for 
 blow." 
 
 " Yes," assented Genevieve, " that is all right. 
 To every man his method. You fight with a weapon, 
 my dear Cara, I work with a tool ; you come to Life's 
 convention with whoops and hurrahs, riding upon 
 one of those bronchos ; and if I go there on foot, it 
 is because that is my way, and I shall arrive none 
 the less certainly."
 
 374 *^* The Last Word 
 
 " Pretty good ! " I commented. " ' Life's conven- 
 tion ' ' whoops and hurrahs ' ' fight with a 
 weapon ' and ' work with a tool ! ' Talk about 
 ' imaginative writers ! ' You remind me of the old 
 woman ' who wasn't no arithmeticker, but was some 
 on riggers o' speech.' 
 
 " I guess I'll go rope my broncho (you're sure he 
 isn't a donkey? Oh, say it isn't a donkey!) immedi- 
 ately; I have some stuff to get up before I leave; 
 and he is my Pegasus, I suppose or my ' pony,' or 
 my hobby, or my pack-horse and I need him this 
 minute." 
 
 After I had closed the door, I opened it again and 
 poked my head inside. 
 
 " Oh, Genevieve! " I called. " Here is a paradox 
 you have made. ' One of those bronchos ' is the 
 most incorrigible of originals. He is informal, you 
 know, irregular, aberrant, not to say egregious. 
 Would he in such circumstances as you describe 
 in your recent burst of metaphor could he become, 
 or be denominated, a conventional steed ? " 
 
 Genevieve looked at me blankly a moment; then 
 her pale face with its pitiful swollen eyes broke into 
 laughter, and s'he cried delightedly, " It is a pun ! 
 Oh, isn't it a funny one ! If you ride him to a con- 
 vention oh, yes can he be called a conventional 
 oh, isn't it funny!" 
 
 She added with admiration and envy, " I never 
 could make them." And I shut the door upon her 
 laughing " How funny ! " 
 
 " What says the poet ? " I murmured, as I went 
 down-stairs, " ' Nothing useless is or low ' no, not 
 even a pun. But who (save me) would have thought
 
 $ The Pun Therapeutic $ 375 
 
 of it as an antidote for blighted affections? No- 
 body, I'll warrant. 
 
 " But who shall make me a pun, to ease this 
 aching in my left side? It is the physician who 
 cannot heal himself."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A Bridge of Days 
 
 " And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus 
 Who have loved thee so long 
 In wealth, and woe among ? 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 Say nay Say nay 1 " 
 
 IT was late November. I had picked up a brown 
 leaf the last of the falling year in the street on 
 my way down to the office. There was no tree in 
 sight; it had come far from its place of nativity. 
 And I had a sense of kinship with it, this small 
 estray of nature, blown whispering and seeking along 
 the street of naked brick and stone. 
 
 I was home from my vacation, and Jim had met 
 me with cheering news of Bushrod, who would, it 
 was hoped, be able to see his friends within a week. 
 
 The DeWitts (how strange that sounded!) had 
 now been gone nearly three weeks. I had felt sad- 
 dened whenever I thought of Miss Salem's dreary 
 little marriage ceremony. She had not asked me 
 to remain in New York for it. Indeed, I realised, 
 after the hurried interview in which I bade her 
 good-bye, that she did not wish me to do so. It 
 was to be entirely private, she told me. She and 
 
 376
 
 9 A Bridge of Days f 377 
 
 Mr. DeWitt were both without immediate family. 
 Those with whom their business and social relations 
 were closest would, some of them, necessarily be 
 absent ; and so they had thought best to exclude all. 
 
 Yet I noted gladly that the air of uncertainty and 
 disquiet which she had lately worn was now replaced 
 by a look of calmness and content that very nearly 
 approached happiness. I was thankful, too, that her 
 mind was so occupied with her own concerns that 
 she had no thought to spare to mine. 
 
 But when, after my return, Mrs. Corcoran told 
 me of the marriage and going away, she spoke so 
 brightly and shed such a pleasant, hopeful light on 
 it all, that I was cheered and comforted. 
 
 The wedding, she declared, though strictly pri- 
 vate, was very beautiful. Miss Salem's gown was a 
 priceless and exquisite thing of filmy lace; there 
 had been a profusion of flowers, and Bishop DeWitt, 
 a distant cousin of Justin DeWitt's, had performed 
 the ceremony, the only witnesses being Miss Salem's 
 aunt, who was her housekeeper in New York, and 
 a very old gentleman I had once or twice met at her 
 house, who had been her father's partner in his 
 earliest small venture in the publishing business. 
 
 The Corcoran household, with a large contingent 
 of Salem Publishing Company people and other 
 friends went to the pier to see the newly married 
 couple off on their wedding journey. 
 
 ; * You would not believe," she told me, " how 
 happy and suitable and well-matched they looked 
 so settled, so wonted, and well, in such perfect 
 sympathy and accord. The difference in age and 
 on the wrong side was noticeable, of course ; but
 
 378 <&> The Last Word -$ 
 
 really, Cara, outside of that, they were as well-suited, 
 well matched a pair as I ever saw." 
 
 " Bless your sweet heart ! " I answered, " you 
 ought to be a newspaper woman, and write personal 
 matter for your livelihood wedding reports, and 
 obituary articles, and such ; you see so much that is 
 good and hopeful in people and their affairs." 
 
 Now, the office had had a cable from the DeWitts 
 in London. 
 
 Both were loaded with commissions for the new 
 magazine and for the general publishing house. 
 They were making quite a business trip of it. 
 
 Our young lovers were married soon after my 
 return. 
 
 " He " received an offer of a very advantageous 
 position in Mexico, and to leave " her " was 
 out of the question. " He " came up one Saturday 
 night with the telegram; they were quietly married 
 Sunday, and left us Monday. 
 
 The thought of our lovers doing anything sudden 
 made us all quite giddy. Mrs. Corcoran went be- 
 wilderedly about with various unrelated articles in 
 her hand, crying out to the casual passer-by that she 
 wanted things to be right, even if we did have but 
 fifteen minutes in which to do it all. 
 
 And Mr. Corcoran had to be forcibly restrained 
 from giving them a piano for a wedding present. 
 That was because " she " was musical, and " he " 
 had always shown such divine patience in listening 
 to " her " playing. When argued out of this, Mr. 
 Corcoran brought home the information that good 
 bread was almost unknown in Mexico because the 
 flour was poor, and the proposition that Corydon
 
 $ A Bridge of Days 9 379 
 
 and Phyllis be laden with something like a half 
 car-load of Fancy Triple X. 
 
 " As if they cared anything about bread ! " ejacu- 
 lated Mrs. Corcoran, with wifely scorn for his 
 lumbering male intelligence. 
 
 Mr. Corcoran sighed. " All this marrying in 
 haste has turned my brain," he admitted. " I can't 
 think connectedly." 
 
 " Could you ever? " inquired Mrs. Corcoran, with 
 the suave frigid sweetness of ice-cream. 
 
 ' The next," pursued Mr. Corcoran, " the next in 
 line for execution are, I take it, this young person 
 here and the Man in Texas." 
 
 The Man in Texas was an old character in Mr. 
 Corcoran's domestic fiction, and he walked whenever 
 other resources failed; so, " There are," I responded, 
 tranquilly, " five hundred and twenty thousand men 
 (more or less) in Texas. To which particular 
 gentleman do you refer? " 
 
 " To that brave but devoted individual," re- 
 sponded Mr. Corcoran, pensively, almost plaintively, 
 " who is waiting his doom (and you) somewhere 
 out in that exceedingly flat country you have quite 
 frequently mentioned and described. The man who 
 has just now an excellent opportunity to flee, and no 
 knowledge of why he should do so." 
 
 " See here," I said, " you think that is funny, of 
 course; but I do not mind telling you that your 
 stupidity is so far right that I might, when I came 
 here, have been labouring under the hallucination 
 that there was to adopt your phrase a ' Man in 
 Texas.' I have settled it now, however, and settled 
 it negatively. There is no ' Man in Texas ' there 
 is no man for me anywhere but here," and I thumped
 
 380 f The Last Word $ 
 
 my chest. " I have found him to be a reliable, stout- 
 hearted person; ready to go with me. At present 
 (much as I'd like to oblige you with another ' wed- 
 ding while you wait ' ) , we are not asking for other 
 companionship it is companionship I mention, 
 you notice, not captaincy." 
 
 Mr. Corcoran, bless him, warmed to my discourse. 
 He looked at me with quick understanding. " Yes ! " 
 he cried. "Why not? Why shouldn't a girl feel 
 so? I've often wondered at them. Why should a 
 woman of brains and ability, one that has force and 
 courage to follow her own course, be so anxious to 
 meet some man and hand over the ship to him to 
 virtually say, ' Here, take it ; sail it where you 
 please ! ' Gad ! I couldn't do it ; and I'm hanged 
 if I see why any woman of character seeks it. I'd 
 rather go lonesome. 
 
 " Look at the Madame. Tis little she knew the 
 treasure she was getting, of course, and yet she 
 would have me ; she would not take a courteous no 
 nor several of them." 
 
 And Mrs. Corcoran contemptuously refusing to 
 rise to this bait, he walked away, singing " Haste 
 to the wedding," out of tune. 
 
 I had lived a strange dual existence in those days 
 before I left for my vacation. The poor drudge my 
 mind, which of its own motion went following 
 Frank's footsteps through all imagined ways, must 
 make some effort toward its daily, weekly stunt. 
 
 I would begin a piece of work, only to fall sud- 
 denly blank and helpless in the midst of it, my 
 truant mind creeping away to hang after the one 
 object to which it was ever voluntarily devoted. 
 Dragged back by the shoulder and thrust upon the
 
 $ A Bridge of Days -^ 381 
 
 unloved task, it slaved sullenly, and only so long as 
 it was held there by the grasp of unceasing vigilance. 
 
 I sat at table and the food was placed before me, 
 the talk went on about me. My vacant eyes were on 
 the plate, my poor heart was away, setting up a 
 thousand inquiries, questing, questing, crying, plead- 
 ing in the darkness after Frank. 
 
 Where was he? Whither bent his steps? Upon 
 what were those compelling eyes looking? What 
 employment occupied the hands I loved? And oh 
 what did he think? This, with a thousand varia- 
 tions, was always the piteous repetend. This one 
 unsleeping ache found never any assuagement. 
 
 Did he look up now from the book he read or 
 the work he bent above, and sigh with that catching 
 breath I knew so well? And at the stab of the 
 thought, I would start to consciousness of my real 
 surroundings, and look about upon the others with 
 eyes of sheer anguish. 
 
 I usually found at such times that some one had 
 addressed a question to me, or there was a half- 
 completed sentence, the first portion of which I was 
 supposed to know, and to which I was expected to 
 respond. 
 
 I remember going one day into the speckless little 
 kitchen to get some hot water for my paste-pot. 
 Lottie, our waitress, of whose absurd prettiness I 
 had made complaint when the sending of young 
 lovers came upon me, stood at a table rubbing some 
 glasses. 
 
 The heat was not yet on in the house, and I sat 
 down for a moment by the cosy range. I heard a 
 faint sniffing behind me, and looked around to find
 
 382 <& The Last Word e 
 
 that Lottie was patiently wiping away tears as she 
 polished tumblers. 
 
 Then I recalled, what my selfish pain had made me 
 forget, that there was no longer any young man en 
 evidence, no Sabbath-day loiterings to taunt my lone- 
 liness, and that Mrs. Corcoran had said Lottie was 
 moping. 
 
 " Oh, ja," that damsel interrupted her suppressed 
 grief to say, " ' Tiss true, Miss Carry. Wimmenss 
 iss poor weak creaturess and menss they knowss 
 it." 
 
 She spoke as though resuming an intermitted con- 
 versation, and I replied to her with such comforting 
 assurances as I could find. 
 
 Everybody was very good to me. Nobody seemed 
 to notice. I went about more than usual. I went 
 to church, to the office, to the theatre ; I went wher- 
 ever anybody asked me to go. And everywhere - 
 visiting, receiving visits, sitting at table, working at 
 my desk, moving in the crowded street, so much 
 more vital was the thought of Frank than anything 
 about me, that if death had struck me down, with 
 but one moment for a cry between the stroke and 
 extinction, I should have cried his name. 
 
 I had planned a dreary little outing at a place I 
 was sure I should not like, when I received a tele- 
 gram asking me to meet Baxter Lord and his wife 
 at the dock and go with them to Old Point for a 
 two weeks' stay. The Lords were cousins of Jim's, 
 and old friends of mine. Mr. Lord was a cattle 
 baron in the Texas Panhandle ; they were very rich, 
 very generous, lovable, childless people, between 
 whom and myself there was an affection of long 
 standing.
 
 $ A Bridge of Days ^ 383 
 
 It was years afterward that I knew this summons, 
 which was so like the Lords' usual method as to 
 have excited no surprise in me, had been arranged 
 by cable. Jim caught them in London, on the point 
 of sailing for New York, and dictated the message 
 which I received, explaining in more detail that 
 I was run down and homesick and needing my 
 friends, when he met them on the deck of the home- 
 ward bound steamer. 
 
 My two weeks did me a wonderful amount of 
 good. Jim was with us a part of the time, so that 
 what with the out-door life, the society of Jim 
 and his cousins always both tonic and restful to 
 me and the entire change, the breaking off of all 
 unhealthy trains of thought, I returned to New York 
 almost myself once more.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 The Phantom Caravan 
 
 " Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart ? 
 
 Thy hopes have gone before : from all things here 
 They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! " 
 
 WITH sight of the familiar squares and streets, 
 with breath of the atmosphere Frank breathed, 
 though he was not then there, came a pitiful revul- 
 sion, and the loss, as it seemed to me, of all I had 
 gained. 
 
 " It is the place," I said. " Here is where we 
 loved each other, and where I can no longer live 
 when this is not so. I will not go near the office 
 again. I will send my copy in by mail. I will 
 once more try new scenes and new people. I will 
 go-" 
 
 " But not too far ! " clamoured my cowardly heart, 
 " not too far ! There is surely room in this great 
 city for a new life, and new associates. There's 
 Podunk, and Harlem, there's Probability Avenue, 
 Promising Square, and Try-it-a-whack Street. And 
 there are the Pretty-Good Smiths, the Unknown 
 Browns, the Great-Potential Butlers, and the Un- 
 developed-Resources McWhirters all God's chil- 
 dren, too; and none of them will look at me with 
 eyes that have seen Frank. 
 
 384
 
 $ The Phantom Caravan $ 385 
 
 " I believe," I assured myself, " that among 
 people who did not know Frank, from whose lips 
 I need not dread to hear his name, I could be well." 
 
 Ah, to make a long, long story very short, when 
 no letter came, when I got home and found no in- 
 direct message from Frank, when I went to the 
 office and had no word from him, except that when 
 I asked I was told he remained in Virginia, and that 
 his mother was believed to be better, then I broke 
 down. 
 
 It was three months since I had heard from him 
 directly. Now I knew that he was alive that he 
 was well. And a feeling of exasperation and weari- 
 ness came over me. How long ? how much ? 
 what more ? I wondered. When would I be quit of 
 this madness, and at peace? 
 
 I would not protest. He did not. He seemed to 
 be able to endure without a groan the thing which 
 had come upon us. There was no use crying out 
 for the mountains to fall upon me, nor for the seas 
 to rise and swallow me. I did not desire to be out 
 of a world where Frank was ; I only longed to mad- 
 ness for some word from him. 
 
 Three-fourths of the time when I was awake I 
 was mentally writing letters to him, all of which 
 began, " Oh, Frank, how can you ? How can you 
 have the heart to do it?" I was spiritually upon 
 my knees, begging him to at least send me some 
 word, to tell me that he suffered, too, and that he 
 knew now that what I did was not wanton, cruel, 
 unnecessary, but was dictated by my love for him, 
 as well as my caring for my own soul. 
 
 Sometimes I thought of the dumb wall which was 
 now between us as a contemptuous silence, a cruel
 
 386 9 The Last Word <* 
 
 thing ; more often I gave him the grace of believing 
 that he thought what he did was well done, and best 
 for both of us. 
 
 I decided finally that I would write to him 
 a simple, friendly letter, such as I might write to 
 any one whom I had loved. I would entreat him to 
 be friends, not to let this hideous blackness shut 
 down over what had been the fair country of our 
 love. 
 
 When my heart ached hardest, I told myself 
 that I had said to Frank in action at least that 
 I must give him up because he interfered with my 
 work my individual career. And I went on, in 
 bitter irony and self -scourging, to say that the work 
 was here now, the career waiting, and certainly 
 no interference from Frank to prevent my being per- 
 fectly happy. 
 
 Mr. DeWitt had left me a carefully planned com- 
 mission for a delightful Southwestern trip. To the 
 man who sat now at his desk (and did his work very 
 ill) I made excuses I should have found my 
 statements promptly sifted had my editor been there 
 to receive them. 
 
 And so I lingered, ashamed to do so, dreading 
 to meet Genevieve, who was expected back soon 
 from a small vacation, hoping that there might 
 come a letter, a message, Frank's return anything 
 but to go away from this blank emptiness. 
 
 In the midst of my hesitations, I received a mes- 
 sage from Genevieve; she had come back with the 
 Canadian friends whom she had been visiting, and 
 was now at the hotel with them, and she asked me 
 to call, setting an hour at which I might do so. 
 
 I was late for my engagement, and when the bell-
 
 "'I DECIDED FINALLY THAT I WOULD WRITE TO HIM'"
 
 <& The Phantom Caravan * 387 
 
 boy showed me up I found Genevieve dressing to 
 go out to the opera. She was not due at the office 
 for a week, and had decided to take that portion 
 of her vacation in New York. 
 
 After she had greeted me, she begged my indul- 
 gence and seated herself once more that the hair- 
 dresser might complete her coiffure. 
 
 I fairly gasped as I looked at her. The arms and 
 shoulders which her low dress displayed were Juno- 
 like, and of the whiteness of marble ; her brownish 
 eyes were alight and glowing, the rose pink which 
 I had thought only exercise could bring, bloomed on 
 her cheek ; and the little dark Frenchwoman behind 
 her chair was piling up the masses of shining hair 
 with skilled fingers and many exclamations of 
 delight. 
 
 There was no manner of doubt about it, Gene- 
 vieve not only was a transformed being in evening 
 dress, but she knew it, and thoroughly enjoyed it. 
 
 I said something of this sort, when the hair- 
 dresser finished, and Genevieve came trailing her 
 shimmering gown across the room to the table 
 where her gloves, fan, and flowers lay. " I do love 
 a frock with a tail," she admitted, with a sigh of 
 satisfaction, looking back at her train. " I have 
 not had this one on since the reception the Women's 
 Economic Club gave me when I first came over." 
 
 She turned upon me a queer glance which re- 
 minded me of the old Genevieve. " I was wearing 
 this frock when I first met our mutual friend, Mr. 
 DeWitt. I indulged in sentiment regarding it, for 
 some time. I needed an evening gown, however, so 
 I got it out a week ago and let Madame Ribot 
 freshen it up a bit."
 
 388 <& The Last Word & 
 
 ' l You've been freshening up more things than 
 frocks, it appears to me," I said, enviously. 
 
 Genevieve laughed. " I have indeed," she agreed, 
 promptly. " Violets were the only flowers he ever 
 gave me; and here, when cousin Rupert sends up a 
 nosegay of them, I do not bedew them with tears 
 as I might once have done; I pin them on and wear 
 them. It is a good thing to get rid of foolish, false 
 sentiment; " and she threw me a shrewd glance, and 
 a smile. 
 
 " Jim is going back to Texas," I hastened to 
 inform her. " He will be up to say good-bye, and 
 then go on home with me to bid farewell to the 
 folks there." 
 
 " When are you going West ? " asked Genevieve, 
 abruptly. 
 
 Genevieve had not outgrown her fondness for 
 bombarding her friends with those great swabby 
 lumps of truth, or cuffing them with unwelcome 
 inquiries. 
 
 I muttered something about having some work 
 to do; but she interrupted me, " I should not think 
 you would hang about New York when you have a 
 commission to Texas. I am sure you would be much 
 better off riding one of those ponies about, and see- 
 ing your old friends, than you are here." 
 
 I resented the imputation, but it haunted me, and 
 it must have lain in my subjective mind, for it bore 
 fruit later. 
 
 As Jim and I were walking up to Seventy-Fourth 
 Street he told me of his plans for Bushrod. 
 
 " He's coming out to my Devil's River sheep 
 ranch, as soon as he is well enough to travel com- 
 fortably. He ought to be now a great fine fellow
 
 $ The Phantom Caravan $ 389 
 
 like that; what he is fooling along so slowly for I 
 can't see." 
 
 " Oh, that is just the thing for him ! " I cried. " It 
 will be delightful for you both." 
 
 " You're mighty right, it will," agreed Jim. 
 " And when I get Bush out there, I'll take him in 
 for a partner and keep him." 
 
 Then he added, " What about yourself, Miss 
 Carry?" and looked very carefully straight ahead 
 of him. " Suppose you let go of New York, too, 
 and come back and write us some more fine Texas 
 stuff ? Give us some more poetry like those ' Lyrics 
 of the Trail,' or the ' Cowboy's Hymn to the Night ; ' 
 or another rattling story like ' Raynor's Ranch ' and 
 ' Shorty and the Seven Bars.' You really belong 
 to us, you know." 
 
 When Jim was gone back to Texas, Genevieve 
 not yet returned to her desk, and no message had 
 come from Bushrod, the office and my life were 
 indeed dreary things. 
 
 Finally, driven by despair, my heart turned to 
 the one thing which I had of Frank the big book. 
 First, my mind hovered about the subject, once so 
 distasteful to me. I got out the note-book which 
 I had devoted to it. The suggestions therein were, 
 I decided languidly, very good indeed. 
 
 One afternoon when it was storming so that I 
 did not care to go out, and Teddy, after keeping me 
 company for an hour or so, had fallen asleep, I 
 suddenly began and wrote a fine chapter then put 
 my head down on the table and wept because there 
 was no one to share the triumph with no one to 
 praise and approve me. 
 
 Teddy wakened, and, locking his little arms tightly
 
 39 $ The Last Word $ 
 
 around my neck, cried, "Oh, Tarry! Oh, Tarry! 
 Don't w'ite it if it hurts 'oo so! " and we wept to- 
 gether upon my excellent chapter, then dried each 
 other's tears. 
 
 Then, Mr. Corcoran came home and told me Miss 
 Bucks was writing in the little Tenth Street studio, 
 on her beloved, long anticipated Chemical Encyclo- 
 pedia. I went the very next day and began regular 
 work on the big book. 
 
 My emotions were strange and mingled. I asked 
 myself what Frank would think, and where was my 
 womanly pride? Then, with a wave of deeper 
 feeling, I said, " Why should such a consideration 
 weigh with me? Why do I inquire whether he 
 would in my place do as I am doing, or be 
 bitter over the conclusion that he would never make 
 any concession. He is himself, and I am I. And 
 it is Frank I love not I." 
 
 With such subterfuges I quieted my heart, and 
 the big book throve apace. I perceived, now com- 
 pulsion was removed, that I really could do this 
 sort of thing very well indeed. 
 
 This kept the days moving, but the nights were 
 beginning to be once more a horror to me. 
 
 At last Mr. Corcoran handed me, one evening, 
 a letter from the office, addressed in a familiar hand, 
 and bearing the Richmond postmark. 
 
 It was at the dinner-table, and my soup choked 
 me, my fish was as the meat of serpents, and my 
 chair a rack, till I could crawl away to my own 
 little cubiculum, shut the door and be alone with 
 that letter. 
 
 The world sung and spun about me. Would 
 it be kind ? What would he say ? It was very thin
 
 $ The Phantom Caravan f 391 
 
 and light a mere note. I collected such outstand- 
 ing breath as I could, and tore open the envelope 
 with cold, shaking fingers. 
 
 Why oh, why oh, why ! Why are we made 
 so piteously apt and capable, so ordered and strung 
 and adjusted for this exquisite suffering? 
 
 Absolutely terror-smitten to look at it, I held it in 
 my hand long after it was open, covering the words 
 it might choose to say to me. It was fearful to 
 me to feel the fresh- roused agony with which I 
 looked down at those shielding fingers, saying, " Oh, 
 if he would but have one moment of loving weak- 
 ness ! Oh, if this might be, that he would make me 
 cling to him despite myself, and worship him for 
 ever, by showing me a love and a weakness like my 
 own! 
 
 " But he will not. No, no, not he! I may be 
 weak and loving for both. He will never so far 
 forget his pride; he And yet, he has written." 
 
 Then I turned the note out upon the table, and 
 found in it a cheque. It was from a Richmond 
 paper which had, months ago, bought a bit of my 
 stuff, and only now printed and paid for it. And the 
 clerk who mailed the cheque had a handwriting 
 something like Frank's ! 
 
 Once, for a whole long day I kept an appreciable 
 distance ahead of my pursuing disquiet for a 
 long, busy, wholesome day. And, encouraged, I 
 again made friends with my little bed. Then sud- 
 denly, in the trustfulness of rest and approaching 
 sleep, it took me by the throat, the passion of love 
 and longing. It rolled back upon me like a blinding, 
 strangling sea. I sprang up and, with a dressing- 
 gown thrown about me, sat on the side of the bed.
 
 392 9 The Last Word ^ 
 
 Out of the blackness of darkness which covered 
 me leaped, flash-like, the picture of his face, the 
 compelling eyes softened and lightening upon me 
 in tenderness ; the chin that chin which always 
 made my heart afraid not pushed forward, the 
 grim mouth smiling, the haughty spirit melted, the 
 whole man bending toward, seeking, inviting me. 
 
 It grasped my heart like a strong hand ; it swept 
 the breath from my lips. I could almost never 
 weep, when I was deeply hurt or moved. It was a 
 thing commonly denied me. As I struggled in this 
 big black tidal wave of choking emotion, I heard 
 some one groan, and then realised with a dull 
 astonishment, that it must have been I. 
 
 Next moment, a blast of recollection and impa- 
 tience blew across the suffering, fever-distraught 
 country of my mind. I leaped up from the bedside, 
 and stood tense and rigid in the middle of the room. 
 I flung my arms abroad, and looked angrily about 
 me, crying: 
 
 " Why do I suffer this a day an hour ? Why 
 stay here and endure these corroding agonies so 
 groundless, so unreal ? Think of the plains ! Think 
 of the great green-brown stretches, free, limitless, 
 
 a good horse under one, the open plain beneath 
 the open sky above, the eye unchecked, from rim 
 to rim the whole world yours the world where 
 only God lives ; the Gulf-breeze God's very breath 
 
 blowing keen and strong in your face as you 
 gallop, cleansing all that world and your own 
 sick mind of stain and soil and pain ! 
 
 " Shall I stay here struggling vainly in this net 
 of pain and error, running this Indian gauntlet 
 where every hope and sentiment and wish of my
 
 The Phantom Caravan $ 393 
 
 heart, all my purposes and beliefs and ideals, and 
 the fixed principles, stand in a night-long row on 
 either side, with scourges in their hands, while I flee 
 between them? 
 
 " Should I stupidly endure this, while the plains 
 are there, with their breath of balm, their air of 
 healing and renewing? When Nipper and Little- 
 Bronc and Glass-Eye are running free over the 
 Ojo Bravo pastures, and my great, deep, double- 
 cinched ' cow girl ' hangs in the storeroom at the 
 Ojo Bravo ranch-house? 
 
 " I will not I will no longer. I see it now. 
 It is with me, here, as with that man who prayed 
 to Jove from the low lands for health, and to whom 
 the god promised the boon if it were prayed for from 
 the mountain top. 
 
 "These bonds," I said, "cut my flesh till the 
 blood runs down; these clouds of pain and doubt 
 blind my eyes so that I cannot see God's face; this 
 ceaseless hammering of never-answered questions 
 deafens my ears to the voice of peace and truth. It 
 is out there that I am to go there where health 
 and God are, and the soul may find itself and him 
 and peace." 
 
 When Mr. Corcoran came home and found the 
 big trunk in the small entry, in process of being 
 packed, he regarded the proceedings for some time 
 with a mildly pensive eye. Finally he glanced up 
 at me where I stood, wadding millions of square 
 miles of tissue-paper about the Japanese dragon and 
 other small and precious possessions. He sighed, 
 smiled quizzically, and shook his head, all at once. 
 " I rather misdoubt this business, Texas," said he. 
 " You've been much to us, Texas, very much ; and
 
 394 & The Last Word 
 
 my heart misgives me that we could have better 
 spared a better man." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," remarked Mrs. Corcoran, 
 wearily (she was feeling rather severely the reaction 
 from the wild clash and shock of the sudden 
 wedding). 
 
 To me, she said, " You're hardly a bit like a 
 person from Texas, any more. I don't see but you 
 behave very much like other people." 
 
 " Well," I answered, submissively, " you took me 
 in hand with considerable vigour, and set to work 
 to educate me up or down to a metropolitan 
 standard. I have changed a goodish bit. Aren't 
 you pleased? Have you educated me clear out of 
 your liking? " 
 
 " Of course not," returned Mrs. Corcoran, a little 
 pettishly for her, " but, oh, how we do miss Mr. 
 Baxter!" 
 
 And they would miss me, too, for my papers were 
 all made out ; yes, I had earned my honourable dis- 
 charge. I was going to the Southwest, with that 
 roving commission which Mr. DeWitt had adapted 
 to my abilities, as a French costume is fitted to one's 
 form, so that it should bind me nowhere and fit me 
 everywhere, and always make the best of me and the 
 most of my natural advantages. 
 
 And it was ho for Texas! For the whole thing 
 Panhandle, Staked Plains, and all of Mexico 
 this time! for Pullman cars, stages, buckboards, 
 lumber wagons, ewe-necked, gable-roofed, sharp- 
 spined, frazzle-tempered, dish-faced, wild-eyed mus- 
 tangs ! For strange shifts and queer goes for 
 bear hunts with no bears, cat hunts with no cats, 
 sweeping winds, blazing suns, all-out-doors, and
 
 *Q> The Phantom Caravan $ 395 
 
 general turned-looseness. Camping expeditions 
 nights on the bald prairie, with a row of toes round 
 the fire, my head off somewhere in the coolness, my 
 eyes looking up again as they used into the 
 same far, unresponding Texas sky, wondering, with 
 a sudden pain of loneliness in my heart, what it all 
 might be for what the good of it all. 
 
 But after night, day comes again! And ho for 
 round-ups and races and all sorts of excursions for 
 life, movement, change and, above all, work 
 work work ! Good work, to an end and with a 
 purpose. 
 
 In this ho-for-the-tented-field, take-love's-cruel- 
 ties-out-of-the-armed-foe spirit, brave and useful 
 things have been done by men; why, I inquired, 
 might not there be something in it for a woman? 
 
 I would go back and yet not I. The same brash 
 young person who came out of Texas could never 
 go back there, for she was now no more. I might 
 not know all I thought I did now, but I certainly 
 came a deal nearer it than I did a year before. 
 
 And these streets and squares and byways filled 
 with thronging life, which had witnessed my happi- 
 ness and my despair, at which I had sometimes 
 laughed and sometimes wept ; this place which had 
 sometimes figured itself to me as a prison, and 
 sometimes as a playground, and which had in both 
 aspects grown dear to me, these would, I knew, 
 grow dearer with the miles that should separate us. 
 
 I used to think as most provincials do that 
 only one spot, and that a very small one, could ever 
 be home to me. But I had come to know that, to 
 the thinking being, all the world is home. 
 
 Wherever the heart has felt, the mind learned,
 
 396 f The Last Word f 
 
 wherever they have awakened to more knowledge of 
 themselves and their capacities, there they find that 
 which makes home to them, there they must leave 
 somewhat of themselves, and thence must carry 
 backward-glancing remembrance.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 "In the House of A Stranger" 
 
 " O that 'twere possible 
 
 After long grief and pain 
 To find the arms of my true love 
 Round me once again I " 
 
 MY possessions were packed, my farewells made; 
 I was to leave for Texas the day after Christmas. 
 
 Mrs. Corcoran and I had purchased a Christmas 
 tree, for which she much lamented that we had not 
 first measured the flat. 
 
 Teddy had been put out of the room so many 
 times, and shrieked at so frequently when about to 
 discover some holiday secret, that he stole about 
 with the big tears ready to brim his eyes at the 
 first breath of reproof. 
 
 Having purchased the tree, Mrs. Corcoran and I 
 sat up most of the night before Christmas trimming 
 it. We drew the portieres between the dining-room 
 and the room where Teddy lay, spiking them to- 
 gether with a hat-pin, and whispered our comments. 
 But that hardy buccaneer (wooing calls and entrea- 
 ties having failed) twice scrambled from his couch, 
 and, voyaging as far as the curtains, put a small 
 inquisitive nose through, and remarked, " Peep- 
 boo!" 
 
 397
 
 398 -^ The Last Word <$> 
 
 Bundled sharply back to bed, he continued to call 
 forgivingly, " Peep-boo ! I love oo, muvver. I 
 love oo, Tarry. I love oo, bofes of oo," till he fell, 
 finally, asleep. 
 
 It seemed to me that I myself had slept but a 
 moment when the wise virgin Lottie, who had read 
 for me the hearts of men, brought in a card and 
 waked me. Nobody else was up. The gentleman 
 had asked for just me, and told her to disturb no one 
 else. 
 
 I sat up, drew my dressing-gown about me and 
 read upon the bit of pasteboard the name of Francis 
 Randolph's secretary. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Brant that I will be there immediately," 
 I said, fumbling with shaking fingers for my slippers. 
 
 A few moments later I was crying softly for 
 even terror and grief must be restrained vocally in 
 a flat " What is it ? Tell me now oh, tell me 
 at once! I can bear anything but waiting." 
 
 The tall boy whom I had learned to know well in 
 the happiest times of my love for Frank, who had 
 often worked with us in the little studio, rose and 
 came to me with both hands outstretched. 
 
 " Don't be so frightened, Miss West," he said 
 gently, as he took my cold fingers and put me into 
 a chair. " I was awfully thoughtless to come here 
 at this hour. I have been up all night, and I did 
 not realise that it was so early." 
 
 I sat, dumb with sheer terror, dreading to ask 
 his errand, wishing I were deaf, that I need never 
 hear it. " It is only because it is Christmas," I 
 faltered finally, scanning his face with apprehensive 
 eyes. " We are usually breakfasting at this hour. 
 What is it?"
 
 $ "In the House of A Stranger" 9 399 
 
 " Mr. Randolph sent me," he began I drew a 
 great sigh of relief. 
 
 " He wanted me to ask you to come to him, some 
 time to-day." 
 
 " Where is he? " my lips shaped almost automat- 
 ically. 
 
 " He is in that is, he is not at his rooms." 
 
 "Where is he?" I breathed again, rising. "I 
 will go to him at once. Will you wait and take me 
 to him now? I will not keep you long." 
 
 I have some vague remembrance of Lottie, with 
 the tears running down her patient little freckled 
 nose, bringing me one tan shoe and one black one; 
 of my trying, in a hurried, preoccupied fashion, to 
 put my street garb on over my dressing-gown; and 
 finally of dear little Mrs. Corcoran coming in and 
 taking me in her arms, saying over and over : " You 
 poor girl! You are not to blame. Nobody could 
 have a kinder heart than you have, Cara." 
 
 I wondered dully what my kind heart had to do 
 with anything; and once out in the snowy street with 
 Harry Brant, I asked him again where he was taking 
 me where Frank was. 
 
 The streets were gay with new-fallen snow, and 
 almost empty, save for the cheerful cleaning brigade 
 and a lively chattering of sparrows. 
 
 Harry put me in the carriage, just nodded with 
 a single low-spoken word to the driver, and we 
 turned and drove out Seventy-fourth Street to Ninth 
 Avenue and then down it. 
 
 On the way Harry began with the hesitating 
 query, " You knew that Mrs. Randolph was dead, 
 did you, Miss Cara ? " 
 
 I answered that I did not. Mr. Corcoran was
 
 400 f The Last Word <Q> 
 
 suffering from a feverish cold, and had not been 
 down to the office for several days. 
 
 " The funeral was last Wednesday," the boy went 
 on. " Mr. Randolph got to New York on Thursday 
 night, and went directly to Doctor Jay Conway Lan- 
 sing's to see a friend. I was with him. He was 
 not at all well, and he had a shock a well, a 
 shock. That is two days ago, now, you know. He 
 is better, and wants very much to see you." 
 
 " Doctor Jay Conway Lansing's ? " I repeated, 
 trying to think what that name ought to recall to me. 
 
 " Why, yes," returned Harry, flushing uneasily. 
 <l That was where Mr. Randolph's friend was, you 
 know. He Miss Cara, he is quite safe ; he is 
 much better now, and he wants to tell you about 
 it all himself. I was only to assure you that he is 
 safe and desires to see you." 
 
 I framed some small further query as to Frank's 
 present state, which brought me another reassuring 
 reply, and some details as to the last illness and 
 death of Frank's mother. 
 
 When we turned in at the gate, I was a little 
 surprised to note that " Doctor Lansing's " was a 
 hospital, and not a private house. 
 
 I saw the doctors, the white-capped nurses, the 
 long, glimmering corridors, as in a dream. Still 
 as one who dreams, I heard and answered the ques- 
 tions which were put to me, and then a door was 
 pushed open, a tall, fine-looking woman in a nurse's 
 cap said to Harry, " Oh, yes, he is quite safe out 
 of all danger." 
 
 We were about to enter another door, when it 
 opened, and a man came quickly and softly out, 
 whom Harry called Doctor Lansing.
 
 <& "In the House of A Stranger " $ 401 
 
 "Is this she?" he inquired, taking me by the 
 shoulder with easy authority, and added instantly, 
 with a keen, kindly, reassuring look at me: 
 
 " Go in directly, my dear. You are the only medi- 
 cine needed now. Go immediately to him, or he will 
 be trying to rise to receive you. Don't let him do 
 so don't let him attempt to stand, to sit, or even 
 to raise his head. That is all." And with a smile 
 and a reassuring pat upon the shoulder he had held, 
 he opened the door, and Harry and I passed through 
 it. Harry motioned me forward to the inner room, 
 and drew the heavy curtain across behind me. 
 
 And there on a couch by the window, his face 
 turned eagerly toward the doorway, lay Frank, fully, 
 indeed scrupulously dressed, but with a light wrap 
 thrown ov.er him. 
 
 It needed not Doctor Lansing's admonition to 
 hasten my steps, when I saw the marks of these 
 bitter months and his brief illness upon his dear 
 face, and noted his instant effort to rise. 
 
 I was across the room almost in a breath, kneeling 
 beside the couch, my face leaned to Frank's, whisper- 
 ing only, " I am so sorry. Can I help any ? " 
 
 He looked at me long and piteously before he 
 kissed me. " Do you really care to come back to 
 me ? " he whispered. " I wonder at you, dearest. 
 I wonder at the hearts of women. You know what 
 I said, and even you do not know what I felt, when 
 we parted. I told you I would never open a letter 
 of yours, that I would never hear a message from 
 you. Didn't I ? Was not that what I said ? " 
 
 " Oh, Frank, do not " 
 
 " No, dearest, let me speak. Let me tell you all. 
 I hardly believe you knew how fiercely resentful
 
 402 ^ The Last Word 9 
 
 I felt toward you when I went to Virginia. I felt 
 that you, not I had made the gulf which was 
 between us. I blamed you with it all, and myself 
 not one whit. I was simply blind to your side of it. 
 To me, your course was a wanton, causeless cruelty, 
 and I said to myself over and over that you must 
 not come, woman fashion, repenting of it, to patch 
 a half-hearted peace, and then do this blind foolish 
 cruelty over. I promised myself that I would accept 
 no letter from you Cara, did you ever think of 
 writing to me? " 
 
 " I was writing letters to you all my waking 
 hours," I answered him. " That was my one 
 dream." 
 
 " And I was receiving them and tearing them up, 
 or sending them back unopened. Can you forgive 
 me that, too, dear? Sometimes the things which 
 are thought and not done are hardest to pardon." 
 
 I nodded, with my lips pressed hard together, and 
 my eyes full of tears. This was bitter, but I man- 
 aged finally to whisper, " I have forgotten it, Frank." 
 
 " That is better than forgiving," he said. " Why 
 sweetheart, look at it. I was going to be a sort of 
 god, wasn't I? I was not going to receive your 
 messengers. But they were inside the fortress; the 
 very blood in my veins kept you with me, till I 
 thought I should go mad. Then came the telegram 
 announcing my mother's illness. That is what I 
 want to tell you about." 
 
 He was silent so long after that, that I said 
 finally, " Don't speak of it, if it hurts you to do so." 
 
 " No," he answered, " it will be a relief. I am 
 the youngest, you know, Cara, the baby of the 
 family her baby, whom she loved to call pet
 
 $ " In the House of A Stranger" $ 403 
 
 names. They sent for me when they believed that 
 she was not really ill, but just discouraged and 
 unhappy. There had been trouble. She was called 
 upon, for the first time in her life, to face disgrace. 
 Do you know about my sister's husband, Cara? " 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " He left her and absconded about four months 
 ago. He had beggared the lot of us, gambling in 
 futures, and one thing and another. He was manag- 
 ing the estate there at home, and when he saw 
 the ruin that was coming, he converted what he could 
 into cash and fled. They thought it was the shock of 
 it which made my mother ill." 
 
 I felt that Frank would be a tower of strength 
 in such a household as this man must have left 
 behind. 
 
 " My eldest brother is abroad, you know " 
 (Fithian Randolph was minister to some South 
 American State). "Henry was out of health and 
 wintering in Bermuda, where they get mail but 
 once in two weeks. He is at home now, but when 
 1 went there was only mother and my sister Lee, 
 with the cousins you met in Washington. 
 
 " Ours is an iron property ; up there in the Vir- 
 ginia mountains; magnetic ore mines, and a blast 
 furnace. My brother-in-law had left things in such 
 condition that the furnace fires were let to go out, 
 making a loss of twenty or thirty thousand dollars 
 indeed, almost destroying the furnace ; and worst, 
 the men came clamouring unpaid, and my poor 
 women felt that the deluge had arrived. They 
 thought it no wonder that even my bra ve -hearted 
 mother took to her bed. 
 
 " When I came, and matters were straightened
 
 404 f The Last Word *& 
 
 out, as nearly as they could be with the spectacle of 
 poor Lee's wretchedness before us, and the sight of 
 her fatherless children, mother did not recover as 
 we had hoped. 
 
 " We had a medical consultation, and the agree- 
 ment seemed to be that she would really be in a 
 dangerous state soon unless she could be roused to 
 understand her condition. The doctors thought 
 such rousing would come better from me than from 
 one of them. I had been there five weeks then, and 
 instead of being better, she was rather worse. The 
 plan was that I should go in and remind her how 
 much depended upon her, urge her to make an 
 effort, speak almost harshly all for her good." 
 He shaded his eyes with his hand. 
 
 " But you wouldn't do that, Frank," I said con- 
 fidently. I remembered his devotion to his mother. 
 " You would have understood, whether they did or 
 not. You would know." 
 
 " No, I didn't understand," he said wearily. " I 
 begin to believe that I have been a great, stupid, 
 overbearing brute all my days. I let them persuade 
 me to go in and scold her. She was lying on a low 
 couch, which she had had them bring before the 
 fire for her. You know I told you she was always 
 the most beautiful and the sweetest creature in the 
 world to me. She took my foolish boy's talk very 
 sweetly. ' Francie,' she said, that was her baby 
 name for me, * I take the medicine this poor 
 fellow leaves for me, so that I may not hurt his 
 feelings. I went to Doctor Leith a year ago, and 
 he gave me then six months to stay with you all. 
 I did not want to go, son ; I wanted to stay and see 
 my baby happy in a home of his own ; and I have held
 
 t "In the House of A Stranger" $ 405 
 
 on for twice the time Robert Leith gave me; but 
 I begin to feel that I am worn out; I can't try any 
 more.' " 
 
 My heart was so full of pity for poor Frank 
 that again I urged him to tell me no more. 
 
 " No, no, let me tell you all about her," he 
 persisted. " You can never know her now, and 
 somehow the talking of her to you helps the pain 
 of that disappointment. She was the brightest, 
 bravest spirit that was ever lodged in a frail tene- 
 ment. The rheumatism from which she always suf- 
 fered had attacked the valves of the heart. There 
 must have been much pain, but she made no sign. 
 They had not thought, at home there, that she 
 seemed ailing or distressed during the past year. 
 But now, when reckoning was made, they could 
 see how she had steadily failed. 
 
 " ' Why son,' she said, with a little whispered 
 laugh, as I sat beside her and fondled her hand, and 
 wondered what was the earliest possible instant that 
 we could expect Doctor Leith, and if he could do 
 any good when 'he came, ' Why son, I am near 
 seventy, and very tired. I have been living for a 
 year not only against Doctor Leith's convictions, but 
 against my own. I should be away, dear I should 
 be away. But before I go I must have a long, long 
 talk with my boy.' And then, Cara, she spoke of 
 you." 
 
 "Of me!" I cried. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " She never heard of you. 
 She never saw you, but I can call it nothing else." 
 
 " ' I want to talk to you, my son,' she said to me, 
 ' about the woman you love ' you see she spoke of 
 you, Cara* I suppose she meant that if there were
 
 406 $ The Last Word > 
 
 not already such a woman, there would be some day 
 after she was gone. But oh, my dear, it seemed 
 as though death had made her eyes so clear that she 
 knew all about us, you and me ; for she began again : 
 ' You must not treat her as men generally treat their 
 wives, Francis. You are too good a man to fall 
 into those errors, and you are my son. By the 
 long dreary years of my own ruined life, I want you 
 to promise me that you will ruin no woman's life 
 for her.' ' 
 
 " Cara, I felt as if the solid earth had slipped 
 beneath my feet. Here was mother, my mother, 
 the serenest, best content wife and mother, whom I 
 had mentally held up to all restless dissatisfied 
 womankind, talking to me of her ruined life. It 
 was one of the eternal verities proving untrue. 
 
 " She answered my look, but not my words, ' Oh, 
 yes,' she said, ' your father was a good man. He 
 meant well. But Frantic, if you will give a mo- 
 ment's thought to my situation, you must know what 
 sort of life I have led. Why, my dear, it is my 
 blood that is in your veins. They are my ambitions 
 that you have carried out. Your father was a plain, 
 quiet, slothful man. He had the Floyd indolence 
 and the Randolph strength. But he was not willing 
 to be lazy alone. I must sit down beside him and 
 fold my hands, and lead a life that was a living death 
 to me, for his pleasure. It's the Lee ambition you 
 have and that I had.' 
 
 " I looked over at my sister. I was in torment, 
 Cara ; and I asked, ' Won't it hurt her, Lee, to talk 
 so much ? ' 
 
 " ' Better let her have her say,' Lee answered me.
 
 ^ "In the House of A Stranger " <& 407 
 
 ' We women are taught to die rather than speak out. 
 Maybe it will be a relief to her.' 
 
 "I sat there all that night, Cara ; and mother 
 dozed and waked and rambled on. Oh, I got a 
 lifetime's education in the heart of woman during 
 those ten dark hours. I suppose I had to have it, 
 little girl. It is likely I would not have accepted 
 it from any other source ; but it seemed to me, when 
 it came in that way, that it was rending me soul 
 from body. There were one or two things she said, 
 dear, that were the same you have said to me, and 
 which I have most resented from you. She said 
 them in almost your words. And when I would look 
 over to sister for a little help, she would nod to me 
 and look at me out of those haggard eyes of hers; 
 and I felt as though the whole world of women held 
 me accused for a brute and a tyrant. 
 
 " Mother died next morning just as day was 
 breaking. She had always been fragile, but some- 
 how I never associated the idea of death with her, 
 and when it came it seemed unbearable. 
 
 " We sat with her the next night again, sister and 
 I alone. I would not let any of the rest of the 
 family or friends do that for her. Again we talked 
 all night. I had almost said that mother was silent 
 that night; but it seemed to me, for part of the 
 time, that she was more present in our conversation 
 than she had been the night before. 
 
 " My God, Cara ! Those two nights were two 
 centuries of torment to me. It was like being 
 born again; and the truth that was revealed to 
 my shrinking eyes I can never forget. Lee began by 
 speaking of her marriage. I was a boy of fifteen 
 at the time she was married, but I remember how
 
 408 f The Last Word $ 
 
 pleased every one was with the match. She used to 
 be a belle, poor girl, and the brightest, proudest, 
 gayest creature; but she looked my mother's age as 
 she sat beside me now. 
 
 " ' I was madly, insanely, foolishly happy,' she 
 said. * I was terribly in love with Dick. I remember 
 as though it were yesterday, my wedding-day. 
 Mother had turned all the girls out of the room, be- 
 cause, she said, she wanted to pin my veil and give 
 the little final touches herself. I recollect looking up 
 to her, as she worked over me, and saying, " Oh, 
 mother, I am so happy, I am so blest ! Dick will 
 just take me by the hand and lead me straight into 
 heaven. My feet will never touch earth again." 
 
 " ' How little I understood the reproof she gave 
 me. It was selfish and wrong, she said, for one 
 person to depend so utterly upon another. I should 
 neither expect Dick to make my happiness for me, 
 nor should I promise to make his entirely. Mutual 
 freedom, mutual help, this was the only basis of 
 happiness in marriage. Oh, the kind, wise saint! 
 I told her, too, that I should have no secrets from 
 Dick ; that my every thought should be his, and that 
 I expected a like confidence in return. She said to 
 me that this would be very monotonous. She 
 laughed at me a little, and added that nobody ever 
 did it, but that, if they did, it would be disastrously 
 silly.' 
 
 " Sister told me what utter shipwreck her mar- 
 ried life had come to, inside of a few months. ' I 
 began, you know/ she said, ' with the idea of show- 
 ing great deference to Dick's wishes. He was natu- 
 rally overbearing, and because I never objected to 
 anything, this disposition grew. My lack of oppo-
 
 f "In the House of A Stranger " <+ 409 
 
 sition wrought his tyranny to a sort of frenzy. If 
 he did not like a certain dress, I was never allowed 
 to put it on a second time. The way in which my 
 hair should be arranged was dictated; the books 
 I should read; but most and oftenest, the people 
 whom I should make my friends. Think of that, 
 Francis. You remember a little of what I used to 
 be as a girl ; and think of me living like that ! I 
 am actually happier now ! As time went on, I began 
 to find an absolute perversity in all the orders given 
 me. I had only to express a liking for a person, 
 an amusement, a desire for a journey, or a certain 
 book, when the thing became anathema to him. The 
 books, the things, the people which I did not like, 
 I could have indefinitely; but let me like a thing, 
 let me show a spark of interest in a thing, and it 
 was tabooed for ever.' ' 
 
 " But you are not like that, Frank ! " I cried. 
 " You were never like that." 
 
 " It is but a matter of degree, I think," said 
 Frank. " I recognised my very spirit in it. Oh, 
 I do not mean that I recognised it at first sight ; but 
 after those two women who, with yourself, are the 
 creatures I love best in the world, had talked to 
 me like unbodied souls through two long nights, I 
 tell you I began to see things. Now, Cara, dearest, 
 I don't advise you to take this man, Francis Ran- 
 dolph. But if your wayward heart still clings to 
 him, why, there is one thing certain, love : you have 
 a better bargain than you would have had three 
 months ago. You have got a man who is fit to live 
 with. Just prove me and see." 
 
 " I don't want any proofs," I said, laying my 
 cheek against his.
 
 4i o f> The Last Word f 
 
 " Oh, but you must have them. You shall have 
 them," he murmured, putting up a wavering hand 
 to caress my face. " Ah, you see, after all, I am a 
 tyrant. I cannot help trying to make you do the 
 things to which you object." 
 
 I slipped my arm under, and drew the beautiful 
 head to me into the hollow of my shoulder, my 
 cheek upon the clustering dark hair; and Frank 
 nestled there like a weary child who has found its 
 mother's arms at last. 
 
 " Frank," I said, softly. 
 
 " Yes, Carita, my darling." 
 
 " I think in all these months there are thirteen 
 of them, now since we sat and talked together in 
 the train, I never looked at this dear, beautiful head 
 of yours without the fleeting thought of holding it 
 so on my arm, my breast. You say you are three 
 years older than I, but " 
 
 " Yes, I know, dearest. You must remember I 
 said I loved your mother-like as well as lover-like 
 heart. I believe the mother attitude is the loving 
 woman's attitude toward all mankind including 
 her father and her grandfather." 
 
 Presently Frank began again : 
 
 " It is blessed and sweet of you, and everything 
 that is dear, to come to me with a heart full of 
 forgiveness. It is like you, Cara, but it is not 
 what I was expecting not what I deserve." 
 
 " You are to deserve everything," I murmured. 
 
 " I sent for you," Frank went on, " dear little 
 tender-hearted girl, to tell you something which will 
 hurt you less, I think, from me than another. Bush- 
 rod died Thursday night here in this hospital." 
 
 My arm relaxed ; I laid Frank's head gently back
 
 9 "In the House of A Stranger " f 411 
 
 on his pillows. Then I got up, blindly, went over 
 to the window, and looked out with unseeing eyes 
 over the many roofs and chimneys. Such hives of 
 humanity and not one place in it for that poor 
 soul ! Again I saw him as on that last day, dishev- 
 elled, torn, put from himself. The recollection was 
 unbearable. "Did Jim tell you?" I asked in a 
 choking voice. 
 
 " Yes, love, he told me. Come and sit by me, 
 dear. I have something to show you." 
 
 I went and sat by his pillow, on a low seat, and 
 he began, slowly, and barely above a whisper. 
 
 " When we got back to the house from my 
 mother's funeral, Jim was there. He did not apolo- 
 gise for having come, though I could see he would 
 not have done so if he had been informed. You 
 know I always liked him; that fine, frank face of 
 his would always be good to meet and then he 
 had just come from seeing and being with you, and 
 my heart cried out for some knowledge of you. 
 
 " He was waiting for me in the library, and w r hen 
 I came to him, he gripped my hand, then put his 
 own on my shoulder and told me in that wonder- 
 ful, brief, yet feeling way of his, about Bush. He 
 said : 
 
 " ' Mr. Randolph, he is not getting well as he 
 ought a great fine fellow like Bush. I worried 
 over him, and finally, yesterday, I hunted up Doctor 
 Lansing himself, and asked him about it. He used 
 a good many long technical words, but I finally 
 made out that he was telling me that folks just die 
 sometimes because they don't care to get well. As 
 near as I could make out, it's well, it is what they 
 call in novels a broken heart, He said that Bush
 
 412 $ The Last Word f 
 
 needed somebody else's cheer and strength; some- 
 body who loved him and and believed in him 
 because he'd got where he couldn't believe in him- 
 self. He said that if Bush had a relative father, 
 brother who would come and give him a big lift, 
 it might do the trick.' 
 
 " ' All right, Jim/ I said, ' I will go to-morrow 
 morning I will be there Thursday night.' ' 
 
 Frank put out his hand and took mine, and said, 
 something in his old tone, " That Texan of yours 
 is a real man. Think of it, dear. I was poor Bush's 
 cousin; we were like brothers; and at the last he 
 receives brotherly kindness from this man, born a 
 thousand miles from his home, and who was almost 
 a stranger to him. It was my part only to goad the 
 poor fellow, to bring his every petty failing home 
 to him when, God knows, I had enough in my 
 own heart to look after." 
 
 I could not honestly say to him that he had not 
 been cruel to his cousin ; and this was an era of 
 truth. He went on, " I sneered at him because he 
 was weak. I was proud of my strength ; and he had 
 more love and more humanity in one of his days 
 than I in all my miserable years." 
 
 " It can do no good to miscall yourself now, 
 Frank. You did what seemed right to you. You 
 couldn't see. You couldn't look forward ! " 
 
 " You don't know how hard I was," said Frank 
 (but I thought I did). " I remember the last time 
 we talked together, it was about you, Cara. I told 
 him I threatened him " the words seemed hard 
 to get out, and then they came with a rush. " It was 
 about the verses he had written to you." 
 
 " Oh, Frank," I cried, " not that! "
 
 " In the House of A Stranger " 413 
 
 " Yes, that," said Frank. " I descended to that. 
 Oh, you are to know the worst of me now, dearest, 
 and then, as we used to say about superfluous puppies 
 or kittens, ' You may kill me or keep me/ just as 
 you choose." 
 
 " I keep you," I whispered, and he went on. 
 
 " You would never guess how Bush took it. At 
 first that big, fair face of his puckered up like a 
 baby's about to cry, and he said, ' Did she show 
 you those poems, Frank Randolph? Did Cara do 
 that ? ' When I told him that you had not, and that 
 we had quarrelled because I found them and read 
 them, he looked at me and his eyes glowed as if I 
 had paid him a compliment. 
 
 * So Cara thought enough of them to keep them 
 in her table drawer, did she? God bless her heart! ' 
 he said. Then he turned to me and added, ' Why, 
 for the Lord's sake, Frank, you're not jealous of me! 
 You know it doesn't count, that it doesn't make any 
 difference. Her being kind to me wouldn't take any- 
 thing from you ! If I were in your place, I'd as soon 
 be jealous of a dead man/ ' 
 
 I stopped him, gently. " Don't, dearest," I said. 
 " He wouldn't have wished to hurt you don't 
 try to hurt yourself. Tell me how he went away, 
 instead. Why, I thought he was to be well and 
 strong, and go out to visit Jim." 
 
 " Yes, dear, we thought that. It came on me, 
 the suddenest, hardest blow of anything; for I had 
 thought to to make things so different," and his 
 eyes sought mine sadly. 
 
 " I came straight here from the train. I had 
 young Brant with me. They met me at the door, 
 and, when I gave my name, took us immediately to a
 
 414 *& The Last Word $ 
 
 private room. I caught sight of Bush as we went in, 
 and hurried to the bed, saying, ' Why, old man, 
 this won't do ! ' or something of that sort. Then, in 
 an instant, I saw and felt a start of surprise in 
 those about, went and put my hand on Bush's face, 
 and found it cold! 
 
 " Something that had been tied up tight in my 
 head for weeks gave way. I heard Harry cry out, 
 and never knew anything more till a few hours ago." 
 
 " Why, dear, how could such a thing happen ? " 
 I asked, resentfully. " Why did they not tell you ? " 
 
 " They were not to blame," explained Frank, 
 " they had sent to my rooms the moment they knew 
 he was dead. They supposed I had come in 
 response to the message." 
 
 After a moment's silence Frank asked, softly, 
 " Shall I tell you now how he died, Cara ? I 
 wanted to tell you myself, you know, dear." 
 
 " Frank," I said as low, leaning my cheek beside 
 his, " Jove is a great, big, heavenly thing. It is not 
 so small that it can only hold two people. You 
 know do you ? I loved I love Bushrod." 
 
 "How could you help it, my loving darling?" 
 returned Frank gently. " Poor Bush was nothing 
 but love and he adored you, humbly." 
 
 " He I don't know whether I can say it so 
 you will understand me, dear he " 
 
 " I believe I shall. Go on, my little girl." 
 
 " There was a kind of sweetness, of nearness 
 that is it, nearness I felt toward him, Frank; 
 more than toward even even you." 
 
 Frank smiled, and pressed my hand comprehend- 
 ingly, and I went on. " I don't know, somehow 
 he asked so little there could never be anything
 
 f "In the House of A Stranger " ^ 415 
 
 for him, it seemed to me. I felt an aching tender- 
 ness for him. I could not bear the thought of his 
 failures of his being hurt of what life would 
 do to him. I think it is the mother in every woman, 
 which cried out in me for poor Bushrod. Surely, 
 if he had been something of my own, my little 
 helpless child, I could not have yearned in deeper 
 pity and tenderness over him and his griefs." 
 
 " Yes, dear, I do comprehend. And now, Carita," 
 he said, huskily, " the thing I have to show you it 
 is his last word poor boy. He had written a 
 portion of this letter, and on Thursday afternoon 
 the nurse urged him to sleep, and refused to give 
 him back his paper and pencils. She said he laughed 
 and coaxed her you know how winning he could 
 be. She wept when she told me. She finally let 
 him have a pencil, and he took her tiny pad of 
 prescription papers from the stand, and was, she 
 thought, writing a few moments, till he slept. She 
 never left the room, but when she went to him a 
 little later she found that he slept indeed." 
 
 I was crying quietly. Frank's pale, pathetic face 
 looked at me, with its sorrowful eyes, and he went 
 on: 
 
 " I thought at first that it would hurt you too 
 much that I would not give it to you. And then 
 I asked myself, who was I, to deny him his last word 
 to the woman he loved? It is what I would have 
 done while he lived it is what I did do, Cara. 
 Now I cannot shut the door upon his pleading face 
 you must see it even though the sight teach 
 you to hate me afresh." 
 
 Frank reached to the little table beside him, opened 
 a drawer and drew out a letter. I recognised the
 
 4i 6 + The Last Word -^ 
 
 frail, dainty characters, and a shiver of apprehen- 
 sion went through me. 
 
 I looked at this letter and the hand that proffered 
 it to me, and at a stroke of remembrance Doctor 
 Lansing's bright, many-windowed room, which after 
 all was a sick-room in a hospital, dissolved from 
 my vision. Again I stood in the library of the Ran- 
 dolph house in Washington, and listened to the bell- 
 like monotone of Abdul Tewfik's voice. I was gaz- 
 ing into the crystal, with its dull green reflection 
 from the silk below it. I could smell the faint odour 
 of the roses whose heavy heads lay across my arm, 
 and see the frail, scentless beauty of poor Bushrod's 
 orchids mingled with them. 
 
 Here was my letter coming by Frank's hand, from 
 Bushrod. Here was that letter which Abdul Tew- 
 fik had told me I was, even at that time, preparing. 
 
 Frank's voice recalled me. 
 
 " There are some allusions in it," he said, " which 
 you may not understand. We were brought up to- 
 gether. He was a little older than I, and Cara, he 
 loved you very dearly. I wanted you to read his 
 letter here where my hand can reach you and to 
 try to forgive me, dear, for I can never forgive 
 myself." 
 
 " Oh, Frank ! " I whispered. " We will have only 
 love and trust in our lives. There will be no room 
 for hatred, or jealousy, or for even the poor ghost 
 forgiveness." 
 
 And together we read the little packet of sheets. 
 Of odd sizes and shapes they were, written, one 
 could see, from time to time, and on such bits of 
 paper as came to hand at the moment, though all 
 were alike in tidiness, and in the daintiness of the 
 little characters upon them.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " The Race Unrun ' 
 
 " And like an army in the snow 
 
 My days went by a treacherous train, 
 Each smiling as he struck his blow, 
 Until I lay among them, slain." 
 
 FIRST came a little packet of open sheets. Among 
 them were desultory beginnings of sketches at top 
 or corner, and the work seemed to have been com- 
 menced as a sort of diary. 
 
 " These were written when he began to fail," 
 Frank explained to me. " They tell me that when 
 he was first brought here before his mind cleared 
 his body mended rapidly. Then, one of the nurses 
 says that he made some inquiries of her as to the date 
 and manner of his coming, and that she thinks he 
 questioned Jim, too, afterward. They were, as they 
 always are, guarded and discreet in their answers 
 and as cheering, of course as they could be; 
 but you can see that a realisation of it all grew 
 upon him Read it, dear." 
 
 I took up the first sheet and read : 
 
 " I can fence no longer with despair. I am spent. 
 My limbs are powerless for flight or for defence. 
 When I heard this morning from my nurse what 
 day of the month this is, when I was brought here 
 
 417
 
 4i 8 <& The Last Word -f- 
 
 and how (though, poor girl, she tried not to 
 let me guess that last) it was as if my grim assailant 
 thrust aside the feeble defence of hoping or for- 
 getting which I had heretofore held between us like 
 shielding, outspread hands, and laid his icy touch 
 upon my heart. And all its broods of little nestling 
 hopes spread their soft wings and fled in trembling- 
 flight where love's bright head had lit the way." 
 
 I turned and caught Frank's hand. " I cannot 
 bear that he should have felt himself deserted," I 
 breathed. " It was not so. Indeed I would any 
 or all of us would have come to him at any time. 
 Did no one tell him so? " 
 
 Frank shook his head. " It was not that. Read 
 on," he answered ; and I began again : 
 
 " To my questioning, she answered that a gentle- 
 man by the name of Baxter brought me here, and 
 that he calls every day. He is to be allowed to see 
 me to-morrow, if I continue to improve. With tears 
 in her eyes as though she cared, not as though 
 she were paid to care for me only she tells me that 
 I am never to worry it would be bad for me 
 that I shall soon be back among my friends. 
 
 " (O God, among my friends ! Dear girl, with her 
 pretty cap, her smooth hair, her kind, deft hands, and 
 her mind stored with prim little speeches of con- 
 solation for the derelicts she handles, how little she 
 could guess the blow she dealt me there!) 
 
 " She tells me daily that the doctor says if I am 
 good, and try, and hope, I shall soon be well. And 
 so I shall be. Soon sooner than any of them 
 think I shall be so well that nothing of earthly ail- 
 ing can touch me further. 
 
 " I am to struggle I, for whom all struggles
 
 $ "The Race Unrun" f 419 
 
 are over to fan and blow upon this waning spark, 
 that it may smoulder yet a little longer, and burn 
 me once more before I am at rest! 
 " But I will not. I am done with it. 
 
 " I slept last night, and dreamed a little foolish 
 dream that waked me laughing. I thought that we 
 were all children again at home in Virginia. I could 
 see the big, bare old nursery in the glow of fire and 
 lamplight, and Mammy Calline going to and fro 
 to lay out our clothes for Sunday. 
 
 " Once, when the new things were bought, I, the 
 taller by a head, must have a larger suit. And 
 Frank, a young senator of six, than whom none must 
 require a longer toga, cried himself sick at the 
 thought. I remember that I comforted him by prom- 
 ising that we should exchange suits when the clothes 
 came home. What the outcome was, I have forgot- 
 ten, except that I stole from my small bed to his, and 
 we went to sleep in each other's arms, planning to 
 outwit Mammy Calline in the morning. 
 
 " Something of this mixed in my dream with Aunt 
 Virginia calling us to her knee, as she often did, and 
 saying : ' You are both my dear boys, and mean 
 always to be good ; but Bushrod must remember that 
 he is the elder and knows better what is to be done 
 and Francie must remember that, too.' 
 
 "If I had died then- If- 
 
 The text was broken here by pencilled outlines, 
 a leaf, a bit of curving border ; and later the voice 
 resumed in a new note : 
 
 " What curious things life gives us ; not always 
 stones for bread or serpents for fish, but often gro-
 
 420 * The Last Word <4> 
 
 tesquely inappropriate gifts which we cannot use. 
 I remember the saying Lee had, that it was good for 
 Francie and good for me that both should know and 
 bear in mind I was the taller and handsomer 
 boy. I can see her radiant young face puckered to 
 a loving intentness, and feel her slim, jewelled hand 
 on my shoulder. God bless her, the young belle and 
 beauty with the country-side at her feet, who found 
 time in her full and happy life to be kind to an over- 
 sensitive child. I would at any time have been 
 willing to be stunted and ugly that I might be loved ; 
 and I had always a terror of any gift that brought 
 me envy. 
 
 " If I had died then ! If I had died then 
 
 " Cruel life ! It has stolen my years my lovely 
 years, in which I might have lain still and been at 
 rest in the all-healing arms of compassionate death 
 and has filled them with hopes, longings, hungers 
 for which it had never fruition, food, or answer; 
 dreams and aspirations that but left its own hideous- 
 ness more bare and terrible when they withered and 
 died. It has demanded of me struggles that were 
 always vain and brought only wounds to my empty 
 hands. 
 
 1 lifted my head. Frank's eyes met mine with a 
 look of intolerable pain. " You see, Cara, while I 
 was reproaching him with his inertia, that he did 
 not make haste to tread the path I had marked out 
 for him, the poor, tender soul was fighting his own 
 battles upon the terrible battlefield of the spirit. 
 If I had dreamed of his hopes his ambitions - 
 
 I turned my eyes away, and lifted another of the 
 tiny sheets. 
 
 " And last, it gave me Love ; to snatch him from
 
 < "The Race Unrun" <& 421 
 
 my arms while yet my lips blessed it for the boon. 
 It showed me delight, and while my enraptured heart 
 fainted upon the threshold of its beautiful, unattain- 
 able joy, it robbed me so that there was no creature 
 so poor and desolate. 
 
 " It has always thwarted and deceived me ; now 
 it has betrayed my soul utterly to pain and shame, 
 thrust me into a corner, and turned its face from me. 
 
 " And who shall say I dare not be quit of it, and 
 creep beneath the kindly curtain? 
 
 " I remember now a home-coming from school 
 (to that home which is mine no more). I remember 
 another when I was a man grown, and had been 
 abroad. I returned, bringing success and failure 
 in about equal measure. I had done well enough, 
 as human achievement is reckoned. Those who 
 loved me were still willing to tincture their blame 
 with praise. But I I was appalled, abraded in 
 mind and spirit, grieved in soul by the cruelty of 
 men to men, the remorselessness of life to its victims. 
 
 " I had then some inkling some faint fore- 
 shadowing of what I know now, when I lie here 
 through long nights and stare at the ceiling and 
 feel myself a part of the great ache. 
 
 " When the .final knowledge of disaster came to 
 me here, this body of flesh seemed to me only a 
 flimsy and inadequate vessel to hold the fires of grief 
 and shame and agony which raged in it. Swin- 
 burne, or Rossetti, or some one of that school has 
 written : 
 
 " Where, when the gods would be cruel. 
 Do they go for a torture ? Where
 
 42,2 f The Last Word f 
 
 Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel ? 
 Ah, not in the flesh not there ! 
 
 " ' Mere pangs corrode and consume, 
 
 Dead when life dies in the brain ; 
 In the infinite spirit is room 
 
 For the pulse of an infinite pain.' 
 
 " I could never recover from those seizures of 
 despair like a brave soldier ready to renew an attack; 
 but I must creep back like a young and trusting child, 
 and, cheating myself with hope, try once more to be 
 friends with the world. 
 
 " And so perhaps, when I shall have lain for ages 
 
 pillowed upon repose, lapped and folded in in- 
 effable calm as in a garment, brooded by sweet for- 
 getfulness, tented with soft darkness and surcease, 
 walled about and guarded by silence, deep in the 
 impenetrable heart of trackless and untrodden void 
 
 if my spirit, soothed and comforted, were then 
 clothed again in flesh, it might yet come that it 
 should be well with me even here even here 
 upon this earth where I have failed so irreclaimably. 
 
 " You came to me like a sweet native tongue to 
 an exiled and homesick heart amid surrounding 
 jargon. It needed not that you should have beauty 
 and grace and genius. These things were dear ; my 
 heart was pleased that they were so; but it was the 
 spirit back of these that looked out and commanded 
 my love. You entered my life upon its simple, daily, 
 common ways, glanced about, and spoke and smiled ; 
 and my soul knew you, I would have said no, 
 it remembered you. 
 
 " And with that remembrance came those days
 
 $ " The Race Unrun " 423 
 
 when I worked gladly, and my work prospered, 
 because I was love's guest, and all harms and base 
 things shrunk aside from his bright panoply in 
 which I walked. 
 
 " No check could touch me in those blessed days, 
 no disappointment chill the glow of life. Love held 
 me apart from sense or knowledge of discourage- 
 ment or defeat ; and I talked or wrote to others as to 
 but slight masks over the loved face and spirit, till 
 the world and the universe looked and spoke back to 
 rne with those dear eyes and that dear voice." 
 
 I had read so far, before I became suddenly aware 
 that the words were addressed personally to me. 
 The next page showed me that they were indeed. 
 
 " The shadow is on us from our birth. We always 
 tremble over the possession of too perfect a happi- 
 ness. Something that never hurts at all such a 
 joy would certainly soon be torn from us. But 
 when it comes as this came to me (the precious boon, 
 the fulfilment of all sweet dreams) bringing with it 
 so much of pain when the thought of an inevitable 
 and speedy parting tempered all my joy at meeting, 
 and my few snatched hours of sweet companionship 
 were but bits of drift from that great sea of absence 
 and longing that still swelled that must always 
 swell dark between me and my heart's desire, I 
 thought I might dare, away in some secret chamber 
 of my heart where fate could not see me at all, to 
 be happy in the belief that such a happiness would 
 be left me awhile. 
 
 " But it could not be. This happiness of mine 
 was shadowed and fragmentary but it was divine. 
 Not here, oh, not here in this dusk antechamber, 
 is it to a man to safely light his little taper with fire
 
 4^4 + The Last Word <+ 
 
 from Heaven's altars, and feed his yearning soul 
 upon celestial bread, and wine from sacred vessels. 
 
 " I look back now it seems a long time to 
 that moment when I waked here to full knowledge 
 that the end had come ; that my blind stumbling steps 
 had led to a place whence I could never retrace them, 
 never find a way back to life and the things of life. 
 I remember with pity as though it were another's 
 my incredulous agony, and how I yet clung to the 
 empty body of my life that had held my love, as 
 people cling weeping and remonstrant to the body 
 of a dear one after the spirit is gone. 
 
 " I could not know then, as I know now, how 
 simple was the remedy for my suffering. I could 
 not turn my back, at once, upon a world which had 
 but a few weeks gone given me such happiness, and 
 which yet held you even though not for me. 
 
 " With my lips I said nothing, while in my soul I 
 rebelled and cried out like a sick and peevish child 
 at so much as a thought of the only physic that could 
 medicine my ill. But all is changed now, and, no 
 longer captious or critical, I stretch eager hands 
 toward the welcome cup, thanking the stern physi- 
 cian humbly. 
 
 " This is a sweet, gray afternoon. I wakened a 
 little while ago from an hour's quiet sleep. It is 
 the first slumber I have known for weeks which was 
 not dream-haunted, and from which I aroused with- 
 out foreboding. Something has come to me ; a new 
 word has been spoken to my spirit. It is peace. 
 
 " They call such surrender as this of mine ignoble.
 
 $ "The Race Unrun" 425 
 
 We are admonished to bear our burdens; never to 
 lay them down, nor cease to strive and contend and 
 endure. They warn us that the soul which faints 
 beneath life's whip, and hurries unbidden to its rest, 
 goes but to find a fiercer scourge. 
 
 " But I have a sort of assurance that I am right. 
 Here in my heart, there is now a peace so great and 
 blessed that I cannot find any word to describe it. 
 There are things grand organ tones ; the silent, 
 crystal moonlight brooding on a sleeping world ; the 
 calm of twilight in deep woods ; the great sea lying 
 hushed under its solemn stars; these should 
 shadow forth something of my peace, my pure, 
 blessed, steadfast peace. 
 
 " My idea of heaven was never rapture. I have 
 known moments of rapture here, and I learned 
 to fear them, and to expect close in their fleeing 
 footsteps, those their haunting followers and pur- 
 suers, pain, grief, loss, regret. 
 
 " I know that when I am gone where I am going, 
 and have left it all, they will still strike at each 
 other. The strong will still break the hearts of the 
 weak who love them; souls will be hungered, even 
 to death, and fain to feed though feeling the 
 shame on husks of shame. But those who, like 
 me unmailed, are torn most cruelly by the tusks of 
 life, who must fulfil their divinely appointed destiny 
 and love unquestioning, uncounting, nor ever learn 
 a cold and prudent thrift of soul; whose eyes are 
 affrayed and their souls daunted by the inexorable 
 conflict where all seems to go down that young hope 
 had sworn should conquer I will not think of
 
 426 f The Last Word 
 
 them ! Their agony, as it is bitterest, shall be brief- 
 est. My spiritual kindred, whose reproofs I might 
 now dread, shall come first to creep in beside me, 
 when life has broken them on its wheel, whispering 
 to me, then, that out of all my mistakes and failures 
 and weaknesses I yet found a remedy, and at the 
 last I was wise." 
 
 Here ended the tiny sheets. The remainder was 
 folded like a letter, but no name was written upon it. 
 It ran: 
 
 " There is, I think, in all this big world, one 
 creature who knows and loves me. To that one, 
 then, I offer my last word. It shall be my explana- 
 tion and my excuse. 
 
 " Once more I am down. It is the last failure. 
 I never can rise again. I have no wish to. I have 
 only a craving hunger for rest not reprieve, but 
 release, final and entire. 
 
 " Always before I have hoped ; I have wanted to 
 retrieve, to struggle on, and wring a reluctant victory 
 from the bitter ashes of my defeat. But now, 
 it is as though I had tasted in anticipation the waters 
 of some precious and forbidden Lethe. 
 
 " I have turned and grasped eagerly as though 
 it- were a new thing the idea of death, and it 
 satisfies. For life, which, in my secret heart, I have 
 loved so ardently, which I have followed and trusted 
 and looked to with such a passion of hope and belief 
 for life, I have no other feeling than terror and 
 hatred. If it had shown me at the outset half its 
 bitterness and falseness, I should long since have 
 burst my fetters and been free. But like a heartless 
 and cruel coquette it has led me on from year to 
 year hoping against despair, with but enough of
 
 9* "The Race Unrun " <& 427 
 
 favour to keep the sick and cheated heart from break- 
 ing, till the things which my soul refused to touch 
 are become my sorrowful meat. 
 
 " I cannot think that mine was more than an inno- 
 cent and commendable pride and hope. Surely it is 
 but just that young, sound, well-dowered creatures 
 should have and be happy in thus much expectation 
 and gladness a trust which carries much of its 
 own fulfilment with it. Yet it seemed to me that 
 my innocent trust in life had been held by life a 
 crime, and dashed back in my face as coals of grief 
 and pain and shame. 
 
 " Even after I had been struck many times, I had 
 faith and anticipation, and a certain belief in the 
 ultimate kindness of life which seemed inextinguish- 
 able. The worst (I said) would never befall me. 
 Surely never could my hope and confidence shrink 
 to the measure of despair. Surely never could they 
 come creeping, distained and rejected, to cower 
 shuddering in that darkness of which we cannot 
 endure to speak out to ourselves and say, ' This is 
 ruin.' 
 
 " But those places of injury and cruelty so terri- 
 ble, whither, I said, no trusting creature, no spirit of 
 the finer sort, would ever be thrust, those things how 
 soul-withering, how unspeakable, of which I said 
 that such, at least, could never by any even the 
 evillest event come upon me ; see now, those are 
 the places where I lie broken, not protesting, endeav- 
 ouring no more; those things are the things of 
 my life. T have fallen to this, that I endure them 
 and live. They blast and rend and ravage me un- 
 resisted.
 
 428 -f The Last Word <& 
 
 " And would you, O very heart of my heart, can 
 you say you hold it an offence in me can it cause 
 you to remember me with horror that all these 
 deep and cureless wounds which life has dealt me 
 have made me to desire death as the only remaining 
 good, to yearn for it and long to lay hold upon it? 
 But the thought of its beauty, its sweet and balmy 
 stillness, is all alone in my heart. 
 
 " I would have you think, as I do, willingly, 
 gladly, almost triumphantly, that this coherent dust 
 which now is me may be afterward blown and 
 shifted about by joyous airs, or bleak and unkind 
 winds, or it may lie dank and hidden from the 
 sun's eye. It may redden in some wayside blossom, 
 or swell in the throat of some singing bird. But, 
 ah, wherever it go, whatever it be in the Plan, the 
 coal that burned it, the sting that pierced, the poison 
 that maddened this striving, quivering, shrinking 
 sentience shall have been quenched and soothed 
 and healed by cycles and seas of cool oblivion. 
 
 " Now that you know how it is with me, and how 
 it has gone with me, the last thread that stayed 
 me is snapped, the last barrier removed. I believe 
 I know the country of your mind so well that fair, 
 liberal, candid region, and so tender and loyal, too 
 
 that I dare to think I go taking your forgiveness 
 
 I had almost said your approval with me. 
 
 " It draws toward evening. This is a very quiet, 
 kind hour. I have finished my message, and set the
 
 f "The Race Unrun " f 429 
 
 house of my heart in order. And as in these long 
 nights of feverish wakefulness I have fixed my mind 
 on sleep to compel it, so now I fix my soul on death 
 to compel it. And it is near I feel that it is near. 
 The peace shed about me is the very breath of that 
 air beyond the curtain. 
 
 " And the curtain itself rises it trembles it 
 is withdr " 
 
 " He was dead, with a look of calm assurance 
 and settled peace upon his face, the pencil in his 
 hand, and the last word on the pad, as you see, 
 not completed, when the nurse came to him," said 
 Frank, whisperingly, as we finished reading the last 
 page, where the tiny characters seemed to stagger 
 feebly and ever more feebly across in a wavering line 
 to that uncompleted word.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Hearts Triumphant 
 
 " Sing ho, for the meadows that reach the sky I 
 The boundless meadows, where you and I 
 
 May ride, may ride at our own sweet will, 
 
 With never a hollow, and never a hill. 
 While our ponies bound at the spoken word 
 And the wind sings past like a singing bird. 
 
 Sing ho, for the meadows that reach the sky I 
 
 When day grows old, and night draws nigh." 
 
 FRANK and I had been for three weeks in that 
 country which is my own country, irrespective of 
 the land in which I was born or the place in which 
 I may be sojourning. We were staying on Jim 
 Baxter's Panhandle ranch, the Tres Hermanos, near 
 the Ojo Bravo, having been quietly married soon 
 after Frank's recovery and come directly to Texas. 
 
 I had ridden on those plains many a time alone, 
 lonely, with an unquiet heart and a restless, ques- 
 tioning mind. To-day I had the great brown limit- 
 less stretches spread before my pony's willing feet, 
 and beside me galloped that one whom in my despair 
 I had given up, of whom I had said, " Companion- 
 ship with him as he could be is not to be had 
 by any mere mortal in this world. It is too near 
 paradise. It will never come true." 
 
 Harry Brant was with us now. He had brought 
 
 43
 
 " WE RODE TO THE ROUND - UP "
 
 <+ Hearts Triumphant 431 
 
 the machines and all the paraphernalia of the work 
 my husband and I loved; for the DeWitts were 
 still abroad, and the magazine to make its bow to the 
 public within a few months, and there was much to 
 do. 
 
 Hank Pearsall for a time stood off from my new 
 acquisition, waiting evidently to accept him as he 
 should prove his worth, desiring to decide at leisure 
 upon his merits. That this husband I had brought 
 back with me was an Eastern man was, of course, a 
 point against him; but when I saw Frank ride to 
 a round-up with my old friend, I doubted not the 
 result. 
 
 This round-up was a pleasure I had not antici- 
 pated, since the month was February, too late for 
 the latest fall round-ups, and too early for the earliest 
 spring work. But Jim's Panhandle cattle-ranch lies 
 near the headquarters of the Texas Cattle Syndicate, 
 or in local parlance, the L Q K, since ranches are 
 universally designated by the name of their brand. 
 This is the biggest ranch in Texas, running as it 
 does into nine of those great Panhandle counties, 
 enclosing three million acres of that noble plains 
 pasture-land, and having upon its western boundary 
 an unbroken line of barbed wire fence something 
 over two hundred miles in length. The L O K was 
 unexpectedly making a big shift of two-year-olds 
 to their fattening ranges ; and the round-up was for 
 the purpose of cutting them out and bunching them 
 ready for the trail. 
 
 The two men had ridden away together to the 
 round-up, and when I followed later, with Harry 
 Brant, I found Frank in the thick of it. 
 
 The last stragglers had been brought from out-
 
 432 9 The Last Word <& 
 
 lying pastures, and were being thrown into the big 
 bunch as we came up. Frank, on my own Little 
 Bronc, was displaying his usual address and intre- 
 pidity, demonstrating that a man who can handle 
 men can handle cattle. 
 
 He had set out, unaided, to put into the bunch 
 of two-year-olds a brindled steer of the original 
 Texas type, a creature with a bad eye and long, 
 sharp, curved horns. 
 
 Health and a dauntless energy and his own pecul- 
 iar cast of high spirits were Frank's once more. 
 And as I watched him ride, my heart swelled, the 
 blood fairly thrilled through my veins, and rose 
 surge upon surge to my face, while the tears of 
 excitement and enthusiasm blinded my eyes. 
 
 I sat apart on Nipper (who danced with amazed 
 and disgusted impatience), and watched with keen 
 delight the alert figure on the steely little blue roan 
 cut in and out like zigzag lightning among cattle 
 and horsemen, all grace, dash, and courage. 
 
 " I am a pagan," I said to myself, laughing joy- 
 ously under my breath ; " I am a savage, a barbarian, 
 who should have lived two thousand years ago, and 
 had a Gothic chief to husband. This, the man of 
 my choice, who, since he first spoke to me, has held 
 my heart in his lordly young hand, might have been 
 an angel, speaking with the tongue of an angel, it 
 would not so have set my pulses going, nor waked 
 in me the enthusiasm of adoring admiration which 
 springs to meet and praise and claim him here when 
 he shines and surpasses in these feats of the primi- 
 tive man." 
 
 The cowboys rode perfectly; Frank could do no 
 more. But the boys lounged through their work
 
 <& Hearts Triumphant $ 433 
 
 with the carelessness born of long usage ; one missed 
 the pride of the knight tilting at tourney under his 
 lady's eyes, which was in every line of Frank's 
 figure. I saw more than one admiring glance fol- 
 low the blue roan and its rider. 
 
 He caught the eye and held the fancy, you would 
 say, because this was new work to him, and he put 
 into it an interest, a passion the others could not 
 feel. 
 
 But there you have the secret of Frank's undying 
 charm and mastery. Nothing ever became a grind, 
 an old story to him. The moment his hands touched 
 a work, or a pastime, it lived beneath them. 
 
 Once, the brindled steer turned viciously upon its 
 pursuer. But Little Bronc staunch little cow- 
 pony was nothing daunted. He wheeled as in- 
 stantly as the angry brute had done, and its long, 
 sharp horn barely grazed his steely side. Frank, 
 scarcely less quick than Little Bronc himself, leaned 
 far over the pony's shoulder and dealt the fellow 
 with the horns a savage cut with the big Mexican 
 quirt that hung from his wrist. 
 
 At the outset of this scrimmage, I had seen, from 
 the tail of my frightened eye, two of the boys near 
 me wheel their ponies to go to Frank's assistance, 
 and be restrained therefrom by a gesture from old 
 Hank Pearsall. 
 
 With the intuitive understanding which one game 
 sportsman has for another, he cautioned : 
 
 " Let the boy alone ! Give him a fair chance to 
 show whether he's a sure 'nough man, or a chump. 
 He ain't a-goin' to stand by consentin' while a two- 
 year-old Texas steer eats him up. He won't thank 
 ye fer inter ferin'."
 
 434 *$* The Last Word f 
 
 Brave words; but I heard a big breath of relief 
 from Hank as the quirt descended and the steer 
 turned to run again. 
 
 For myself, I was suddenly alive to the risks 
 of this work. It came terribly home to me, that there 
 was scarcely a season of round-ups in which some 
 rider was not maimed, or killed outright; pitched 
 upon his head and his neck broken, or the life 
 crushed out by his pony falling on him. Every atom 
 of my flesh became exquisitely aware of every inden- 
 tation and rabbit-burrow into which a pony's hoof 
 might sink upon that plain. 
 
 I had known these dangers always ; I had laughed 
 at them, myself, in many a round-up, and many a hot 
 run across the levels ; but the sight of Frank riding 
 amid them, was an illuminant. I was, however, like 
 old Hank, too much in sympathy with the spirit 
 which desires to prove itself upon all surroundings, 
 to cry out or interfere. 
 
 But when, after a wild, scrambling race in the 
 open, with half a dozen heart-shaking quick turns 
 which would have unseated any but a perfect horse- 
 man, Frank finally landed his quarry in the bunch 
 of two-year-olds, and returned panting, flushed and 
 laughing, I found myself breathing once more, and 
 under the impression that I had not done so since the 
 tussle began. 
 
 As Frank approached me, Hank joined him, and 
 they rode up together. Hank halted, with a hand 
 thrown out on the younger man's shoulder. His 
 shrewd, wrinkled, philosophical old face was all 
 alight. He took in the brave, lithe young figure, 
 from top to toe, with one of his slow, quizzical 
 glances ; then turned to me.
 
 $ Hearts Triumphant f 435 
 
 " Wai, y' seen 'im? " he began. " He done noble 
 now, wouldn't ye say so? I've been lookin' him 
 over very careful, an' I say he'll do he's all right. 
 I wouldn't never spur him in the shoulder none, 
 'cause it's jest more'n likely he wouldn't stand it. 
 Unless I've plumb lost my judgment, this colt's 
 sound an' kind an' willin', an' a free traveller, ef ye 
 jest give him the right sort o' treatment, an' no 
 Mexican thorn bit business." 
 
 This to me. Then he shook Frank a little, gently, 
 by the shoulder, and said, smiling over at me, " But 
 I'll tell ye, Mr. Randolph, a lady that's been as 
 able as any cowboy on the range since she was a 
 kid o' ten or twelve to manage anything, from 
 a cuttin' pony as fine as silk, to the meanest buckin' 
 bronc in the outfit I reckon that sort ain't likely 
 to fail up much on any kind o' men-cattle; so I 
 might as well jest give ye both my on-conditional 
 blessin', which I herewith do," and with a smile 
 and a wave of the hand he was away to the two-year- 
 olds again. 
 
 A few days later we had ridden over to Emerald 
 City for the mail, Frank and I, with Harry Brant 
 and Jim. There were long, cheerful letters from 
 everybody, it seemed to me. The DeWitts were at 
 last in New York. Mr. DeWitt's communication 
 was, he being a professional writer, just what he 
 intended it should be. As for Mrs. DeWitt's letter, 
 it was brief and cheery. Perhaps my own abundant 
 content made me the more sympathetic to hear and 
 respond to the content I found here. The note 
 which had been sounded in my last interview with 
 her ran all through this letter, the note of poise, of
 
 436 & The Last Word $ 
 
 rest, of cheerful decision after long debatement and 
 painful uncertainty. 
 
 Frank's sister wrote from Dresden. He had, be- 
 fore we came West, gathered the means that were left 
 her and invested them in such a way as to give her 
 a little income. She had taken her two children 
 abroad to educate them. This letter told us what 
 Frank had never guessed to be possible, that she was 
 resuming her own interrupted musical studies ; pre- 
 paring, not sadly nor resignedly, but gladly and 
 hopefully, for a career to which she had once looked 
 forward, and which she had given up for the sake 
 of the man she married. 
 
 Genevieve's letter to me was delicious. She was 
 working in the little Tenth Street studio upon the 
 Encyclopedia of Chemistry which was dear to her 
 soul. Lemuel had desired that she transmit a 
 message for him. " Tell Mr. Randolph from me," 
 he said, " that him and me has both made a big 
 mistake. I told him it was better to have two of 'em, 
 an' not to tie yourself up tight to any one of 'em, an' 
 that's what he will find out before he gits done 
 with it." 
 
 She informed us that Lemuel's matrimonial bark 
 - launched after we had left New York had 
 come to early shipwreck, and that he was once 
 more a gay bachelor, or rather, a blithe divorce-court 
 widower, with his one eye fixed upon the eligibles 
 among " nice stiddy, good-lookin', good-tempered 
 gals " of the domestic class. And she added the 
 to her amazing fact, that this little, old, limping 
 rascal, with but one eye, seemed to find no difficulty 
 in attracting a whole train of sighing damsels. 
 
 Frank and I laughed consumedly over this aston-
 
 <& Hearts Triumphant $ 437 
 
 ishing statement ; Harry, who contributed from his 
 own experience, some very exquisite reminiscences 
 of Lemuel, joined us, and I repeated the disconsolate 
 Lottie's tearful dictum that " wimmenss iss poor 
 weak creaturess, and menss they knowss it." 
 
 " Little Lottie is mighty sound there," declared 
 Harry. " That bit of knowledge is just about the 
 whole stock in trade of the Lemuel population." 
 
 The tone in which Genevieve wrote of her work 
 and her prospects was music to me. 
 
 The Corcorans, as is their wont, sent me a round- 
 robin. Teddy's little hand had been guided to 
 write his portion. It said, in a drunken version of 
 Mr. Corcoran's fine, counting-house script : " Dear 
 Carry : I love you still, if you did run away with 
 him, so no more from your own Teddy. P. S. 
 Please bring me a burro. P. S. Please come back 
 soon. P. S. I love you." 
 
 Our young lovers were still in Mexico ; and Mrs. 
 Corcoran opined from their letter that they had not 
 yet sufficiently recovered to know whether they were 
 in Mexico or the moon. But she added, in her usual 
 daintily ironical fashion, that she supposed -we were 
 in much the same case, and would not think strange 
 of them. 
 
 And now, was I happy? Had the impossible 
 come true? 
 
 Yes, and as fairy tales only can come true in 
 real life in the quietest, simplest, sanest fashion. 
 Mine was the pot of gold at the foot of the bow 
 of promise ; my unspoken longing had been brought 
 to me from the other end. of life's teleseme wire. 
 
 At first there was in Frank's manner toward me 
 at times a hesitancy, a timidity, which, in a man of
 
 438 ^ The Last Word <& 
 
 his disposition, touched me inexpressibly, and 
 showed me how entirely his attitude of mind, against 
 which I had so desperately rebelled, had been error 
 of belief and not lack of heart. He would begin 
 some suggestion timely and reasonably enough 
 and break off suddenly, questioning, " Am I tyran- 
 nical, Cara?" or declaring, "Oh, you do not need 
 my suggestions at all. Choose for yourself, dear." 
 
 We had at last, Frank and I, that liberty which 
 two people very much in love will so seldom grant 
 each other to have, to pursue and enjoy, those 
 two blessings in life, love and labour. 
 
 I felt no compulsion to set a bound upon my love 
 for Frank, for it need not be a narrowing devotion ; 
 I was permitted to make it part of love for my kind. 
 And it was the sweetest drop in my cup of blessed- 
 ness to see how he won the admiration and liking 
 of those about him, how the voice of bluff, free-born 
 Texas was lifted to chant his praises. 
 
 We have founded that ideal partnership of sweet 
 equality, whose bondage is freedom, whose allegiance 
 is voluntary, its vows renewed every hour from an 
 overflowing heart. 
 
 As we rode home southward across the vast turf- 
 cushioned levels, with their grave smile lying upon 
 them, the sun sank in red splendour on our right, 
 and the great white moon of the plains country rose 
 upon our left, majestic and refulgent. 
 
 Jim and Harry Brant drew gradually ahead, till 
 we could hear only an occasional big note of Jim's 
 deep-chested laugh, and see an arm thrown out to 
 point or emphasise. 
 
 I was just aware of the pure profile and graceful 
 shoulders rising and falling rhythmically beside me.
 
 <^ Hearts Triumphant f 439 
 
 The whole created world was ours the earth, 
 and heaven, and sun, and moon. 
 
 Frank's face turned, smiling quietly, toward me, 
 his hand reached for mine. We rode along at a 
 silken lope, talking softly. 
 
 Frank's estate was almost entirely swallowed up 
 in the crash which followed his brother-in-law's pecu- 
 lations. He had no fortune now; we had need to 
 be enterprising. Our work would count. Frank 
 brought his plans to me ; he came to me for sugges- 
 tions, for inspiration, as to a partner indeed. The 
 outlook was very bright. The book which I had 
 finished as a sort of sacrifice upon the grave of our 
 dead love was now almost ready for the press, and 
 promised us a modest fortune. We, as author and 
 illustrator, and the house as publishers, would all 
 profit by it. 
 
 And so we rode together all alone, between the 
 beauties of the evening and the night, Nipper and 
 Little Bronc loping stride for stride, as Texas ponies 
 do, Frank's hand in mine, looking out of this our 
 lonely, beautiful world of love, fonvard to that busy, 
 crowded world of effort, labour, competition, which 
 so attracts us both, and whither we shall presently 
 return to take our places. 
 
 We are going back to work which is dear to us, 
 and best oh, most best we are going back side 
 by side, hand in hand, to live our lives together. 
 
 THE END.
 
 L. C* Page and Company's 
 Announcement List 
 of New Fiction 
 
 The Kindred of the Wild ; A BOOK OF ANIMAL 
 
 LIFE. By CHARLES G. D ROBERTS, author of " The 
 Heart of the Ancient Wood," "A Sister to Evangeline," 
 etc. Illustrated with many full-page drawings of animal 
 life by Charles Livingston Bull. 
 
 Large 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top $2.00 
 
 Mr. Roberts's latest work of fiction makes a most interest- 
 ing addition to the slender stock of nature classics. He has 
 studied with close and unwearied interest the lives of the groat 
 eagle, lord of the air, the panther that rules on the Upsal- 
 quitch, the lucifee, haunter of the pine gloom, Kehonka the 
 wild goose, and all the furred and feathered creatures of {.he 
 wilderness and the hunted trails. In view of the great and 
 growing interest in the study of nature, seen through the eyes 
 of close observers and trained recorders like Mr. Roberts, 
 and reported under the guise of fiction, this will be a book of 
 great popular interest. 
 
 The Mystery of Murray Davenport. By 
 
 ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of " Captain Raven- 
 
 shaw," " Philip Winwood," etc. 
 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50 
 
 His latest novel is a new departure for Mr. Stephens, and 
 his greatest effort as well. Turning from past days and dis- 
 tant scenes, the themes of his previous successes, he has 
 taken up American life of modern days for his serious choice 
 as a field for romance. It is said that this is the most vital 
 and absorbing of all Mr. Stephens's novels. It is certain, at 
 any rate, that the hundreds of thousands of his readers will 
 look forward with pleasure, as well as some degree of curi- 
 osity, to his latest work.
 
 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 Ladd. A NOVEL OF EARLY COLONIAL 
 DAYS. By CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of " The 
 Heart of the Ancient Wood," "A Sister to Evangeline," 
 etc. 
 Library I2mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50 
 
 Stephen Holton : A STORY OF LIFE AS IT Is IN 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY. By CHARLES FELTON PIDGIN, 
 
 author of " Quincy Adams Sawyer " and " Blennerhassett." 
 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50 
 
 In "Stephen Holton" the author of "Quincy Adams 
 
 Sawyer," which has been called "the best New England story 
 
 ever written," has returned to the field of his first success 
 
 the annals of homely modern life. The hundreds of thousands 
 
 who read that widely noticed book are doubtless anticipating 
 
 the author's second story of New England life. 
 
 Abroad with the Jimmies. By LILIAN BELL, 
 
 author of " The Love Affairs of an Old Maid," " The Expa- 
 triates," etc. 
 
 Library I2mo, cloth, gilt top, with a portrait frontis- 
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 This book, one of Lilian Bell's best, is the witty account of 
 a journey through Europe, filled with many amusing incidents 
 and experiences. Although we are afforded vivid and inter- 
 esting glimpses of Nordau, Tolstoi, and other personages of 
 importance and note, not the least attractive figures in the 
 book are those of the engaging Jimmies, the author's travel- 
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 Hope Loring. By LILIAN BELL, author of "The 
 Love Affairs of an Old Maid," " The Expatriates," etc. 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50 
 The latest and most important novel of this clever writer is 
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 the life of New York society, and will add not a little to the 
 deserved reputation already enjoyed by Miss Bell.
 
 LIST OF NEW FICTION 
 
 The Mate of the Good Ship York. By w. 
 
 CLARK RUSSELL, author of " The Wreck of the Grosvenor," 
 etc., with a frontispiece from a drawing by W. H. Dunton. 
 
 Library ramo, cloth, gilt top $1.50 
 
 W. Clark Russell, past master in his own province, is almost 
 the last of the great sea romancers. This, his latest novel, is 
 a story filled with the savor of the sea and the venturesome 
 spirit of the old hardy merchant service. The story has all 
 the vigor and interest that we are wont to look for in Mr. 
 Russell's sea novels, and will be eagerly welcomed by his wide 
 circle of admirers. 
 
 Asa Holmes or At the Cross-roads. By 
 
 ANNIE FELLOWS-JOHNSTON, author of " The Little Colo- 
 nel's Holidays," etc., with a frontispiece from a drawing 
 by Ernest Fosbery. 
 
 Large i6mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00 
 
 The many readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming stories will 
 look forward with pleasure to her latest book. " Asa Holmes " 
 is a sketch of country life and country humor, done with the 
 simplicity and grace which mark all of Mrs. Johnston's work, 
 and touched with the sunny wisdom of the cheery old Cross- 
 roads philosopher, Asa Holmes. 
 
 The Cloistering Of Ursula. By CLINTON SCOL- 
 LARD, author of "A Man-at-Arms," etc. Illustrated by 
 H. C. Edwards. 
 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top ..... $1.50 
 It is with much pleasure that the publishers are able to an- 
 nounce another of Mr. Scollard's delightful Italian romances. 
 Italy in the heyday of all her splendid sins and terrible virtues 
 is a fascinating field for any romancer, and it is a fascinating 
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 follows with breathless interest from the time when, all unwit- 
 ting, she aids the enemy of her house to escape from the fatal 
 banquet, to the time when she finds her claustral refuge in the 
 heart of that enemy.
 
 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 The Seigneur de Beaufoy. By HAMILTON 
 
 DRUMMOND, author of " The King's Pawn," etc. 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50 
 These adventures of the proud and powerful Seigneur de 
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 the powerful, opposed priest and abbot, made terms with 
 dauphin and king, all this is set forth with a purity of style 
 and a dramatic force that stamp Mr. Drummond as one of the 
 leading romancers of the day. 
 
 The Yellow Rose. By MAURUS J6KAI, author of 
 " Pretty Michal," The Green Book," etc. 
 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top $1.50 
 
 "A Sarga Rosza," "The Yellow Rose," has been pro- 
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 The Prince of the Captivity. By SYDNEY c. 
 
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 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top $1.50 
 
 Mr. Grier's latest novel, like several of its predecessors, is 
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 LIST OF NEW FICTION 
 
 PAGE'S COMMONWEALTH SERIES 
 
 Literary growth in America has been of late years as rapid 
 as its material and economical progress. The vast size of the 
 country, the climatic and moral conditions of its different parts, 
 and the separate political and social elements, have all tended 
 to create distinct methods of literary expression in various sec- 
 tions. In offering from time to time the books in the " COM- 
 MONWEALTH SERIES," we shall select a novel or story 
 descriptive of the methods of thought and life of that particu- 
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 drawings by F. C. Ransom, and numerous reproductions 
 from original photographs. 
 
 Cloth, large i6mo, gilt top $1.25 
 
 This entertaining story is the narrative of the experiences of 
 two young people from Boston who take up their residence in 
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 satire, as kindly as it is observant and keen. 
 
 Even without the omen of success afforded in the previous 
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 Number 6. (New York) Councils of Croesus. 
 
 By MARY KNIGHT POTTER, author of " Love in Art," etc. 
 Cloth, large i6mo, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.25 
 A clever and vivacious story of life in New York society 
 circles.
 
 Selections from 
 
 L. C Page and Company's 
 
 List of Fiction 
 
 WORKS OF 
 
 ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS 
 Captain Ravenshaw; OR, THE MAID OF 
 
 CHEAPSIDE. (35th thousand.) A romance of Elizabethan 
 London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other artists. 
 Library I2mo, cloth ...... $1.50 
 
 Not since the absorbing adventures of D'Artagnan have we 
 had anything so good in the blended vein of romance and 
 comedy. The beggar student, the rich goldsmith, the roisterer 
 and the rake, the fop and the maid, are all here : foremost 
 among them, Captain Ravenshaw himself, soldier of fortune 
 and adventurer, who, after escapades of binding interest, 
 finally wins a way to fame and to matrimony. The rescue of 
 a maid from the designs of an unscrupulous father and rakish 
 lord forms the principal and underlying theme, around which 
 incidents group themselves with sufficient rapidity to hold one's 
 attention spellbound. 
 
 Philip WinwOOd. (7oth thousand.) A Sketch of 
 the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of 
 Independence, embracing events that occurred between and 
 during the years 1763 and 1785 in New York and London. 
 Written by his Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant 
 in the Loyalist Forces. Presented anew by ROBERT NEIL- 
 SON STEPHENS. Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton. 
 Library I2tno, cloth ...... $1.50 
 
 " One of the most stirring and remarkable romances that have 
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 Philadelphia Press. 
 
 The Continental Dragoon : A ROMANCE OF 
 
 PHILIPSE MANOR HOUSE IN 1778. (42d thousand.) Illus- 
 trated by H. C. Edwards. 
 
 Library I2mo, cloth $1.50 
 
 A stirring romance of the Revolution, the scene being laid 
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 SECRET MISSION FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH. (35th thou- 
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 Library I2mo, cloth $1.50 
 
 "A Gentleman Player" is a romance of the Elizabethan 
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 reign of Elizabeth, falls so low in his fortune that he joins 
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 prote'ge' of the great poet.
 
 LIST OF FICTION 
 
 WORKS OF 
 
 CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS 
 The Heart of the Ancient Wood. 
 
 Library I2mo, gilt top, decorative cover, illustrated . $1.50 
 This book strikes a new note in literature. It is a realistic 
 romance of the folk of the forest, a romance of the alliance 
 of peace between a pioneer's daughter in the depths of the 
 ancient wood and the wild beasts who felt her spell and 
 became her friends. It is not fanciful, with talking beasts; 
 nor is it merely an exquisite idyl of the beasts themselves. It 
 is an actual romance in which the animal characters play their 
 parts as naturally as do the human. 
 
 The Forge in the Forest. Being the Narrative 
 of the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer, Siegneur de Briart, 
 and how he crossed the Black Abbe', and of his Adventures 
 in a Strange Fellowship. Illustrated by Henry Sandham, 
 R. C. A. 
 
 Library I2mo, cloth, gilt top, deckle-edge paper . $1.50 
 A romance of the convulsive period of the struggle between 
 
 the French and English for the possession of North America. 
 
 The story is one of pure love and heroic adventure, and deals 
 
 with that fiery fringe of conflict that waved between Nova 
 
 Scotia and New England. 
 
 A Sister to Evangeline. Being the story of 
 
 Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into Exile with the 
 
 Villagers of Grand Pre*. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth, deckle-edge paper, gilt top, 
 
 illustrated $1.50 
 
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 which Longfellow first immortalized in " Evangeline." Swift 
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 searching analysis, characterize this strong novel ; and the 
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 demoiselle and the spirit of the courtly seigneur, who bring the 
 manners of old France to the Acadian woods.
 
 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 Works of Charles G. D. Roberts (Continued) 
 
 Earth's Enigmas. 
 
 Library I2mo, cloth, uncut edges . . . . $1.25 
 This is the author's first volume of stories and the one which 
 discovered him as a fiction writer of advanced rank. The 
 tales deal chiefly with those elemental problems of the mys- 
 teries of life, pain, the unknown, the strange kinship of man 
 and beast in the struggle for existence, the enigmas which 
 occur chiefly to the primitive folk on the backwoods fringe of 
 civilization, and they arrest attention for their sincerity, their 
 freshness of first-hand knowledge, and their superior craft. 
 
 By the Marshes of Minas. 
 
 Library I2mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.25 
 This is a volume of romance of love and adventure in that 
 picturesque period when Nova Scotia was passing from the 
 French to the English regime, of which Professor Roberts is 
 the acknowledged celebrant. Each tale is independent of the 
 others, but the scenes are similar, and in several of them the 
 evil " Black Abbe"," well known from the author's previous 
 novels, again appears with his savages at his heels but to be 
 thwarted always by woman's wit or soldier's courage. 
 
 WORKS OF 
 
 MAURUS JOKAI 
 
 Translated by P. F. Bicknell. With a 
 portrait in photogravure of Dr. Jdkai. 
 
 Library I2mo, cloth decorative . . . . $1.50 
 An absorbing story of life among a happy and primitive 
 people hidden away in far Transylvania, whose peaceful life is 
 never disturbed except by the inroads of their turbulent neigh- 
 bors. The opening scenes are laid in Rome ; and the view of 
 the corrupt, intriguing society there forms a picturesque con- 
 trast to the scenes of pastoral simplicity and savage border 
 warfare that succeed.
 
 LIST OF FICTION 5 
 
 Works of Maurus J6kai (Continued) 
 
 The Baron'S Sons. Translated by P. F. BScknell. 
 With a portrait in photogravure of Dr. Jdkai. 
 Library 12010, cloth decorative . . . . $1.50 
 This is an exceedingly interesting romance, the scene of 
 which is laid at the courts of St. Petersburg, Moscow, and 
 Vienna, and in the armies of the Austrians and Hungarians. 
 It follows the fortunes of three young Hungarian noblemen, 
 whose careers are involved in the historical incidents of the 
 time. 
 
 Pretty flichal : A ROMANCE OF HUNGARY. Au- 
 thorized translation by R. Nisbet Bain. With a photo- 
 gravure frontispiece of the great Magyar writer. 
 Library 12 mo, cloth decorative . . . . $1.50 
 
 " It is at once a spirited tale of ' border chivalry," a charming love 
 story full of genuine poetry, and a graphic picture of life in a coun- 
 try and at a period both equally new to English readers." Literary 
 World. 
 
 flidst the Wild Carpathians. Authorized 
 
 translation by R. Nisbet Bain. With a frontispiece by J. 
 
 W. Kennedy. 
 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative . . . . $1.25 
 
 A thrilling historical Hungarian novel, in which the extraor- 
 dinary dramatic and descriptive powers of the great Magyar 
 writer have full play. As a picture of feudal life in Hungary 
 it has never been surpassed for fidelity and vividness. 
 
 The Corsair King. A tale of the Buccaneers. 
 
 Large i6mo, cloth, decorative . . . . $1.00 
 
 The Buccaneer adventures are very stirring. The love 
 story is a thread of beauty and delicacy, woven in and out a 
 few times in the coarser woof of this rough sea atmosphere. 
 One leaves the book with the sense that he has actually been 
 for awhile in the midst of a corsair's life of the olden time, 
 felt its fascinations and found its retributions.
 
 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 WORKS OF 
 
 PAULINE BRADFORD MACKIE 
 The Washingtonians. 
 
 One vol., library i2mo, cloth, gilt top, deckle-edge 
 paper, with a frontispiece by Philip R. Goodwin . $1.50 
 
 Pauline Bradford Mackie's new novel deals with Washing- 
 ton official society in the early sixties. The plot is based upon 
 the career (not long since ended) of a brilliant and well-known 
 woman, who was at that time a power in official circles. 
 
 riademoiselle de Berny : A STORY OF VALLEY 
 
 FORGE. With five full-page photogravures from drawings 
 
 by Frank T. Merrill. 
 
 One vol., library lanio, cloth, gilt top . . . $1.50 
 
 " The charm of ' Mademoiselle de Berny ' lies in its singular 
 sweetness." Boston Herald. 
 
 "One of the very few choice American historical stories." Bos- 
 ton Transcript. 
 
 Ye Lyttle Salem flaide : A STORY OF WITCH- 
 CRAFT. With four full-page photogravures from drawings 
 by E. W. D Hamilton. 
 
 One vol., library I2mo, cloth, gilt top . . . $1.50 
 A tale of the days of the reign of superstition in New Eng- 
 land, and of a brave " lyttle maide," of Salem Town, whose 
 faith and hope and unyielding adherence to her word of 
 honor form the basis of a most attractive story. A very con- 
 vincing picture is drawn of Puritan life during the latter part 
 of the seventeenth century. 
 
 A Georgian Actress. 
 
 Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton. 
 
 One vol., library I2mo, cloth, gilt top . . . $i 50 
 A historical novel dealing with the life of the early settlers 
 in the Mohawk Valley, just before the Revolution. From the 
 strange life in the wilderness the ambitious girl is transplanted 
 to the gay life of the court of George III. and becomes famous 
 as an actress in Garrick's company.
 
 LIST OF FICTION 
 
 WORKS OF 
 
 MARSHALL SAUNDERS 
 
 Deficient Saints. A TALE OF MAINE. 
 Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 
 One vol., library I2mo, cloth, decorative cover . $1.50 
 
 In this, her latest story, Marshall Saunders follows closely 
 the fortunes of a French family whose history is bound up 
 with that of the old Pine-tree State. These French people 
 become less and less French until, at last, they are Americans, 
 intensely loyal to their State and their country. Although 
 " Deficient Saints " is by no means a historical novel, frequent 
 references are made to the early romantic history of Maine. 
 
 Her Sailor. 
 
 With a frontispiece by H. C. Ireland. 
 
 One vol., library i2mo, cloth, decorative cover . $1.25 
 
 " ' Her Sailor ' is a charming story of the love affair of an 
 
 American girl and a sailor ... a story of absorbing interest." 
 
 Grand Rapids Herald. 
 
 " A real love story, refreshing and sweet, as every reader will find 
 it." Utica Herald. 
 
 "It is clean and wholesome, with the smell of the salt sea." 
 Omaha Bee. 
 
 "... A fine character sketch and an entertaining story." 
 Chicago Bookseller. 
 
 Rose a Charlitte. AN ACADIEN ROMANCE. 
 Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 
 One vol., library i2mo, cloth, decorative cover . $1.25 
 
 " A very fine novel. We unhesitatingly pronounce it . . . one of 
 the books that stamp themselves at once upon the imagination, and 
 remain imbedded in the memory long after the covers are closed." 
 Literary World, Boston. 
 
 " As skilful a character study as it is an effective development of 
 a natural and yet imaginative plot. It is an unusually sweet and 
 wholesome story, full of spirit, and written in a remarkably choice 
 style." The Congregationalist, Boston.
 
 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 WORKS OF 
 
 GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO 
 
 "The writer of the greatest promise to-day in Italy, and perhaps 
 one of the most unique figures in contemporary literature, is 
 Gabriele d'Annunzio, the poet-novelist." The Bookman. 
 
 " This book is realistic. Some say that it is brutally so. But the 
 realism is that of Flaubert, and not of Zola. There is no plain 
 speaking for the sake of plain speaking. Every detail is justified in 
 the fact that it illuminates either the motives or the actions of the 
 man and woman who here stands revealed. It is deadly true. The 
 author holds the mirror up to nature, and the reader sees his own 
 experiences duplicated in passage after passage. Review of The 
 Triumph of Death in the A T ew York Evening Sun. 
 
 Signer d'Annunzio is known throughout the world as a poet 
 and a dramatist, but above all as a novelist, for it is in his 
 novels that he is at his best. 
 
 He is engaged on a most ambitious work nothing less 
 than the writing of nine novels which cover the whole field of 
 human sentiment. This work he has divided into three trilo- 
 gies, and five of the nine books have been published. It is to 
 be regretted that other labors have interrupted the completion 
 of the series. 
 
 The volumes published are as follows. Each i vol., 
 
 library I2mo, cloth $1.50 
 
 THE ROMANCES OF THE ROSE 
 The Child of Pleasure (IL PIACERE). 
 
 The Intruder (L'INNOCENTE). 
 
 The Triumph Of Death (IL TRIONFO DELLA 
 
 MORTE). 
 
 Jl 
 
 THE ROMANCES OF THE LILY 
 The Maidens of the Rocks <LE VERGINI 
 
 DELLE ROCCE). 
 
 Jl 
 
 THE ROMANCES OF THE POMEGRANATE 
 The Flame of Life. (IL FUOCO>
 
 LIST OF FICTION 
 
 PAGE'S COMMONWEALTH SERIES 
 
 Each i vol., large i6mo, cloth, gilt top, profusely il- 
 lustrated $1.25 
 
 No. I (Massachusetts) 
 
 Her Boston Experiences. By ANNA FARQUHAR 
 
 (MARGARET ALLSTON). 
 
 " The first book for Bostonians to read is ' Her Boston Experi- 
 ences.' It will do them good." The Literary World. 
 " The book is really enormously clever." Boston Times. 
 
 No. 2 (Virginia) 
 
 A Sunny Southerner. By JULIA MAGRUDER, 
 
 author of " A Magnificent Plebeian," " The Princess 
 
 Sonia," etc. 
 
 A charming love story, the scene of which is laid in the 
 Virginia of to-day. The plot revolves about two principal 
 characters, a Southern heroine and a Northern hero ; and the 
 story is written in the author's usual clever style. 
 
 No. 3 (Maine) 
 
 'Lias's \Vife. By MARTHA BAKER DUNN, author of 
 
 " Memory Street," etc. 
 
 There is the direct appeal of a story that has been really 
 lived in this charming novel of Maine life. One essential 
 merit of the book is its reproduction of the genuine New Eng- 
 land atmosphere, with innumerable idioms quaintly delight- 
 ful to encounter. The humor is pervasive and delicate, the 
 pathetic touches equally effective. 
 
 No. 4 (District of Columbia) 
 
 Her Washington Experiences. By ANNA 
 
 FARQUHAR, author of "The Devil's Plough," etc. 
 
 There has been no cleverer book published this season than 
 " Her Washington Experiences." The Cabinet member's 
 wife, through whose eyes we are given a glimpse into Wash- 
 ington society, has a vision delightfully true and clear; her 
 impressions of the city as a whole, compared in character with 
 other places, are well worth reading for their epigrammatic 
 brilliancy and apt contrasts.
 
 IO L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 SOME RECENT FICTION 
 
 Lauriel. THE LOVE LETTERS OF AN AMERICAN GIRL. 
 By A. H." 
 
 We are not at liberty yet to announce the name of the 
 author, who is, however, well known in this country. 
 With a portrait frontispiece in photogravure. 
 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth, gilt top $1.50 
 
 " The sincere and unaffected charm of these letters from the pen 
 of a genuine American girl cannot fail to give them an influence 
 which mere love letters could never exert." From a Letter to the 
 Publishers. 
 
 Jar vis Of Harvard. By REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFF- 
 
 MANN. Illustrated by Robert Edwards. 
 
 Library I2ino, cloth decorative .... $1.50 
 
 A strong and well-written novel, true to a certain side of the 
 college atmosphere, not only in the details of athletic life, but 
 in the spirit of college social and society circles. The local 
 color appeals not only to Harvard men, but to their rivals, the 
 loyal sons of Yale, Pennsylvania, and Princeton. 
 
 Mr. Kauffman is also especially at home in his descriptions 
 of the society doings of the smart set in Philadelphia. 
 
 Valere. A realistic novel of modern New York. 
 
 By JOSEPH HALLWORTH. 
 
 Large 1 2mo, illustrated, cloth decorative . . . $1.50 
 
 This book, containing over one hundred pen and ink 
 sketches by the author, is altogether a unique production in 
 the history of book-making, being a facsimile reproduction of 
 the author's original manuscript. 
 
 Mr. Hallworth has done for the slums of New York what 
 Dickens did for London. 
 
 Witiefred. A STORY OF THE CHALK CLIFFS. By S. 
 BARING-GOULD, author of " Mehala," etc. Illustrated. 
 Library I2mo, cloth decorative . . . . $1.50 
 A striking novel of English life in the eighteenth century 
 by this well-known writer. The scene is laid partly in rural 
 Devonshire and partly in aristocratic London circles.
 
 1 I II I II III I III (III 
 
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