UNIVEHSJTY FARM 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE BOOK OF SUSAN 
 
 "Lee Wilson Dodd reveals true creative wit 
 and temper in a novel notable for its high 
 standard of lucidity, keen social criticism and 
 sheer diversion." New York Evening Post. 
 
 "The conversations are brilliant, the narra 
 tive so exciting you simply have to keep on 
 reading." William Lyon Phelps in the Yale 
 Alumni Weekly. 
 
 "There is nothing commonplace in The Book 
 of Susan. Mr. Dodd writes in a fresh, enter 
 taining style." New York Times. 
 
 E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 BY 
 LEE WILSON DODD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BOOK OF SUSAN," ETC. 
 
 'Beauty is always defeated and never defeated" 
 
 MONDORY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE 
 
 
Copyright, 1922, 
 By E. P. Button & Company 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED 
 STATES OF AMERICA 
 
EPISTLE DEDICATORY 
 
 TO MY SISTER 
 
 Dear Peggy : 
 
 Since you, at least, will find most of me somewhere be 
 tween these pages, it is with a secure sense of comradeship 
 that I offer them to you. And may I offer with them just a 
 word of explanation? 
 
 The story of Lilia and of Dunster is not a "college story" 
 nor is it a "romance of the theatre." If it were a "college 
 story" the chapters neighbored by an entirely imaginary col 
 lege for women would be a doubtful gift because, in many 
 respects, untypical and incomplete. They have been sharply 
 questioned, before publication, by pained graduates, who have 
 urged me either to expand or expunge them. With perhaps 
 characteristic stubbornness, I have been unable to do either. 
 My purpose in composing them as they stand was purely 
 artistic: they were designed merely to introduce my principal 
 characters in a certain light and with chosen effects of con 
 trast which I still feel to be legitimate. Had I been attempt 
 ing a story meant to illustrate the extraordinarily rich and 
 complex life of our modern colleges for women (or, for that 
 matter, the extraordinarily rich and complex life of our mod 
 ern theatre} , other methods of treatment would at once have 
 been forced upon me. 
 
 As it happens, novels which fasten upon some urgent, 
 immediate problem, some vast public institution or cause, 
 whether for social propaganda or satire, have never much 
 
appealed to me. As novelist, the only problems which interest 
 me are, first, the spiritual problems (to call them that) of 
 human beings taken singly, as given individuals; and, second, 
 such technical problems as present themselves, in the course 
 of composition, to every teller of tales. 
 
 In short, what I would dedicate to you neither with 
 undue humbleness nor undue pride is Lilia herself, and 
 Dunster, and the three or four accessory characters whom I 
 have ventured to create. They have been quite as real to me 
 for some months as my personal friends: yet to you and 
 others, I sometimes fear, they may well come as but slight 
 and wavering shadows. Nevertheless, "they" are my book; 
 and it is they and their story which I now inscribe to you 
 with an old and affectionate admiration. 
 
 L. W. D. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 THE girls of English 3B a division in Shake 
 speare of the Freshman class of Alden College 
 had at last settled into their seats; the roll had 
 been called. The recitation was about to begin. 
 
 Young too-young, held Miss Goldsborough, 
 titular head of the English Department Assistant 
 Professor Thorpe frowned briefly at his mark- 
 book, then opened the small red-and-gold copy of 
 Julius Casar before him. 
 
 "Miss Chenoworth?" he said, enunciating crisply 
 the syllables of the name. 
 
 It was a tradition of Alden College that, during 
 the hours of classwork, its students should clothe 
 themselves not only plainly but negligently. To 
 this tradition even the daintier girls more or less 
 reluctantly conformed. But, in this particular di 
 vision, on this particular morning, there sat or 
 rather, drooped in the front row a slender girl who 
 had too evidently chosen to ignore the unwritten 
 law against class-room titivation. Her morning 
 toilette, indeed, was the last word in simple, but 
 wholly sophisticated Parisian elegance and charm. 
 
2 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 It was a study in subtle combinations of bluish 
 green, or greenish blue, deliberately calculated to 
 enforce the blue-green jewel-like glitter of her eyes 
 and to set off the flame-like quality of her artfully 
 arranged hair. Her eyebrows had almost certainly 
 been thinned and pencilled, and nature could hardly 
 have been responsible for those cherry-red lips or 
 the even pallor of her face. She was wearing, too, 
 a single jade ring, and delicate ear-drops of the 
 stone called aquamarine. 
 
 She had very slightly straightened herself in her 
 seat when young too-young Assistant Professor 
 Thorpe had pronounced her name. Her jewel-like 
 eyes lifted to his with a faintly quizzical expectancy. 
 The twenty or thirty conforming girls on either 
 side of her and behind her exchanged little grimaces, 
 looks half-thrilled, half-mischievous, and ambiguous 
 smiles. 
 
 It is merely true, at this moment, that the pos 
 sibly too-young Assistant Professor Thorpe wished 
 this extraordinary girl before him in Jericho ! She 
 was out of place in his classroom in any class 
 room; out of key with her surroundings. She dis 
 concerted him, immeasurably. He had not, for 
 example, meant to call upon her first; yet he had 
 called upon her first. He had done so because of 
 an electric intuition that the class as a whole was 
 again certain he would not have the courage to call 
 upon her at all. Daily for a week had he been meet 
 ing this Freshman division, and this was the first 
 time he had summoned Miss Chenoworth to recite. 
 It was, he knew, high time; yet, having done it, he 
 despised himself for taking an imaginary dare. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 3 
 
 And meanwhile, his mind was wandering; his 
 thoughts were confused; he could not concentrate 
 efficiently on the business in hand. . . . Oh I con 
 found the artificial, exquisite, troubling creature! 
 He'd flunk her anyway, if he could! That, at least, 
 should prove an emotional catharsis, bringing im 
 mediate if transitory relief. 
 
 "Will you begin reading, please, Miss Cheno- 
 worth? Act I, Scene 2. We worked through, you 
 remember, that long speech of Cassius the Colos 
 sus speech yesterday? Let's go right on, then, 
 page twelve the speech of Brutus. . . ." He 
 paused; his throat was tight and dry; his voice had 
 sounded unnaturally in his ears and he felt the class 
 must have noticed it. Slight, disagreeable impres 
 sions of this kind too often bothered him in his 
 work; the memory of them would frequently return 
 at night to harass him. "I'm too sensitive, too tem 
 peramental for this job," he reflected, not without 
 a glimmer of satisfaction. . . . But why didn't that 
 impossible, disturbing creature begin? 
 
 He forced himself to glance down at her, sternly. 
 
 Miss Chenoworth met his glance and parried its 
 disapproval with a slight, expressively deprecating 
 movement of her thin shoulders. She was not 
 embarrassed; she was tactful with him, but firm. 
 "Would you mind very much," she asked gently, 
 "calling on someone else? I can't jump into the 
 middle of a scene like that and do it justice; I can't, 
 really." Then she pouted and relaxed, dismissing 
 the matter as she did so: "I don't believe anybody 
 
 can." 
 
 Young too-young Assistant Professor Thorpe 
 
4 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 felt with anguish that a supreme crisis confronted 
 him. A distinct, though unlocated, giggle had 
 reached him and chilled his spine. If he could not 
 at once meet this situation and dominate it well, 
 the class would get out of hand and he would never 
 be able to regain their entire respect. He spoke 
 out sharply. "I'm afraid Miss Chenoworth is 
 under a misapprehension! This is not a class in 
 elocution, Miss Chenoworth." The general laugh 
 that followed was unmistakably on his side. Thank 
 God, he had scored ! 
 
 But had he scored ? Miss Chenoworth was 
 rising, deliberately and very gracefully; she was 
 starting toward the door. ... Why ! this was 
 rank impertinence and rebellion! Should he com 
 mand her to resume her seat ? 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Chenoworth had walked, with 
 out visible agitation, from the room 
 
 Young Assistant Professor Thorpe's knuckles 
 tapped, with decision, on his desk-lid. "Attention, 
 please !" By convulsive repression he kept his tone 
 cold, infinitely remote. "Miss Gerrish ? Be so 
 kind as to begin with the speech of Brutus." 
 
 Then a dumpy, olive-skinned girl toward the back 
 of the room peered intently at page twelve through 
 round, horn-rimmed spectacles and mumbled at the 
 following lines : 
 
 "That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; 
 What you would work me to, I have some aim : 
 How I have thought of this and of these times, 
 I shall recount hereafter; for this present, 
 I would not, so with love I might entreat you, 
 Be any further moved. ..." 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 5 
 
 "One moment, Miss Gerrish," said young Assist 
 ant Professor Thorpe; "stop there, please. Now 
 have you any comment to make on Shakespeare's 
 use of the word jealous' in the first line of this 
 speech?' 1 
 
 Ah! it was all right! Every eye in the class 
 was concentrated upon the word "jealous!" He 
 could hold them now. As for Miss Chenoworth 
 damn her ! Well he would unquestionably have to 
 make an example of Miss Chenoworth. . . . 
 
 II 
 
 THE ruling hand steel gloved in silk in every 
 department of life at Alden College was the 
 hand of its President, Dr. Orlando Harrod. All the 
 courses in English, for example, were planned as 
 Dr. Harrod believed they should be planned; yet 
 he never openly dictated to his subordinate officers, 
 and most of them lived under the pleasing impres 
 sion that they were personally responsible for such 
 matters as fell to their charge. Dr. Harrod, in 
 short, was several degrees more learned and astute 
 than any second member on his Faculty, and he 
 knew very well how to be completely autocratic, 
 while seeming merely to be completely bored and 
 detached. 
 
 Thus Amanda Goldsborough, Ph.D. titular 
 head of the English Department at Alden still 
 believed herself to be the one strong force making 
 for beauty, light, and sweet reasonableness in that 
 comparatively ancient seat of learning. She gladly 
 
6 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 admitted to a naturally autocratic temper, and al 
 ways thought of herself with due satisfaction as 
 wielding a somewhat merciless rod. Yet she was, 
 in reality, a rather soft-hearted spinster, far too 
 sentimental to be much impressed by "mere fact" 
 if the mere fact in question proved less agreeable to 
 her than she felt her conception of a beneficent 
 Creator demanded. That young Assistant Profes 
 sor Thorpe had some cause for complaint, she was 
 willing to concede ; that he had made out a case for 
 strict and summary discipline she was by no means 
 prepared to grant him. But she had heard him 
 with patience, and she would did go so far as 
 to say: 
 
 "Miss Chenoworth was in the wrong quite 
 dreadfully so. It is not an offense to be overlooked. 
 On the other hand, she is very young and she's 
 strange not only to college ways, but to our whole 
 American way of life. I happen to know she has 
 lived in Europe in many parts of Europe, but 
 chiefly in Italy and Paris, I believe for the past 
 ten or twelve years. Her father you must surely 
 have heard or guessed, Mr. Thorpe? is Anson 
 Chenoworth." 
 
 "The dramatist?" 
 
 "Yes. I am not an admirer of his plays; they 
 are either morbid or cynical, or both. But my criti 
 cal sense forces me to recognize his talent." 
 
 "I should say so!" exclaimed Dunster Thorpe, 
 with a sharp, self-revealing gust of unaffected, boy 
 ish hero-worship. "And I did wonder about the 
 name it's so unusual. But I never dreamed !" 
 Speech failed him. . . . Was not Anson Chenoh 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 7 
 
 worth the god of his most private and sacred ado 
 ration! Had he not been scribbling at plays 
 striving in secret after some far touch of the racy, 
 ironic Chenoworth manner for lo, these many 
 years! (For three or four, to be objectively pre 
 cise.) 
 
 Miss Goldsborough noted and deprecated too- 
 young Assistant Professor Thorpe's enthusiasm for 
 so dubious a talent; she made a mental reservation 
 for further reference; then, for the moment, she 
 seized upon the advantage his enthusiasm gave her. 
 "Anson Chenoworth's daughter has quite possibly 
 had a deplorable upbringing. He is a widower, 
 I understand of sorts; and she is an only child. 
 That means a spoiled child, my dear Mr. Thorpe 
 invariably; you will find it so." Miss Goldsbor 
 ough seldom failed to remind the younger male 
 members of the Faculty that they were, after all, 
 young men. She prided herself on a hoard of gar 
 nered female wisdom now and forever beyond 
 their reach. And she concluded this little interview 
 with a gnomic gift: 
 
 "The French say, to understand all is to forgive 
 all. But that is nihilism, Mr. Thorpe ; it would be 
 the end of good manners, to say nothing of morality. 
 Nevertheless" and here in mid-flight she omitted, 
 for emphasis, one beat of her wings "it is well 
 to be certain that one understands before one at 
 tempts either to forgive or condemn." She rose 
 and stretched out her hand. "Pray, for the present, 
 overlook Miss Chenoworth's unintentional affront. 
 I shall, of course, speak to her personally. Good- 
 afternoon." 
 
8 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 III 
 
 "F\UNSTER THORPE, although at the beginning 
 *"^ of his first term as an Assistant Professor, had, 
 as a mere instructor, been teaching English Liter 
 ature to the undergraduate maidens of Alden for the 
 past four years. He was now in October, 1913 
 only twenty-seven; yet the novelty of his position 
 that of youthful and romantic-looking male teacher 
 of more or less marriageable females had long since 
 worn away. For him, at least. For the possibly 
 marriageable females it seemed never, he wearily 
 reflected, to wear away. He was constantly, nor 
 too subtly, made aware by his classes that his youth, 
 his single state, and his agreeable exterior were 
 qualities which undergraduate maidens could not be 
 expected prosaically to ignore. He remembered 
 only too easily, and always now with psychic discom 
 fort, that his first year or so at Alden had because 
 of this undercurrent of awareness keyed him up 
 to an unusual pitch of ambition; he disdainfully 
 recognized it as the motive which had redoubled 
 his energy and industry which, indeed, had won 
 for him his Assistant Professorship at so academi 
 cally tender an age. And he writhed again, as he 
 always now writhed in spirit at any recollection of 
 those naive stirrings of calf-like vanity. "I liked 
 it." he groaned aloud "liked it! ... God!" 
 
 It grows clear that Dunster Thorpe was a young 
 man not seldom moved to observe himself from a 
 detached point of view to see himself not as other 
 men or women might see him, but as some ironic, 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 9 
 
 lynx-eyed god or demon might, and who invaria 
 bly suffered, during these inhumanly lucid intervals, 
 from crawling agonies of self-contempt. 
 
 On the evening, then, following his recorded in 
 terview with Miss Goldsborough, he was alone in 
 his rooms suffering from a wickedly persistent at 
 tack of the blues. His two rooms and bath, by 
 deliberate choice, occupied the entire ground floor 
 of a more modern wing built on to an ancient resi 
 dence, which to his joy was situated at some dis 
 tance from the college campus. To his added joy, 
 when he felt capable of joy, he was the only boarder 
 in this gloomily dignified old mansion, and his land 
 lady treated him rather as a favorite grandson than 
 as a "paying guest." Very gentle, fragile, antique, 
 yet indomitable, was his landlady, Mrs. Sterrett; 
 he admired her enormously; he had conceived a true 
 affection for her. This affection was, he knew, re 
 turned. In short, nothing could suit him better than 
 the situation of his rooms, or than the large, deco 
 rous rooms themselves. Yet he was suffering on this 
 evening, as he not infrequently suffered, from low 
 spirits the lowest possible spirits: and it becomes 
 necessary to determine precisely why. 
 
 Dunster Thorpe, on his father's side, came of 
 unmixed old-American stock; his family tree carried 
 him down to and was rooted in the iron soil of the 
 theocratic New Haven colony. On his mother's 
 side there was no family tree; and always some 
 where toward the back of Dunster's mind lurked 
 the discomfortable suspicion that perhaps this was 
 just as well. Both his parents were dead had been 
 drowned in the great spring flood of 188-, when 
 
10 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 the yellow rivers of southern Ohio revolted, swirled 
 high above their banks, and raged devastatingly 
 through the villages and small, ugly cities they for 
 the most part so slavishly and sluggishly served. 
 Dunster was a baby in an old-fashioned box-cradle 
 on that night of terror, which he could not remem 
 ber, and which left him a propertyless orphan. His 
 own tiny, feeble life had been spared by one of the 
 numerous and freakish miracles of the flood. In 
 his boat-like cradle, he had been carried safely on 
 its impassioned bosom and deposited in the branches 
 of an apple tree, some two miles below his native 
 town, Vanesburg. This apple tree was but one of 
 hundreds ranged in the sloping orchard of Sam 
 Stoekel's farm; and it was Sam in person, sculling 
 about his drowned acres for treasure trove, who 
 found him and bore him home to fat Elsa, his Bava 
 rian peasant-wife. . . . 
 
 But Dunster was seven or eight years old before 
 he learned of all this in detail from the cautious and 
 pious lips of his aunt, Mrs. Carrick. She, as a near 
 and prosperous relative, had not unnaturally under 
 taken baby Dunster's nurture and the later cure of 
 little-boy Dunster's immortal soul, bringing him up 
 with her own five freckled tow-heads, and doing her 
 Christian best to feel he was not a superfluous re 
 sponsibility. Mrs. Carrick had not been on speak 
 ing terms with Dunster's father her own and only 
 brother for three years before the flood swept him 
 and his young wife beyond all care for the problems 
 and irritations of poverty and of family and social 
 scorn. 
 
 Neither from Aunt Emily (Mrs. Carrick) nor 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 11 
 
 from Uncle John, her husband the leading dry- 
 goods merchant of Vanesburg did Dunster ever 
 receive a clear account of the reasons for their 
 estrangement from his father and mother. He gath 
 ered, however, as the years passed, that his father 
 had been if not precisely the family black-sheep 
 the ever-rolling stone of a numerous and solidly 
 established clan; he had failed seemingly in more, 
 and more questionable, pursuits than any second 
 Thorpe recorded in local annals ; and, finally, he had 
 added to all previous failures the disaster of an 
 unprecedented marriage. The Thorpes, in general, 
 were all good Methodists who looked upon or 
 rather, looked stiffly away from the theatre as con 
 stituting one of the more sinister devices of Satan. 
 That Dunster's father, Theron, had been for a time 
 an "actor" was in itself a deep blot on the family 
 'scutcheon; that piling Pelion on Ossa he should 
 spontaneously induce the ingenue of a traveling 
 stock company to forsake her disreputable career 
 and become his legal (but never, the Thorpes held, 
 his reputable) wife well, that, as Dunster was at 
 last able to make out, had proved an affront unfor 
 givable, and had led to a thorough, persistent wash 
 ing of harshly disciplined, sectarian hands. It 
 seemed, nevertheless, so far at least as Dunster 
 could discover, to have been a fairly happy mar 
 riage, even if dogged by poverty and the contempt 
 of a stubbornly provincial world. His father, he 
 easily divined, was a being incapable of success in 
 any business pursuit; an inevitable misfit, therefore, 
 in his hard little money-grubbing Vanesburg environ 
 ment. His mother but he could learn little of his 
 
12 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 mother; nothing, in fact, save a vague tradition of 
 her "prettiness," that he was willing to believe. 
 After all, had she not stuck to his father faithfully 
 through lean years, and had she not borne him a 
 son! Rather an exceptional son, too (thus, with 
 conviction, but very privately, Dunster!), destined 
 to rise by his own intellectual effort into a freer, 
 more brilliant, more rewarding world. He had 
 somewhere read that exceptional sons inherited their 
 abilities directly from their mothers. He liked to 
 believe that. And his mother had been an actress 
 probably not a good one, but still an actress. One 
 couldn't be even a bad actress without some stirrings 
 of imagination, some traces of artistic, creative 
 power. ... It would be, he could not but feel, a 
 poetic vindication of his mother, a sort of belated 
 triumph for her, in spite of Vanesburg, if he 
 should finally be able to win through the Theatre 
 (he felt the capital imperative) through his Aunt 
 Emily's condemned and much-feared Theatre! to 
 a splendid fortune and to universal renown! For, 
 surely, it was not for nothing, as he again very pri 
 vately whispered to himself, that he had been so 
 miraculously saved in infancy from the flood. . . . 
 He was not, he believed, unduly superstitious; but 
 were there not always certain peculiarities, certain 
 signs and portents, connected with the infancy of 
 all men destined to be truly great? 
 
 And certainly his career had thus far exhibited 
 many preliminary symptoms of predestined distinc 
 tion. At public school he had always been head of 
 his class and had won all procurable prizes includ 
 ing the rather grudging esteem of his uncle, John 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 13 
 
 Carrick, who possessed in full measure the peculiarly 
 American reverence for any form of "book-learn- 
 ing" which he himself had not been privileged to 
 attain. Largely a self-made man, with a brood of 
 dully average children, John Carrick had been 
 greatly impressed by and secretly not a little jeal 
 ous of Dunster Thorpe's love of reading and bril 
 liant record at school; and, being a just man at heart, 
 he had early wrestled with baser instinct and had 
 determined that Dunster must be granted every edu 
 cational facility which he would so much more gladly 
 have afforded a son of his own. Dunster, in short, 
 when not yet seventeen, was sent to Ochiltree Col 
 lege, a small but thorough co-educational Methodist 
 establishment of southern Ohio, where he proceeded 
 once more fully to take advantage of what Aunt 
 Emily invariably referred to as his "opportunities." 
 It was at Ochiltree that his love for "writing" and 
 his gift for "making verses" asserted itself; and it 
 was there, too, that he passed beyond further need 
 for financial assistance from Uncle John and was 
 thus, without undue friction, enabled to pursue a 
 career which his uncle openly deprecated (while 
 privately envying) as "leading nowhere." 
 
 Aunt Emily, of course, had hoped Dunster might 
 be moved to become a Methodist minister, and had 
 shaken her head ominously over his failure to rec 
 ognize an imperative "call"; Uncle John, on the 
 other hand, would have been well satisfied with "the 
 law," and had urged its more businesslike aspects 
 upon him with dogged persistence. But Dunster, 
 who felt this lower call as little as the higher, had 
 diplomatically postponed a decision. He was doubt- 
 
14 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 less an overwise youth for his years, Dunster, with 
 deep-lying instincts which told him, (perhaps too 
 surely, on which side his bread was buttered. He 
 had always known how to flatter Uncle John and 
 how to play safe with Aunt Emily, and though he 
 believed himself to possess an unusually sensitive 
 moral nature he was not above practising many 
 little arts upon people in a position to help him, even 
 when they were people whose narrow mental out 
 look he contemptuously despised. There would be 
 time enough, he felt, for complete self-assertion 
 when he could at last safely (but he did not so ex 
 press it) kick his supports away. Not that he was 
 for one moment ungrateful! Perish the thought! 
 He could never be otherwise than grateful to Aunt 
 Emily and Uncle John. Still there was a valuable 
 life to be lived, a shining career to be fashioned; and 
 he hadn't the least intention of permitting lesser 
 matters to sway him from his far-seen course. It 
 was not surprising, then, but it was fortunate, that 
 he should win at Ochiltree an important scholarship 
 which enabled him to enter the Graduate School of 
 Harvard University; and there, within three years, 
 he had achieved his coveted (because so practically 
 necessary) Ph.D. in "English," and had obtained 
 an unexpectedly favorable appointment as instruc 
 tor in English Composition at Alden College. The 
 props and supporting ladders were no longer 
 requisite; he was solidly on his own feet at twenty- 
 three and could draw a long and be it admitted 
 wholly self-satisfied breath. 
 
 Life, he now concluded always granting that 
 one had been born with the indispensable brains, 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 15 
 
 was after all not too difficult a game; one could go 
 in for its larger prizes much as one went in for the 
 trifling prizes at public school, and one could really 
 count upon winning them and enjoying them before 
 one was either too old or too tired to care. For 
 Dunster (now Dr. Thorpe) did not long mean to 
 waste his life as a "mere teacher" of English; that 
 was a first step a short step only! He already 
 possessed a trunk-tray filled with "original composi 
 tions" verse and prose, but for the most part in 
 "dialogue" which he hoped might prove "spark 
 ling." It was not the scholarly world, it was his 
 much-loved "Theatre" though he had been very 
 careful never even to hint at this aspiration in Vanes- 
 burg which was ultimately to crown him with un 
 fading laurel and, incidentally, yet, as he felt, so es 
 sentially, to fill his coffers with spendable gold. For 
 Dunster Thorpe, schooled by all he had learned or 
 guessed of his father's failures, hated above all mor 
 tal restrictions the restriction of poverty. Riches, he 
 recognized, and for him that was their final value, 
 meant freedom: freedom to do as one pleased, to 
 go when and where one pleased, to be the servant 
 of no man's or woman's whim or importunity or 
 will. . . . To be ruled by another: that Dunster 
 had felt, even from childhood, was to live in hell. 
 Yet and again, even as a child he had ever known 
 enough not to rebel when rebellion could not serve 
 him. . . . He was a singularly prudent youth. 
 
 It was due largely to his prudence, though in 
 part to his popularity as a teacher, that during his 
 first years at Alden he was able to convince Dr. Or 
 lando Harrod of a great singleness of purpose 
 
16 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 the attainment of academic distinction. He contin 
 ued his experiments in verse making and play writing 
 as he could, but always in secret, exhibiting to no 
 one the tentative results of his labors. Secretiveness 
 as to his deeper thoughts and private aims became, 
 indeed, in those years, a vice of his nature. He 
 made acquaintances easily and was in general well 
 liked by them; but he made with one rather spe 
 cial exception, Mrs. Sterrett no lasting friends. 
 For one thing, he had thus far found no one at Al- 
 den, of either sex, below the rank of its President, 
 who seemed to him his mental equal; and, apart 
 from difference in years, it was impossible to make 
 a friend of Dr. Harrod, whose secretiveness and 
 prudence were more fully developed and confirmed 
 than his own. It was not, however, a cheap vanity 
 by which, in those first years of teaching, Dunster 
 suffered himself to be misled. He gave to the world, 
 rather, an impression not wholly false of likable 
 modesty. The psychic plague upon him was a far 
 subtler and more sinister disease. He was eaten up 
 by a spiritual arrogance which was due, partly, to 
 his realization of slowly developing but unrecog 
 nized powers, partly to the fact that his contacts 
 were so largely with persons in reality his mental 
 inferiors. He was too often forced diplomatically 
 to serve where he knew that he must one day rule. 
 And though he guessed it not it would be many 
 years yet before life threw him into a final field of 
 competition, where the winning of rare and supreme 
 prizes lies beyond the reach of any talent not rare, 
 ten times re-tested, and supreme. 
 
 His persistent blues, then, on the the evening in 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 17 
 
 question, were caused not so much by one major 
 grief as by the cumulative effect of many minor irri 
 tations. He was getting on, certainly; his assist 
 ant professorship attested that; but he was not as 
 yet even beginning to get on in the right direction. 
 And, after all, what was an assistant professorship 
 as the world counts success? The salary was ade 
 quate for a bachelor in a small town, if he didn't 
 go in for too expensive trips abroad during vaca 
 tions, or too freely indulge his deliberately acquired 
 and thoughtfully cultivated tastes for "first edi 
 tion," Japanese prints, etchings by Whistler, ori 
 ental prayer-rugs and saddle-bags, and the like. 
 That is to say, it was adequate for a bachelor in a 
 small town if he were willing to live on a restricted 
 scale. But Dunster well knew that his conception of 
 what he should be able to make of his "opportuni 
 ties'* to quote poor Aunt Emily did not anywhere 
 include living on a restricted scale. It was not that 
 he longed for enormous wealth or desired in any 
 sense to splurge ; but he could not with patience con 
 template being tied to a stake in a provincial lane 
 of life when his nature demanded for its full ex 
 pressiveness complete freedom to range at will along 
 the more sophisticated avenues, highways and park- 
 like squares of the world. In short, an academic ca 
 reer must always hold him more or less by the heels 
 unless he were to marry, with calculation, a rich 
 wife ; and even that, as he saw clearly, might prove 
 in the end a losing exchange of servitudes. It was 
 a way out, at least, whose existence he recognized, 
 but which he felt it beneath him to contemplate. 
 Thus, for his own conscience, he dismissed it. Yet 
 
18 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 it is just possible the dismissal was due not so much 
 to his feeling the step beneath him, as to his feel 
 ing it a mere pis alter which, under certain cir 
 cumstances, might even prove a silly descent from a 
 comparatively cool frying-pan into a central hell of 
 fire. No ; if he were ever to be free it would be be 
 cause he had spun from his own substance the price 
 of freedom. . . . But could he do it, after all? 
 
 He was not, seated there in his pleasant sitting- 
 room, precisely doubting himself, but he had begun 
 of late, now and again, to toy dreadfully with the 
 possibility of such a doubt. . . . He was twenty- 
 seven, approaching twenty-eight; the years from 
 thirty to forty should prove his best. If he now 
 gave himself until thirty-five well, that was a scant 
 seven years! Could he arrive at his far-seen goal 
 by then ? Could he, indeed, ever arrive there ? Thus 
 far, he admitted, an extraordinary luck had held for 
 him, unwaveringly but wasn't that now in itself a 
 danger-point? Worldly success, he reasoned, was, 
 on a final analysis, always the product of a given tal 
 ent, plus a grim will to achieve, plus and here the 
 grimmest were often helpless some favoring, happy 
 turn of the Great Impartial Wheel. There was a 
 point beyond which all men were puppets, subject 
 wholly to Chance. Fate had favored him, hitherto 
 but she was notoriously a goddess indifferent to 
 praise or prayer. He caught cold too easily, for 
 example. . . . Suppose, suddenly, just when he 
 needed most his full endurance ? Dunster 
 coughed, tentatively, once; then rose from his chair 
 with a shrug of annoyance at this touch of folly. He 
 was sound as a dollar. If anything held him back, 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 19 
 
 it wouldn't be his health ! What was it, then, that 
 he really feared? 
 
 For Dunster was fully aware that night that he 
 feared something; was suddenly, unaccountably, 
 afraid. . . . But of what in heaven's name, of 
 what? Nothing had changed. . . . 
 
 He went into his bedroom, removed the green 
 denim coverlet concealing his trunk, unlocked and 
 opened the lid, and removed the upper tray. It was 
 in the shallow middle tray that he kept his manu 
 scripts. He guarded them jealously, yet he was cu 
 riously clear-sighted about them, too, regarding them 
 merely as so much ground broken and harrowed for 
 present sowings and later magnificent harvestings. 
 But now, this very night, as he imperiously felt, the 
 hours of preparation were over. It was time to cast 
 in the sifted seed of experience and to tend the 
 growth of a merchantable crop. And he wondered 
 he could not feel both supremely ready and elated 
 by the prospect of all that such readiness should nor 
 mally have implied. 
 
 Well, the great thing to be done, the essential 
 thing, was of course a play an actable, an irresisti 
 ble play ! 
 
 He was certain that what old Ibsen had called the 
 "foreworks" for such a play were filed there ser- 
 viceably to his hand. It remained only to select ; then 
 to concentrate and make perfect. To begin with a 
 comedy, he had long since decided, would be advis 
 able with not too light-waisted a comedy. Uncul 
 tured New York managers catering to an uncultured 
 public, he had made out, frowned on unhappy end 
 ings; and, after all, he reasoned, to catch numberless 
 
20 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 flies one must not shrink from spreading one's honey 
 rather thickly. . . . Yes; if honey were needed he 
 would provide it generously, and give it perhaps a 
 special flavor the true "Dunster Thorpe" tang! 
 For that was all-important, too! He must not 
 even if stooping a little to conquer begin with a 
 play which any practised but commonplace dramatic 
 craftsman might equally well have constructed and 
 signed. He must make the "thing done" count not 
 merely for popularity but for permanence of effect. 
 True, he must step forth beguilingly, yet very firmly 
 and definitely as himself. Oh, he knew so well too 
 well, perhaps what he must do ! He had calculated 
 it to a hair's breadth so many times. . . . 
 
 Dunster bent over the trunk-tray with quiet hands, 
 almost in an attitude of silent prayer. He was not 
 praying, however. There was a stiff little frown 
 two sharp, black pen-strokes between his dark, 
 finely intelligent, but rather close-set eyes. Had an 
 observer been present, something poised and hawk 
 like, and ruthlessly intent, must have struck him in 
 the set of Dunster's head between his stooped shoul 
 ders, in the immobility, too, of his pale and somehow 
 romantically foreign-looking face. In another cos 
 tume he might, for the moment, have been a mon- 
 stgnore of the Cinquecento bending to examine 
 minutely some stained Etruscan coin or carved 
 Grecian gem. Thus briefly he stood ; then, with de 
 cision, chose out three neatly labeled folders con 
 taining manuscript the very "fore works" for pos 
 sible masterpieces mentioned above and carried 
 them back to the table-desk in his sitting-room; his 
 "study," as he preferred to call it. And there, mo- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 21 
 
 tionless, for one, two, three hours he read and pon 
 dered. . . . Then, almost angrily, he pushed the 
 manuscripts aside and sprang up, with just an impa 
 tient glance toward the small brass traveling-clock on 
 the mantelshelf. It was past eleven. His temples 
 burned and throbbed; his feet were almost numb 
 with cold. And, after all, it had proved a wasted 
 evening; he could not go forward he had not been 
 able to fix finally upon the inevitable subject, the pre 
 destined scheme. . . . But it would not do to press 
 matters; no mistake now must be made. 
 ! It would be useless, he knew, to go straight to bed, 
 with any hope at least of finding there an immediate 
 oblivion. He must first coax the hot blood from his 
 brain; take a brief brisk walk, and follow it by a 
 tranquilizing bath. Dunster seldom used the front 
 door of Mrs. Sterrett's house, for, from the rear 
 room of his little suite, his bedroom, a door led di 
 rectly by a flight of three steps into Mrs. Sterrett's 
 lovingly tended perennial garden. There had been 
 as yet no black frost to scythe down even the hardiest 
 plants with its clean, final stroke ; it must come soon 
 in this latitude; but thus far October had been un- 
 wontedly mild, and Mrs. Sterrett's trim borders 
 were still gay with the whites and old golds and apri 
 cots of her hardy chrysanthemums. Stepping down 
 into this garden, Dunster now halted a moment to 
 inhale the aromatic pungency of chrysanthemum fo 
 liage, while his eyes accustomed themselves to the 
 i darkness. It was an exceptionally dark night, he 
 discovered; almost warm, windless, with a fine, 
 stealthy drizzle sifting through it. He could catch 
 at last only a ghost's gleam from the purest white 
 
22 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 blossoms; yet he followed the narrow brick walk 
 leading round to the front of the house with all the 
 unconscious confidence of long habit, and his hand 
 went of itself to the latch of the entrance gate. At 
 the first corner, and once more steered by habit, he 
 turned up Ashmun Street, one of the more retired 
 streets of the village. Ashmun Street was the first 
 leg, to put it so, in his daily twelve-minute walk to 
 the hill-top campus of Alden; and, being a humble 
 thoroughfare, in all its length there were just two 
 street lamps, whose feeble illuminations served 
 merely to indicate their own positions and so, pos 
 sibly, to prevent unwary pedestrians from dashing 
 against them. 
 
 Striding rapidly, Dunster had passed the first of 
 these lamps and was gaining upon the second when 
 his ear detected the sound of light, distant footfalls 
 hurrying on down the steep street toward him. They 
 met just within the dull glimmer of the second lamp, 
 Dunster, and a girl wearing a long waterproof cape 
 with the hood thrown up over her hair. She tried 
 to slip by him, but for once the second lamp had 
 revealed something had betrayed her. 
 
 "Why Miss Chenoworth!" he exclaimed. 
 
 It was long after hours for one of the undergrad 
 uate maidens to be on the streets alone. 
 
 "Oh . . . how unlucky that I should run into 
 you!" came the girPs unhurried response. "I 
 thought I should be safe in this quarter of town." 
 
 "I happen to live in this quarter of town," said 
 Dunster. 
 
 "To be away from us?" she asked. "I envy 
 you." 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 23 
 
 Dunster knew it was his first imperative duty to 
 reprove her, to point out to her that she was break 
 ing a strict rule of the college; he must then conduct 
 her home in disgrace. But, for the moment, curi 
 osity restrained him. 
 
 "Why do you envy me, Miss Chenoworth?" 
 
 "You're at least free," she said. "And I've al 
 ways been, up to now always. Rules and regula 
 tions ah, voyonsf I know nothing of such things. 
 . . . How stupid they are ! How they irritate me !" 
 
 "Then why are you here at Alden, I mean? 
 After all . . ." 
 
 "Yes; I know," the girl assented. "One must be 
 a Roman in Rome. That's what father said; and 
 poor father wanted me so to come. But, for all 
 that, I'm not certain I shall stay. I'm turning it 
 over. That's really why I slipped out to-night, don't 
 you see? just to turn it over." 
 
 "Ah I see." 
 
 "But I wonder if you dol . . . Miss Goldsbor- 
 ough lectured me to-night, after supper; she said you 
 were very much displeased with me because of this 
 morning. She said you at first felt till she ex 
 plained about me that I ought to be severely dis 
 ciplined; made an example of! . . . Are you really 
 like that? If you are, I suppose I'm in for it now 
 beautifully! . . . Not that I shall much mind if 
 I'm sent away. I hate deciding such things, and it 
 would save me the trouble, wouldn't it?" 
 
 Again Dunster Thorpe was afflicted, in this slight 
 girl's presence, with a painful irresolution. "Your 
 father," he rather muttered than spoke out, and his 
 manner was for him almost humble, "is one of my 
 
24 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 highest admirations. If you envy me my freedom 
 (but that's rather a joke, you know, my 'freedom'), 
 I envy you the privilege of having such a father !" 
 
 "He doesn't shock you?" asked Lilia Chenoworth. 
 "He does Miss Goldsborough ; I could feel it. She 
 thinks him cynical, you know his plays! Fancy 
 anyone thinking dear old father cynical! If there's 
 anything shocking about him, it certainly isn't his 
 plays. Father's simply the most sentimental darling 
 in the world. That's why he was so eager to be rid 
 of me for the next few years, I mean. It's be 
 cause his moral brakes always slip when he needs 
 them most; and he's learned to know that. So have 
 I. But at bottom, you see, he's so dreadfully con 
 scientious poor old father! He's convinced him 
 self that he isn't, just now, a wholesome influence in 
 my life. . . . Well; it's quite possible he may be 
 right," she added, quaintly. "That's one of the 
 things I'm still turning over." 
 
 What Dunster Thorpe, for the moment, in his 
 great confusion of mind, was chiefly aware of was 
 that nobody in Vanesburg had ever conceived the 
 possibility of discussing a parent so frankly, with a 
 comparative stranger. It jarred on him, too; it out 
 raged what he was pleased to regard as his moral 
 sensibilities. It was incredible, he assured himself, 
 with how true an instinct he had from the first dis 
 liked, distrusted, this amazing young creature. Even 
 her prettiness was factitious deliberately artful. If 
 she wasn't exactly what his students, who were 
 all ardent followers of the films, now invariably 
 called a "vamp," she must, he felt, be taking her 
 first tentative steps toward that bad eminence. Why, 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 25 
 
 then, should he not immediately let her feel, at one 
 and the same stroke, his superior sagacity and his 
 superior contempt 1 
 
 "I advise you first," he said, with an exaggerated 
 hardening of tone, "to 'turn over* the consequences 
 of deliberately ignoring the rules of this institution. 
 I shall keep this present infraction to myself; but I 
 feel bound to warn you that, if you are unwilling to 
 become one of us, conform to our ways, you would 
 much better leave us at once and avoid the indignity 
 of public expulsion." 
 
 It infuriated him to note that Miss Chenoworth's 
 lips were twitching, not from apprehension, but from 
 a supreme effort to suppress any greater sign of 
 mirth than a passing smile. He broke out against 
 her. "In fact, I strongly advise you to leave us, Miss 
 Chenoworth! I have a feeling you will add very 
 little to the morale of Aldenl" 
 
 "Yes; I am turning that over as well," said Miss 
 Chenoworth. "And now, is it part of your duty to 
 conduct me back to prison? Or may I slip in as I 
 slipped out through the back window of our study? 
 I'm in Apsley Hall, you know." 
 
 "Two floors from the ground! Great heav 
 ens 1" 
 
 "How much better if I'd fallen, you mean, and 
 eliminated my pernicious influence on Alden once for 
 all?" 
 
 "Nothing was farther . . ." 
 
 "Thank you," she serenely interrupted. "But it's 
 quite safe, Professor Thorpe. There's a fire-escape 
 and an apple tree. I can manage perfectly, if 
 you'll trust me. I can climb like a cat." 
 
26 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "Like a cat," he echoed, oddly. "I've no doubt 
 you can." 
 
 "Well?" she prompted. 
 
 "Well," he hesitated "for once. . . . Still 
 you're forcing me, you see, into a false position. I'm 
 party now to your crime." 
 
 "Oh," she protested "crime !" Then she briefly 
 and gently laughed out at him. "As I shan't tell on 
 you, Professor Thorpe, you're quite safe." And 
 with that she flitted from him into surrounding night. 
 He heard the light pit-pat of her feet receding 
 receding. Silence, then. He was drenched with the 
 close, still drizzle ; he felt as if the fog were crowding 
 into him through his clothing, through every pore 
 of his body. ... It must be near now to midnight. 
 A penetrating chill had crept into the air. He would 
 quite probably catch cold; he caught cold so easily 
 too easily! . . . And, at last, he coughed experi 
 mentally, just once ; then with a harsh groan for all 
 his follies of commission and omission turned on 
 his heel and strode furiously back to his rooms. 
 
 IV 
 
 MISS GOLDSBOROUGH was informally "at 
 home" to the Faculty and students of Alden 
 College every Wednesday afternoon from four- 
 thirty to five forty-five. She had a large, sunny cor 
 ner room in Apsley Hall which she had cleverly 
 furnished as a combination of intimate salon and pri 
 vate library. "Goldy's teas," in short, had become 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 27 
 
 a part of the sacred Alden tradition; and while, os 
 tensibly, any student of Alden might drop in to them 
 for a cup of real Orange Pekoe and some of Goldy's 
 delicious little sandwiches and cakes, undergraduate 
 "custom" had gradually excluded from this privi 
 lege all members of the Freshman and Sophomore 
 classes and even the Juniors, unless unquestionably 
 "prominent" in their class, felt an increasing hesi 
 tancy in presenting themselves at Goldy's door. 
 Moreover, even among the Seniors, unless one had 
 become established in a position of open favoritism 
 for there were always two or three of the more 
 brilliant, if also socially eligible, Seniors whom 
 Goldy chose to distinguish by marked attentions 
 it was not at all the thing to attend Goldy's teas 
 too frequently; three or four visits during the col 
 lege year were felt to be about the proper, because 
 customary, number. As for the girls who did drop 
 in, they naturally wore their prettiest frocks and put 
 their very best feet forward, since a sprinkling of 
 the younger men of the Faculty was always present 
 to lend a certain needed stimulus to any exhibition 
 of beauty, or wit, or "that damned charm" which 
 Barrie's heroines all possess, and which Barrie, there 
 fore, has been able perfectly to name. Except for 
 Goldy herself, the older professors of Alden, male 
 or female, were chiefly conspicuous by their absence. 
 It was almost with horror, then for the unwrit 
 ten community mores at Alden, as elsewhere, are the 
 only laws regarded quite seriously that Nannie 
 Elkus, president of the Senior class, who was grace 
 fully raising a teacup to her lips for a first delicate 
 sip, and who happened to be facing Miss Goldsbor- 
 
28 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 ough's invitingly open door, saw a breath-taking 
 vision appear in the outer hall and float serenely for 
 ward into the sacred presence. It was Goldy's first 
 "at home" of the opening semester, and only those 
 girls who were most confident of their position in 
 the college world had ventured to appear. Yet here 
 was a young sprig of a thing an unknown Fresh 
 man for she must be a Freshman! coming for 
 ward. And such a Freshman! Nannie Elkus, an 
 adept, had never seen anything quite so stunningly 
 divine as that Nile-green chiffon-velvet never! 
 She made out, with a private pang, the immensely 
 artful simplicity of its total effect, even while the 
 insolent impropriety of there being, under the cir 
 cumstances, any effect whatever, stirred and clouded 
 the very springs of her seniorial and presidential 
 conscience. "Pardon me," she just dropped at the 
 nose-bridge of Mr. Gurney, junior instructor in 
 Economics, and her momentary vis-a-vis; then she 
 moved with all the majestic energy of her Juno-like 
 figure and acknowledged supremacy to meet and 
 crush the intruder. 
 
 There was a stir throughout the room and more 
 than one thrilled intake of breath as she swept for 
 ward. But Goldy was actually shaking hands with 
 the intruder when they met. . . . And there could 
 be no mistaking the professional graciousness of 
 Goldy's manner or smile. 
 
 "Oh, Nannie dear," said Goldy, seizing the first 
 word, "this is Lilia Chenoworth daughter, you 
 know, of Anson Chenoworth, the famous dramatist. 
 I particularly asked Lilia to come to-day because I 
 so wanted her to meet you. Lilia knows little of col- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 29 
 
 lege life she isn't quite one of us yet, I think; and 
 I felt you could do more to help her understand us 
 all our special points of view and little intimate 
 ways than any second girl on the campus." 
 Throughout this wholly unexpected speech she had 
 retained Lilia's hand; now she physically passed it 
 on to Nannie Elkus, whose brown, athletic paw 
 (gloves being barred at Goldy's teas) received the 
 slight, white, kid-sheathed object doubtfully, as if 
 she had been dared to hold and examine some faintly 
 venomous or creepily unpleasant natural curiosity 
 say, a specimen of Monotropa uniflora, the parasitic 
 corpse-plant or Indian pipe. 
 
 a Miss Elkus," continued Goldy, still beaming pro 
 fessionally upon Lilia, "is one of my stand-bys . . . 
 and president of the Senior class ! Now I shall sim 
 ply leave you together, while I pour you a cup of 
 tea. You take lemon, of course?" 
 
 "No; cream, please," answered Lilia distinctly, 
 all eyes now upon her, but entirely unfluttered by 
 their scrutiny. "I find I don't care for the American 
 version of tea a la Russe. . . . Without brandy, I 
 mean," she explicitly added; then turned to Nannie 
 Elkus with an appreciative smile. "I've been won 
 dering who you were," she continued, "and now I'm 
 so much more than delighted to meet you. You're 
 so magnificent to look at! You see, I've been call 
 ing you, to myself, of course, 'Hippolita' the 
 Queen of the Amazons, you know, in the Midsum 
 mer Night's Dream? I could never think of you as 
 'Nannie' I wonder your parents could! ... I 
 hope you won't really mind?" 
 
 It would have been impossible, at that instant, for 
 
30 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Nannie Elkus to say whether she really minded or 
 not, so dumfounded was she by the sang-froid, the 
 utter, cool social adequacy of this Freshman chit in 
 her immediate presence ! Naturally, no normal girl 
 minds much being told she is magnificent to look at, 
 even if the statement merely tallies with a deeply 
 rooted personal conviction. Still, there is a praise 
 felt to be slightly ambiguous, just as there is a praise 
 obviously, ail-inclusively final, not to say abject. 
 Nannie's too human preference was for the latter va 
 riety a variety she was by no means certain she 
 had just then ingenuously been offered. The child 
 before her hadn't quite the look of one self-aban 
 doned to an unreserved admiration. Nannie Elkus 
 more than suspected the presence of a veiled, quali 
 fying thought. . . . Rather brusquely she let Lilia's 
 fingers slide from hers. No ; she would not be cor 
 dial! One ought not to be cordial to a Freshman 
 who had failed in the first law of Freshman exist 
 ence a decent humility. Nevertheless, she knew 
 she had been put at a sad disadvantage by the pos 
 sibly two-edged form of Goldy's introduction. She 
 couldn't at once, in Goldy's presence, risk an open 
 snub; and she was not sufficiently quick-witted to 
 achieve a satisfactory nuance. ... In short, she 
 achieved at last nothing better than an insincere state 
 ment, followed by what she hoped might prove a 
 withering question. 
 
 "It's too bad you should be the only member of 
 your class here to-day. . . . Would you care to meet 
 some of the older girls?" 
 
 "I'd much rather meet some of the younger men," 
 replied Lilia, with her faintly quizzical ("detest- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 31 
 
 able!" Nannie later described it) smile. "I've met 
 far too many girls lately, as it is. And to think you've 
 had four years of it and can still bear up so gor 
 geously and bloom! . . . Oh, thank you, Miss 
 Goldsborough. . . . What exquisite tea ! ... I do 
 wish you could persuade the chef here have we a 
 chef, though ? to make drinkable tea. And may I 
 have one of those little green cakes? it just matches 
 my gown. , . ." 
 
 It was at this point that Nannie Elkus found her 
 self studying Lilia's slender silhouette from a posi 
 tion not of her own choosing a pace or so to the 
 left and perhaps three paces to the rear. It was not 
 a position she was accustomed to being left in, and 
 Mr. Gurney, the forsaken, did little now to improve 
 it by again appearing before her and asking if he 
 might not hope for an introduction to "little Miss 
 Chenoworth." Daughter of Anson Chenoworth, he 
 understood. Stunning little creature, wasn't she ! A 
 bit flossy for Alden, perhaps eh? Not quite in 
 the picture yet? But interesting distinctly interest 
 ing. . . . 
 
 "Personally, since you ask me," Nannie Elkus 
 once more dropped at his nose-bridge, "I think her a 
 vulgar, impertinent little beast!" 
 
 "Oh, dear, dear, dear so bad as that? Well, 
 after all, what one recalls of Chenoworth, eh? 
 what one has heard ..." murmured Mr. Gurney, 
 his insignificant voice vignetting toward silence, his 
 insignificant person edging incontinently away. . . . 
 
 And Lilia, meanwhile, oblivious of these dusky 
 amenities, was providing a new sensation. Her op 
 portunity for this had come with the appearance of 
 
32 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 young too-young Assistant Professor Thorpe in 
 Goldy's doorway. "Oh, Dr. Thorpe!" she had ex 
 claimed, lightly setting down her cup and almost run 
 ning to meet him : "I am so glad to see you ! here, 
 I mean away from the class-room, where I'm al 
 ways somehow in disgrace ! Do let me get you a cup 
 of really truly perfect tea !" 
 
 TWO days later, having obtained a half-hour ap 
 pointment for 10 A.M., Dunster Thorpe pre 
 sented himself at the private office of Dr. Orlando 
 Harrod, President of Alden. He was at once ad 
 mitted to the "Throne Room," as the students called 
 it, by Miss Dart, Dr. Harrod's super-efficient pri 
 vate secretary. 
 
 The Throne Room was a rather large, vaguely 
 vaulted apartment, not too well lighted by three nar 
 row, vaguely Gothic windows, plainly glazed and 
 grouped at one end of the room, before which stood 
 Dr. Harrod's ample glass-topped mahogany desk. 
 One therefore approached Dr. Harrod from the 
 rear and walked perhaps thirty feet to reach him, 
 down a strip of worn, magenta-red carpet only too 
 well known to certain of the students (and to all by 
 reputation) as "the Road to Hell." But, for the 
 conscience-stricken, the special terrors of this Road 
 to Hell lurked chiefly in the impression of utter de 
 tachment conveyed by the long, lean, slouching back 
 of Dr. Harrod himself, ill seen against the triple 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 33 
 
 window-glare at the end of the vista. In his own 
 person, at least, Dr. Harrod was no stickler for the 
 trappings of academic dignity. He was usually to 
 be found in a suit of rough dark tweeds, looking 
 with his shock of iron-gray hair and seamed Yankee 
 face not unlike a dimmer, less energized Mark 
 Twain : a Mark Twain, say, with less of the lion in 
 his glance and more, possibly, of some wise, weary 
 old raven, given merely to peering down now and 
 again from the Inaccessible at the timid trivialities 
 of woman or man. It was Miss Dart's custom 
 always to announce distinctly, from the door of her 
 anteroom, the name of any being she started down 
 the Road to Hell, and, having done so, to withdraw. 
 It was Dr. Harrod's custom to pay no attention to 
 these announcements. Quailing freshman offender, 
 or fuming millionaire trustee it was all one to Dr. 
 Harrod. Let those who sought him or had been 
 haled before him first find their several ways to his 
 side. He would then, as always, rise with old-fash 
 ioned dignity and put out an impartial hand. . . . 
 (Malicious rumor even has it that one feeble of 
 fender, overcome by the hushed horror of the way, 
 fainted midlong the Road to Hell, and coming to 
 at last, found only that nothing had changed : found 
 Dr. Harrod's back still awaiting her at the end of the 
 vista. But the tale is held to be apocryphal by the 
 more cautious research scholars of the institution.) 
 Being a hero, Dunster was of course undaunted. 
 He walked straight down the Road to Hell and said 
 "Good morning, Dr. Harrod!" crisply, at least ten 
 feet before he had come to the visitor's chair (the 
 "stool of repentance" of undergraduate flippancy) 
 
34 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 by Dr. Harrod's side. Then he shook Dr. Har 
 rod's impartial hand, asked briefly after his health, 
 and without further preliminaries proceeded at once 
 to business. "Dr. Harrod," he began, "may I ask 
 just how far you consider it necessary for me to sub 
 ject myself to humiliation by one of my students?" 
 
 Dr. Harrod seldom quite met an interlocutor's 
 eye ; without in any way giving an impression of fur- 
 tiveness, he would usually stare apathetically just 
 over the top of the head of the person addressing 
 him. "You are alluding, I presume, Dr. Thorpe, to 
 little Miss Chenoworth?" 
 
 Dunster could not easily conceal his surprise. "I 
 confess, sir," he admitted, "I didn't suppose you 
 were even aware of her existence." 
 
 "Yet you have been with us four or five years," 
 commented Dr. Harrod, without a smile. "Her 
 father," he presently went on, "is a very celebrated 
 man, Dr. Thorpe and a very wealthy man." 
 
 "No one admires him more than I do !" Dunster 
 blundered. 
 
 "Ah? ... In what respect, pray?" 
 
 "Of their kind," responded Dunster, feeling now 
 for his words more carefully, "his plays seem to me 
 almost flawless works of art. But I admit," he 
 quickly added, "that their kind is far from the high 
 est. Indeed, their subject-matter is often very ob 
 jectionable." 
 
 "Objectionable?" murmured Dr. Harrod. 
 
 "From an ethical point of view," said Dunster. 
 
 "Do you consider Shakespeare an ethical writer?" 
 asked Dr. Harrod. 
 
 Dunster just hesitated, fully alert now, and sweep- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 35 
 
 ing his mental antenna about for a possible trap. 
 . . . "In the deepest sense yes," he finally achieved. 
 
 Dr. Harrod dropped his eyes swiftly and gave 
 Dunster a single appraising look; then stared wearily 
 off again just over the sleek arch of his smoothly 
 parted black hair. 
 
 "At your age," he pronounced slowly, "I should 
 have answered just as you have but not, I think, 
 from the same motive. . . . However. What is it 
 you specifically complain of?" 
 
 "Through Miss Goldsborough, sir, I have now 
 made three recommendations for disciplining Miss 
 Chenoworth. Nothing has come of them. I feel 
 that Miss Chenoworth is being unfairly protected by 
 Miss Goldsborough doubtless from every motive 
 of kindness. But if an exception is to be made in 
 Miss Chenoworth's favor and such flagrantly spe 
 cial privileges granted her, then I must ask you either 
 to remove her from my classes or to accept my res 
 ignation. The situation, as it exists, is impossible 
 for me, at least. . . ." 
 
 "Bravo," said Dr. Harrod. "Now at last I see 
 where your prudence ends. . . . Where your pride 
 begins," he added; but not as if he were offering an 
 explanation. Then his voice sharpened, hardened. 
 "You are of course mistaken, my dear boy. Miss 
 Chenoworth is not being protected by Miss Golds- 
 borough. She is being protected if you wish to call 
 it that by me." 
 
 Dunster's throat, suddenly dry and constricted, 
 emitted the oddest, most meaninglessly bird-like lit 
 tle chirp a trivial note he was to recall with rage 
 and self-scorn for weeks thereafter. Dr. Harrod 
 
36 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 flowed on, ignored it; yet the boy felt he had de 
 tected in his abstract eye the most transient of 
 gleams. 
 
 "But personally," persisted Dr. Harrod, "I 
 should prefer you to put it that she is being ob 
 served. In the first place, I am entirely responsible 
 for her presence at Alden. I had the pleasure of 
 meeting Lilia and her father this past summer. As 
 you know, I spend a portion of each summer in 
 northern Italy. Every man, every old man that 
 is to say, every lonely man should have a hobby 
 and mine happens to be Francia. I have relentlessly 
 pursued the simpering, yet ineffable virgins of Fran 
 cia into every nook and corner of that divine but 
 very often hot and dusty and smelly land. Well, 
 Dr. Thorpe, I was last August, for the first time in 
 already perhaps too long a life, overcome by heat 
 while walking along a country lane near Settignano, 
 in the environs of Florence. I suffered a sunstroke 
 and fell down senseless. When I revived with a 
 most unmerited headache I was lying in a large, 
 dark apartment, with a native doctor in attendance. 
 In short, I had been picked up by no less a person 
 than Anson Chenoworth and carried in his motor to 
 his very beautiful and extensive villa at Settignano. 
 I remained there as an enforced guest for several 
 days and returned a little later to spend a week 
 with one of the most delightful and cultivated men 
 I have ever met. My description of him, so far as 
 it goes, is exact. And one result of my visit is the 
 presence of his daughter, Lilia, in your classes to 
 day. A disturbing child, Dr. Thorpe like her 
 father. With brilliant qualities brilliant qualities. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 37 
 
 . . . What she immediately needs from you from 
 us all is not conventional discipline, but imagina 
 tive sympathy. As the quality is somewhat rare, she 
 is not likely to get quite all of it that she needs. 
 However. . . . Try to understand her. I venture 
 to say she'll teach you more than you're likely to be 
 able to return in full. May I count on you for din 
 ner on Saturday? Splendid. Yes; seven the cus 
 tomary hour. Good day . . . good day. . . ." 
 
 This was perhaps the first occasion in Dunster 
 Thorpe's life when he had crept (in spirit) from 
 another's presence feeling a beaten and abject fool. 
 Physically, he had held his head high and walked 
 firmly back along the Road from Hell. None the 
 less was he whipping himself with scorpions ! "Curse 
 you!" he would lash himself, as he went competently 
 about his duties, a stiff little smile on his lips, 
 "Curse you ! Now the old man thinks you a narrow 
 pedant, or a lip-serving hypocrite or both ! Well 
 are you? are you? If you are, why acknowledge 
 it! Come now Are you a conventional pedant at 
 heart? or a conventional hypocrite? or some hor 
 rible amalgamation Oh, damn it! is the old man 
 right? . . . And if so well . . . what then?" 
 
38 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 VI 
 
 A MERICAN parents usually give their sons sen- 
 -** sible names; but when it comes to the naming 
 of daughters all common sense deserts them. In 
 the presence of a female baby they lose, it would 
 seem, all self-restraint and their innate romanticism 
 gushes forth. There is nothing for wonder, then, in 
 the fact that Lilia's room-mates were named Myrtle 
 and Idabelle. Lilia Myrtle Idabelle. . . . 
 These are not, however, characters in some Eliza 
 bethan pastoral comedy. No masquerade is aimed 
 at; no satire intended. So far as given names go, 
 these are just any three Freshmen thrown by chance 
 together in one of the rooming-units of Apsley Hall. 
 "Chenoworth," it may be maintained, is at least 
 not an anti-climax to "Lilia" : but what shall be said 
 for "Frame" and "Hecksher" as closing strains to 
 a preluding "Myrtle" and "Idabelle"? Must one 
 not feel sadly or gayly, as one's temperament per 
 mits that American romanticism rushes in where 
 Elizabethan romanticism would have feared to 
 tread? Not that it matters greatly, one way or 
 t'other; since there is no wringing from it all a sin 
 gle quiver of Suspense. . . . And Suspense, mes en- 
 jants, as any linotyper, scene-shifter or snipper-and- 
 paster of film can assure you, is to the Art of Fiction 
 what Alcohol (if only 2.75 per cent.) is (or once 
 was) to Light Wine or Beer: to wit, the slight se 
 cret cause of a vast public consumption; no adequate 
 substitute (certainly not the pure grape-pressings of 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 39 
 
 wisdom or mere hop-tang of wit) ever having been 
 
 discovered by any however gifted teller of tales. 
 
 After which brief excursus, "a la manure de - " 
 
 VII 
 
 honestly, Myrt," demanded Idabelle 
 Hecksher, "what do you make of her?" 
 
 Myrtle Frame, a plump, pink girl, soundly corn- 
 fed product of the Middle West, had announced not 
 five minutes before this question that Idabelle was 
 to keep her big mouth shut for an hour, even if it 
 killed her; for she, Myrtle, simply had to bone up 
 her history notes. With Idabelle's question, how 
 ever, she threw her note-book in the general direc 
 tion of the window-seat, upon which Idabelle 
 sprawled rather than reclined; then she arose and 
 perched herself cross-legged at the opposite end of 
 the window-seat from Idabelle. 
 
 "What do you?" she asked. . . . 
 
 "My child," said Idabelle, patronizingly, "there 
 are a good many little things like that which it's bet 
 ter for you not to know." 
 
 "Oh, you think you know a lot, don't you!" 
 grinned Myrtle, good-naturedly. As this was about 
 Myrtle's general average in repartee, and as she was 
 physically fit and agreeable, it is not very difficult to 
 deduce from the combination that Myrtle's post- 
 academic career would almost certainly be domestic. 
 "Anyway, I don't care!" she continued; "I think 
 Lilia's the best ever! I just simply adore her!" 
 
 "Slush," commented Idabelle, who was thin and 
 sallow and plain, with the small black eyes and long 
 
40 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 pointed nose that, between them, gave her (most 
 unfairly) a rather maliciously ratlike expression. 
 Like many a plain girl with brains, Idabelle prided 
 herself upon her contempt for "slushiness." She 
 believed that she had no use for feelings; which 
 meant merely that she repressed the more agreeable 
 in favor of the more acrid emotions ; and she always 
 gibed mercilessly at any spontaneous outflowing of 
 sentiment from others. 
 
 "It's not slush!" riposted Myrtle. "Most every 
 body in the class is crazy about her but you !" 
 
 "Then most everybody's crazy. But you're wrong, 
 at that. I'll bet Lilia's made more enemies in 
 four weeks than you'll make in four years. Or 
 fifty. Because you'll never make any. Your pud 
 dingy kind never does." 
 
 "Thanks, I'm sure," said Myrtle, not in the least 
 ruffled by this impeachment. Then she paused for 
 Idabelle's "Don't mention it!" the indicated re 
 tort; but Idabelle refused this closing chord and so, 
 as it were, left the whole musical passage hanging 
 forlornly. . . . The vacuum made Myrtle squirm, 
 until, abruptly, Idabelle announced a new movement 
 with kettle drums. 
 
 "The truth is, Myrt, I really like Lilia better than 
 you do. Only I don't go off my head about it. She's 
 not exactly my kind; but she's more my kind than 
 yours. And I bet you'll admit it, too, before the 
 term's up !" 
 
 This was far too steep for Myrtle. "Like her I 
 You do! What are you always knocking her for, 
 then!" she wonderingly exclaimed. 
 
 "Well, nobody's perfect . . ." 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 41 
 
 "Except you !" gurgled Myrtle, joyously hugging 
 her knees. 
 
 "Except me," Idabelle gravely echoed. "You can 
 score ten for that one if you like, Myrt ten out of 
 a possible hundred. As for Lilia, she's her own 
 worst enemy just as I'm mine; only, she's so darn 
 pretty it makes everything she says and does con 
 spicuous. That and her having a famous father! 
 Mine sells drygoods in Brooklyn, thank God! no 
 body can bring him up against me. But Anson 
 Chenoworth golly ! It isn't just his being famous, 
 either. Everybody more or less knows he's been a 
 rip-snorter all over the map. ... So what chance 
 has Lilia got ? . . . Oh, come to, Myrt! I asked 
 you a question!" 
 
 "You didn't ! You said Lilia was 'so darn pretty.* 
 . . . I've been chewing on that. . . . Honestly, Ide, 
 I don't think she's so awfully pretty not really 
 pretty. Except maybe her hair and eyes it's 
 mostly her clothes the way she wears them, 
 and . . ." 
 
 Idabelle snickered. 
 
 "You professional beauties are all alike. Thank 
 heaven my face isn't my fortune ! But all the same, 
 Myrt, I notice the men don't agree with you. Prof. 
 Hinky-dink" (Dr. Harold Pettibone, psychologist: 
 author of "Habit and Spontaneity, a Monograph," 
 etc., etc.) "jes' can't make his eyes behave! It's 
 scan'lous! As for His Beautiful Lordship !" 
 
 "Nobody calls Professor Thorpe that but you I" 
 
 "Nobody seems to be on to him but me," Idabelle 
 responded. "He doesn't even seem to be on to him- 
 
42 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 self. But he's like Malvolio, if you want my opinion. 
 He's sick with self-love." 
 
 "Piffle ! That's you all over, Ide just because 
 he's good-looking* You always seem to think any 
 one who isn't a fright must have a swelled head." 
 
 "Oh, His Beautiful Lordship hasn't a swelled 
 head exactly. But I can't explain the difference to 
 you, sweetness you're not good at differences." 
 
 "Gee, but you're a knocker, Ide honestly you 
 are! / think Professor Thorpe's a perfect dandy I 
 He makes everything so interesting. I suppose it's 
 awful to admit it, but I never could stand Shake 
 speare before now I'm crazy about it. ... But 
 isn't Lilia the limit with him! They got on each 
 other's feet right from the start !" 
 
 "Lilia and Shakespeare ?" 
 
 Myrtle made up as gargoyle-like a face as she 
 could manage. 
 
 "Oh you mean Lilia and His Beautiful Lord 
 ship?" 
 
 The attempt at the gargoyle was repeated. Ida- 
 belle laughed. 
 
 "Love at first sight, my child. His Beautiful 
 Lordship's simply mad about her." 
 
 "What 1" 
 
 "Certainly. Lilia knows it, too." 
 
 "Has she said so?" 
 
 But it was Lilia herself who answered this half- 
 thrilled, half-incredulous question. 
 
 "No." She stood quietly at the door of their tiny 
 entrance-hall and smiled at her room-mates. "What 
 ever it is I know, I'm quite sure I've never revealed 
 it to anybody. I'm very discreet." Her irony was 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 43 
 
 not lost upon Idabelle, whose black eyes snapped an 
 appreciative welcome. Myrtle, as if caught in a dis 
 graceful indiscretion, was blushing furiously. "But 
 what is it I'm supposed to know, Myrtle?" contin 
 ued Lilia, serenely. "It's so dreadfully awkward, 
 isn't it not to know what one knows?" 
 
 Being flustered, with Myrtle, always led at once 
 to a discard from fright. 
 
 "Ide says you know Professor Thorpe's in love 
 with you!" she blurted. 
 
 "Oh that" Lilia's characteristic shrug brought 
 her forward a little out of shadow. Her hair, her 
 eyes, flickered into glistening life; her whole slight 
 presence gleamed and sparkled. Idabelle had sud 
 denly and oddly the impression that she, Idabelle, 
 was seated in a theatre. . . . "Professor Thorpe 
 makes it a fairly open secret, doesn't he poor boy?" 
 queried Lilia; and Idabelle at once felt, however ab 
 surdly, a strong impulse to applaud. . . . "He must 
 be very inexperienced," added Lilia Chenoworth. 
 
 Myrtle was now looking horrified, genuinely so. 
 "Good Lord I" she babbled. "Why, you sound as 
 if you'd had thousands of love affairs already!" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Lilia, easily, "I've never had an 
 affair. It takes two to make an affair doesn't it, 
 Idabelle?" Then she walked on into her bedroom, 
 calling lightly back, "Isn't it time to dress for din 
 ner?" 
 
44 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 VIII 
 
 - ORLANDO HARROD was a widower with 
 three daughters. The two older daughters 
 were married, with children of their own; and they 
 lived far from him, both physically and sympathet 
 ically, in great inland cities, where their husbands 
 prospered and to rubber-stamp and end the mat 
 ter "surrounded them with every luxury." Ruth, 
 his youngest, who by courtesy, at least kept house 
 for him, was already on the threshold of thirty; a 
 miniature, fawn-colored being, too delicately fash 
 ioned, without and within, for the rougher uses of 
 this world. Her invalidism was persistent and gen 
 uine; yet no one knew precisely what was the mat 
 ter with her least of all perhaps the many cele 
 brated specialists who had gravely studied her case ; 
 and the final, invariable prescription for her, sol 
 emnly offered by each of these distinguished gentle 
 men in turn, was "rest." She must take things more 
 easily, lie down more hours a day, never exert her 
 self. . . . Ruth often joked about it, wistfully, with 
 her much-loved father. "It really isn't their fault, 
 dearest. If God, to start with, couldn't even pro 
 vide me with a working constitution, we mustn't 
 blame it on them. And they're all certain I'll be 
 perfectly all right when I can rest eternally. Mean 
 while, I'm so happy just as it is with you !" 
 
 Ruth was like that with her father at once cyn 
 ical and gentle. A frail, self-complete little stoic, 
 she was without illusions, yet without bitterness. But 
 only to him did she so completely reveal herself. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 45 
 
 In her somewhat rare contacts with outsiders she 
 was always pleasant, and even sprightly, but she 
 reserved the natural force and pungency of her mind. 
 It is not too much to say that Dr. Harrod, who had 
 never elsewhere met with her like, completely adored 
 her. She had profoundly influenced him, too. There 
 was, he wonderingly admitted to himself, hardly one 
 of his as he had once supposed fully matured 
 ideas which during the last decade this invalid 
 daughter had not quietly, but almost ruthlessly, 
 touched and changed. 
 
 Unlike most of the older college presidents of 
 America, Orlando Harrod was a doctor not of di 
 vinity, but of philosophy. And, unlike most doc 
 tors of philosophy, philosophy was indeed his "sub 
 ject." Throughout the earlier and middle years of 
 his teaching he had expounded the metaphysics of 
 Kant, Hegel, Fichte, and the rest of the Idealistic 
 (Ego-centric) Teutons, with a personal faith in their 
 Abstract Absolute almost as burning as the faith of 
 an African convert in "de Lawd Gawd A'mighty." 
 But now, perhaps, it was fortunate that he was no 
 longer called upon to teach or to testify in detail as 
 to what the years had left him of his once majestic 
 and complete Cosmic Explanation. He was now, 
 rather amusedly than hypocritically, content to let 
 his former reputation for Enormous Certitude and 
 Tremendous Moral Earnestness cling publicly about 
 him; privately, he could afford to smile at its per 
 sistence. He no longer understood the Cosmos, nor 
 cared, intellectually, to underwrite it but he still 
 had occasional hopes of it. That was about what it 
 came to. And though he well knew Ruth to be re- 
 
46 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 sponsible for this slow dwindling of an Impatient 
 Certitude toward a Patient Scepticism, he bore her 
 no grudge. On the contrary. He loved and ad 
 mired her all the more. . . . 
 
 True, he liked to speak of himself as an old and 
 lonely man; but this was a mere way of speech 
 a pose. Except for his more or less constant anxiety 
 over Ruth's uncertain health, he was enjoying the 
 latter end of his life to the full. He had achieved 
 much for Alden, and for education; honors had 
 been heaped upon him. Now all that lay behind. 
 In another year he would step out and leave the 
 last of his professional burdens to younger hands. 
 He would then take a villa near Florence. He 
 would perhaps be able to buy one Francia to adorn 
 it. And he would live there with Ruth. . . . 
 
 "What are you dreaming over, dearest?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Ruth, that evening, had decided she was quite 
 equal to coming down and presiding at table for 
 her father. For one thing, young Professor Thorpe 
 was coming, and he had always interested her 
 puzzled her; she had never, to her own satisfaction, 
 been able to make him out. But chiefly, she was 
 eager to meet Lilia Chenoworth again. Ruth had 
 seen the child, as she called her, three or four 
 times now, each time briefly; and, granted Lilians 
 rather quaintly sophisticated charm, and Dr. Har- 
 rod's extraordinary interest in her, Ruth felt it 
 inevitable that friendship, or something approach 
 ing it, should spring up between "the child" and 
 herself. Yet thus far, as she well knew, her true 
 feeling toward Lilia was ever so slightly hostile. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 47 
 
 Ruth could smile at the absurdity of this feeling, for 
 she recognized that its ofigin was not in Lilia. 
 Associated with every thought of "the child," she 
 was conscious of a faint, a very faint twinge of 
 jealousy. ... It was all clear enough and suffi 
 ciently silly. "If I will always let myself think of 
 father as my exclusive property," Ruth reflected, 
 "well what can I expect!" So there it was for 
 the all but nothing it was worth. . . . Yes; she was 
 eager to meet Lilia Chenoworth again. Disregard 
 ing those preposterous twinges, she must banish 
 hostility once for all and fully discover for her 
 self, somehow, just why her fathers interest in 
 Lilia was so spontaneous, so warm. 
 
 "A penny for your thoughts," she added, with 
 her slight, wistful smile. 
 
 "They were all of you, my dear," said Dr. 
 Harrod. "Of you and Italy." 
 
 "You sound like a poem by Browning," Ruth 
 tenderly laughed. "And I like you to sound like 
 that. How old-fashioned we are !" 
 
 They were seated either side of an open fire, 
 in the large, rather nondescript living-room of the 
 President's house a dwelling built just after the 
 Civil War, with all the high-ceilinged, black-wal- 
 nutted, plaster-convoluted pretentiousness of a serf- 
 satisfied period. The interior "decorations" of the 
 President's House, it is true, had since been light 
 ened and simplified, but the high ceilings necessarily 
 remained, and much of the black walnut a beau 
 tiful wood in itself, though sombre, and sadly mis 
 handled by the unimaginative, molding-mad crafts 
 men of the mid-nineteenth century. This living-room, 
 
48 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 however, since it had for long really been lived in 
 by civilized persons, and so modified through the 
 years by a thousand civilizing contacts, had become 
 a most homelike and, on the whole, harmonious 
 apartment. There were in it great, dingy, com 
 fortable arm-chairs; thoughtfully placed reading- 
 lamps; many books. It was a room that defied 
 analysis, yet possessed an atmosphere : a good room 
 to read Plato in, with feet on the fender ; an equally 
 good room to converse in; a good room, indeed, 
 for almost anything but frivolity, which it nowhere 
 seemed to invite. One could laugh in it without 
 discomfort, but never loudly. That sort of room. 
 And Ruth and her father had become part of it; 
 the room was vacant without them. 
 
 "I could almost wish, Ruth," mused Dr. Harrod, 
 "that the evening were over." He always attended 
 to his subjunctives with a nicety ! 
 
 She mocked him, gently. "I could almost wish to 
 believe you, father! But your favorite, Lilia, is 
 coming." 
 
 "Ah and she's leading young Thorpe a dance !" 
 sighed the President of Alden, that omniscient man. 
 "He doesn't know quite what's wrong with him 
 yet. He will." 
 
 "That child ? She's setting her cap so soon ?" 
 
 "She's setting, my dear, if I'm not mistaken, a 
 cap and bells in short, a fool's cap on the head 
 of a young man who may or may not deserve it. 
 That remains to be seen." 
 
 "Do you like him, father? I've never really 
 known." 
 
 "Nor I. The boy has brains. But there's some- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 49 
 
 thing. . . . Well; he's ambitious and not, perhaps, 
 so scrupulous as he believes himself." 
 
 "There's an artist in him, father. He has imag 
 
 ination." 
 
 "Yes. But not enough to imagine himself doing 
 anything really wrong. That's a dangerous lacuna 
 don't you think?" 
 
 "The girls all say they're 'crazy about him,' ' 
 smiled Ruth. "I don't wonder much. . ., . He 
 has a beautiful head." 
 
 "Physically, yes superb. But spiritually? 
 That's what I ask myself. . . . And Lilia laughs 
 at him," he added, after a characteristic pause. 
 
 "But doesn't she laugh at all of us?" asked Ruth. 
 "I've just told you how old-fashioned we are." 
 
 "Well," reflected Dr. Harrod "if she does, 
 my dear, we probably deserve it." 
 
 "How cozy you look!" 
 
 It was Lilia speaking, from the wide hall-doorway. 
 Neither Ruth nor her father had heard the bell. 
 
 "May I tiptoe in?" 
 
 They rose to welcome her. 
 
 She was wearing a quaint little sleeveless tunic, 
 in green and silver, that hung straight and faintly 
 glittering from her slight girl's shoulders. Her 
 face had an even pallor; her lips were vivid; the 
 flame-lights in her hair flickered softly. . . . And 
 something in Dr. Harrod's face at once mischiev 
 ously amused her. 
 
 "Am I really so shocking as all that, Dr. 
 Harrod?" 
 
 "You are very lovely, my dear child." 
 
 She dropped him a profound courtesy. "Quelle 
 
50 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 reception grandiose, M. le President I But, all the 
 same, you don't approve. Why doesn't he like me 
 to-night, Miss Harrod? Because my arms are 
 bare?" 
 
 "But he does like you," said Ruth pleasantly, 
 taking Lilians hand and drawing her over to the 
 fire. "Father never quite approves, you know, of 
 anything his eyes enjoy too easily. Unless it's a 
 well-recommended view " 
 
 "And a distant one ?" Lilians eyes capered. 
 "I suppose," she challenged Dr. Harrod directly, 
 "you always imagine your ancestors rolling about 
 in their tombs, and it makes you uncomfortable? 
 I'm sorry. But I did consult my room-mates before 
 coming like this. Myrtle Frame said Prexy would 
 be horrified; but Idabelle said my arms were so thin 
 anyway, they practically didn't count. So" she 
 was demure with him now "I 'took a chancel' ' 
 
 " 'Took a chance I' " Dr. Harrod groaned. "My 
 dear Lilia !" 
 
 Her eyes at once petted and mocked him. "Isn't 
 that correct?" she asked. "Myrtle's trying to teach 
 me American, but she says my accent is all wrong 
 or something. It's an ugly language, by the way, 
 isn't it! Or am I just an expatriated little snob?" 
 
 "My child," said Dr. Harrod, settling himself 
 again in his easy chair, "you are now raising a 
 question that somebody, some day, will have to de 
 cide. Are we all, spiritually, expatriated snobs we 
 who try to preserve what we call a standard of 
 speech? . . . Or, for that matter," he added, "a 
 standard of anything!" 
 
 "Of course we are," Ruth gently offered. "For 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 51 
 
 I'm certain what we call 'taste' is more or less an 
 illusion, like everything else. ... I can't help feel 
 ing that people who chew gum are vulgar; they 
 can't help feeling that people who don't are snobs. 
 Meanwhile, the earth goes right on revolving so 
 it probably doesn't matter much to the Universe, 
 either way." 
 
 Lilia's eyes were fixed now, with an almost startled 
 intensity, on Ruth's face. She saw in it a great 
 weariness of life or was it rather a great hunger 
 for fullness of life withheld? It must be unbearable 
 not to be wholly, splendidly alive! "I like you, 
 Miss Harrod," she said, suddenly oddly. "Per 
 haps that doesn't matter to the Universe, either. 
 But it matters now to me/' 9 Then, with a swift 
 transition, she turned to Dr. Harrod. "How won 
 derful you both are! I do want you to care for 
 me heaps! But why should you? I've no stand 
 ards at all only feelings. That's why I dress like 
 this. ... If I'm not making the most of myself 
 playing myself up for all or more than I'm worth 
 I feel oh, horrid/ Inside, you know. I can't bear 
 it. ... That's just what I couldn't make Professor 
 Thorpe understand the first time he called on me 
 to recite. . . . Well, it's no use trying to explain 
 it's subtle; it's a thing you'd have to feel and he 
 couldn't fed it ! But the whole situation was wrong 
 so I couldn't go on with it. I simply had to leave 
 the room. Just as father simply had to be free of 
 mother. He couldn't go on with it. . . ." 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't go on with it either, Lilia, just 
 now," said Dr. Harrod* rising once more. "I be- 
 
52 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 lieve I heard the bell." He crossed the room slowly 
 and walked off into the hall. 
 
 "Oh and I was hoping so it would be just us! 
 Who is coming?" 
 
 "Only Dr. Thorpe. . . ." 
 
 "Oh! Only His Beautiful Lordship!" 
 
 "Is that what you call him?" 
 
 "Sometimes. Idabelle invented it. I shouldn't 
 dare tell you what I call him myself." 
 
 "You really dislike him?" 
 
 "No. ... I won't lie to you, Miss Harrod. 
 Why should I?" 
 
 "Thanks, dear. Father hopes so you'll become 
 better friends." 
 
 "I see. . . . It's a conspiracy." 
 
 "Perhaps a little." 
 
 "He w such a dear your father, I mean. I feel 
 like monkeyshines to-night being conspired against 
 . . . but I can't bear to disappoint him. I shall 
 have to behave. Must I ?" 
 
 Ruth responded with her quiet smile: "Well 
 you might try." Then, still quietly, she reached over 
 and, for an instant only, caressed the younger girl's 
 hand. 
 
 "I like you, Lilia," she said. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 53 
 
 IX 
 
 TT was with a distinct sense of personal outrage 
 
 * that young too-young Assistant Professor 
 Thorpe entered President Harrod's living-room, to 
 be greeted there only by "poor little Miss Harrod" 
 (as he negligently thought of her) and of all 
 exquisite impertinences ! by "that infernal Miss 
 Chenoworth!" This was deliberate, then: a put-up 
 job! The old man had cleverly manoeuvred him 
 into a position which would make it more than ever 
 difficult for him to deal, drastically, with Miss Chen- 
 oworth's case. ... It was a great honor, of course, 
 to be invited to the President's House in this intimate, 
 informal way; Dunster had never before been enter 
 tained there except on formal almost official 
 occasions. That is, Dunster would gladly have con 
 sidered it a great honor if he had not at once felt, 
 on seeing Miss Chenoworth, that it was a mere 
 stroke of secret diplomacy. Well ; the old man was 
 a wonder a somewhat devious wonder! Dunster 
 knew himself both trapped and gagged against any 
 possibility of protest. To be in any sense boorish 
 about it would be merely to prove himself all that 
 he hoped he was not an underbred fool. On the 
 other hand, he'd be damned if he'd let himself slide 
 (as was evidently intended) into a cordial accept 
 ance of the situation. Polite pleasant but firm. 
 . . . That was his line. He seated himself by "poor 
 little Miss Harrod" and began immediately, with 
 respectful animation, to do his poor best to interest 
 
54 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 and amuse her. (His "poor best" thus he frowne3 
 upon it: for Dunster, after conversing socially, was 
 always haunted by an impression that he had not 
 done himself justice, and, like a besotted bridge- 
 player, was slave to the folly of private post- 
 mortems.) 
 
 Dinner was announced. Dunster, properly enough, 
 if rather needlessly, offered his arm to Ruth. As 
 he conducted his little hostess too ceremoniously, 
 perhaps he could see Lilia flirting shamelessly 
 (for he could call it nothing else) with Dr. Har- 
 rod; and it struck him that the old man was 
 surprisingly pleased and flattered by her attentions. 
 "That girl has no soul" thought Dunster u no 
 conscience no sense of honor nothing a decent 
 girl should have. And how thin she is I" He was 
 bending to Ruth Harrod with an exaggerated defer 
 ence as he passed by Lilia. "Oh, must I take your 
 arm now, M. le President!" he heard her exclaim: 
 "What fun! I love being haughty and dignified. 
 I can do it so beautifully . . . But I thought we 
 were dining en famille ?" 
 
 He could feel his ears burning as he entered the 
 dining-room. They were sensitive members Dun- 
 ster's ears; a trifle too large a trifle too prominent. 
 He had long been absurdly worried because of them 
 had feared they gave him a slightly countrified 
 aspect; he resented them much as Achilles must 
 have resented his assailable heel. So, inevitably, 
 whenever Dunster was embarrassed, it was his ears 
 that blushed for him and betrayed him. Damn 
 them ! He could feel them doing so now stretched 
 like vast rosy purple-veined bat-wings right between 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 55 
 
 that infernal girl and the tall table-candles! . . . 
 Great heavens ! had poor little Miss Harrod been 
 putting him some question! . . . Hastily quite at 
 random he murmured assent. And instantly Ruth 
 was touched to spontaneous laughter; dropping his 
 arm, turning back to her father and Lilia. "I've 
 just asked Dr. Thorpe where he spent his vacation, 
 and his reply is Yes. Let's make it an Alice-in- 
 Wonderland evening, all through!" she continued, 
 with quiet mischief. "I'll be the Dormouse natur 
 ally; you're the March Hare, Lilia and father can 
 be the Mad Hatter ." 
 
 "Then Dr. Thorpe will have to be Alice!" cried 
 Lilia. "How perfect ! The gender's rather mixed 
 but otherwise she suits him exactly." 
 
 Dunster made a desperate effort to forget his 
 ears his faux pas himself, and to join in the 
 moment's fun: 
 
 "I've no objection to being Alice," he said. "I 
 shan't have to sparkle much. She wasn't a brilliant 
 child, you remember ." 
 
 "Far from it!" Lilia darted at him. "But she 
 had a frightfully good opinion of herself . . . And 
 she was rather a "dear, too, in spite of it," she added, 
 lightly; giving him a direct, clear look. 
 
 Some years later that dinner had become more 
 or less a blank to Dunster. It was erased by memo 
 ries of the unexpected hour that followed it and of 
 other hours. 
 
56 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 TT was just as they were finishing dinner that the 
 door-bell rang. Dependable, middle-aged Julia, 
 combined waitress and upstairs maid of the Presi 
 dent's simple household, went to answer it, and 
 returned presently with a folded sheet of paper 
 which she handed to Dr. Harrod. He opened it 
 rather impatiently; then the contents evidently sur 
 prised disturbed him, and he read through the 
 brief note with a fixed attention. "Pardon me," 
 he muttered, rising slowly as he did so: "Ruth, I 
 shall have to leave our guests to you for a short 
 time only, I trust. A somewhat bothersome matter 
 has come up nothing serious. Never mind about 
 my coffee; I shall sleep better without it. Yes . . . 
 I'll rejoin you all, later in the living-room . . . J 
 He was walking from them as he concluded; his 
 face was set and stern almost grim, Dunster 
 thought. It was apparent that the manner of her 
 father's going had troubled u poor little Miss 
 Harrod." 
 
 She rose with a smile, however, and led the way 
 back to the living-room, where Julia served coffee, 
 while Dunster poked up the waning fire and put on 
 another log. "You may smoke, of course," said 
 Ruth to Dunster. "Father always has his cigar 
 with me after dinner." Meeting Lilia's smile she 
 laughed, briefly. "No, Lilia, I didn't mean that 
 I also have my cigar with him ! I do smoke cigar 
 ettes occasionally to his pretended disgust; but 
 never here. The one thing I can do for Alden, you 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 57 
 
 see, is to set an example even if it makes me a hypo 
 crite. Father's a good deal disturbed by the way 
 smoking on the sly has increased among the girls. 
 I don't think he so much minds the smoking as the 
 slyness. But he admits he hasn't the moral courage 
 to permit the girls to smoke, if they wish to, in their 
 rooms. Would you have, Dr. Thorpe, in his 
 place?" 
 
 Dunster had lighted a cigarette. "Well, Miss 
 Harrod," he replied, "after your confession I sup 
 pose I ought to pretend to be very broad-minded 
 about it. But I'm not. I don't like the idea of 
 women smoking. It rubs me the wrong way." 
 
 "I knew he'd say that," said Lilia to Ruth, calmly. 
 She turned to Dunster. "It's odd I've never really 
 taken it up considering my opportunities. Mother 
 smoked like a furnace ... I must take it up now, 
 though if only as a protest." 
 
 Dunster gave her a superior look. "A protest 
 against what, Miss Chenoworth? The Eternal 
 Masculine?" 
 
 "If that's what you call yourself," she lightly 
 answered. "Do tell me why does the idea of 
 women smoking rub you the wrong way?" 
 
 "Oh," he parried, not without annoyance, "I'm 
 not sere-and-yellow enough to think it sinful. I just 
 don't like it." 
 
 "And of course that settles the question!" Lilia 
 flashed at him then put out her hand. "May I 
 have a cigarette now, please?" 
 
 Ruth covered the extended hand, imprisoning it 
 with a quiet finality in hers. "No, Lilia dear," she 
 laughed, "you may not. In father's absence, I'm 
 
58 LILIA CHENOWORTfT 
 
 Cerberus. The official proprieties of his fireside 
 must be preserved . . . But how tiresome that 
 he should be kept like this! Being a college presi 
 dent is worse than being a country doctor. Poor 
 father's time is never his own." 
 
 Unexpectedly she rose, adding, "If you'll forgive 
 me and promise me not to come to blows I'll 
 venture out, just to see if I can't drive off the in 
 truder. This is the one hour of father's day I fight 
 for, Dr. Thorpe his hour after dinner." 
 
 Ruth had managed her withdrawal deftly enough, 
 yet both Dunster and Lilia had felt beneath her 
 words a controlled anxiety. 
 
 "Miss Harrod's the darlingest person I've ever 
 known!" exclaimed Lilia. "If I were a man I'd 
 make her marry me just to have her with me al 
 ways and take care of her !" 
 
 Dunster's response was a perfunctory "Poor lit 
 tle Miss Harrod. . . ." And Lilia stared at him, 
 incredulous. "You are the most extraordinary, dis 
 appointing man ! Can't you feel how stupid it is to 
 pity her! She's complete just as she is." Lilia 
 was still staring at him. "You're so blind to people, 
 somehow! Hopeless. . . . There's one thing cer 
 tain, Dr. Thorpe you may be able to teach Shake 
 speare, but I'm sure you've never lived him. I'm 
 sure you couldn't write two lines of a really truly 
 living play!" 
 
 She could hardly have hurt him more cruelly. He 
 believed, for an irrational instant, that she must have 
 ferreted out his most secret ambition and was delib 
 erately mocking him. But that was impossible! 
 Nevertheless, he resented her pert license of tongue 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 59 
 
 oh, but violently! She had snapped the last 
 strand of his patience. He could no longer master 
 his rage. The tempest of it broke from him in gusts. 
 
 "See here ... if you think I'm going to stand 
 any more of this conceited impudence. . . . Why, 
 damn you . . ." 
 
 There he'd done it this time. It was a thing 
 that was bound to have happened some day; he had 
 always held himself so tightly in hand. . . . Vis 
 ibly, grotesquely trembling, he clung to the arms of 
 his chair; a cold sweat bathed him; he was wrung 
 with a sharp nausea. . . . Well she could triumph 
 now drive him from the house from the college 
 almost, he thought, from the civilized world ! He 
 had delivered himself into her hands. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry sorry . . ." Lilia's voice was 
 coming to him with an unexpected sympathy, a 
 strange gentleness. "Please don't be afraid of me. 
 ... I don't mind a bit your swearing at me not 
 if I deserved it. I haven't before. I've been right, 
 and you've been wrong. But this time I see I'm the 
 stupid one not you. I honestly didn't know you 
 were all sensitive nerves like that underneath. I 
 am sorry!" 
 
 And presently he found himself telling her this 
 exasperating, artificial child things which all his 
 life he had jealously, and even fearfully, hidden and 
 guarded. 
 
 "When you said I couldn't write two lines of a 
 living play ... it was that . . . something ex 
 ploded inside my head. . . ." He grinned, feebly. 
 "What doctors call a brain-storm, I guess. ... It 
 means so much to me all I intend to get from life. 
 
60 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 ... It means freedom. . . . But I can't explain." 
 "I wish you could," she answered him. U I wish 
 you would. Fve helped father lots. Not writing. 
 I can't write anything. But I know when a scene 
 feels right when it will play. . . . And when it 
 won't, too." She paused. "I was born to act. It's 
 all I'm good for just acting. But that's enough, 
 isn't it? ... Father's trying to keep me from the 
 stage. He can't; but I don't mind his trying a 
 year or so longer. You see, I'm working things out, 
 all the time my own way. . . . When I begin, I'll 
 be ready." 
 
 Dunster felt no impulse to smile at Lilia's simply 
 expressed confidence in herself; it did not strike him, 
 then or later, as naive. But he envied her. . . . 
 
 They had been deep in talk of themselves, their 
 aspirations, for almost an hour when first they were 
 aware that neither Dr. Harrod nor Ruth had re 
 turned. 
 
 XI 
 
 r< T)UT, Dr. Thorpe what can be the matter?" 
 *} demanded Lilia. "It's creepy being left 
 here like this. . . ." 
 
 "They must have been gone an hour." He 
 frowned, puzzling at it; then shook his head. "I 
 suppose we ought to go?" 
 
 "But we can't just slip out," she protested. Dun 
 ster saw her shiver nervously, and she knew he had 
 seen her. "It's because nothing happens nothing 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 61 
 
 at all," she rather lamely explained. "I hate blind- 
 spots in life don't you?" 
 
 "Blind-spots?'^ 
 
 "Yes; things in life experiences I can't get in 
 touch with . . . can't" she worried at it "take 
 into myself!" 
 
 "You are sensitive, too, aren't you?" he very 
 fatuously said. 
 
 Lilia couldn't help smiling at that. She rose now, 
 with decision. 
 
 "People simply mustn't dump their guests down 
 like this and abandon them. C'est une reverence 
 pied-de-veau ! I shall ring." 
 
 He was close beside her. "Wait," he pleaded 
 "please wait a moment. I hope nothing is really 
 wrong here but I can't help feeling glad to have 
 had this chance to know you better." 
 
 "Do you ?" 
 
 "Well, this talk we've had to-night makes a dif 
 ference- doesn't it?" 
 
 But she mocked at him, with the slight, character 
 istic shrug (affected, un-American, he thought it) 
 which had from the first so easily irritated him, and 
 which now seemed to him to set her daring little 
 frock, her whole daring little person, aloofly a-glitter. 
 
 "Difference?" she echoed. . . . "When has there 
 ever been anything but a difference between us, mon 
 cher professeur?" And he caught from her eyes 
 only a satirical challenge as she almost pirouetted 
 away from him to look for the push-button. Dun- 
 ster was chilled at once, sharply disillusioned; he 
 hated himself for having given her his full confidence 
 
62 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 so freely. "Shallow," he raged within, "essentially 
 shallow! I've been a fool." 
 
 Lilia had found her push-button by the hall door 
 way and was pressing it firmly. That he would have 
 hesitated longer before it, Dunster knew; and he 
 would then barely have touched the bell. "Ruth 
 less," his inner Commentator took up the prosecu 
 tion, "hard. . . . She's been laughing at you all the 
 time. And you told her about your plays you told 
 her about your plays!" 
 
 Dunster had a quick, violent impulse to stride 
 across the room and crush her angrily to him. It 
 weakened his knees, that resisted impulse, and he 
 dropped back to his chair and fumbled in the pock 
 ets of his dinner-coat for a cigarette. Why the devil 
 didn't somebody come and release him from tor 
 ment? He stared nay, glared at a slight scratch 
 on the shiny left tip of his patent-leather shoes. He 
 was doing this, he knew, because he so wanted to 
 look across at her. He was aware of a sharp con 
 test going on between two sets of muscles in his 
 neck; and his head, neck, shoulders, his whole trunk, 
 ached and grew rigid. . . . Oh, damn damn 
 damn damn. . . . 
 
 "Lilia, Thorpe, my dear fellow, what in the 
 world must you think of us ! Ruth and I owe you a 
 thousand apologies." 
 
 The President of Alden, whose face had unmis 
 takably cleared, was standing in the hall doorway, 
 his arm about Ruth; and, as Dunster rose, he slipped 
 his free arm about Lilia's waist and moved slowly 
 forward with the two girls. "A rather annoying col- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 63 
 
 lege matter, Thorpe/' he vaguely offered: "Question 
 of discipline, of course . . . h'm . . . when Ruth 
 came out I thought best to consult her. I often do 
 in such dilemmas. Well I trust the whole thing is 
 finally disposed of." He relinquished his fatherly 
 attitude and moved from between the girls to his 
 smoking-table. "Don't think of leaving yet, my 
 boy? Why not join me in a cigar? Do. Other 
 wise I shall feel I have spoiled both your evening 
 and mine." 
 
 However, Dunster refused the cigar, remaining 
 only for a cigarette and for such parting courtesies 
 as he was able to muster. Dr. Harrod had an 
 nounced that he would himself escort Lilia to Apsley 
 Hall; he always liked a breath of air before turn 
 ing in. Dunster's adieu to Lilia was formal almost 
 severe. They did not shake hands. 
 
 When Dunster was safely off, Lilia turned to Dr. 
 Harrod with wicked eyes. "Match-maker!" she 
 said. 
 
 XII 
 
 CTRIDING home along Ashmun Street, that 
 *^ night, Dunster he had twenty times reassured 
 himself longed for nothing so much as the unlit 
 solitude of room and bed. He had had his lesson 
 assigned him, and he longed now to con it over in 
 security to abandon himself to any luxury of strong 
 feeling or grim reflection which the immediate pos 
 ture of his life demanded. Never before had the 
 immediate posture of his life struck him as at once 
 
64 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 so awkward and so insecure. He pictured his en 
 tity as a scared and self-entangled figure precariously 
 flattened against the polished surface of an almost 
 perpendicular cliff; and below, veiled by yeasty 
 cloud, gaped he knew not how dark and shattering 
 a chasm. ... It would be a narrow squeak now if 
 he should finally be able to summon his full power 
 and scramble up to some ledge of safety. 
 
 That infernal child ! Exquisite. . . . 
 
 He put out his hand to the latch of Mrs. Sterrett's 
 front-gate, only to stand thus, with arm extended, 
 frozen to physical immobility by the interior shock 
 of an unforeseen of an amazing of a stupendous 
 idea! 
 
 Unforeseen amazing stupendous! But simple 
 obvious, too like all great ideas when grasped! 
 . . . He had only to marry Lilia Chenoworth and 
 everything he most wanted from life would easily be 
 his. Money ! His material fetters would fall away 
 from him at a stroke. Influence ! Anson Cheno 
 worth would, of course, introduce him to just the 
 right people and thrust him forward professionally 
 in all the most favorable quarters. And even Lilia 
 herself (if but he did not complete that "if") 
 might prove an extraordinary asset in so many sub 
 tle and important ways. 
 
 Ah! here was a short-cut indeed to fortune and 
 fame ! And poor Aunt Emily was right, after all ! 
 It was always absurd, in so uncertain a world as this, 
 not to make the most of one's opportunities. . . . 
 Especially when making the most of them involved 
 no sense of personal dishonor. . . . For was he not 
 in love with Lilia, madly in love with her ! He had no 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 65 
 
 hesitation now in acknowledging to himself so start 
 ling a fact. And surely one ought to woo and, if pos 
 sible (but why should it not be possible?), win the 
 girl one was madly in love with ? Not to trust 
 so deep and true an instinct would not that in itself 
 be a sort of crime against the Veiled Spirit of Life? 
 Why, naturally! For, of course, otherwise the 
 whole thing would be out of the question beyond 
 the pale of consideration by any decently organized 
 man. No ; it lifted Dunster's chin a little to feel that 
 he couldn't possibly do a thing like that! Merely, 
 a belated recognition had come to him and just in 
 time. He had been thinking of Lilia (how stupidly! 
 how unlike him that was !) as quite the wrong per 
 son fighting himself almost with anguish because 
 of his secret, persistent obsession by her and lo, 
 all the time she was precisely the right person, the 
 really predestined person, the very perhaps, the 
 only living girl whose fortune and father and im 
 mediate interests would be most likely to do him the 
 utmost possible good! 
 
 He clicked open the latch and passed the gate. 
 Distantly, as he did so, the chapel clock struck ten 
 and Mrs. Sterrett, his landlady, opened the front 
 door of her dwelling and began to call "kitty . . . 
 kitty . . . kitty ..." on a high, soft, twittering 
 trill, like the trill of a field-sparrow. Bed-time. Mrs. 
 Sterrett always, as became her years, retired at ten. 
 But Dunster no longer felt the need of solitude and 
 darkness. He had conned his lesson in an intuitive 
 flash. Thoughts of the cliff and the chasm no longer 
 recurred to him. He had summoned his full power 
 and had swung himself up to a broad, high tableland 
 
66 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Fortune's uplifted platter whereon glowed and 
 glittered all the pride and treasure of the world. 
 
 "A beautiful evening!" he tossed superbly to Mrs. 
 Sterrett, as a potentate tosses alms. 
 
 It was the first time he had ever been moved to 
 patronize Mrs. Sterrett; though, be it said for him, 
 he was not even aware in his momentary exaltation 
 that he had attempted to do so. 
 
 XIII 
 
 T5UT there was nothing beggarly about Hrs. Ster- 
 *-* rett, and she refused Dunster's careless largesse 
 with her customary mild dignity. 
 
 "It'll rain before morning," she said, her quiet 
 face with its silvery, evenly parted hair, as if the 
 Dove of Peace had clasped it with half-folded wings 
 serenely uplifted. 
 
 " Tisn't the stars I tell by, Doctor," her in 
 variable form of address to her cherished guest 
 "it's my finger-bones. They're better'n a Weather 
 Bureau to me, my finger-bones are. I've been di- 
 vidin' my pineys all afternoon, so's to take advan- 
 tage." 
 
 She was a solitary small-town gentlewoman of reg 
 ular habits, was Mrs. Sterrett such a woman as 
 only provincial New England was earlier able to 
 produce, and she was not by nature communica 
 tive; but she did enjoy a little dish of gossip with 
 Dunster at any time. He reminded her of what 
 might have been, and was the best substitute which 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 67 
 
 life had afforded her; for she was now seventy-two, 
 having survived her husband over forty, and her 
 only child a boy over thirty years. And she had 
 been, too, throughout this long lonely period, rather 
 cut off from the usual village interests and contacts 
 by a singular loyalty. Her husband, a brilliant and 
 radical young lawyer-politician whom she had mar 
 ried in open defiance of family and friends, was still 
 recalled locally as "Satan Sterrett" a name which 
 he had owed solely to his atheism, too openly and 
 sarcastically proclaimed in a Biblical environment, 
 and at a period when far milder heresies were vis 
 ited by the most rigorous social condemnation. 
 While Satan Sterrett lived, his wife had regularly 
 attended the Sunday and weekday meetings of the 
 First Unitarian Church; following his death she had 
 withdrawn from that congregation, and had not since 
 been known to enter a church at any time. It was 
 held a tragedy that she should have lost her own 
 faith just in her "hour of trial," when it must have 
 proved "such a comfort to her"; but Mrs. Sterrett 
 had remained implacably reticent in this matter and 
 had patiently gone her own way ever since. There 
 can be little doubt, though, that this quiet withdrawal 
 from the very center of village activity had weighted 
 the first years of her widowhood with double lead. 
 She had few distractions. Satan Sterrett had left her 
 a house, a child; and little more. When the child, 
 too, was taken (a "judgment," some whispered), 
 only the house remained. That it was scrupulously 
 tended, who can doubt? She had done "all her own 
 work" when younger; now she kept but one servant, 
 "Mysie" (Artemisia), a middle-aged moron, subject 
 
68 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 to epileptic fits, whom she had long befriended; and, 
 because of poor Mysie's limitations, she still uncom 
 plainingly did much of the housework herself. 
 
 Michael, a superb tawny u coon" cat with topaz 
 eyes, had crept out from the majestic lilac bushes 
 flanking the small entrance-porch and was now, with 
 parabolic spine, rubbing back and forth against his 
 mistress' skirts. 
 
 "Won't you step in, Doctor, and sit down a spell?" 
 Mrs. Sterrett asked. 
 
 "Isn't it rather late for you?" Dunster returned, 
 on an unforced note of interest and affection. "After 
 all that heavy gardening?" His momentary poten 
 tate-manner had vanished; he was too fond of Mrs. 
 Sterrett not soon and easily, in her presence, to for 
 get himself. 
 
 "Well, 'tis," she admitted. "But I'd like real well 
 to hear news of Miss Ruth." Dr. Harrod with 
 practical advice, and once with a considerable loan 
 had unobtrusively befriended Mrs. Sterrett for 
 many years, and for him and his invalid daughter she 
 had an unwavering admiration. "Was it a nice din 
 ner? But of course 'twas!" 
 
 Preceded by Michael, she led the way into a 
 broad, bare New England hall, and so into a bare 
 but dignified "front parlor," with its single lighted 
 lamp centred on a round table with a dark red cover 
 the table itself being exactly centred in the square, 
 formal room. A sewing-basket, with genteel "mend 
 ing," was on the table; a copy of the Atlantic 
 Monthly; and a small vase of button-chrysanthe 
 mums. As for the crayon "enlargement" of Satan 
 Sterrett above the white marble mantel surely its 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 69 
 
 silken insipidity did not do him justice! . . . But 
 Dunster was quite as used to this respectable room 
 as his landlady and felt perfectly at home in it. 
 
 "I think Miss Harrod must be improving," he 
 said; more to please Mrs. Sterrett than because he 
 felt any interest in Miss Harrod' s health. 
 
 "Well, it's hard to say why she shouldn't, poor 
 child the care that's taken. I've always held if 
 she married and had a family of her own, mebbe 
 she'd come right out of herself. Not that she broods 
 much or fancies things. Miss Ruth's never been one 
 to complain. But I suppose likely she'll never marry 
 now not at her age. The President would be lost 
 without her. Does he seem right well, too?" 
 
 "Perfectly. I didn't see much of him. Some col 
 lege matter came up he had to leave us." 
 
 "You and Miss Ruth?" 
 
 "And" he just hesitated "Miss Chenoworth. 
 A Freshman. Dr. Harrod seems to have taken her 
 under his wing." 
 
 "Oh was she there !" exclaimed Mrs. Sterrett 
 with lively interest. "Well, now 1 Miss Ruth called 
 on me before college opened and told me about her. 
 Miss Chenoworth's father's rich and writes plays. 
 I guess he's kind of flighty, too. His wife's left him 
 or mebbe he left her; 'tany rate, the daughter 
 stayed on with him. She was only thirteen when that 
 happened, and I guess Miss Ruth thinks she's done 
 about as she pleased ever since. But of course all 
 Miss Ruth knew then was what the President wrote 
 her." 
 
 "Oh wasn't Miss Harrod with her father last 
 summer? I thought they always . . ." 
 
70 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "So they always have before. But Miss Ruth de 
 cided this year she'd a call to visit her sisters and 
 get more acquainted with her young nephews and 
 nieces. And then mebbe she thought it'd do the 
 President good to get off by himself for a spell. She 
 says it worries him so every time she gets overtired 
 and has to lay by. But I was right interested about 
 Miss Chenoworth . . ." Mrs. Sterrett mildly sug 
 gested. 
 
 "I can tell you one thing," smiled Dunster, as im 
 personally as he could, "she's been giving me a lot of 
 trouble in class. But she seems to have brains and 
 that's always something. Meeting her like this to 
 night, I liked her a good deal better than I thought 
 I would." 
 
 "Is she real pretty?" 
 
 "Well" Dunster pursed his lips "I suppose 
 she's pretty enough. . . . She has a lot of style 
 about her; but she overdresses for a college girl, 
 I mean. She looks awfully artificial, some 
 how. ; . ." 
 
 "Likely she'll tone down a little over here," said 
 Mrs. Sterrett. "I will say for Alden, it has a good 
 sensible influence on the girls. Not but they seem 
 flightier nowadays than they used to! Times are 
 changing, I s'pose. But " she unexpectedly added 
 "why shouldn't they change? I'm not one to 
 stand up always for old ways and notions. The good 
 old times weren't so perfect as some folks try to 
 think. And 'tisn't as if girls are girls more than 
 once 1" 
 
 "Let them gather their rosebuds, eh? Is that it?" 
 laughed Dunster, getting to his feet. "Oh oh 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 71 
 
 Mrs. Sterrett ! It's a good thing you're not one of 
 the college matrons !" 
 
 "Perhaps 'tis," she smiled rather wistfully back. 
 "I'm right sympathetic with young things, the older 
 I grow. And when you marry one of them, Doc 
 tor, jest you remember not to hold too tight a rein I 
 The fun goes out of life fast 'nough for most folks 
 . . . without chasin' it out. Well, good-night, Doc 
 tor. For a young man, mebbe, you're too serious- 
 minded yourself sometimes?" She rose. "So don't 
 you be too hard now on Miss Chenoworth. If she's 
 real pretty, I'd like right well to see her some time 
 and look at her clever clothes." 
 
 Directly back of the front parlor of Mrs. Ster- 
 rett's house was another square room which, though 
 in perfect order, was always kept darkened and was 
 never for any social purpose used: Satan Sterrett's 
 library or study a memorial chamber. His heavy 
 "debased Empire" mahogany desk, with its bird's- 
 eye maple trimmings, was still there; his walnut 
 book-cases with locked glass doors ; his solemn, solid 
 books. And a brass spittoon of generous size still 
 glimmered beside his empty wing-chair mute wit 
 ness to an obsolete habit, a tobacco-chewing genera 
 tion. ... It was from this room that a door gave 
 access to Dunster's quarters, opening directly into 
 his own, less sepulchral, study. The memorial cham 
 ber was, in fact, the one interior passageway from 
 Dunster's suite to Mrs. Sterrett's apartments and the 
 front door. Dunster seldom used it, however, ex 
 cept at meal time, when he passed that way to the 
 dining-room across the central hall. For ordinary 
 
72 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 goings and comings he preferred his private door 
 way giving upon the garden. 
 
 But to-night, on leaving Mrs. Sterrett, he started 
 direct for his study, passing down the central hall 
 and so into the dark memorial chamber, with its fa 
 miliar, faintly musty smell. Dunster had never much 
 liked this chamber; while crossing it he was always, 
 rather irritatingly, aware of a slight, a very slight 
 sense of discomfort. It did not please him to be even 
 slightly apprehensive in just that way; he held it un 
 manly. Not, of course, that he had ever been afraid 
 nor was he now; yet he quickened his step and, 
 doing so, his foot struck something at once firm and 
 soft; something rather horrible. He stumbled; he 
 almost fell; his heart stopped, then crazily pounded. 
 Tremulous, with quaking jaw, he gulped for air, 
 while his fingers fumbled for and clumsily lighted a 
 match. . . . He was glad then, at least, that he had 
 been able to keep himself from crying out. Having 
 deviated a trifle from the straight course to his door, 
 he had kicked the old-fashioned "hassock" lying be 
 fore Satan Sterrett's easy-chair. . . . 
 
 The incident was nothing in itself; yet it had just 
 this seemingly unimportant effect upon Dunster, that, 
 when the match flickered out, he deliberately felt for 
 Satan Sterrett's wing-chair and seated himself in it. 
 He did not consciously admit that his purpose in do 
 ing so was to re-establish his belief in himself or, 
 more accurately, in his destiny, his lucky star. Prob 
 ably he did not at all sense the atavism of his strange 
 act, or suspect that a subliminal Demon was trying 
 thus to "make magic" trying to establish contact 
 with and control over the Powers of Darkness 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 73 
 
 through the sympathetic mediumship of Satan Ster- 
 rett's chair. Why should a reasonable being sus 
 pect himself of harboring and, much less, of being 
 moved by the Irrational, the Primitive, the Absurd? 
 Nevertheless, some hidden need must have been sat 
 isfied by his odd, impulsive action; for Dunster rose 
 presently from Satan Sterrett's chair, in that black 
 memorial chamber, tranquil determined. 
 
 Yes ; he would marry Lilia Chenoworth. And all 
 that he most desired would follow. The triumph 
 was appointed. He was to have his magnificent day. 
 
 XIV 
 
 THE technique of the film will prove convenient: 
 a "flash-back" is indicated. 
 
 Dunster has just departed from the President's 
 house ; Lilia has turned to Dr. Harrod with wicked 
 eyes. "Match-maker /" 
 
 But Dr. Harrod did not in any sense react to 
 Lilia's mischievous challenge ; for him now it was as 
 if it had not occurred. His eyes as she was in 
 stantly, apprehensively aware were resting upon 
 her with a grave, troubled pity. It was not to Lilia 
 he spoke. "Ruth dear," he said, "perhaps you had 
 better inform Lilia. I'll step out for a little . . . ." 
 He walked from the room. Ruth, meanwhile, had 
 taken Lilia's hand in hers. 
 
 "It's your mother," she began quietly. "Some 
 how she has discovered you here at Alden. . . . She 
 means to make trouble, I'm afraid." 
 
 Every drop of blood had left Lilia's face. The 
 
74 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 discreet artificial bloom on her cheeks was given a 
 shocking relief, stood out sharp and grotesque like 
 the flat patches of rouge on the chalk-white face of 
 a clown. 
 
 Some moments later these girls were seated close 
 together on a low settee in a shadowy corner of the 
 great living-room. "She told father," Ruth was 
 courageously explaining, "that she was never mar 
 ried to Anson Ghenoworth. She showed him a let 
 ter from your father an old one which seems to 
 confirm this. She says she can establish the fact that 
 you are an illegitimate child, and" Ruth caught at 
 a weary, difficult breath "and that Anson Cheno- 
 worth is not even your natural father. . . ." 
 
 "It isn't true, Ruth. ... I happen to know I'm 
 illegitimate if it has to be called that. . . . But 
 Anson Chenoworth is my father!" 
 
 Ruth's breathing was lengthened now and again 
 by involuntary sighs of utter fatigue ; her eyes were 
 leaden-circled; yet she continued to speak sensibly 
 and quietly. 
 
 "The whole thing is monstrous . . . against all 
 natural right and feeling! I believe the woman is 
 somehow deranged. Surely no sane mother would 
 come to to strangers with such a story ! And de 
 liberately threaten to publish it everywhere to the 
 whole world, if " 
 
 "If ?" Lilia faintly caught her up. "If what, 
 
 please, Miss Harrod?" 
 
 "If," Ruth answered, "you and your father do not 
 immediately arrange certain matters to her satisfac 
 tion." 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 75 
 
 "Certain matters ?" 
 
 Ruth shook her head. "She was rather vague, 
 there purposely so, I think." 
 
 "But why," wailed Lilia, "did she bring all this to 
 poor Dr. Harrod! Why didn't she come to me?" 
 Then, before Ruth could respond, she burst forth: 
 "Oh! it's all clear enough too clear! She wanted 
 to begin by frightening me wanted to show that 
 nothing would stop her if I'm not ready to knuckle 
 down and beg father to do exactly as she says ! . . . 
 Oh, Miss Harrod how can I live in the same 
 world with her in the same world with a mother 
 like that ! No wonder I'm what I am !" 
 
 She slid to her knees and drooped forward into 
 Ruth Harrod's lap, burying her face; her whole 
 slight body was tossed on great wave-like sobs which 
 she visibly fought and tried to conquer. Ruth, reck 
 less of her own ebbing vitality, mothered her; 
 strengthened her. 
 
 Dr. Harrod, returning, needed but a glance at 
 Ruth's face. "You must go straight to bed, precious. 
 Thank you for helping me and Lilia. But there's 
 nothing more we can do to-night. I've arranged for 
 a meeting with Mrs. Chenoworth as she still calls 
 herself to-morrow, at noon. She's coming then to 
 my office and I promised her Lilia would be there. 
 I'll walk home with Lilia presently. Good-night, 
 darling. . . . Don't even think of getting up for 
 breakfast with me !" 
 
 The girls had risen. Lilia was calm again, but 
 still clung to Ruth's hand ; and now, impulsively, she 
 raised it to her lips, kissed it, and for a moment laid 
 a no longer faultless cheek against it. "Good-night 
 
76 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 . . . oh, I can't call you Miss Harrod any more! 
 . . . good-night, Ruth. I love you so much and 
 the first thing I've done is to wear you out. I won't 
 let it happen again, Dr. Harrod ever. I won't be 
 a burden to either of you to anyone. I'll stand on 
 my own feet." 
 
 Ruth smiled valiantly. "Lilia you heart-break 
 ing child ! As if you hadn't always had to stand on 
 your own feet so bravely. Father's told me a thing 
 or two. Good-night, everybody. We'll work things 
 out between us to a good end, won't we ! And I'm 
 not nearly so done-up as I always stupidly manage to 
 look. You know that, father." She went from them 
 with a light, brisk step ; it was not until she had passed 
 from sight that she clung to the stair-rail for some 
 moments, dizzily then slowly, very slowly, dragged 
 herself up the stairs. 
 
 "Now, Lilia," suggested Dr. Harrod, "say any 
 thing you wish to say to me, child. You had better 
 be perfectly frank. Your mother's action and threats 
 to-night make it imperative for me to ask you 
 
 trust me." 
 
 "You know I do ! And I see what a dreadful po 
 sition father and I have put you in. But Dr. Har 
 rod father doesn't know that / know he was never 
 married to my mother. It's too long a story to tell 
 you now ... I mean, the way I discovered that 
 and why I decided not to say anything about it to 
 father. We're a horrible family, aren't we! But 
 poor mother's the worst of us. ... Oh think of 
 my having to say that! but it's true. Is she as 
 beautiful as she used to be?" 
 
 Dr. Harrod managed to smile. "I can hardly an- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 77 
 
 swer that. She's still, in her way, a handsome woman 
 or might be." He paused. "And now just one 
 question, Lilia then I must take you home. What 
 do you suppose her motive to be, in all this? What's 
 she after?" 
 
 "Everything!" 
 
 "Which means?" 
 
 "I don't quite know!" cried Lilia. "That's what 
 I've first to find out. I must. But she shan't use 
 me to strike at father!" 
 
 "Nor me to strike at anybody," said Dr. Har- 
 rod. "I'm glad you feel that way, Lilia. And I 
 reckon," he added, quaintly, "we've just about spunk 
 enough between us to handle your mother. . . . 
 Now come along, my dear." 
 
 XV 
 
 "IT/HEN he had passed from the memorial cham- 
 * * ber and lighted the lamp in his study, Dun- 
 ster started on into his bedroom to remove his col 
 lar and stiff shirt and get into an ancient bath-robe 
 and slippers. He wanted to sit down quietly in 
 bachelor comfort, light his pipe, and think things 
 through with persistence and concentration. But 
 as he crossed the threshold of his bedroom he was 
 aware of a light tapping an unobtrusive sound he 
 could not immediately interpret. He halted alertly 
 attentive. . . . The sound had ceased, but presently 
 it was repeated. It had a stealthy quality. . . . 
 Yes; someone was tapping, with cautious knuckles, 
 at the garden door; and Dunster was something more 
 
78 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 than astonished. He had few visitors at any time. 
 No one ever came to his rooms so late. Completely 
 puzzled, he hesitated. . . . Then, inconsequently 
 enough, it flashed upon him with what decision Lilia 
 had, that evening, crossed to the push-button of an 
 electric bell and firmly pressed it. He went straight 
 to the door. 
 
 "I must see you a moment," a restrained voice 
 said. It was Lilians voice. 
 
 "Are you out of your senses?" 
 
 "No. Don't say stupid things. . . . Something 
 has happened. I'm in a wretched situation. I need 
 your help now." 
 
 The reined-in tautness of her simple words, her 
 manner, thrilled through Dunster, involving him in 
 stantly in a dense atmosphere of apprehension. He 
 was afraid for her and with her, though he knew not 
 why. "Wait," he muttered. "We can't talk here. 
 I'll get my hat and coat. We can go down along the 
 river, I suppose, safely enough." 
 
 "But I'm half-frozen," pleaded the girl. "Just 
 let me step inside a few minutes. ... I won't 
 frighten you very long." 
 
 Reluctantly, he gave way before her. She stepped 
 quickly into his shadowy bedroom and herself very 
 softly drew in the door. 
 
 "Mother has turned up. . . . Dr. Harrod told 
 me after you left. That's what kept him and Miss 
 Harrod. They told me after you left." 
 
 Dunster was nonplussed. By slender rays sifting 
 in from the study through almost closed portieres 
 he could just make out that Lilia was shivering be 
 neath the long, light cape she had thrown over her 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 79 
 
 shoulders. "You're cold," he asserted crossly. 
 "That cape's too thin for these fall nights. You 
 ought to know better." He wheeled as he spoke, 
 stepping quickly through to the study and grabbing 
 up his overcoat from the scroll-backed sofa one of 
 Mrs. Sterrett's heirlooms which stiffly furnished 
 one corner of the room. It startled him to find that 
 Lilia had followed him; the shades were not drawn 
 down. "Here," he said, "put that on!" thrusting 
 the coat almost roughly upon her; then, in three 
 strides on the balls of his feet, he got to the windows 
 and lowered the dark-green shades. "Have you no 
 prudence at all?" he babbled. "What explanation 
 could I make?" 
 
 She was scornful with him. "Do you feel very 
 wicked? You've only to tell the truth if you're 
 caught. Say I forced my way in here. I'll admit 
 to anything you like." 
 
 "I was thinking of you," he lied. 
 
 She acknowledged his lie with the slightest shrug; 
 then dropped his overcoat to the seat of the couch 
 and started back toward the bedroom. 
 
 Dunster was instantly beside her. "Wait! you 
 don't understand. If you're really in trouble I want 
 to help you do anything I can. But for heaven's 
 sake be a little reasonable! This isn't the way to 
 keep out of trouble risking things like this. . . . 
 And for what ! Why should your mother's coming 
 upset you so?" 
 
 "That's what I came to tell you," she answered. 
 "But if you're afraid?" 
 
 He was blocking the way now; squarely before 
 her. "I'm not a coward. It isn't cowardly, is it, to 
 
80 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 try not to be a fool ? Now go on, please; I in 
 sist." 
 
 For the first time in all their many strange con 
 flicts her eyes fell before his. u Oh, yes I do lack 
 common sense/' she said. She was managing to 
 speak quietly enough, but Dunster was aware of 
 and immensely moved by the effort it cost her. 
 "You're quite right to be upset angry with me," 
 she continued. "I can't imagine what made me turn 
 to you impulsively, like this. Our talk this evening, 
 I suppose. . . ." Suddenly she lifted her eyes; gave 
 him a full, open look. "Oh!" she cried, "I'm 
 ashamed now of being here but I'm more ashamed 
 of lying to myself ! I shall have to leave Alden any 
 way perhaps to-morrow. For Dr. Harrod's sake, 
 if not for my own. Mother's coming settles that. 
 . . . And I've never liked you, really, or trusted 
 you but can't you feel I'm in love with you ! I've 
 never been in love before ... I hate it. As for 
 my being here, asking you to help me well, it's all 
 a fake ! I see that now. Nobody can help me you 
 least of all. I came because I was damned unhappy 
 and wanted to be near you. That isn't what I told 
 myself, but it must be why I came. . . . And I 
 know you're in love with me of course I know it. 
 But you don't like me or trust me, any more than I 
 do you. Why should you? I'm a horrible person, 
 with a horrible family back of me. That's all Yes; 
 that's all. . . . You'll get over it, you know just 
 as I shall, once I'm away. But you're rather hor 
 rible yourself. . . ." 
 
 Swiftly, a shadow among shadows, she slipped by 
 him got to the door. Before she could open it, his 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 81 
 
 arms were about her. "Lilia ?" And again: 
 "Lilia ? I want you. ... I want you to marry 
 
 me." 
 
 She did not yield to him ; did not struggle to free 
 herself; did not reply. Simply, she stood quite still. 
 Dunster's arms slowly loosened, dropped to his sides. 
 He, too, was still. An incredible stillness, an un 
 breakable silence enveloped them, blotted them out. 
 And it seemed to Dunster, at last, that Lilians voice 
 had reached him across infinite spaces. 
 
 "My mother wasn't married to my father and, 
 far worse, she's a bad lot all through. So perhaps 
 I take after her. I'm illegitimate do you under 
 stand? . . . Well, Professor Thorpe, are you so 
 sure now you want me to marry you ? . . . What a 
 responsibility! . . . What would become of your 
 career!" 
 
 "Lilia I" he protested, seizing her hands "I 
 don't care a hang about my career or anything but 
 you!" 
 
 As he spoke, her hands were sharply withdrawn. 
 "Tell me that to-morrow," she said. "But you won't 
 have to tell I shall know. I do know." Then 
 Lilia quietly opened the door, stepped down into 
 the mist-filled garden, drifted into the mist and 
 away. . . . 
 
 He would have followed her at least, he was 
 able later to convince himself that he was just on the 
 point of sharp pursuit if Mrs. Sterrett's voice had 
 not come to him from his study doorway; come to 
 him high-pitched, tremulous, but imperative. "Doc 
 tor I'll be obliged to you for a word at once, 
 please!" 
 
82 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 If his much-loved landlady had discharged a pis 
 tol at his back she could not more thoroughly have 
 demoralized him. And self-protection is said to be 
 the first law of nature. Dunster almost threw him 
 self upon the knob of his garden door, and drew the 
 door shut with a jarring bang. 
 
 XVI 
 
 |*T was slow-witted Mysie, coming home from an 
 * evening at the movies (satisfactorily thrilling, 
 and nicely adjusted to her limitations), who, in pass 
 ing around the house to the kitchen door, had 
 glanced through the lighted windows of "the Per- 
 fesser's room," and had then stood rooted and gaping 
 with delicious horror at the climactic picture within. 
 The scene was entirely familiar to her and could 
 bear but one interpretation. A beautiful young girl 
 lured to a bachelor's quarters, late well, later'n 
 she'd ( Mysie ) told missus she'd be at night. Dun 
 ster had just thrown his overcoat across Lilia's 
 shoulders as Mysie halted, round-eyed, with hang 
 ing jaw. Unhappily, the Perfesser had then leaped 
 to the windows and pulled down the shades. . . . 
 Poor Mysie, this many a day, had been casting oaf's 
 eyes at the young Perfesser, whose rooms she cared 
 for; though her secret glances had not been charged 
 with undue emotion, since she obscurely knew that 
 such as her was not for such as him. A dull throb 
 of middle-aged jealousy was now, however, added 
 to her first instinctive reaction; she felt it was up to 
 her to expose a smooth villain, and to save the lovely 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 83 
 
 heroine's honor at any cost. With surprising speed 
 she lumbered on to the kitchen door and was pres 
 ently rattling the doorknob of Mrs. Sterrett's bed 
 room, where her astonished mistress having ap 
 peared she gasped out a melodramatic tale and a 
 somewhat incoherent plea for action. 
 
 It was Mrs. Sterrett's natural impression that 
 Mysie was suffering from some new kind of "at 
 tack," due doubtless to an evening of too sustained 
 excitement; but she felt that she ought at once to 
 exonerate the Doctor from any connection with her 
 stricken handmaid's delusions. Therefore, in gray 
 flannel wrapper and felt bedroom-slippers, she de 
 scended the stairs, followed at the heels by Mysie, 
 and passed through the memorial chamber to the 
 Doctor's door. And there, to her sorrowful dis 
 may, and while she still hesitated, she unmistakably 
 caught a wordless murmur that had in it nothing of 
 the masculine. Was it possible! The Doctor! 
 What was it her immediate duty to do ? 
 
 She began by packing Mysie off upstairs to her 
 room, with a strict injunction to stay there. She 
 then walked firmly to Dunster's door, tried the knob, 
 opened the door a crack, and without attempting 
 to look within launched at the Doctor the words 
 which had so completely demoralized that nervously 
 organized young man. But Mrs. Sterrett, poor lady, 
 for all her summoned indignation, was herself more 
 or less completely demoralized; and, as the garden 
 door slammed, she gave a brief, high-pitched cry r 
 .... Thus, when Dunster and his landlady at last 
 confronted one another at the threshold of the me 
 morial chamber, it would have been difficult for an 
 
84 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 observant neutral to decide which of them revealed 
 most plainly the outward signs of a ravaging inward 
 storm. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Sterrett! no wonder you're up 
 set ! You can't be more so than I am ! This is the 
 most extraordinary thing that has ever happened to 
 me in all my experience as a teacher ! Please come 
 in and sit down. ... I want to consult you, if 
 you'll let me just as if I were your son. This is 
 a very serious business, Mrs. Sterrett. I should have 
 gone to you at once, in any case ... I daren't act 
 alone. You can't imagine how I need your sym 
 pathy and advice!" 
 
 A recording mortal wonders whether the Record 
 ing Angel in person could wholly disentangle the in 
 stinctive truth from the instinctive self-sheltering 
 strokes of policy in such a speech. For man is in 
 deed the paragon of animals in so many subtle, 
 simian ways. Verily, no mere banker's system of 
 double triple quadruple entry can ever have suf 
 ficed for the Books of the Recording Angel; and 
 how even a trial balance is at last to be struck from 
 them is a speculation to corrode the brazen cheeks 
 of Metaphysics herself. 
 
 But it was evident that Mrs. Sterrett had been 
 poignantly moved by Dunster's appeal. A bright 
 spot had come into either cheek, an unmistakable 
 glow into her muted eyes. As for Dunster, one must 
 at least be fair to him. He was genuinely fond of 
 his landlady; he did feel the need of sympathy and 
 advice. And he had in no way made up his mind 
 to a deliberate course of evasion and deceit. He 
 had, indeed, made up his mind to nothing. It was 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 85 
 
 secretly made up for him, in some portion of his 
 psychic being far below the threshold of conscious 
 will. His talk with Mrs. Sterrett proved the purest 
 improvisation, prompted at every point by her im 
 mediate reaction to the words he uttered. That 
 Conscienceless Thing in us that fights mercilessly 
 against pain, or the merest personal inconvenience, 
 simply took the helm and steered for quieter waters. 
 It was not for some hours after Mrs. Sterrett had 
 left him that Dunster quite made out how subtle and 
 hypocritical a protective web his tongue had been 
 weaving between him and the too-menacing circum 
 stances closing about him. 
 
 He had begun by telling Mrs. Sterrett as if 
 making a clean breast of a disagreeable experience 
 that one of his more difficult students "highly 
 strung, you know, Mrs. Sterrett; abnormal, really" 
 had persuaded herself that she was desperately in 
 love with him. "I suppose that such things are bound 
 to happen, occasionally, in a place like this; one 
 hears of instances. . . ." For some time, he ad 
 mitted, and with increasing discomfort, he had been 
 conscious of what he could only call (while his un 
 comfortable smile asked for a frank grasping of a 
 difficult position) this girl's marked attentions. 
 "You've no idea, Mrs. Sterrett, what self-contempt 
 a situation like that can bring to any more or less 
 decent sort of man!" He had naturally done all he 
 could to discourage the girl. "But no doubt I was 
 awkward; said pretty much the wrong things. A 
 man's bound to put his foot in it, where a woman 
 would easily feel her way." Mrs. Sterrett murmured 
 assent. She could understand, she felt, a silly girl 
 
86 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 going quite shamelessly off her head for so splendid 
 a young man at once so intellectual and so whole 
 some and fine in grain. 
 
 "Poor creature! So that's it! Poor Dr. 
 Thorpe ! . . . But the child must be beside her 
 self coming straight to you here!" 
 
 "That's precisely what I'm afraid of, you see. 
 I didn't dare play the schoolmaster. For the time 
 being she's beyond reach of rebukes or penalties. I 
 had to reason with her appeal to her better nature. 
 But I'm certain I made a mess of it. ... Why, 
 simply to get rid of her with any kindness, I had to 
 promise to talk with her soon again at a more suit 
 able place and time. You can't imagine how I dread 
 that ordeal. But of course, the whole situation 
 well, it's impossible! My duty to the college en 
 ters in, too. . . . Oh, good heavens, Mrs. Sterrett 
 it's a miserable business altogether! Can you 
 think of anything guide me? If it's possible to 
 help it, I don't want to make this a college matter 
 at all. It isn't a college matter. And I honestly 
 want to save this girl from even a shadow of humil 
 iation." 
 
 Mrs. Sterrett bobbed her head, decisively. "That's 
 the point, Doctor, as I see it. That's how I'd of 
 liked my own son to feel. The girl's to blame for 
 coming here ; I won't excuse her. But some feelings 
 are mighty strong. . . . Well, I want to help you, 
 Doctor, if it's given me but I'd like special to help 
 her. Since you're to meet her again private any 
 way, you bring that poor lamb right straight here 
 somehow to me. I'll talk to her; and nothing'll go 
 beyond my lips that you may be sure!" 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 87 
 
 Caution danger ahead! The Conscienceless 
 Thing in him, like the wary savage it is, froze to an 
 alert attention. Traps and springes no thorough 
 fare! A soft treading backward now, and so 
 around. . . . 
 
 "Yes; if only it can be managed discreetly. . . . 
 It's splendid of you just like you to make such 
 an offer. But it would let you in for so much. 
 No, I'm not sure it would be fair to you and per 
 haps not quite fair to Miss ... to the girl? I 
 must think it over, and over again, Mrs. Sterrett; 
 feel my way. Still, it may be the best thing the 
 only thing. It's certainly the most generous!" 
 
 There. For the immediate moment it could be 
 dropped; and now perhaps it would be wiser if this 
 interview could be quietly closed. 
 
 "Let's sleep on it shall we? I simply can't tell 
 you what this talk has meant to me. The whole 
 thing's as difficult as ever, I suppose but at least I 
 feel you near me. I'm not alone with it all." 
 
 Once more at the threshold of the memorial cham 
 ber, Mrs. Sterrett pressed Dunster's hand quietly 
 between her thin, corded hands with the brown 
 mottlings of age upon them. She would have liked 
 it if he had stooped and kissed her. But Dunster, 
 as usual, was thinking of himself. . . . And if any 
 reader, at this point, feels inclined to reach for a 
 stone, may a recorder suggest that he or she pause 
 to reflect a little before hurling it in the indicated 
 direction. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 XVII 
 
 "qpHATyou, Lilia?" 
 
 * With her usual swift deftness, Lilia had 
 mounted the apple tree and the fire-escape and was 
 slipping through the dark study toward her bedroom 
 when Idabelle called to her on a hushed, tentative 
 note confidence just tinged with alarm. 
 
 "Yes. I was out too long. I'm half frozen. 
 Good-night, Idabelle." 
 
 But Idabelle, in a hastily snatched kimono, ap 
 peared as a gray blur in the doorway of the double 
 bedroom occupied by Myrtle and herself. Myrtle's 
 stressed, rhythmic breathing which it would per 
 haps be unchivalrous otherwise to name could be 
 distinctly heard; yet Idabelle moved cautiously and 
 spoke softly. "I thought you'd never come home. 
 No; I haven't been asleep; I've been lying awake 
 doing your thinking for you. Wait a mo ; I'll come 
 into your room. Generally you couldn't wake up 
 Myrt with an axe but you never can tell." 
 
 Together, the girls entered Lilia's black and 
 at this hour creepingly cold little room. Idabelle 
 closed the door. Invisible to each other, they as 
 by common impulse felt their way to Lilia's bed 
 and curled up side by side upon it, drawing the down 
 comforter up to their chins. Lilia shivered; her 
 teeth were on the point of chattering. She braced 
 herself, and wrapped the light cape about her bare 
 arms beneath the comforter. 
 
 "So I've been caught at last?" she managed, con 
 trolling by a sharp effort of will the quavering mus- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 89 
 
 cles of her jaw. Idabelle must not think her sud 
 denly afraid. "Well, it doesn't matter much now." 
 
 "The dickens it doesn't matter! Carrie" Miss 
 Carrington, matron of Apsley Hall "tapped at 
 the door not twenty minutes after you left us. I 
 knew her, of course. Nobody else 'taps' like that, 
 as if she were giving a lesson in deportment. So I 
 told Myrt to keep her feet to herself, for once ; I'd 
 do the talking. Well, the minute I let Carrie >n, she 
 asked for you." 
 
 "Kind of her," murmured Lilia. 
 
 "Wasn't it! But I laughed and spoke right up, 
 cocky as anything ! I said you were in the bath-tub. 
 . . . No go! I didn't need a blue-print after that. 
 The bath-tub didn't get by with Carrie not for a 
 minute. You know the way she opens and shuts her 
 mouth when she's on to you just like a dying fish. 
 Woof! Maybe I wasn't sick, sore and disabled!" 
 Being a good, but malicious, mimic, Idabelle now 
 rendered Miss Carrington's response quietly, but 
 with due exaggeration and private gusto. ' 'My 
 dear Miss Hecksher I never thought to hear from 
 your lips from the lips of one of my girls a de 
 liberate perversion of truth! Mr. Gurney has but 
 a moment since telephoned me. He is certain he 
 passed Miss Chenoworth just as she was leaving the 
 campus by the Dearborn Memorial Gateway. He 
 spoke to her, but she did not reply she hurried 
 on. Mr. Gurney quite properly felt it would be 
 undignified to pursue her, preferring to report the 
 infraction to me. And what, may one ask, does this 
 amazing infraction mean, Miss Hecksher? I in 
 sist upon a detailed reply.' " 
 
90 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Idabelle felt her hands gripped in the darkness. 
 "I did pass someone; but it was so misty and dark 
 I couldn't possibly have told who it was. And 
 I'm almost sure he didn't speak. How did he know 
 
 me!' 
 
 "Well, he did that's the main trouble. Just 
 like him not to dare tackle you himself the little 
 sneak!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm so sorry for your sake ! Carrie's cer 
 tain to make it hot for you. Truly, Idabelle, I don't 
 care in the least except for you." 
 
 "Shucks. I'm all right. I 'fessed up had to. 
 ... I said you'd dropped a silk scarf on your way 
 back from Prexy's and had gone to look for it. Myrt 
 near fainted, but she had just sense enough left to 
 back me up. So I think it went all right. ... Of 
 course, Carrie grieved over my first whopper, but 
 she forgave me because I was 'loyally, but oh! so 
 mistakenly! trying to protect my friend.' All the 
 same, you're in for it good and plenty, I'm afraid. 
 I'll bet Carrie's been watching for you and timing 
 you ever since. That's just the way she'd go about 
 it. You're bound to hear from her after breakfast. 
 Better be ready!" 
 
 "Oh I'm ready enough. The whole thing's of 
 no consequence unless it makes difficulties for you. 
 But it mustn't. I'll see to that." 
 
 "H'm. ... I wouldn't count too much on my 
 drag with Prexy if I were you ! It might wear out 
 some day when you least expected it." 
 
 "Idabelle." Lilia's tone was unmistakable; the 
 hurt was deep. "How could you think that! Think 
 I'd deliberately use Dr. Harrod's friendship for me, 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 91 
 
 just to get out of a scrape. ... Oh ! I hate people 
 who use other people. Idabelle, promise me no 
 matter what I do promise me never to think such 
 things of me again I" 
 
 Idabelle's "All right, old lady!" was dry and off 
 hand; but that was just Idabelle's way of register 
 ing emotion. However, she was quite as much puz 
 zled as moved; and frankly said so. "See here 
 why the devil do you risk this sort of thing? Serial- 
 stuff, I call it. Jumping from aeroplanes, and all 
 that 1 You were asking for a big bump, you know." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Myrt's said right along she doesn't believe you 
 just go for a walk. She thinks there's a man in the 
 case ; but then she would. When Myrt isn't think 
 ing of a man she isn't thinking at all. But you've 
 been so close about it no wonder. Why do you 
 go, anyway?" 
 
 "I began it just to do as I please. . . . But 
 now, all that doesn't matter. I'm going to leave 
 Alden." 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 "It's true, Idabelle. I must. But I can't tell you 
 why." 
 
 "Oh. . . . Then there is a man ?" 
 
 "No. There isn't. There's a woman. . . . 
 Please, Idabelle I can't explain. It's all so messy 
 and dreadful. Things would have blown up with 
 a bang soon, anyway. I'll just have to clear out." 
 
 "You poor kid " 
 
 "No; I'm all right really. And you've been so 
 perfect to-night, Idabelle! I'd like you to under 
 stand, later on; lots of things. But don't worry 
 
92 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 about me. It's simply well, I don't belong here in 
 Alden never have. I must find my own world." 
 
 "You're honestly going to skip ?" 
 
 "Yes. But not on the sly. I'll leave openly some 
 how to-morrow. Or the day after. ... I can't 
 be sure to-night." 
 
 "Oh, see here, Lilia if it's as bad as that. . . . 
 I'd do most anything to keep you lie my head off !" 
 
 Lilia gave a nervous little laugh, with an odd be 
 traying catch in it. She squeezed Idabelle's hand. 
 "Thanks. . . . But there isn't any lie big enough to 
 help me. I hope there's a Truth big enough some 
 where. . . . You've been good to me, Idabelle. So 
 has Myrtle her way. Oh, I know I'm queer!" 
 
 Then Idabelle, the repressed, did something she 
 could not have believed herself capable of doing; she 
 threw her arms about Lilia and held her close. But 
 "You poor kid you poor old kid !" was all she 
 could find for baffled sympathy and blind encour 
 agement. 
 
 Nevertheless, Lilia was crying quietly when Ida- 
 belle gave her a final dumb, mothering hug, and 
 slipped from beneath the comforter. . . . 
 
 XVIII 
 
 'T^HE following morning, precisely at nine-thirty, 
 * Miss Goldsborough, titular head of the Eng 
 lish Department, Mr. Gurney, junior instructor in 
 Economics, and Miss Carrington, matron of Apsley 
 Hall, were admitted to Dr. Harrod's office by Miss 
 Dart, his super-efficient secretary, who with a nice 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 93 
 
 gradation of emphasis pronounced their names in 
 the order given ; though Mr. Gurney was, of course, 
 far too polite not to stand aside and permit Miss Car- 
 rington to enter before him. It was at once evident 
 to all these intruders that Dr. Harrod was unusually 
 disturbed by their presence. He was actually pacing 
 towards them along the famous strip of magenta-red 
 carpet; he met and greeted them, indeed, half-way 
 along the Road to Hell. He did not invite them to 
 sit down. 
 
 "Ladies Mr. Gurney," he said, "permit me to 
 explain this matter, briefly. I have been talking to 
 Miss Chenoworth for the past half-hour. ... I 
 am in full possession of the facts." He drew him 
 self up to his full height, his hands clasped behind 
 him, and spoke slowly, with weight, exercising the 
 accumulated awe of his personal dignity, his position, 
 his years. * 
 
 "As you know, the child is here through my per 
 suasion. I own to a great affection for her. But 
 we are all aware that she has defied the college rules, 
 more than once ; and I suspect I have been accused of 
 favoritism because I have shielded her from the 
 usual consequences. Very well. I confess my crime. 
 I have been influenced by my interest in her. I am 
 so influenced to-day." He paused a moment, bending 
 an almost baleful glance upon the insignificant Gur 
 ney, whose thin marrow melted before him. "It is 
 still my impression, Mr. Gurney, that Lilia Cheno 
 worth is a girl in a thousand; sucH as I should be very 
 sorry to feel that Alden has no means of reaching 
 and winning to a full loyalty." 
 
 "Oh, by all means that ... yes ... oh, 
 
94 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 quite !" emitted Mr. Gurney in fluttering monosyl 
 lables. 
 
 "Quite," echoed Miss Carrington. 
 
 "Quite," firmly pronounced Miss Goldsborough. 
 
 "I rejoice," said Dr. Harrod, "that we are all of 
 one mind. But I have often felt it to be the note 
 of Alden," he added who knows how malignly? 
 "that we are all of one mind. Our solidarity is our 
 strength. . . . However, to return to Miss Cheno- 
 worth. I am not for the moment at liberty to give 
 you details; but this I will say. Beneath the some 
 what gay even frivolous surface she presents to 
 the world, this poor child is masking a spirit dark 
 ened by sorrow and yes, I think I may admit by 
 anxiety. She has been unhappy in her family life, 
 and she fears that further trouble is in store for her 
 father and herself. At night she broods over these 
 things; she is often unable to sleep; and on several 
 occasions she has been driven to slip out and walk 
 about the streets. ... In short, her disordered 
 nerves have betrayed her. But she does not seek to 
 excuse herself, and this morning she has offered to 
 leave Alden quietly and return to her father. It may 
 well be the best the only solution." 
 
 From Mr. Gurney and Miss Carrington a faint 
 murmur of dissent; from Miss Goldsborough a ring 
 ing "By no means, Dr. Harrod! It isn't to be 
 thought of!" 
 
 "Ah, pardon me, Miss Goldsborough, it must be 
 thought of for Lilians sake, if not for our own. 
 Under the circumstances, it may be unwise to sub 
 ject her to any further strain. I shall have to con 
 sider the matter very carefully. ... In the mean- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 95 
 
 time, may I ask you to regard all this as confiden 
 tial? And may I ask for your patience and sup 
 port?" 
 
 He accompanied them to the door; he even 
 opened it. 
 
 From the outer office came a coarse, high-pitched 
 feminine voice, rapidly threaded through with Miss 
 Dart's voice in sharp remonstrance. 
 
 "Impossible at this time. . . . I'm not deaf. . . 
 it's disgraceful of you to shriek so make a scene 
 of this kind. . . . I insist that you calm yourself!" 
 
 But the coarse, high-pitched voice carried above 
 her : "Say, I gotta see the President, I tell yer ! Right 
 now! She was in his rooms one o' the college 
 gurls I seen her there ! An' late at night, at that ! 
 What kind of a Perfesser d'y j call that to be havin' ! 
 He orter be run outta town on a rail ! Lurin' gurls 
 to his rooms that ain't right, is it ! I gotta see the 
 Pres'dent right off now!" 
 
 Dr. Harrod stepped quickly forward and bent his 
 most impressive frown upon poor Mysie, who was 
 not wholly prepared for so awful an apparition. 
 "Well, madam ? I am the President. What have 
 you to say to me ?" 
 
 Poor Mysie' s prominent oyster-gray eyes goggled 
 piteously; her tongue thickened and stiffened, and she 
 could barely stammer out, "Perfesser Thorpe . . . 
 it ain't right, sir. ... I seen a college gurl in his 
 room las' night . . ." 
 
 "One moment!" commanded Dr. Harrod. "Miss 
 Goldsborough Miss Carrington Mr. Gurney 
 be good enough to return to my office. Since you 
 happen to be present at this astounding accusation, 
 
96 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 we may as well sift the matter thoroughly at once." 
 And again he bent his stern brows at tremulous 
 Mysie, and pointed her down the Road to Hell. 
 "Step inside, madam. And pray begin more sen 
 sibly by giving us your name and credentials 1" 
 
 But poor Mysie did not step inside. The emo 
 tional stress of her supreme effort to live up to the 
 heroic standards of the screen now proved too much 
 for her. Far from obeying Dr. Harrod's command, 
 she gave a loud, involuntary yell and dropped heavily 
 to the floor wracked and writhen there by the ter 
 rible clonic spasm of epilepsy; perhaps the most 
 shocking sight for unprepared bystanders which 
 morbid nature affords. . . . Mr. Gurney, with a cry 
 of horror, fled precipitately from the room. Not 
 until he had reached the stairs was he able to control 
 himself and decide that he was running to summon 
 medical aid. 
 
 XIX 
 
 WHEN, fussily heralded by Mr. Gurney, Dr. 
 Dahlgren (Carrie Dahlgren, M.D.) arrived 
 which she did with her usual promptness and 
 quiet authority the worst of Mysie's inopportune 
 fit was over. Dr. Dahlgren at once recognized her 
 patient, for she had on more than one occasion been 
 sumnloned by Mrs. Sterrett to attend Mysie. "But 
 whatever brought her here!" exclaimed Dr. Dahl 
 gren. "Well, no matter that's not my business. 
 I'll just get her home to Beth Sterrett as quick as I 
 can." Dr. ' Dahlgren then telephoned for the in- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 97 
 
 firmary ambulance (a clear infraction of rules; it 
 was to be used only for college cases) and, when it 
 had slipped round with a vain attempt at stealth to 
 the rear door of the Administration Building, she 
 insisted upon accompanying the patient. "Beth Ster- 
 rett will like it better if I'm right there, and I'd go 
 a long way to do something for Beth. She's the salt 
 of this earth, and I've always said so." 
 
 Dr. Dahlgren was addressing Dr. Harrod, who 
 now drew her aside. "Please ask Mrs. Sterrett to 
 come over and see me this morning as soon as pos 
 sible. I've an appointment at twelve. Ask it for 
 me as a special favor." 
 
 Dr. Dahlgren nodded. It was not her custom to 
 waste many words. 
 
 The immediate flurry being over, Dr. Harrod felt 
 a need for solitude and reflection. He tactfully dis 
 missed his three earlier visitors, but with a parting 
 word of caution. "You will understand, of course," 
 he said, "that no reliance is to be placed upon that 
 poor creature's statement. I am bound to make cer 
 tain inquiries for Dr. Thorpe's sake. In the mean 
 time I rely on your discretion." 
 
 Miss Goldsborough, Miss Carrington, and Mr. 
 Gurney departed each with fluttering nerves, yet 
 with an oddly increased sense of self-importance. 
 They were like the American tourists caught in Ger 
 many by the outbreak of the Great War shaken 
 and apprehensive but thrilled, and bursting with 
 perilous matter which they knew that some day they 
 would revel in communicating. . . . 
 
 Dr. Harrod shut himself into his private office. 
 
98 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 For perhaps ten minutes he sat motionless before 
 his desk, a rather grim smile on his weary, raven- 
 wise old face. Ruth would have understood that 
 smile; she would have known that whenever her 
 father smiled thus he was defying Fate. 
 
 Not one of the events of the morning had been to 
 his liking; no, not one. And the morning was not 
 half over. Worse far worse, he suspected was 
 still before him. Indeed, as he sat there, he was by 
 no means certain he would be able to emerge from 
 the turmoil of this day with the customary credit to 
 Alden and to himself. Mysie's outbreak had struck 
 him as strangely ominous. He felt in his bones there 
 must be some connection between that and Lilia's 
 midnight escapade. Lilia's account to him of that 
 escapade, he was convinced, had been truthful; but 
 it had not been frank. He well knew she had held 
 back from him the heart of her confession; he had 
 been aware as she talked of something deliberately 
 passed by. Was it possible that she had gone to 
 young Thorpe on some crazy impulse but on what 
 impulse? . . . Well; it would be unfortunate 
 very! if the closing year of his long service should 
 be marred by a public scandal. It would, above all, 
 be unfortunate for Alden. And Dr. Harrod loved 
 Alden. In the fullest sense, Alden was his creation; 
 he had made it what it was. He was proud of what 
 it was. A liberal college. A college where young 
 women could come for the things of the mind and 
 on the whole find what they sought. Yes, the spirit 
 of Alden was humane he had seen to that. The 
 spirit of the place was not petty; it was broad in 
 vigorating. And so far as practicable, granted the 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 99 
 
 limitations and prejudices of a given society it was 
 free ! Ah ! just for that reason he had had to keep 
 a sharp eye out for noxious weeds ! He had had to 
 pluck them forth, instantly! He had had through 
 out to convince his trustees and the parents of his 
 girls that freedom is not inconsistent with safety. 
 . . . Well, yes; he had been a benevolent autocrat, 
 it was true ; but granted the social conditions of the 
 time what other course could he possibly have 
 steered ? . . . H'm. . . . Lilia . . . yes; he had 
 wavered for once he had wavered. Still it was 
 impossible for him even now, as he sat there, to think 
 of Lilia as a noxious weed. From the very first (as 
 a casual, light-winged moth she flitted through, 
 or paused hovering within those vast, cool rooms of 
 her father's villa) she had magically moved him; 
 had, in a sense, obsessed him. From that time she 
 was never long out of his thoughts. . . . And the 
 grim smile tightened a little. If he were a younger 
 man well, if he were a younger, a much younger 
 man it would not have been difficult for him, he felt, 
 to fancy himself in love with the child. But that, of 
 course at his age was absurd! It was merely 
 that she appealed not only to his sympathies, but to 
 his imagination. She was like something h'm like 
 something life had never brought him, and now could 
 never bring him. She was all that he had missed. 
 . . . His long, stiff fingers began to drum monot 
 onously on the blotter-pad. 
 
 Young Thorpe, now what of him? Why was it 
 he could never quite bring himself to like young 
 Thorpe? Or was it only of late he had felt this 
 slight, but growing antagonism ? Bah ! 
 
100 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "An excellent teacher," said Dr. Harrod, speak 
 ing out the words to the empty room with self-defiant 
 decision. 
 
 Then his desk-telephone rang. 
 
 Miss Dart was announcing a visitor; Mrs. Ster- 
 rett. Yes, yes: he had asked Mrs. Sterrett to call. 
 "And Dr. Thorpe is with her," added Miss Dart. 
 "They would like to see you together." Unfortu 
 nate unfortunate ! However, it could not easily 
 be helped. . . . Dr. Harrod pushed back his chair. 
 
 XX 
 
 AND Lilia, while beyond her immediate con- 
 -*** sciousness these slight things were happening 
 and interweaving themselves with her destiny, was 
 at war with demons in the small bedroom of her 
 mother's suite at the Alden Inn. Straight from the 
 early interview with Dr. Harrod she had gone 
 thither and had asked the day-clerk for the num 
 ber of Mrs. Chenoworth's room. For an instant 
 the day-clerk had hesitated. "But it's all right, 
 really!" Lilia sparkled and reassured \\irn. "She's 
 my mother, you know; she's expecting me." 
 
 "Oh !" exclaimed the day-clerk, with instantly 
 stirred gallantry. "That's different. Number 38." 
 
 Lilia was glad to find the dark third-floor hall 
 way vacant; it enabled her to stand unobserved be 
 fore "Number 38" to stand there and fight down 
 her longing to turn and creep down the stairs to 
 the public office and so escape. For many moments 
 her natural decision and intrepidity failed before 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 101 
 
 what seemed to her an impossible test. She was 
 afraid of her mother, whom she had not seen for six 
 or seven years ; but it was not for herself, it was for 
 Anson Chenoworth, her father, that she was now 
 abjectly, miserably afraid. And a single thought 
 pounded through her as she stood there in the dark 
 hallway before the ugly, yellow-varnished door: 
 "She shan't hurt him she shan't she shan't!" 
 
 When at last she had forced herself to knock, she 
 received no answer. 
 
 A second, a third time she knocked, each time more 
 loudly; but it seemed to her that all this rapping of 
 knuckles must be superfluous. Surely, the persistent 
 thudding of her heart must be audible throughout 
 the hotel! Even the clerk in the office, she felt, 
 would hear it and would send up to inquire. ... In 
 a spasm of panic she seized and rattled the door 
 knob of "Number 38," and it turned in her hand, the 
 door swinging open toward her. Evidently her 
 mother had gone out; but why, then, had the clerk 
 not mentioned it and why was the door unlocked? 
 Lilia was aware, however, of an instant relief from 
 tension; she drew a long, free breath. Since she had 
 not immediately to face her mother, all would be 
 well. She needed just this an interval a chance 
 to collect herself and be at her best for what might 
 follow. She would wait, of course. Her mother 
 was almost certain to return to her room before go 
 ing on to Dr. Harrod's office at twelve. 
 
 Tranquillized, Lilia stepped aside and let the ill- 
 balanced door swing past her. She was looking now 
 into a small, sun-flooded room just the usual bare, 
 characterless private sitting-room of the modest Al- 
 
102 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 den Inn. That at least, with the strong light full 
 in her eyes, was her first impression; but as the daz 
 zle cleared she saw that this particular room was 
 everywhere overlaid by a multiplicity of objects 
 heaped or scattered about in the most slovenly dis 
 order. The contents of a woman's large, unsyste 
 matic trunk must have been removed by impatient 
 armfuls and dumped at random to achieve this ex 
 traordinary effect. Corsets, foot-gear, lingerie, furs, 
 novels, toilet articles, gloves, photographs, cigarette 
 boxes, letters the devil knows what ! flowed indis 
 criminately over the room's three chairs, its desk, its 
 flimsy cherry-red center-table, and the November- 
 leaf-mottled carpet-rug of its rust-colored floor. 
 .... Lilia stared, aghast. She remembered her 
 mother perfectly well as a sulkily beautiful woman 
 with an uncertain temper, whose time was given prin 
 cipally to supervising with a peevish fastidiousness 
 all that a superlative maid and four or five house- 
 servants could do to promote her personal loveliness 
 and the luxurious comfort of whatever rooms the 
 wandering Chenoworths happened to be occupying. 
 Why even the last time she had seen her mother, in 
 that coquettish toy-villa near Monte Carlo bright 
 pink with the apple-green blinds, even then with 
 the family volcano in active eruption, blowing itself 
 to pieces her mother had presented to a tearful, 
 rather dazed little girl who had slipped somehow 
 into her presence the surface-picture of an ordered 
 and faultless prostration. Between Lilia and the 
 chaos of the hotel room that picture drifted back for 
 a moment : a dusky, muted chamber with walls of pale 
 turquoise-blue and a floor of dull-amber tiles; an Em- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 103 
 
 pire couch with a flow of peacock-hued silks across it; 
 on the couch, reclining in soft folds of white, a volup 
 tuous woman with shut eyes, serenely suffering, while 
 an Italian maid hovered over her, bathing her marble 
 temples with eau de Cologne. . . . 
 
 Oh ! it was incredible impossible that her 
 mother should have fallen to this this squalid in 
 decency! Lilia shivered; her eyes filled with tears. 
 She stepped quickly through the doorway and, in 
 stinctively, lest a stranger eye should peer in on 
 what seemed to her at once shameful and piteous, 
 she drew shut the door. 
 
 And she was aware then of another shut door in 
 the wall to her left the bedroom, of course ! How 
 stupid of her not to have remembered that her 
 mother was accustomed to sleep until noon, or later. 
 Or if she were taking her bath, she might easily not 
 have heard anything. . . . Lilians heart began thud 
 ding again ; she would never, she thought, be able to 
 force herself to knock at that second door. . . . She 
 managed it, however, at last and received no an 
 swer. She was thoroughly frightened now. It came 
 suddenly into her mind that her mother was lying 
 dead on the other side of that door; it came to her 
 with the force of a conviction. And with that con 
 viction, oddly, her merely physical terror vanished, 
 to be replaced by a curious rapt elation of soul. She 
 was standing, as it were, outside of herself, contem 
 plating with a sort of ecstasy the dramatic quality 
 of the immediate situation: daughter mother 
 the shut door between them all the imaginative pos 
 sibilities of the shut door between them. . . . 
 What a moment ! What a moment to play! 
 
104 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 As she tried the door, found it unlocked, and 
 slowly slowly opened it, it seemed to her that the 
 eyes of the Universe were fastened upon her. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The bedroom was not large, and from the door 
 way Lilia could almost have leaned forward and 
 touched her mother. She was lying on the bed, a 
 long, lean figure, only partly dressed, and only half 
 covered by a huddle of mussed bedclothes which she 
 had ineffectively drawn across her legs. Her abun 
 dant blonde reddish hair had been rolled up loosely 
 and lay in a snarled mass on the pillow; the face, 
 buried in that tangle, was clay-colored it looked 
 pinched and dry. The eyes were closed. 
 
 For a second, but for the merest second, Lilia ac 
 cepted what she saw as the full confirmation of her 
 sudden fear. Then, quite as suddenly, she was 
 aware that she was not in the presence of death. 
 Her mother moaned, slightly . . . and Lilia sprang 
 forward. "Mother ! what is it ? I'm Lilia, mother 
 Lilia! I want to help you !" 
 
 Mrs. Chenoworth half-opened expressionless eyes 
 and seemed to be staring blankly at the girl's face 
 bending close to her own; but the eyes closed again 
 she relapsed at once into her lethargy. Lilia 
 seized her mother's bare shoulders, shook her, called 
 to her; it was useless. She could not again rouse her. 
 
 A frightened chambermaid now rushed in from 
 the hall as far as the bedroom door and cried out 
 for an explanation. "My mother's dying!" Lilia 
 cried back at her. The chambermaid clattered away 
 with pious ejaculations of horror. Lilia threw her 
 self on the bed beside her mother and began chafing 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 105 
 
 her cheeks, pushing back the weight of hair from her 
 forehead, pleading with her for a sign of life, of 
 recognition. . . . 
 
 Presently there was a man standing beside Lilia, 
 who took her firmly by the arm and half-lifted her 
 from the bed to her feet. Lilia was faintly con 
 scious of a confusion of excited voices near at hand. 
 The man had turned on an electric reading-lamp 
 standing on the night-table by the bed. "Shut the 
 door, my dear girl," he commanded "tell them 
 your mother's all right. We'll soon bring her 
 round." 
 
 Dazed, Lilia went to the bedroom door and called 
 out on an odd, strained note: "M'sieu le medecin 
 dit que c'est rien rien du tout. . . . Pas de dan 
 ger . . ." Then she shut the door; and as she did 
 so the man's hand fell with a reassuring pressure on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "How often does your mother use this thing?" he 
 asked. Lilia turned to the man and saw that he was 
 holding a small object in his hand a little cylinder 
 of glass and metal, tipped with a hair-like needle. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Oh, come now you must be frank with me ! It's 
 a hypodermic syringe, and your mother's arm is cov 
 ered with scars. How long has she been taking 
 morphine ?" 
 
 "Morphine?" 
 
 "Certainly, my dear child. It's evidently a long 
 standing habit. But this time she's had an overdose. 
 . . . However, don't worry; we'll pull her through." 
 
 "Morphine . . ." repeated Lilia. Her knees felt 
 weak and she flopped down on a chair, still keeping 
 
106 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 her eyes on the man's face. "Don't bother about 
 me; I'm all right," she said faintly. "I haven't seen 
 my mother before oh, not for years!" 
 
 "You're a college girl?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "French?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You spoke French to them out there. Why?" 
 
 "I don't know . . ." 
 
 "H'm " said the doctor "you poor kid." 
 
 He was a tall, sandy young man with a pleasant, 
 homely, irregular face. Lilia was certain she had 
 never seen him before. 
 
 XXI 
 
 TAUNSTER THORPE was in difficulties. 
 **^ Coming out from his lecture-room in Grims- 
 by Hall he had crossed the campus to the Admin 
 istration Building, intending there to look up the 
 general "stand" of one or two girls who were not 
 doing as well as they should in his pet "honors 
 course" : English Romanticism in the Late Eight 
 eenth Century. But just as he reached the great 
 pseudo-Gothic front door of the Administration 
 Building he encountered of all people Mrs. 
 Sterrett, who seemed to be mentally flustered and 
 physically not a little out of breath. She at once 
 drew him aside to inform him, rather tremulously, 
 of Mysie's unfortunate escapade and her own pres 
 ent mission and Dunster was aware as she spoke 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 107 
 
 of a procession of ice-cold ants up the backs of his 
 legs and of a far, faint tremor of nausea. For now 
 he was trapped. Mysie's extraordinary errand 
 (damn the crazy epileptic!) now made it imperative 
 for him to give Dr. Harrod much the same explana 
 tion he had given to Mrs. Sterrett perhaps the last 
 explanation he would have wished to offer that acute 
 and often terrifying man. Dr. Harrod, moreover, 
 would of course demand the name of the girl; but 
 right there Dunster made up his mind to draw the 
 line. He would make that a matter of private privi 
 lege and insist upon his conscientious right to with 
 hold the name. Yes. . . . With that one trump card 
 to play, he might even contrive to emerge from this 
 ordeal with an added lustre; might even succeed in 
 stamping himself as a man possessing a delicate 
 sense of honor enforced by unusual firmness, courage 
 and worth. 
 
 He suggested to Mrs. Sterrett that he could per 
 fectly well give Dr. Harrod all the facts essential, 
 and so save her the necessity of climbing the long 
 flight of stairs to Dr. Harrod's office. He could 
 see, he said, that she was already overtired and that 
 she was rather dreading the coming interview. But 
 Mrs. Sterrett insisted upon going up. She wasn't a 
 bit afraid of "the President"; on the contrary, he'd 
 always been kindness itself to her and she wouldn't 
 for anything have him think she hadn't wanted to 
 come ! So Dunster yielded, perforce. He was de 
 termined, though, that Mrs. Sterrett should not meet 
 Dr. Harrod alone. Having, with genuine kindness, 
 assisted his landlady to the presence of Miss Dart 
 (whose controlled eye gave forth nothing but a prim 
 
108 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 official acknowledgment of his greeting), he simply 
 without a preliminary request of Mrs. Sterrett 
 instructed Miss Dart to announce a joint call upon 
 the Oracle within. 
 
 And now, faced by Mrs. Sterrett and Dr. Har- 
 rod, Dunster was engaged in explaining away Mysie's 
 perilous accusation; and he was finding it far more 
 difficult than he had hoped to lay the matter before 
 the President of Alden in any light entirely satisfac 
 tory to himself. 
 
 "So much for what Mysie saw and reported," he 
 said. "I can't thank Mrs. Sterrett enough for giv 
 ing you the facts so clearly. But now that I must 
 well, interpret them, if you like . . . frankly, I'd 
 rather cut my hand off! I could talk it over with 
 Mrs. Sterrett last night, because well, because I 
 needed advice, and there's no one I'm fonder of 
 anywhere. You see, sir, Mrs. Sterrett's more like 
 my mother than my landlady." (Her cheeks pink, 
 her eyes shining, Mrs. Sterrett gave forth an in 
 definable little noise a wordless amalgam of joy, 
 pride, and humble protest.) "But discussing a thing 
 like this with you, sir . . ." 
 
 "He means," Mrs. Sterrett struck boldly in, "that 
 no young man with right feelings 'd ever like to say 
 out some foolish girl was off her head about him! 
 But that's the whole story, Dr. Harrod and thanks 
 to Mysie and my carelessness it's got to be said." 
 
 "Yes," Dunster echoed, "it's got to be, I suppose. 
 So I'll excuse me, sir get it off my chest. . . . 
 One of the students an overstrung girl, of course 
 seems to imagine she's head-over-heels in love with 
 me." He had tried to carry off the bald statement 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 109 
 
 with a colloquial turn and a deprecating smile; but 
 he hated and despised himself, sincerely, as he 
 uttered the words. 
 
 ' 'Seems to imagine,' " commented Dr. Harrod. 
 "H'm. ... If she imagines she is, then she is. 
 Love's the child of imagination." 
 
 "Perhaps," Dunster responded. "I make no pre 
 tense of understanding it. I only know this girl 
 strikes me as more well, as less balanced than most 
 of the students. Less sensible, certainly." 
 
 "There are girls like that, you know plenty of 
 J em," prompted Mrs. Sterrett gently. "Not bad or 
 anything it's just a stage they go through. When 
 they act on impulse and do silly things almost before 
 they realize. . . ." 
 
 Dr. Harrod nodded at Mrs. Sterrett with grave 
 kindliness, as if to acknowledge valued assistance. 
 Having ruminated a moment, it was to her he at 
 length addressed himself. "Let me thank you for 
 coming over, Mrs. Sterrett; I won't detain you 
 longer. What you've told me of Mysie throws light 
 on the whole situation. You're a good woman to 
 keep that unfortunate creature and care for her ; but 
 then" with a smile "you've always been that, 
 haven't you !" He rose slowly and put out his hand, 
 thus bringing Mrs. Sterrett to her feet. "It's all a 
 little disturbing, of course; particularly for Dr. 
 Thorpe. I shouldn't like it to get talked about. 
 ... So I count on you, Mrs. Sterrett, to manage 
 poor Mysie for us, somehow. Do you think that 
 possible?" 
 
 "Now don't you worry about it, Doctor !" Mrs. 
 Sterrett was flushed with her responsibility, but she 
 
110 LILIA CHENO WORTH 
 
 looked competent and firm. "I'll keep Mysie in bed 
 a spell; and what's more, I'll make her listen to 
 sense. When she's not upset like this, Mysie'll take 
 anything I say for gospel quiet as a lamb." Then, 
 for a moment, her eyes rested with a mild glow on 
 Dunster. u And don't you worry, either! You're 
 not to blame, and you've acted just splendid all 
 through. Well, if I'm not needed, I'd better be go 
 ing back. I'm right sorry about the fuss Mysie 
 made here. I feel kind of responsible over that my 
 self." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense! My dear lady, don't give 
 it another thought!" Dr. Harrod reassured her, ac 
 companying her with kindliest deference to the office 
 door. u We shall all soon be able to dismiss it from 
 our minds, I hope." 
 
 Dunster, who had risen with them, knew of course 
 that he was expected to remain. And, during his 
 landlady's rather ceremonious departure, he was 
 wishing he could manage to feel less like an ashamed 
 schoolboy caught in suspicious circumstances, and 
 more like a man of the world. "Nerves again !" he 
 lashed himself. "It's ridiculous! After all, what 
 am I telling but the truth the exact truth !" 
 
 Was it an Arabian poet who said, "There are 
 many kinds of truth acceptable to Allah, but the Ex 
 act Truth is not one of them" ? 
 
 "Now Thorpe, my dear fellow," said Dr. Har 
 rod, as he paced back to his desk, "let's understand 
 each other. You admit one of your students was in 
 your rooms late last night. Did you find her there 
 when you returned from dining with us?" 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 111 
 
 "No, sir. I stopped awhile to chat with Mrs. 
 Sterrett. After I did reach my rooms, through the 
 front of the house, someone knocked at my private 
 entrance from the garden. I went to the door and 
 found " 
 
 "Yes ?" 
 
 "The girl in question, sir." 
 
 "You haven't yet mentioned her name, my boy." 
 
 "No. I can't feel I have the right to do so." 
 
 "Ah !" Dr. Harrod seated himself in his desk- 
 chair and thrust out his long, lean legs. "You think, 
 then, you owe her a duty superior to the duty you 
 owe to me?" 
 
 "In this instance yes." 
 
 "Would you perhaps 'interpret' that a little?" 
 
 "I'd like to. If I give you her name, you'll have 
 to take some official action, and I believe anything of 
 the kind would be disastrous for the girl. I must 
 simply ask you to rely on my personal discretion." 
 
 "I see. But you force me to wonder. . . . Why, 
 for example, did you let this girl enter your rooms?" 
 
 "If I hadn't, sir, she'd have made a scene on the 
 doorstep. As it was, she was slightly hysterical. It 
 was daring, of course; but I felt I had to risk it 
 in order to calm her and reason with her. But I'm 
 perfectly aware, Dr. Harrod, that your final view 
 of all this must depend on your good or bad opinion 
 of me" 
 
 "Exactly . . . I'll be frank, Thorpe. You're an 
 excellent teacher with an excellent reputation. But 
 have the fairness to admit that our personal rela 
 tions have not been such as to give me any knowl 
 edge whatever of your deeper springs of character. 
 
112 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 In other words, I haven't for the line you're taking 
 with me the very knowledge I need." 
 
 Dunster hesitated; then nodded, grudgingly. "I 
 suppose that's true." 
 
 "It is true. But don't misunderstand me. I'm 
 not suspecting you of anything base. Only, I am not 
 in a position simply to wash my hands of this mat 
 ter. I'm not a ruthless person, Thorpe. Possibly 
 I can do more for the girl than you can. So I re 
 peat my demand for her good, and yours, and the 
 good of Alden. I ask you for the name of the girl 
 who visited you last night." 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Dunster. 
 
 "You refuse?" 
 
 "In no spirit of rebellion, Dr. Harrod. I've 
 thought it all over carefully more than once, and 
 I can't conscientiously bring myself to give you her 
 
 name." 
 
 Under provocation, the President of Alden was 
 not always a patient man; but he was sometimes ca 
 pable of long silences of merely waiting until he 
 felt he had fully recovered his self-control. So pro 
 longed now was his silence that Dunster, in spite of 
 himself, began to fidget from one foot to another. 
 "Be seated, Thorpe, please," said Dr. Harrod. 
 
 Dunster obeyed. He was uncomfortably aware 
 that things were not developing quite as he had 
 hoped. The old man, it was only too evident, was 
 inclined to distrust him: why? Moreover, it was 
 evident that he meant to sift this affair to the bot 
 tom. The situation, then, was dangerous. Sup 
 pose. . . . Good God! . . . suppose Lilia had been 
 caught while getting back to her room and had 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 113 
 
 defiantly blurted out everything ! Or suppose she'd 
 been caught and had refused any explanation what 
 ever! That was it, of course. The old man was 
 trying to link up ... 
 
 "H'm!" Dr. Harrod drew in his lean, sharp- 
 kneed legs; straightened his spine. "In all fairness, 
 I think you should know, my boy, that one of our 
 students was detected last night just as she was 
 leaving the campus after hours. But she wasn't per 
 sonally aware she had been watched; that is, not 
 until this morning. I've talked to her, and I'm not 
 fully satisfied by her confession. ... I think it may 
 have omitted just the interesting details you've lately 
 been giving me." 
 
 Dunster was at least glad his intuition had dis 
 counted the shock of this surprise. It enabled him 
 promptly to smile, rather disdainfully, and say with 
 a nicely restrained indignation: "I resent your tell 
 ing me this now, Dr. Harrod. It looks a little as if 
 you had been trying to trap me. After all, I'm not 
 a schoolboy I'm a member of your faculty! I 
 think I've every reason to resent your handling of 
 this case." 
 
 "Possibly, Dr. Thorpe. But have the goodness to 
 admit it's just credible that two of our students were 
 abroad last night. I may be mistaken. Moreover, 
 it never occurred to me you would withhold the 
 
 name." 
 
 But Dunster felt he had scored, and he deter 
 mined on an even bolder stroke. 
 
 "The fact remains, sir, you haven't treated me as 
 an equal. You've used finesse. Possibly without 
 any intention of doing so. ... I'm willing to take 
 
114 LILIA CHENO WORTH 
 
 your word for that. And I'm willing to admit it's 
 very unlikely there were two students abroad last 
 night. We've the same girl in mind, then. But I 
 stick to my guns. I believe it will be most unfortu 
 nate for her if this is made a public matter a ques 
 tion of college discipline." (As if the old man ever 
 would let it come to that with Lilia! he serenely 
 thought.) "Indeed, I think the whole thing should 
 be handled more than discreetly. So I'm going to 
 ask you, as a personal request, not to carry this in 
 quiry further. It simply comes to this: I ask you 
 again and for the last time, sir to trust me." 
 
 "For the last time, Thorpe ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. If you wish it, you can have my resig 
 
 nation at once." 
 
 "Very well I accept your resignation. We're 
 evidently not temperamentally fitted to cooperate 
 pleasantly together." 
 
 Dr. Harrod rose. Dunster leaped angrily to face 
 him. 
 
 "It's an outrage, all the same! Unbelievable! 
 How can you possibly justify to to anybody 
 such a high-handed act!" 
 
 "Ah ! If you'll kindly restrain yourself, Dr. 
 Thorpe I'll tell you. . . ." 
 
 Dunster felt the old man's eyes now no longer 
 vague and unfocussed searching his own. It was 
 an inquisition that daunted and confused him; he 
 had the greatest difficulty in sustaining that relent 
 less glance. 
 
 "In the first place," continued Dr. Harrod, "I 
 haven't dismissed you; I've accepted your freely of 
 fered resignation. My reason for doing so is, 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 115 
 
 frankly, this : I do not think any young man worthy 
 of teaching here would have made the precise ex 
 planation you gave Mrs. Sterrett last night and 
 so, as it happens, were forced to repeat to me this 
 morning." 
 
 "That's an absurd statement! Unless youVe 
 simply jumped to the conclusion IVe been lying to 
 you!" 
 
 "You miss my point, Thorpe. I'm not, for the 
 moment, questioning the truth of your explanation. 
 I'm too thoroughly disgusted with you for making it 
 at all." 
 
 Dunster's heart sank away from his breast. This 
 was frightful frightful! He was being accused 
 Dunster Thorpe, prizeman, Doctor of Philosophy, 
 Assistant Professor, was actually being accused of 
 a yellow streak of not being a thoroughbred! But 
 surely the accusation was false; atrociously unfair, 
 at least! The circumstances. . . . He began talk 
 ing volubly, desperately; pointing out to Dr. Har- 
 rod and to himself just those little differences 
 which make all the difference in a scrupulous ques 
 tion of this kind. 
 
 "But don't you see, sir, I could easily have re 
 assured Mrs. Sterrett some other way? I could 
 have given her twenty plausible reasons for Miss 
 Chenoworth's being in my room; any one of them 
 would have satisfied her. It would have been much 
 pleasanter for me to lie out of what was merely a 
 somewhat awkward situation. But I wanted to help 
 her Miss Chenoworth. I really wanted Mrs. 
 Sterrett's advice. As I told you, Mrs. Sterrett's 
 been more like my mother than my landlady., I 
 
116 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 knew what I said would be sacred to her. I still 
 think I was right. And if it hadn't been for Mysie's 
 idiotic outbreak here, I believe Mrs. Sterrett and 
 I could have kept the whole thing quiet and I be 
 lieve Mrs. Sterrett could have helped Miss Cheno- 
 worth more than anybody's likely to be able to do 
 now! What you fail to see is, Dr. Harrod, that 
 I wasn't trying to get out of anything; I was hon 
 estly hoping to " 
 
 Dr. Harrod' s desk-telephone rang briskly on a 
 frivolous, inconsequent note. 
 
 "Pardon me, Thorpe." 
 
 The President of Alden seated himself before the 
 instrument and detached the receiver slowly. He 
 listened with attention for some little time before 
 replying. Then, without special emphasis, he said: 
 "Very well, Miss Dart. When I ring, send her in." 
 And he clicked back the receiver. 
 
 "Miss Chenoworth " he explained, without 
 turning to Dunster. "Miss Dart told her you were 
 with me, and she particularly asks to see us to 
 gether." 
 
 The whole room tilted beneath Dunster's feet; 
 then, using him as a sort of pivot, whirled with a 
 smooth rush round him. He clutched a chair-back 
 until this extraordinary cyclic movement slowed 
 down, ceased, and the floor settled noiselessly to its 
 former horizontal plane. 
 
 "Are you ill, Thorpe?" asked Dr. Harrod. 
 
 "No, sir. A second of vertigo. My digestion. 
 . . . I've been subject to it for years. . . ." 
 
 "Shall I ring, then?" 
 
 It is probable that not a full minute elapsed before 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 117 
 
 Dunster straightened up and answered firmly and 
 quietly: "Do. But please, when she comes, ask her 
 not to say anything until I've made a somewhat 
 difficult confession to both of you." 
 
 Dr. Harrod nodded curtly and pressed a button 
 on his desk. 
 
 XXII 
 
 T3UT as Lilia came in to them, Dr. Harrod for- 
 -* got at once his promise to Dunster and simply 
 hurried to meet her and take her hands. "You poor 
 child what has happened!" he exclaimed. 
 
 Lilia's lips twitched themselves into a heart-break 
 ing little smile. 
 
 "Do I show it so plainly that I've been killed, I 
 mean ? Well, it's true. . . . I'm not alive any more 
 not any more. I'm just walking about." 
 
 "You've been to see your mother?" 
 
 "Yes. She won't be over this morning; IVe come 
 in her place. But that hardly counts at all- now." 
 She drew her hands from Dr. Harrod's and turned 
 to Dunster. "I'm glad you're here. I just want to 
 say good-by to you, and and make certain you're 
 not in any trouble because of me because of last 
 night?" 
 
 "I'm in great trouble because of last night," said 
 Dunster. 
 
 "Oh ... I'm sorry." 
 
 "I'm not. I'm glad." 
 
 She stared at him, puzzled; then "Don't worry 
 any more," she begged him. "I'm sure I can make 
 Dr. Harrod understand " 
 
118 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "Please!" Dunster broke in. "I'll do that. Won't 
 you both listen to me ! But you must!" He stepped 
 quickly past Lilia and up to Dr. Harrod, speaking 
 rapidly but distinctly as if he feared what he had 
 to say might be missed, or not waited for. "You 
 were perfectly right, sir, to accept my resignation. 
 I've been playing a rotten game and what's worse, 
 not even feeling how rotten it was. The fact is, 
 I've always thought myself just about perfect 
 every way. I'm only beginning to see ... no 
 matter! This isn't posing heroics; it's so, that's 
 all. After I left your house last night I made up 
 my mind to marry Lilia, if I could get her. I sup 
 pose I didn't doubt I could; and I told myself I was 
 in love with her. Perhaps I was a little; but not 
 enough to make me dream of marriage, if I hadn't 
 known that her father was influential and rich if 
 I hadn't realized how useful he might be to me! 
 I'd been thinking about that subconsciously ; I must 
 have been it struck me so suddenly and all-of-a- 
 heap on the way home ! I'm ambitious, sir ... I 
 want oh, I want the earth ! I thought I saw how 
 Lilia's father might help me to a piece of it, any 
 way. Well all that time she was in trouble some 
 trouble I don't understand yet. But she came to me 
 about it to my door. And then all I could think of 
 was the uncomfortable fix she might get me into. 
 I didn't even want to let her step inside a minute, 
 although she was shivering with cold. Why, she 
 almost had to force her way in past me!" Dunster 
 laughed to call it that; it was strange laughter. 
 "So far, so bad, Dr. Harrod. As for the rest, you 
 know that already but Lilia doesn't." He turned 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 119 
 
 to her. "We were seen through the window by my 
 landlady's servant, just before I pulled down the 
 shades. It was my landlady, Mrs. Sterrett, who 
 called out to me just as you left. And this is what 
 I did: I told Mrs. Sterrett one of my students 
 a hysterical sort of girl was in love with me and 
 had come to my door and made a scene. I'd hacl 
 to let her inside to reason with her. Of course, I 
 thought I was safe enough telling Mrs. Sterrett 
 that. But I wasn't. . . . Mysie that's the serv 
 ant; she's a half-witted creature came here this 
 morning with her story. So Mrs. Sterrett was sent 
 for, and I happened to arrive just as she did and 
 arranged to see Dr. Harrod with her. Well I told 
 him the same wretched stuff I told her last night; 
 I felt I had to. And I guess I tried to make him 
 think me a sort of modern Sir Galahad, to boot! 
 But you see, I didn't know then not till Dr. Har 
 rod mentioned it that you had been caught out of 
 bounds last night. At any rate, Dr. Harrod pretty 
 well saw through all my crawling attempts to justify 
 and glorify myself; and when I tried a final bluff and 
 said if he wasn't willing to trust me he could have 
 my resignation well, he took my word let me 
 quietly kick myself out of Alden by the back door, 
 once for all. There. Thank you both for listening. 
 I feel cleaner, somehow. Whether I really am or 
 not . . ." 
 
 Carefully avoiding their eyes, Dunster started 
 away from them up the magenta-red strip toward the 
 door. 
 
 Lilia seized Dr. Harrod's arm; clung to him. 
 "Don't let him go !" she cried. "Not like this I He 
 
120 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 hasn't even yet told you the truth for all his hero 
 ics. I did go to him because I'm in love with him. 
 I don't know why I am but I am. I was too un 
 happy last night I just wanted to see him be near 
 him. I told him so ... and he he asked me to 
 marry him." 
 
 "My poor Lilia," groaned Dr. Harrod, u what am 
 I to do or say! How can I help you either of 
 you! You . . . both of you . . . amazing! I 
 can't make you out." 
 
 Dunster swung sharply back to them. "No 
 how could you ! We haven't even begun to under 
 stand ourselves. May I see her alone, sir, a few 
 moments? Will you trust me now that far ?" 
 
 "Well, Lilia?" asked Dr. Harrod. 
 
 "Please." 
 
 "Ah! I've a letter or two to dictate. I'll just 
 step out with them to Miss Dart." He quietly freed 
 his arm from Lilia's unconsciously tightening grasp, 
 gathered up almost at random some loose papers 
 from his desk, and so without an added word 
 left them to themselves. 
 
 But to Miss Dart, in her small outer office, he said, 
 drawing out his watch: "It's past your lunch hour. 
 Don't wait, please. I wish to telephone Ruth from 
 out here privately. I'll put through the call." 
 Miss Dart, going for her trim nutria coat, informed 
 the shadows of the coat-closet that she had never 
 seen the President looking so old and harassed. No 
 one knew better than she that something portentous 
 was in the air. It had been a disturbing morning, 
 indeed! She felt distinctly apprehensive. Yet her 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 121 
 
 table companions were entirely unaware of the fact 
 when she took her place among them. 
 
 "What's up over there ?" they eagerly demanded. 
 
 "Up?" (Cheerfully.) "Oh you mean the 
 ambulance ? A servant brought over a message for 
 the President and had an epileptic fit right in my 
 office. Imagine!" 
 
 They tried to. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 T IFE is an artist who attempts everything, even 
 -" the impossible; yet preserves in the large, one 
 must suppose, some sort of recognizable pattern. 
 But in the contemptuous mishandling of detail or 
 in blind indifference to it life is surely the most 
 slovenly and gauche of craftsmen. He is constantly 
 throwing together scenes inherently awkward a 
 mere hash of discordant possibilities and mixed emo 
 tions: scenes, in a word, which simply will not play! 
 
 The instant the door closed behind Dr. Harrod 
 the instant she was left alone with Dunster Lilia 
 shrank in every nerve-filament from the disastrous 
 futility of their situation. This was sheer instinct 
 with her; pure, immediate feeling. She didn't need 
 to analyze the situation ; perhaps she could not have 
 done so. Simply, she found herself in a churning 
 chaos of circumstance and emotion that had no 
 rhythm of its own and promised no orderly issue ; 
 and she knew at once she could not go on with it. 
 
 u Oh!" she protested. "Five minutes ten what 
 good will it do ! We know nothing of each other. 
 
122 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 We're not even friends. The best thing for both 
 of us is just to get away from each other quickly 
 once for all ! It would take us a lifetime of explain 
 ing excusing trying to understand . . ." 
 
 "Yes," said Dunster u a lifetime. That's just 
 what I want it to take. Lilia you've got to marry 
 me. Perhaps I'm no good but I don't believe it. 
 I still believe in myself. But if you give me up now 
 as hopeless Lilia ! you do love me ! I can't 
 even consider giving you up. I won't I" 
 
 For all reply came the slight shrug he had so dis 
 liked; which only last night had jarred on him as 
 affected and insincere. And now it seemed to him 
 wholly sincere; a tragic expression of hopelessness. 
 He watched her eyes brim over. ... It was intol 
 erable that she would not come to him cry her 
 heart out in his arms. 
 
 "Lilia," his passion pleaded his new depth of 
 passion, but a few minutes jfclTwhicrryet seemed 
 to him now the very foundations and meaning of 
 his life "Lilia, can't you let me share all that 
 whatever it is?" 
 
 She turned on him almost fiercely. "How simple 
 it seems to you, doesn't it! Now that all of a sud 
 den you want me so much I And how brave and 
 noble you've been to make a full confession to me 
 before Dr. Harrod just so you could have the men 
 tal relief of feeling 'clean' again! Clean perhaps 
 you do feel clean. But I don't. I feel as if you'd 
 used me for a rag to polish your conscience on." 
 
 "Nonsense ! Lilia I love you." He was swiftly 
 at her side; his arms about her. "I love you. I 
 can't think of anything else. It's no good your ask- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 123 
 
 ing me to or abusing me. You said last night I was 
 'horrible' well, I am. Worse than you know. 
 You've made me feel that at last. . . . But we love 
 each other don't we don't we ! Let's forget the 
 rest everything . . . start from this moment 
 now ! build on that!" 
 
 He would have kissed her; but she strained back 
 from him then, unexpectedly, almost roughly, 
 caught his head between her hands and pressed her 
 cheek tight to his. The next instant she struggled 
 free from him arching her body to thrust him from 
 her; almost crouching before him like some fright 
 ened animal bent on flight, while she snatched the 
 air in a sharp, shallow panting that visibly wracked 
 her. 
 
 "No no. . . . I'm the horrible one. . . . I'm 
 not even Lilia Chenoworth. . . . God knows who 
 or what I^^fcL^- Anyway it doesn't matter. 
 ... I suj^)se mo^|er wanted someone blindly 
 as I want you ! . . . I don't even like you . . . 
 We're a charming pair mother and I. We belong 
 together. . . . Let me go! Laissez-moi laissez- 
 moi, je vous dis laissez . . ." 
 
 Dunster had seen her reel and stumble and had 
 leaped to save her. She was unconscious now in his 
 arms. Ruth Harrod and her father were hurrying 
 toward him, followed by a tall, sandy young man 
 with a homely, irregular face. 
 
 "Lilia's fainted," babbled Dunster stupidly 
 "fainted, you see what . . ." 
 
 "Well, don't be a fool!" barked the tall, sandy 
 young man. "Lay her down on the floor. That's it. 
 Thanks." 
 
BOOK II 
 
 From Orlando Harrod to Anson Chenoworth: a 
 cablegram. 
 
 Contrary to your cabled instructions Lilia sailed 
 Saturday on the "Bremen" making Naples Novem 
 ber sixteenth. Against my earnest plea accompanied 
 by her mother. Have written fully. 
 
 II 
 
 Dr. Franklin P. Gilman to Miss Betty Gilman, his 
 sister, a Senior at Alden. 
 
 DEAR BIMPS, 
 
 Keep this letter under your hat, if you ever wear 
 one. I don't care to be gossiped about by all your 
 dear little prattling pals. Of course they're all 
 lovely girls and wonderfully earnest and all that! 
 But you know what I mean. But see here, old 
 woman, next time you ask me up for a quiet week 
 end with you, just remind me to go into training first! 
 Then maybe I can stand the strain. And I've had 
 the damndest week since leaving you! However, I 
 yanked that queer kid and her awful mother down 
 to the boat all right this morning, and managed to 
 
 125 
 
126 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 slip a word to the Dutch surgeon before I so to 
 speak kissed them good-by. God knows what will 
 happen to the kid! Just to show she was game she'd 
 dolled herself up regardless, war-paint and every 
 thing, and looked as cool and tempting as the pro 
 verbial cuke. Mother wasn't so worse to look at 
 herself considering. But it's a shame I didn't 
 shoot a little more dope into her that first day and 
 pass her quietly along to you know where! If she 
 isn't a sinister old bird and no fit company for a nice 
 kid, I miss my guess. Because she is a nice kid 
 if she does dye herself pink! Different. She's a new 
 kind to me, anyway, and I thought I'd been round 
 some. I like the way she'll stand up to anybody. 
 Why, even that day she keeled over in Prexy's office 
 she didn't really collapse "inside." When she came 
 to she was so weak she could hardly stand, but her 
 grit was all there. Simply announced she didn't care 
 to discuss the matter with anybody, and then took 
 Miss Harrod by the hand and walked out of the 
 room with her. Lord knows what the fuss was all 
 about or perhaps by this time you and your little 
 pals have the jump on His Lordship. If so, please 
 put me wise. I'm human, too. But I rather suspect 
 your dear Professor Thorpe was mixed up in it; I 
 mean, I know he was but I don't know how. He 
 made about as much of a hit with me as a Chinaman. 
 No, I know that isn't fair you needn't explain. But 
 that's how it was. 
 
 As for Lilia yes, I jumped right in, as I always 
 do, and called her Lilia; but I couldn't get her past 
 "Dr. Oilman" with me! if she was a man, and I 
 wasn't writing my super-refined sister, I'd say she 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 127 
 
 "has / But, of course, I can't say it. Only, it's 
 
 a short ugly word and begins with G. The next let 
 ter's U, the next T, and the last is S. Piece it to- 
 gether some time when you're all alone and can blush 
 unseen. 
 
 Well, here's the stuff you are particularly to keep 
 under your hat. Lilia told me she was acting not 
 only against Dr. Harrod's advice but against her 
 father's cabled instructions by sailing for Naples and 
 taking her mother along. She said her father and 
 mother had lived apart a long time, and after ob 
 serving mamma professionally and otherwise for al 
 most two weeks it isn't very difficult for me to guess 
 why. I don't know whether the old birds are regu 
 larly divorced or not, but I rather guess not. It has 
 also occurred to me that perhaps they never took the 
 trouble to be married at all, in which case Lilia' s po 
 sition is a little ambiguous. There! you say I've 
 no natural delicacy. How about that! I'm only 
 guessing, though. The kid kept her own counsel, 
 chiefly ; just told me enough to string me along and 
 make me useful. No / take that back. She was 
 open as all outdoors with me up to a certain point. 
 When she asked me to help her with her get-away 
 that was the very evening you thought I left Alden, 
 but I didn't get of till 7 A.M. she began by saying 
 she couldn't really take me into her confidence. So 
 all she told me was what I've mentioned above, and 
 the fact that she'd made up her mind flat, and no 
 arguing about it! to go home to her father and to 
 hang right on to mother. Dr. Harrod was backing 
 up her father's instructions, but that wasn't going to 
 make any difference. She had money enough to put 
 
128 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 the thing through and she meant to do it. But if I 
 could help her with the tickets, etc., and most im 
 portant of all help her keep her mother as straight 
 as possible, under the circumstances, till they sailed, 
 she would never forget my kindness. Finally, she 
 wanted to slip of from Alden at once, or before 
 breakfast next morning so as to avoid any further 
 discussion with Dr. Harrod; and while she was wait' 
 ing in New York for the boat she wanted to keep her 
 exact whereabouts dark. And if I didn't feel I 
 ought to help her in this way, she'd understand per- 
 fectly! 
 
 Naturally, I agreed to help her. If I hadn't, she'd 
 have gone right ahead anyway and I felt it was bet 
 ter for some more or less responsible male person to 
 keep an eye on her. But I was mean or sensible 
 enough to double-cross her, first. I suppose all Al- 
 den's still talking about the way she had herself 
 moved over to her mother's rooms the afternoon of 
 the day she fainted in Prexy's office. Well, then, 
 after I said I'd stand by her, she left me to pack 
 mother up and it must have been some job! and 
 I beat it right across to see Prexy. Just to remind 
 you, that old boy's the finest thing in Alden, Bimps, 
 and don't you or your little pals ever forget it! I 
 put the thing to him straight; I saw I could. "I 
 don't know anything about the rights and wrongs of 
 all this," I said, "but I do know Miss Chenoworth 
 has settled one thing she's going home and she's 
 going to take her mother. And since she's deter 
 mined, and it isn't a criminal action, and she has the 
 ready money to put it through, it strikes me, sir, 
 you d better just let me act as your secret agent to ar- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 129 
 
 range all details and watch over Miss Chenoworth 
 until the boat pulls out" We didn't have to talk 
 long; he saw the point at once, and frankly, Bimps 
 / think he was enormously relieved. So every 
 thing has worked out all right in a sense, though 
 I'm not happy about the trick I played on the kid. 
 Still, as you know and often inform me, I'm a pretty 
 coarse-grained customer, and I've always thought the 
 end justifies the means when I'm absolutely certain 
 the end's O.K. 
 
 Too tired to write any more just now. I stood on 
 that damn pier in a cold northwest wind for half an 
 hour after they put me of the boat, and you know 
 what that sort of thing does to one's feet and nervous 
 system. Mother went below at once, I guess. But 
 the kid, game to the end, and wrapped up in about a 
 million dollars' worth of sables, hung over the rail 
 of the promenade deck and smiled and flicked her 
 silly little hanky and somehow, spite of herself, got 
 over the impression of being so damn lonesome and 
 miserable that I couldn't bear not to stand there wav 
 ing my frozen mits till the ropes dropped. Wish I 
 knew what her dad's like. I saw a show of his once 
 in Chi brainy stuff, but sort of of color. Well, she 
 promised to drop me a line from the other side and 
 let me know the worst, but she won't and that's 
 that. Now I'm going to bed. . . . 
 
130 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 III 
 
 Dunster Thorpe to John Carrick, his uncle. 
 
 DEAR UNCLE JOHN, 
 
 You and Aunt Emily will be surprised to learn 
 that I've decided to leave Alden at the end of the 
 college year, in order to devote myself exclusively to 
 literary work. I am very anxious to leave at the end 
 of this term, but Dr. Harrod has asked me, if I will, 
 to stay on until June as it would be difficult for 
 him to obtain a substitute teacher at short notice. 
 Also, as he pointed out, if I were to leave mid-season 
 there would certainly be some ill-natured specu 
 lation since even a college faculty isn't exempt 
 from that sort of thing as to whether or not my 
 resignation had been asked for! So I shall stay on, 
 pretty reluctantly, till after the final examinations, 
 for I am eager now to be free and give myself wholly 
 to the writing I've long hoped and planned to do. 
 
 You will naturally think this step somewhat rash, 
 but I believe, on the contrary, it's the wisest decision 
 I have ever made. During the past years I've been 
 able to save up enough to keep me going, if I live 
 simply and a single man can live very cheaply, I'm 
 told, in New York, if he learns the ropes enough 
 for a full year of work at least; and I feel confident 
 the year's work will not be wasted. The mere finan 
 cial rewards of literature are much greater and more 
 dependable than they once were, and I shall expect 
 very soon to increase rather than decrease my in- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 131 
 
 come. Moreover, teaching in itself I've never 
 been able to consider a satisfying career. Pleasant 
 as it is, there is something fatally narrowing about 
 the academic life. In short, I can hardly wait now 
 for my period of servitude to end. A writer is at 
 least his own master. 
 
 I'm very sorry that for the first time I shan't be 
 able this year to spend the Holidays with Aunt Emily 
 and you. I shall miss being with you all more than 
 I can say. But I feel I must put in the three weeks 
 of vacation in preparing the way for next year's ven 
 ture. When the term ends, I shall go straight to 
 New York and try there to make the acquaintance of 
 as many publishers and editors as possible try, 
 that is, to familiarize myself with all the more prac 
 tical side of the literary life. I want to get all the 
 opportunities, and all the difficulties, too, squarely 
 before me now, so as to waste little time over them 
 next year. I shall not be content to run about then 
 asking for casual reviewing jobs, etc. far from it! 
 When I begin to write, I mean to tackle something 
 important something which will count at once, if 
 well done, as a long step ahead. Fortunately, I've 
 several letters of introduction good ones, and a 
 Harvard friend, now one of the editors of "The 
 New Age" in New York, has offered me his rooms 
 over the Holidays. But, all the same, I shall feel 
 rather lonesome and out of it when Christmas comes. 
 
 However, I'm sure that you and Aunt Emily will 
 agree that this is the right thing for me to do, under 
 the circumstances. Be sure to give my very bestest 
 love to Aunt Emily and all the Carrick hopefuls. Of 
 course, I shall write again before Christmas, and 
 
132 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 I count on hearing both from you and Aunt Emily 
 very soon. I want you to wish the "rising young 
 author" good luck! 
 
 IV 
 
 Myrtle Frame to Eunice Gerken, a bosom friend. 
 
 DARLING NIKKY, 
 
 Of all the excitement we've been having! I can't 
 begin to tell you all about it it would take me hours 
 and hours! And anyway, nobody knows anything 
 for certain just what did happen, I mean. But 
 it's all terribly exciting. You know what I wrote you 
 about how Idabelle and I couldn't imagine why Lilia 
 was always slipping out at night after hours and 
 risking getting caught and how terribly mysterious 
 she was about it and how I said right along she must 
 be crazy about some "man" and must be meeting him 
 and how Ide said I was plumb crazy myself! Well! 
 She did get caught and I still think it was a man, 
 but nobody knows and, anyway, her mother turned 
 up and Lilia went of with her after she'd been 
 caught, I mean and the story's going about that 
 her mother was found "dead drunk" in the Alden 
 Inn imagine! And I told you how Lilia painted 
 and the awful things she said all the time and so you 
 see I knew all the time that's the kind of girl she 
 was! And some of the girls are saying Prexy's got 
 ten himself in hot water bringing her here like I 
 told you. Anyway, I'm just sick about it all. But 
 nobody really knows anything. But it's the most ex- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 133 
 
 citing thing ever happened, and I wish I could see 
 you Thanksgiving, but I'm going with Gertie to Bos 
 ton, but when I see you Xmas I can tell you all about 
 it for hours and hours. And Prof. Thorpe is going 
 to quit next June you know, the one I said his eyes 
 always gave me the shivers sort of and some of the 
 girls think he was mixed up in it but nobody 
 knows anything but I don't and never shall. But 
 Ide does only she won't talk about it any more 
 and I don't get on with her near so well as I did, 
 anyway, and I hope I can room with someone else 
 next year. But don't tell anybody I said that, will 
 you! Have you seen Frank Baum much lately? I 
 don't care whether I never see him again, for my 
 part! But I'm crazy for vacation to come now, but 
 I'm scared stiff about my exams! I'm working terri 
 bly hard. 
 
 Ever so lovingly, 
 
 MYRTLE. 
 
 Lilia to Dr. Harrod, from shipboard. 
 
 . . . No one has ever been so kind to me as you, 
 not even father. His was a different kindness. 
 Father's fond of me in a lazy sort of way. So long 
 as I amused him he liked to have me with him. If 
 I bothered him, even a little, he always sent me of, 
 or went of himself. I soon learned not to bother 
 him. When I was with him, I tried to be just as 
 dainty and amusing as I could, and he liked that. I 
 suppose it flattered him. So it's a lucky thing I was 
 
134 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 born a little bit nice to look at and a little bit clever 
 or I should always have been much lonelier than I 
 was. If I'd been plain or stupid or both, father / 
 can see now wouldn't have had much to do with 
 me. He wouldn't have been cruel or even cross 
 he'd simply have ignored me. I should have moped 
 about with a governess all day. Of course, I'm tell 
 ing you of the time after mother left us. Not that 
 it made much difference for I hardly knew mother , 
 except as something gorgeous to look at and not to 
 disturb. 
 
 I never had any friends of my own age. Father 
 never seemed to know anybody with children at 
 least, anybody whose children were ever with them. 
 Sometimes, as a little girl before mother disap 
 peared I'd play with children on the beach at 
 Trouville or Biarritz for a few weeks and get fond 
 of them; but then we'd move on and I'd never see 
 them again. So father was my only hope, you see 
 the only thing in my life that stayed there. 
 
 You know how delightful how charming and 
 witty father can be when he tries! I was very 
 happy with him almost. I always told myself we 
 were great chums but I'm beginning to feel I never 
 quite believed it. There was something missing 
 always. I can't give it a name, but it's something 
 rather important that just wasn't there. It's strange. 
 I'm always thinking and saying things about father 
 that contradict each other and yet they're all true. 
 How can that be? Poor father! He never took the 
 trouble to hide anything from me, but he was always 
 insisting that he hated the sort of life he led, and 
 blaming himself on my account. He could be dread- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 135 
 
 fully sentimental about it, too. Used to pity him- 
 self and me and all that. And all the time I 
 couldn't help feeling he was perfectly satisfied and 
 indifferent underneath. Didn't really care only 
 liked to think he did. Oh, Dr. Harrod am I be 
 ing unfair to him? For I do love him! and I want 
 so to believe he couldn't ignore me finally overnight, 
 if I should suddenly strike him now as a nuisance! 
 Well, I shall find out soon, I suppose. He'll be wait 
 ing for us at Naples, without a doubt, and he'll be 
 furious because I flatly disobeyed him and brought 
 mother along but that doesn't bother me. It won't 
 take me long to make him see there was nothing else 
 I could possibly do. But I can't explain that to you 
 yet not till after I've had my talk with father and 
 perhaps not even then. I hate being mysterious with 
 you and Ruth. 
 
 Oh I'm sure you must both wish you'd never 
 even heard of me! But please never, either of you, 
 stop caring a little that I exist. Because Do you 
 remember the ghosts in the Inferno blown round 
 and round like dead leaves? Sometimes I think I'm 
 one of them. 
 
 There's just one more thing I must try to say to 
 you. It's about Professor Thorpe 
 
 Don't simply dislike him. Don't give him up. 
 I know you do dislike him now at least, I'm afraid 
 you do. But if you could only take the trouble to 
 understand him and be his friend ? Or if Ruth 
 could? Even if he's leaving Alden, I mean. 
 
 I can't express what I feel about him. Sometimes 
 I think I dislike him more than anybody I've ever 
 met but in the very midst of disliking him I'm de- 
 
136 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 fending him to myself, excusing him, explaining 
 away his faults And I do know one thing! 
 Whatever he is he isn't commonplace. There's 
 a struggling flame in him deep down all damped 
 and choked with ugly sodden things // only it 
 doesn't get smothered out! 
 
 What a miserable letter to send you but all my 
 affection goes with it, so I'll mail it before we land. 
 I often wish I were your daughter Ruth's sister. I 
 should have been so different then But I wish lots 
 of things. 
 
 After this, when I write, I shall write to Ruth. I 
 mustn't worry you like this again. . . . 
 
 VI 
 
 Anson Chenoworth to Lilia, delivered on the dock, 
 at Naples, by the hand of a custom inspector. 
 
 / have engaged a suite for you and your mother at 
 the Hotel Parthenope. I am not stopping there, as 
 I will not meet your mother, nor run any risk of do- 
 ing so. When you personally are ready to see me, 
 speak to the concierge of your hotel, and, if you 
 are alone, he will send you on to me by cab. I hope 
 you will come at once; but if you are too tired, or ill 
 from the voyage, you may wait until to-morrow. I 
 need hardly say that I am deeply hurt by your dis 
 obedience. I leave Naples for Florence to-morrow 
 night. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 137 
 
 VII 
 
 No city in the world, Lilia felt, could exceed the 
 dreariness of Naples on that sordid November after 
 noon. A sullen smother of fog rolled in from the 
 harbor; it was ruthlessly cold. The filth of the 
 streets was trodden to a thin slime that reeked 
 sourly; even in her closed cab the air seemed in 
 fected ; it caught at her throat. Shivering, she hud 
 dled back into a corner of the cab, drawing her fur 
 coat tightly about her. And a sense of unreality op 
 pressed her. All her memories of Naples were of 
 crying color an immense, shameless tumult and 
 pageantry of primitive sun-steeped life. Even the 
 smells of Naples had been resonant, brazen. But 
 this soiled, meagre abode of furtive ghosts ! Lilia 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 After all, what did it matter? A little weariness, 
 a little discomfort more or less on a difficult, un 
 friendly planet peopled, for the most part, with 
 creatures as tired and wretched as herself! 
 
 And where, precisely, was she going? 
 
 Oh, yes, she was going to meet her father and 
 she must think. She must really begin to think se 
 riously about it prepare herself for that interview, 
 and for what might follow. There was so much she 
 must manage somehow to make him understand 
 so much she must somehow bring him to feel, to care 
 about. But if, in her present mood, it all went 
 dream-like, floated away from her ! If she 
 couldn't now, for some reason or wild unreason 
 
138 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 feel it, or care about it herself, or make it any of 
 it seem important, or merely true ! 
 
 The cab horse, jerked sharply back on his cruel 
 bit, came to a sliding, stumbling stop, and Lilia was 
 thrown a little forward from her corner. Thus she 
 opened her eyes on her father's face; he was putting 
 out a hand to steady her he had already opened the 
 door of the cab. 
 
 "Well, Lilia, my dear," he said, "you haven't been 
 away so long as all that. Don't you even know me ?" 
 
 "I I must have dropped off," she stammered. 
 Then she managed a smile. "You're looking hand 
 somer than ever, father!" 
 
 "Ah ? I see your sense of humor hasn't de 
 serted you. Or perhaps this damned fog softens 
 the distressing details. Come in, my dear. It's 
 quite as cold in my rooms, in spite of the chaufage 
 central. But at least it's appreciably dryer and 
 I've ordered tea." He helped Lilia from the cab, 
 with that slight excess of manner so habitual to him, 
 tucked her hand into his arm, and so led her across 
 a wide strip of slippery pavement and through a 
 great outer doorway which she at once remembered. 
 "Oh this is where you and I stopped the last time, 
 father." 
 
 "Yes. You are more comfortably located, I hope. 
 But they know me here and it does well enough." 
 
 That Anson Chenoworth was indeed known and 
 duly appreciated by the management was evident at 
 once as, with his daughter on his arm, he entered 
 the great draughty foyer of the hotel. The con 
 cierge bowed low before him; the manager in per 
 son stepped forth almost anxiously from some inner 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 139 
 
 office to greet him. Anson waved them indifferently 
 away, with a colloquial Italian phrase or two, and 
 proceeded and as Lilia walked by his side to the 
 lift she involuntarily tightened her hold on his arm, 
 and smiled, and the oppressive sense of unreality 
 was swept from her brain by a warm uprush of af 
 fectionate recollection. She had crossed thus, at his 
 side, the foyers of so many continental hotels; had 
 observed, so many times, and always with amuse 
 ment, his manner so nice a blending of familiarity 
 and distance toward all those merely accessory 
 creatures whose sole function in life was to minister 
 to his convenience. And his private suite, of course, 
 would be the most comfortable the hotel afforded. It 
 had always been rather like being the daughter of a 
 Crown Prince, being the only daughter of her father. 
 And suddenly, for the first time in her life, it oc 
 curred to her to wonder how her father was able 
 always to live so luxuriously. She knew that only 
 one play from his pen had been produced during the 
 last three or four years, and that play "A Virtu 
 ous Husband" had had the briefest of runs in New 
 York, where even the critics who had praised its 
 wit and distinction had felt it safer to deplore its 
 too continental cynicism, its wholly un-American 
 point of view. How, then, did her father keep it 
 up everything? Could the earlier plays have 
 brought him so lasting a fortune? She knew little 
 of such things, but supposed it possible. And she 
 knew that whatever he had he had won for himself, 
 for he occasionally mentioned with an odd mingling 
 of pride and distaste his poverty as a boy. An 
 astonishing man, her father! He would tap gently 
 
140 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 now at the outer door of his suite. Lilia had never 
 known him to burden himself with a latch-key. Ah 
 she was not to be disappointed ! He was already 
 tapping gently on a panel of the outer door. But 
 Anatole would be certain to hear him yes! 
 
 Everything as it should be. The outer door of the 
 suite was opened to them by Anatole, a short, stout, 
 middle-aged Frenchman a native of Normandy 
 who affected sideburns and a quaintly British air of 
 pompous solemnity. Anatole had been Anson Chen- 
 oworth's confidential body-guard for at least fifteen 
 years. He greeted Lilia with respectful warmth but 
 without a trace of effusion, Anatole's note being at 
 all times as Lilia well knew correctness. She 
 thought it probable, and Anatole was himself con 
 vinced, that no second gentleman's gentleman now 
 living had more perfect manners, a more rigorous 
 tenue. And so faultlessly restrained was his bearing 
 on this occasion that Lilia began to doubt whether 
 she had ever been away from her father whether, 
 indeed, they were not simply returning to their rooms 
 from a brief stroll together. 
 
 Tea on a neatly appointed table was awaiting 
 them in a vast, bleak drawing-room with a red-tiled 
 floor and mustard-yellow walls frescoed in the Pom- 
 peian tradition. It would have been a delightfully 
 cool apartment for a midsummer South Italian day, 
 but now it held an almost mortal chill against which 
 one small hot-water radiator was struggling vainly. 
 "I advise you to keep on your wraps, Lilia," said 
 Anson Chenoworth. "For the present, at least 
 until you become acclimated to the tomb. I advise 
 a little brandy as well. Young ladies who fall asleep 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 141 
 
 in cabs have either had too much br ^y or too 
 little. You, I trust, have had too little. There." 
 He poured for her, talking quietly on as he did so 
 with the delicate precision of phrase that was all his 
 own. "Bella Napoli, as usual, is surpassing herself. 
 As an unfailing provider of discomforts she is a city 
 apart. But I think you may yield to that padded 
 chair safely enough; the fleas for the moment 
 seem to be hibernating." 
 
 So it was all just as she might have foreseen it. 
 Anatole waited on them decorously, and decorously 
 withdrew. Lilia was alone now with her father. 
 The critical hour she had dreaded was upon her; it 
 was truly critical and lo, she was drinking tea ! Un 
 expectedly to herself, she laughed aloud. " 'Deeply 
 hurt by my disobedience' I" she exclaimed. "Oh, 
 father really! You and I are the absurdest couple 
 in the world. But all the same things have hap 
 pened, you know." 
 
 "I know. Disagreeable things. Hence we post 
 pone their consideration as long as possible, my dear. 
 It's at least a proof that we're not barbarians." 
 
 He was trimly built, Anson Chenoworth ; well be 
 low medium height, with a slender, compact frame, 
 tiny feet, and tiny brown restless hands. The rest 
 lessness of his hands which was never a matter of 
 wide gesture, but of rapid, restricted movement 
 was the more noticeable because of the fixed expres 
 sion of his small black eyes, which were Chinese in 
 their immobility. The smoothly parted, crow-black 
 hair added again an Oriental note; but there was 
 nothing of the Orient in that high, straight nose, at 
 least a size too large for the rather narrow face. 
 
142 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 The contour of the cheeks was irregular, the left 
 cheek being slightly hollower than the right. As 
 for the line of the lips, if you choose to fancy such 
 things, it was perhaps a little cruel. . . . Yet the 
 total effect of the man was distinguished, and not 
 displeasing. 
 
 It was a face, however, that had always puzzled 
 Lilia, for she could never find in it certain traits 
 which she knew her father to possess his self-in 
 dulgent sensuousness, for one thing; and that other 
 strain of weakness in him which, formerly, had often 
 led her to describe him as "simply the most senti 
 mental old darling in the world." He didn't look a 
 sensuous man or a sentimental man; he looked, on 
 the contrary, rather firm-fibred, mentally and phys 
 ically firm-fibred, and even now and then, thought 
 Lilia, implacably hard. In past days she had caught 
 a gleam once or twice from those still, Chinese eyes 
 a gleam that had chilled her. And now once 
 more as he spoke softly to her above his tea-cup 
 "It's at least a proof that we're not barbarians" 
 she was comfortlessly aware of that gleam. . . . 
 
 "However," he continued softly, "I confess to 
 some curiosity. How did your mother find you at 
 Alden? I last heard from her in California. And 
 why in the name of that rare female virtue, com 
 mon sense have you brought her with you?" 
 
 "My dear father," Lilia responded, carefully sup 
 pressing every trace of the nervous agitation which 
 Anson Chenoworth's direct, cool questions had at 
 once awakened, "I'll answer you gladly, but it will 
 really be fairer if you'll answer me a question first.' 
 Why did you suddenly, about three months ago 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 143 
 
 without any warning or explanation, stop the small 
 allowance you've been sending mother ever since she 
 left us?" And as she countered her father thus, 
 Lilia was instantly set free from the nervous agita 
 tion that had seized her. It passed with a breath; 
 and, again, she was standing, as it were, outside of 
 herself, contemplating with ecstasy the dramatic 
 quality of the immediate situation wholly pos 
 sessed by a curious rapt elation of soul. And again, 
 while she noted a slight tightening of her father's 
 lips, she was, for a passing moment, subject to her 
 old illusion; again it seemed to her that the eyes of 
 the Universe were fastened upon her. . . . What 
 a scene! What a magnificent scene to play! 
 
 "Yes. You are right. The sooner you know why 
 I did that the better for all of us. I stopped the 
 allowance because I could no longer afford to pay it." 
 
 "But ! How was mother to live?" 
 
 "My dear child don't be silly. As she has al 
 ways lived, I suppose at the expense of some un 
 fortunate victim." 
 
 "But Your agreement ?" 
 
 "There is no agreement between us, legal or oth 
 erwise. The allowance the small allowance, as 
 you call it was sent to your mother solely because 
 I happen to be a foolishly kind-hearted man. It was 
 never intended for more than pin-money, and I 
 doubt if it even paid for her pins. Your mother, 
 Lilia you must surely have discovered for your 
 self is an impossible woman. When for excel 
 lent reasons I turned her out of my house, she had 
 no claim upon me of any kind. None." And An- 
 son Chenoworth sighed impressively. "It's a diffi- 
 
144 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 cult thing for me to confess. . . . It's a painful 
 thing for you to hear, Lilia. But these are the 
 penalties life brings us. The wages of sin are not 
 death unhappily; not as a rule. They are such 
 moments as these. If you could feel even a little of 
 what it's costing me !" 
 
 "Father!" Lilia broke in, with sharp impatience. 
 "I know what you're leading up to. I knew the very 
 day mother cleared out that she wasn't married to 
 you. I know perfectly what I am. So please don't 
 maunder on about sin and penalties and sorrow and 
 all that rubbish. I mean it is rubbish now, isn't 
 it coming from you?" 
 
 "Why, my dear ? Why especially from 
 
 "Because you don't really care !" cried Lilia. 
 "Ah! You can think that! How mistaken you 
 
 are." 
 
 Anson Chenoworth leaned to the table and poured 
 a little brandy into an unused liqueur glass ; then he 
 lifted the glass and held it an inch or so from his 
 nostrils, delicately inhaling the aroma of the brandy, 
 with something of the die-away air of a superfine 
 lady in a too-close room who clings precariously to 
 consciousness by sniffing at her vinaigrette. That 
 her father had moments when he became a figure of 
 pure comedy, Lilia had long suspected; now all her 
 suspicions were confirmed. She could not keep a 
 smile from her lips a smile that instantly destroyed 
 the moment of comedy which had produced it. An 
 son Chenoworth set down his brandy untasted, and 
 fixed Lilia with a gleam of unmistakable malice. But 
 he questioned her with the gentlest gravity. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 145 
 
 "My poor Lilia ! How could you possibly have 
 discovered these unhappy things? You were a 
 child." 
 
 "Not quite, father; and I wasn't an idiot. I knew 
 something dreadful was happening between you and 
 mother; and I was all on your side. You see, one 
 feels things. I knew mother cared nothing for me 
 nothing! I wasn't quite sure about you. But at 
 least I amused you sometimes ; and you were almost 
 always good-natured. I couldn't help hoping a lit 
 tle that you cared." 
 
 "Haven't I proved it since, my dear?" 
 
 "Yes, in a way your way." 
 
 "You are rather hard on me, I think." 
 
 "I don't want to be. I don't mean to be. I'm 
 really fond of you, father. That's why I never told 
 you what I learned the day mother vanished. Tell 
 ing you couldn't change things, and I felt it would 
 bother you too much." 
 
 "You think me selfish," said Anson Chenoworth 
 coldly. "Well, no doubt you are right. Man is a 
 selfish animal. And woman. Even you, my dear, 
 seem to have felt instinctively on which side your 
 bread was buttered." 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "I know, I know the affections. But let us be 
 realists, too. And have the fairness to admit that it 
 was you, not I, who first struck that note and set the 
 key for this conversation!" 
 
 Lilia bent her head, slowly almost humbly. 
 "Yes; you're right, father. Pretending won't help 
 us. We must understand each other all through. 
 From the beginning. From the very afternoon when 
 
146 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 you finally rid yourself of mother, but not of me." 
 "Really, Lilia! Your assumptions !" 
 "I assume nothing, father. You must have won 
 dered what on earth you could do with me. But, in 
 
 the end, we got on well together " 
 
 "Thanks to you ?" 
 
 "Yes; chiefly thanks to my need of you to my 
 instinct for the buttered side. I never thought of 
 it that way till you mentioned it; now I suppose I 
 always shall. But you won't let me tell you about 
 that day, and I must. Teresa the cook was put in 
 charge of me; she took me for a long walk . . . 
 well, finally, she had to bring me home again. Ana- 
 tole was waiting for us down by the gate. He said 
 you wanted to see me, and I must act properly and 
 not make a fuss because you were very much upset. 
 Then he and Teresa whispered together, and then 
 he told her to take me to your study at once. The 
 door of your study was open, so Teresa left me there 
 and went to find you. She left me standing right by 
 your desk. There was a big earthenware jar beside 
 it an oil-jar which you used as a scrap-basket. 
 You had thrown a lot of torn-up letters into the jar, 
 but some of the pieces had missed it and were scat 
 tered on the floor. I thought it might please you if 
 I gathered them up. . . . But the first one I picked 
 up was a half-sheet in mother's scrawly writing, and 
 I read it. I knew it was wrong to read it, but I did 
 and then I heard you coming and crumpled it up 
 in my hand and dropped it into the jar. I'll never 
 forget what it said, though. . . . Don't you remem 
 ber how I suddenly turned sick when you came in 
 and how disgusted you were?" 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 147 
 
 Yes; it was evident that Anson Chenoworth re 
 membered. He again took up the liqueur glass and 
 sniffed delicately, but this time carried it on to his 
 lips and drained it. Not until he had put the empty 
 glass aside did he respond directly to Lilia. 
 
 "Your mother, at that time, was in the habit of 
 sending vulgar, insolent messages to me. She knew 
 it annoyed me. I rarely took the trouble to read 
 them." 
 
 "I wish I could forget this one or this part of 
 one," said Lilia. "Every word of it still hurts. Of 
 course, I didn't take it all in, quite just at first. 
 But gradually I did. . . . Oh!" she exclaimed, 
 "I've a precious inheritance, father! No wonder I 
 cling to it!" And with her face turned a little from 
 him she repeated slowly: " 'Do you ever realize how 
 much you owe me? For you can't deny you were of 
 your head about me for years! I could have made 
 you do anything marry me. You know I could. 
 But I'm not that kind. I was too good a sport to 
 take advantage. I never even suggested it, did I 
 not even when the worst happened and I had to go 
 through with it! All right, just bear that in 
 mind ' " Every line of Lilians slender young body 
 was drooping as she paused; yet, immediately, with 
 a gallant, defiant shrug of head and shoulders, she 
 straightened herself and faced her father. "I'm the 
 worst, you see. I'm something that happened. Do 
 you even know that I really am your own child?" 
 
 It was as if a strong spring had suddenly uncoiled 
 beneath Anson Chenoworth, almost flinging him 
 from his chair to his feet. 
 
 "Good God ! This is horrible. How can you 
 
148 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 say these things ask me such a question ! Is there 
 no limit nowadays no restraint no sense of de 
 cency anywhere ! And you bring that woman back 
 with you! Why why why!" 
 
 "Please sit down again, father. It is horrible, all 
 of it. It's a good deal worse than you know. But 
 I wouldn't go in for being shocked, if I were you. 
 It's a little late for that sort of thing, isn't it?" 
 
 Anson Chenoworth sank back into his chair and 
 stared at Lilia. She had never seen him so com 
 pletely at a disadvantage. She began to pity him. 
 
 "I know I seem hard, dearest. . . . I'm not 
 I'm not, underneath. Only, we must get everything 
 said, somehow and then. . . . Oh, you must help 
 me a little, father!" 
 
 "But how you could bring that woman !" 
 
 "I had to. For your sake and hers and mine. 
 She's the most pitiful wreck, father mental and 
 physical. Morphine. . . . She's half-mad, I think. 
 Somebody will have to take care of her." 
 
 "Somebody perhaps. Not I." 
 
 "Yes, father you." 
 
 "I hardly see the necessity." 
 
 "You will see it. I brought her with me chiefly to 
 protect you your reputation. You stopped her allow 
 ance just when she needed it most, and she'll go to 
 any length now to injure you if you don't protect 
 yourself treat her more generously. Please believe 
 me, father I'm not exaggerating. She's heart-break 
 ing in her present state but she's dangerous, too. 
 Nothing reaches her, you see. It's no good talking 
 to her. She's beyond all that. If she wants some- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 149 
 
 thing for herself, she just goes for it blindly. There's 
 nothing she won't say or do." 
 
 "As, for example ?" Anson Chenoworth put 
 his question softly, with a slight smile which did not 
 conceal from Lilia the fact that her words had pain 
 fully impressed him. She was glad to have impressed 
 him, and she supposed his question merely casual 
 a device to gain time for thought. It annoyed her, 
 however. 
 
 "Good heavens, father!" she exclaimed. "Surely, 
 the way in which mother forced me to leave Al- 
 den " 
 
 "Ah ! but that's precisely what I don't understand! 
 Why did you leave Alden?" 
 
 "Why? Hasn't Dr. Harrod written you?" 
 
 "Yes. I received a letter, by way of Paris, almost 
 a week ago a masterpiece of cautious evasion. 
 After I had read it, I knew as much as I did before 
 from the cablegrams. Dr. Harrod expressed every 
 confidence in your good intentions and every regret 
 for your leaving but he evidently prefers to let you 
 tell your own story." 
 
 "Bless him!" cried Lilia warmly. "He and Ruth 
 are the best friends I have in the world. Do you 
 realize, father, that they are the first genuinely good 
 people I've ever known?" 
 
 "Thank you, my dear." 
 
 "Don't be angry with me. It's true and you 
 know it's true. You're charming, father, and you've 
 always been kind to me and I do love you! But 
 you're not good. It would bore you too much." 
 
 "Perhaps," smiled Anson Chenoworth. "I con- 
 
150 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 fess I've sometimes thought the final triumph of 
 virtue will end in a universal yawn." 
 
 "Put that in your next play, father." 
 
 "It was in my first one," said Anson Chenoworth. 
 "But you still leave me in the dark as to how your 
 mother found you as to why you left Alden as to 
 why you are both here in Naples ! And it just hap 
 pens to be extremely important for me to know at 
 
 once." 
 
 A third person might have said that he had fully 
 recovered himself now his habitual manner, his 
 tone of cool irony; but Lilia was not deceived. She 
 was aware of a deeper disquiet in him than she had 
 expected to find; and she was distinctly aware of 
 something new an3, as she feared, definitely hostile 
 in his attitude toward herself. . . . She made haste 
 to answer him. 
 
 "It was just a chance, mother's finding me. I 
 suppose you know that when she went to Los An 
 geles, two or three years ago, she had a contract 
 with one of the moving picture companies out 
 there?" 
 
 "An excuse. She was living with one of their di 
 rectors. So I've good reason to believe, at least." 
 
 "Ah !" Lilia had cried out her protest. Her 
 cheeks burned. Her eyes filled with tears. Why, 
 suddenly, she should feel vicarious shame for this un 
 worthy mother, no detail of whose life, after all, 
 could prove an unexpected revelation, it would be 
 difficult to explain. But a deep-lying instinct in her 
 resented the chill indifference of Anson Chenoworth's 
 statement. One might hate, or be sorry for, or even 
 merely dislike but one mustn't simply wipe out a 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 151 
 
 human being who had, for good or evil, shared any 
 part of one's life. Dust from one's shoes ah, 
 no ! one mustn't flick flesh and blood away like that ! 
 Or if one could and did then God pity all who 
 looked to such a man for any touch of self-denying 
 affection. 
 
 An irrelevant thought lifted, for an instant, a cold, 
 snake-like head. Dunster Thorpe ? . . . Had 
 he already perhaps wiped her out, as an episode it 
 could not possibly profit him even to remember? 
 Was he, too like her father a Man with a 
 Sponge ? 
 
 "Are you ill, Lilia?" queried Anson Chenoworth. 
 
 "No. But dreadfully tired I'm sorry. . . . 
 Los Angeles oh, yes, it was there mother got word 
 from your bankers in New York. You had stopped 
 her allowance. She was ill morphine . . . 
 couldn't work couldn't ... I mean, she had no 
 other resources. She wrote you, more than once 
 and you didn't reply. Then she sold some jewelry, 
 and came on to New York to see your bankers. They 
 could give her no satisfaction and I suppose it 
 made her desperate. She must have haunted the 
 place for weeks. . . . Then, one day, some one in 
 the office some clerk happened to mention my 
 being at Alden ..." 
 
 "The idiots! I had given positive instruc 
 tions !" 
 
 "Yes; but such things happen, you see. People 
 aren't machines. . . . Well; you can imagine the 
 rest." 
 
 "Possibly. But I prefer to be told." 
 
 "Of course. You couldn't imagine it. I'm not 
 
152 LILIA CHENO WORTH 
 
 talking quite sensibly, am I it's ... no mat 
 ter. . . . ' Lilia drew a long, slow breath and 
 straightened herself in her chair. "When she 
 reached Alden, mother didn't even stop to look me 
 up. She went direct to Dr. Harrod told him she 
 had never been married to you, and showed him an 
 old letter of yours which " 
 
 "Nonsense. No woman would. ... I tell you, 
 it's incredible." 
 
 "Isn't it! Isn't it! But don't imagine that's all. 
 Mother wasn't content with that. She " Lilia 
 broke off, crushing intertwined fingers together in 
 a supreme effort to master the nervous crisis which 
 she now, with a secret terror, felt to be gaining upon 
 her. She had sensations of suffocation; an incessant 
 shower of arrows invisible arrows of flame and ice 
 fell upon her; her heart seemed alternately to 
 stop or to crowd upward into her throat and strug 
 gle there. . . . 
 
 But when she was able to speak once more, she 
 spoke quietly. "Mother says I'm not your child. 
 She told Dr. Harrod I'm not your child. . . . May 
 may I lie down somewhere? I can't . . . it's 
 silly of me . . . the journey . . . mother's been 
 rather difficult. . . . Please put your arm round me 
 tighter. . . . Thanks . . . thank you, father ..." 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 153 
 
 VIII 
 
 Half an hour later, at the Hotel Parthenope, in 
 the sitting-room smaller but more pretentiously 
 furnished than his own of the suite he had himself 
 engaged for Lilia, Anson Chenoworth was standing 
 before the woman who still from time to time, to his 
 extreme annoyance, called herself "Mrs. Cheno 
 worth." Lilia, poor child, he had left to rest and 
 recover herself in his own darkened bedroom, prom 
 ising her an hour of undisturbed quiet. Following 
 upon her crisis of nerves, his slightly hostile attitude 
 had changed to one of almost tender consideration; 
 he had assured Lilia he was now convinced she had 
 done a wise and plucky thing, had acted throughout 
 for his best interests, by disobeying him and bring 
 ing her mother along; and, with his own hands, he 
 had dissolved a bromide tablet in a glass of water. 
 . . . But he had not mentioned to Lilia his rapidly 
 formed plan for an immediate interview with her 
 mother; nor did he even mention it to the circum 
 spect Anatole. "If Miss Lilia should ask for me, 
 say only that I've stepped out for a few moments; 
 nothing more. And use every means of persuasion 
 to keep her here until I return." 
 
 Now "My dear Hattie," he was saying, "I beg 
 you to follow me with more attention. I implore you 
 to be reasonable. I shall be frank with you. I 
 stopped sending you money because I'm simply 
 drowned in debts and I felt my sentimental debt to 
 you was long since paid and overpaid. But I hadn't 
 the least idea you were all-to-pieces like this. You 
 
154 LILIA CHENO WORTH 
 
 see, I never read your letters. I feared they might 
 be disagreeable, so I tore them up in their envelopes 
 as they arrived. Voila / You couldn't ask a more 
 open confession than that, could you now?" 
 
 Harriet Gleeson, to restore to her the one name 
 she never used her own was lying on a sofa, with 
 two great tumbled pillows, dragged out from her 
 bedroom, supporting her head and shoulders. Like 
 the frayed and soiled negligee she was wearing, she 
 showed the remains of what must once have been a 
 bold and vivid type of beauty. Her hair, a blonde 
 glory bestowed by nature, was still striking in color, 
 yet belied itself; it had taken on the dry, lifeless tone 
 of hair artificially bleached and dyed. The face 
 seemed unnaturally long and sharp-featured, and the 
 hollows of the cheeks were accented rather than 
 disguised by smears of rouge. A ravaged face, 
 everywhere betraying the skull beneath it. But what 
 chiefly struck Anson Chenoworth as he studied this 
 woman, who had once exercised so powerful a spell, 
 was that she knew he was observing her, noting with 
 distaste how completely she had let herself go, how 
 finally all her resources for charm had vanished, and 
 that she did not care. Why, the woman was not even 
 physically clean her finger-nails ! Yet she did not 
 care. ... It was now nothing to her that she knew 
 he must be remembering, comparing. 
 
 "How could you be hard-up?" she asked, indif 
 ferently. Her voice in the old days had been lazy 
 and deep, with a slight, individual roughness; now 
 it was higher-pitched, with a latent whine in it but 
 with a quality, too, almost ventriloquial; remote. 
 
 Anson Chenoworth smiled; his bearing took on a 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 155 
 
 sort of jaunty cheerfulness. "Nothing easier, alas ! 
 One is idle, one's receipts fall off, one's expenses in 
 crease. Naturally, speculation suggests itself but 
 one has no flair, no luck. So one borrows right and 
 left, and presently the inevitable. A bad turn of 
 the market . . ." Anson Chenoworth shrugged his 
 shoulders. "My dear Hattie," he added, "as I stand 
 here before you I am ruined. Mais je me garde 
 une 'poire pour la soif!" 
 
 "You would." 
 
 "Yes. I am used to living in a certain way and 
 have no intention, at my age, of living less agree 
 ably. In a word, I am about to be married. At 
 least I hope so." And he crossed the room for a 
 small gilt chair which he carried back to the lower 
 end of the sofa and there seated himself. "Did you 
 hear me, Hattie?" 
 
 "Yes. I don't feel like laughing." 
 
 "Nor I. I have precisely one chance in the world 
 to save myself from bankruptcy and all the annoy 
 ance it would bring me. But your arrival here with 
 Lilia makes the whole matter, temporarily, more 
 difficult. Unless well, unless you are both willing 
 to see what is best for all of us. You, for example, 
 Hattie I take it you've no personal objection to my 
 settling down in life, so long as I'm willing to see 
 you through?" 
 
 Hattie Gleeson hunched herself up a little higher 
 against the pillows. 
 
 "What difference does it make to me ! Young or 
 old, she must be a damn fool but that's your busi 
 ness. I don't believe you're strapped, anyway. So 
 you fix things comfortably for me, that's all and I 
 
156 LILIA CHENO WORTH 
 
 won't trouble you again. I want my freedom back. 
 I'm sick of being watched and managed. I won't 
 be sent to a sanitarium, either!" 
 
 "Ah, I see. All you ask is the privilege of killing 
 yourself in your own way." 
 
 She leaned forward eagerly to him and a dull 
 spark came into her dull eyes. "That's it Chen! 
 You fix things so's I can clear out and do as I like." 
 
 Anson Chenoworth drew a long but unobtrusive 
 breath. "Well -why not? I suppose I should try 
 to persuade you, for your own good, to put yourself 
 under medical restraint. But I prefer to be honest 
 with you. I don't give a hang what becomes of 
 you, my dear and you don't give a hang what be 
 comes of me. We're quits, then. You need money 
 and want your freedom; I need money and want to 
 be rid of you once for all. Eien! Let's arrange 
 things to our mutual advantage, and be done with it." 
 
 "I'm satisfied. But it's not so easy as that." 
 
 "Really? So long as you are so charmingly rea 
 sonable, Hattie, I fail to see the difficulty." 
 
 "Don't you! How about Lilia?" 
 
 "Ah? How about her?" 
 
 Hattie Gleeson slid down again into her tumbled 
 pillows. "You're supposed to have brains," she 
 muttered; "but if you're as dumb as that, you wait 
 and see, that's all ! It isn't just what you want or 
 I want; not any more. Not much it isn't. You 
 can't handle Lilia that way." 
 
 Chenoworth's face perceptibly darkened. 
 
 "She might try to interfere, you mean ?" 
 
 "Lilia's different from us," said Hattie Gleeson. 
 
 "In what respect?" 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 157 
 
 "I don't know," came the vague response, "but 
 you ought to. You've had her with you. I'll bet 
 she's got your number all down in a little book some 
 where. But that isn't it. She's different . . ." 
 
 "Very illuminating," said Anson Chenoworth. 
 Then, after a slight pause, he demanded abruptly: 
 "Is she really my child?" 
 
 "You know she is." 
 
 "Yes; I've always supposed so. But Lilia informs 
 me that when you made your extraordinary call on 
 Dr. Harrod " 
 
 Hattie Gleeson sat straight up on her sofa and 
 shot forth a lean, menacing arm. "I was crazy that 
 night! I wanted to hurt you, I thought maybe 
 Lilia meant something to you, something you'd 
 fight for and pay through the nose to protect. But 
 it worked just the other way. You mean something 
 to Lilia and so do I. She's fighting to protect us 
 both from each other. That's why she's different* 
 if you want to know and you're up against some 
 thing you don't understand yet ! You wait and see 
 that's all. I warn you." 
 
 "My dear Hattie, don't excite yourself like this 
 . . . you're in no condition . . . it's only too evi 
 dent!" The woman's lean body was visibly trem 
 bling from head to foot "As for Lilia there's of 
 course a good deal in what you say. She has a 
 h'm slightly Utopian side to her character, and she 
 can be curiously stubborn about it. As a matter of 
 fact, she gets that from me. I'm an all-or-nothing 
 person myself as an artist. Only, Lilia's conscience 
 seems not to be purely artistic which is always, I 
 think, a mistake. However ! I'm very fond of 
 
158 LILIA CHENO WORTH 
 
 the child; I admire her enormously. She's a re 
 markable girl, remarkably sensitive far too sen 
 sitive for her own best interests, I fear." And, 
 keeping an eye on the nerve-shattered woman before 
 him, he continued tranquilly with his analysis, partly 
 because he hoped thus to prevent another outbreak, 
 and partly because the exercise of this faculty at any 
 time always stimulated him, giving him that illusion 
 of superiority so essential to an ego-centric nature. 
 
 "What I mean is, that Lilia feels her way through 
 life. She's wholly a creature of instinct and intui 
 tion but her instincts and intuitions have an ex 
 traordinary fineness; she has even more than once 
 made a useful suggestion in connection with some 
 critical scene in a play. In short, instinct stands to 
 her in place of intelligence. But not completely. 
 Nothing will quite replace intelligence the analytic 
 mind. And poor Lilia is deficient there. In order 
 to understand a given case she is forced to identify 
 herself with it, a mistake ! To live one's own life 
 one must be able to detach oneself. . . . Otherwise 
 one's sympathies are involved one lives a thousand 
 conflicting lives and gets torn to pieces among 
 them " 
 
 "Oh, for God's sake stop it stop jabbering! I 
 know you're wrong." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear Hattie. At any rate, I am 
 wrong to bore you." 
 
 "I wasn't listening. . . . But see here! I know 
 you can't see through Lilia any more than I can. 
 She's not our sort." 
 
 Chenoworth smiled. "Oh, come now! Since 
 
LILIA CHENO WORTH 159 
 
 when have you and I belonged to one species, Hat- 
 tie?' 1 
 
 "We do, all the same! We're natural-born rot 
 ters, Chen and you know it." 
 
 "Pardon me. I absolutely repudiate the descrip 
 tion." 
 
 "Well suit yourself. Lilia's not my sort, any 
 way. She she scares me. . . . She gets on my 
 nerves !" Harriet Gleeson's teeth almost chat 
 tered as she spoke; the trembling of her body and 
 limbs increased. These symptoms were not lost upon 
 Anson Chenoworth; they alarmed him, and he 
 promptly got to his feet. 
 
 "Ah, but don't let it worry you now," he said, 
 "we'll arrange things differently. I haven't the least 
 intention of leaving you to Lilia's mercies or vice 
 versa. I think you can safely trust everything to 
 me. And now I must really get back. Lilia will be 
 wondering what's keeping me." He took up his hat 
 and coat, not without a deliberate jauntiness. "I 
 shall tell her, of course, that I've been to see you 
 and I'll bring her home to you myself, early this 
 evening." 
 
 "You needn't. It's not her I want." 
 
 "Aren't you rather mysterious, Hattie ?" 
 
 The woman's gaunt face was instantly convulsed 
 with rage. "Damn her ! She's starving me, 
 Chen. She's killing me, I tell you. She knows I 
 can't live without it and she cuts me down. She 
 hides it when I'm asleep locks it up. She won't 
 give me a cent to spend myself. She don't care how 
 much I suffer she hates me, anyway. She wants 
 me to suffer !" Hattie Gleeson slipped from the 
 
160 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 sofa and seized Anson Chenoworth's hands. "You 
 won't let me suffer like this, will you, Chen? It's 
 only because I'm starved for it that I'm all shot to 
 pieces. I'm different when I'm let alone. I know 
 what I can take why shouldn't I ! I know when 
 I'm feeling right ! . . . Chen, you'll stand up for 
 me against her won't you, Chen ! I'll go crazy 
 I'm half-crazy sometimes now. I haven't the 
 strength. . . ." Her knees bent beneath her and 
 she fell back on the sofa with a high-pitched sob and 
 lay there, writhing like a trodden earth-worm, her 
 face buried in the pillows. Chenoworth thunder 
 struck by this unexpected violence stood staring 
 down at her, helplessly. In truth, he was badly 
 frightened. The frenzy had burst on him so swiftly, 
 without even a faint, warning note ! or so now it 
 seemed to him, so shaken was he by the final shock 
 of the storm. 
 
 Yes ; Lilia was right this wrecked creature could 
 be dangerous. Lilia must have been through terrible 
 scenes. No wonder the child was exhausted. How 
 had she been able to go on with it? How had she 
 dared ? Why, his own knees were weak beneath 
 him! His tiny brown hands fluttered a handker 
 chief about as if he were signalling his distress. It 
 was some moments before he quite trusted himself to 
 speak. 
 
 "Hattie ? Ah tiens, tiens (fest-ce que tu as 
 done! It won't do this won't do, you know. No 
 need for this sort of thing. I I'll fix it up for you, 
 somehow!" 
 
 And with his words Harriet Gleeson instantly re 
 laxed; the nervous trembling vanished as it had 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 161 
 
 come; she raised herself on one elbow and peered 
 sidelong at Anson Chenoworth. Her eyes were 
 eager and furtive. 
 
 "Will you, Chen ? God bless you! You see 
 how it is. I can't stand it like this. You see how it 
 is, don't you, Chen ?" 
 
 <( Yes. I see how it is. Come, now, you make 
 things easier for me and I'll make things easier 
 for you. That's a fair bargain, I think ? n 
 
 The woman nodded her head. Her feet slid from 
 the sofa to the floor; she sat up, feebly. "Lilia 
 locked her trunk before she went out. Maybe you 
 could force the lock, Chen ? I I want to be feel 
 ing right when you bring Lilia back so we can talk 
 things over. You understand, Chen ? You can 
 trust me ; I swear you can. I won't take more than 
 just enough . . . you know ! Just enough to pull 
 me together." She rose from the sofa and faltered 
 toward him. "Maybe you could force the lock for 
 me, Chen ? I I was trying when you came, but 
 I can't. . . . My hands shake so when I'm like 
 this. What do you say, Chen ?" 
 
 Anson Chenoworth straightened his shoulders 
 and flicked the handkerchief back into his breast 
 pocket. "Why not ring for a porter?" he sug 
 gested. "But, after all, don't bother. I must start 
 along. I'll send a porter up to you, Hattie. You 
 needn't tip him. He'll understand . . ." 
 
162 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 IX 
 
 Lilia to Ruth. From a letter begun at Naples, con 
 tinued at Settignano, and ended in Paris. 
 
 . . . 7 must leave him, Ruth I must break with 
 him. There's no other way for me 
 
 Well; it's done. But it's such a long story, and 
 so wretched all through. I haven't written you\ 
 for weeks. I haven't written anyone. For a while 
 it seemed to me that I couldn't ever again write 
 you or anyone I cared for. I simply wanted to drop 
 out. I'm not sure that isn't what I want most even 
 now. I've had your letters, of course and one from 
 your father, written immediately after he happened 
 upon that newspaper paragraph announcing mother's 
 death. Dr. Thorpe wrote me, too, just a formal 
 note of condolence. I imagine you, perhaps, put him 
 up to it? But I'm willing to think he meant to be 
 kind. Dr. Harrod's letter was wonderful. 
 
 Your letters, Ruth 
 
 No, there isn't anything I can say! 
 
 Ruth, I've tried for three days to go on with this. 
 Now I'm going on I do want you to know every 
 thing, but just you not even your father. If I can 
 get it all said make myself say it, somehow you'll 
 understand; you'll know what it's right to tell oth 
 ers and what is only for you. 
 
 After all, it needn't be a long story. It would only 
 have to be if I tried to explain everything, carry you 
 with me day by day. That would be cruel to you, 
 and besides I haven't the heart for it and it would 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 163 
 
 come to the same thing in the end. It comes to just 
 this, anyway. I'm a nuisance to father if he is my 
 father; I'm "de trop." But even if I were not I 
 couldn't go on with it, couldn't let him be responsible 
 
 for me "Responsible!" What a grotesque word 
 
 to use in connection with father! 
 
 It's because he can't or won't be responsible for 
 anybody who may prove a nuisance to him that 
 mother is dead. That's a hideous thing to say, but 
 it's true. Of course, I can't even pretend that I'm 
 really sorry mother is dead. I've tried to be. I've 
 tried to persuade myself that I was just beginning to 
 be something more than sorry for her; but I can't. 
 Oh, Ruth must everything that is true be hideous, 
 simply because it's true? That's a rhetorical ques 
 tion, dearest don't pay any attention to it. Only, 
 I must find the answer to it some day, or I shan't 
 know how to live how one ought to live or 
 whether one ought to live at all. 
 
 Father hasn't any doubts about that. He wants 
 to live, and he wants to live a certain way and he 
 goes for it. I don't believe he even suspects how 
 ruthless he is; in fact, I know he doesn't. But peo 
 ple who get in his way get hurt. I've been hurt, 
 badly more fool me, perhaps. And mother's dead. 
 But father goes sweeping triumphantly on! He mar 
 ries to-morrow the Contessa Girlandoni an 
 American countess, a widow, and perhaps the rich 
 est woman in Italy. I shall not be at the wed 
 ding 
 
 And there's the end of my story first. I wish I 
 could forget all that lies between. 
 
 The very day I reached Naples, during my first 
 
164 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 talks with father, I learned things I had never even 
 suspected. For one 1 thing, up to then, I had always 
 taken father's wealth what I see now was his ex 
 travagant way of life for granted. I had never 
 known anything else or dreamed of any possibility of 
 change and I haven't realized yet I'm afraid I 
 haven't wanted to that for me now there must be a 
 change, so complete a change that I'm keeping my 
 eyes tight shut till the moment comes when I must 
 jump and land well, somewhere, but who knows 
 where! I'll get back to that later, Ruth. What I'm 
 trying to say now is that I found father on the rocks , 
 and that I should never have guessed it never have 
 seen the rocks at all if he hadn't pointed them out to 
 me. He was living as he had always lived. Yet he 
 admitted to me, almost at once, that he was bankrupt 
 smothered in debt. He admitted it with a smile. 
 Explained, quite amusingly, that he had been living 
 for some years far beyond his means, trying to re 
 coup by speculation, and always losing. He'd even 
 for a while been so desperately pressed as to try out 
 a new system at Monte Carlo with what I suppose 
 are the usual results. But he hadn't the least inten 
 tion of changing his habits, economizing and he 
 said airily, too, that he doubted whether he should 
 ever write another play. There was no public left 
 for really distinguished work, and he'd be damned 
 if he'd cater to shop-girls! Well, I like that in him 
 don't you? Father is as he is. I've found him 
 out, and can never quite trust him or what's so 
 much lonelier for me really love him now, as I used 
 to, simply and blindly ; but I can still admire the art 
 ist in him, the artist who has never made anything 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 165 
 
 he didn't want to make who has never sold him- 
 self to the Philistines. As an artist, I mean. For 
 he has sold himself as a oh / suppose it's ridicu 
 lous to say as a "human soul"! 
 
 Isn't it strange, Ruth? For to me the two things 
 seem one. How can he be fine and faithful as an 
 artist and yet stoop to unspeakable things as a man? 
 I don't mean mistakes of passion but meannesses, 
 calculations How could a woman, Ruth, bring to 
 life create any truthfully written part on the 
 stage, stroke after perfect stroke, and then go home 
 to cheat her dressmaker or be faithless as a friend? 
 It's done, it's done, I suppose, every day but how 
 can it be done! Think what it means to live 
 through another's life any life, ugly or beautiful. 
 Take mother / could play mother, re-create her, 
 so an audience would know her inside and out, and 
 be haunted by her. I could feel my way into her very 
 skin. I know I could. But having done it how 
 could I help wanting to live beyond all that? How, 
 even, could I ever again be satisfied with myself as 
 I am? It puzzles me so. Life and art are one 
 thing for me, I can't separate them. I never could. 
 
 But father can. 
 
 The Contessa Girlandoni, nee Sibert, was born 
 and bred in Colorado. She isn't thirty yet, and she's 
 been a widow for only a little over a year. She's a 
 fattish, silly woman, with great moist brown eyes, 
 just like a Jersey cow. Papa Sibert died when she 
 was twenty and left her an absurd fortune, which 
 she soon bestowed on a younger son of a great Flor 
 entine family. Italian counts are supposed to be a 
 bad lot, but this one seems to have been fairly de- 
 
166 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 cent. At any rate, when he died, the Contessa was 
 inconsolable. Everybody in Florence laughed about 
 it. I remember father's telling me, with a shrug, 
 that she had sworn never to marry again "Tout a 
 fait comme une comtesse de Shakespeare!" he added, 
 malignly. She had already retired to her villa in 
 Settignano, which happens to adjoin father's. That 
 was nine or ten months before I left with Dr. Har- 
 rod for Alden. But I hadn't the least idea that 
 father had done more than call on the Contessa once 
 or twice, any more than I had the least idea he was 
 bankrupt. Of course, I did feel he was glad to be 
 rid of me for a while, but I thought it was because he 
 was getting himself mixed up again in some entirely 
 different kind of affair. 
 
 Well under the circumstances, at his age 
 heaven knows how he has managed this one, charm 
 ing as he is able to be. He keeps his counsel, and I 
 can't even imagine how he proceeded. He has done 
 it, though, somehow, in the face of the most fantas 
 tic difficulties. For, to begin with, the Countess is 
 very devout, in a worldly way, and she supposed him 
 as everybody in Florence did a married man 
 separated from his wife. But he was able to turn 
 that difficulty into a triumph. He has let the Con 
 tessa, herself a convert, win him over to Catholicism, 
 and has confessed all his sins of which I'm the big 
 gest, I suppose all, that is, except the horrible 
 hypocrisy of this whole wretched farce. But he made 
 two mistakes. He stopped an allowance he had been 
 sending mother, because he was hard pressed, and 
 because he thought mother safely marooned in Cali 
 fornia and otherwise provided for. He also told his 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 167 
 
 dear Countess that he had lost all track of mother, 
 but that to the best of his belief she was dead. That's 
 why he was so agitated when I suddenly announced 
 I was bringing her home with me to Settignano. 
 
 Father met us at Naples. Instead of backing me 
 up in my forlorn attempt to save mother by getting 
 her into a sanatarium, he secretly supplied her with 
 money calmly denying to me that he had done so 
 and she vanished. She vanished two days after we 
 arrived and within a week was found dead in her 
 hotel room at Monte Carlo. She was registered 
 there as "Mme. de Fries" but the police found an 
 unopened letter from father, enclosing a check and 
 sent for him. We went on together and buried 
 mother, and of course the whole thing got into the 
 Continental papers. Father was in a terrible state 
 of mind. He was certain the Contessa would break 
 everything of and so finally ruin him. He had been 
 using his prospective marriage for months to stave 
 of his creditors. 
 
 Ruth, he wanted me to go at once to the Contessa 
 and pretend to her that he knew nothing of my plan 
 pretend that love for my father had driven me to 
 see her, explain matters, plead for him Oh, you 
 can imagine the sickening scene he urged me to play! 
 
 But you can't imagine his violence when I refused 
 to go. 
 
 He tried to threaten me, Ruth. He said he had 
 always treated me as his own child, although 
 
 Ruth Ruth I can't write it down. How could 
 he think he could buy me 
 
 / had to stop there, Ruth I couldn't go on with 
 
168 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 it, even to you. It's more than a week since I broke 
 off. Father's married. His dear inconsolable was 
 more infatuated than he knew, or had dared to hope. 
 She made a terrific fuss for a while, but at last oh, 
 poor woman, if she is a fool! she "understood" 
 and forgave him everything. So father lost nothing 
 by losing me. 
 
 Well, there was nothing I could do but die of 
 shame or clear out. It wasn't a difficult choice, 
 after all. . . . 
 
 X 
 
 It was the week between Christmas and New 
 Year's Day, and Alden was deserted. Ruth Harrod 
 had gone to New York with her father, who faith 
 ful to his function as Publicity Agent for Alden 
 had accepted two invitations to speak at banquets in 
 that metropolis of incessant after-lunch and after- 
 dinner publicity. They were stopping at the Wal 
 dorf, because one of Ruth's married sisters, Mrs. 
 Engel, was inevitably stopping there. Once Christ 
 mas was safely over, Mrs. Engel always came on by 
 herself from Columbus to the Waldorf for a fort 
 night of theatre-going and general recuperation. Mr. 
 Engel remained at home to keep one eye on his hide 
 and leather business, and t'other eye on the two lit 
 tle Engels. "Nothing does me so much good," Mrs. 
 Engel would say from time to time, with character 
 istic satisfaction, "as a week at the Waldorf. The 
 rooms are so quiet, and I meet everybody I've ever 
 known downstairs. I never go in or out that I don't 
 meet someone." 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 169 
 
 "And you find that restful, my dear?" inquired 
 Dr. Harrod. 
 
 "Indeed I do, dad! It's so friendly. Why, it's 
 just like being at home." 
 
 "Ah, I see. Plus qa change, plus c'est la meme 
 chose,' 1 commented Dr. Harrod. 
 
 "Are you making fun of me ? I suppose you are," 
 said Mrs. Engel. "But I don't care. There's sim 
 ply nothing does me so much good as a week at the 
 Waldorf!" 
 
 "Emily's Old Home Week," Ruth sometimes 
 called it but never to Emily. Not because she 
 thought it would hurt Emily's feelings, for she knew 
 her impervious to satire; but because it would fa 
 tigue her to hear again Emily's formula, "You al 
 ways were the clever one, Ruth. I do think it so 
 fortunate you were the one to stay on with clever 
 old dad!" 
 
 On the morning of New Year's Eve Ruth and her 
 father had decided to dine quietly together that night 
 and to retire early. The prospective Broadway fes 
 tivities were something, they both felt, to flee from 
 rather than encounter. Emily, pursuing her rest- 
 cure, was to make a jolly night of it with some Ohio 
 friends, who had secured the "best" table at an ex 
 pensive restaurant weeks in advance. "Of course, 
 it's foolish to spend so much, just to see a lot of fast 
 people guzzling champagne," admitted Emily, thus 
 paying her faint annual tribute to the Puritan tra 
 dition. "But everybody does it, and I must say it's 
 rather fun watching the crowd. I wish you and Ruth 
 would come with us, dad just for once?" There 
 was nothing perfunctory in the wish; Emily Engel 
 
170 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 was devoted to Ruth and her father. But Dr. Har- 
 rod merely laid his hand a moment on Emily's shoul 
 der and shook his head. "My dear child, I can't 
 enjoy vicarious intoxication. If I could afford to get 
 drunk myself well and good ! But as a Public Pil 
 lar, the least I can do is to be rigid and unreeling. 
 You see my difficulty ?" 
 
 So Ruth and her father dined early in a quiet cor 
 ner and talked of Lilia. They were intensely wor 
 ried about Lilia. Ruth had written twice a week 
 with regularity, but for a number of weeks now had 
 received no reply. 
 
 After dinner they retired to the sitting-room of 
 the little suite they had taken, and here Ruth found, 
 among other letters forwarded from Alden, the long 
 letter from Lilia which has just been given. Ruth 
 tore it open and began reading it aloud to her father; 
 but when she read out the words, "I do want you to 
 know everything, but just you not even your 
 father," she stopped, and met Dr. Harrod's troubled 
 eyes with a look which was at once a question and 
 a cry. 
 
 "Tell me what you can later, dear," said Dr. 
 Harrod, and reached for his own letters, opening 
 them methodically and giving them to all appear 
 ance his concentrated attention. Nor did he ques 
 tion Ruth when she rose, presently, and took Lilia's 
 letter with her into her bedroom. 
 
 But when she had closed her door the opened 
 bond-advertisement in his hand was thrown aside, 
 and he got aimlessly to his feet and drifted about 
 the shining, standardized rectangle, comfortless 
 "comfort" by the cubic foot, which hotel sitting- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 171 
 
 rooms invariably and perhaps necessarily are. There 
 were three large, perfunctory pictures on the walls 
 washed-out prints of the Angelus, of Dido in Car 
 thage, and of a mist-scape by Corot. Dr. Harrod 
 paused before each of these, his hands thrust deep 
 into his pockets, his head a little on one side. When 
 he turned from them he could not have named them. 
 What he had really been looking at was the Por 
 trait of a Young Girl by an Unknown Artist. 
 
 The torn envelope of Lilia's letter was lying on 
 the floor by Ruth's chair. Dr. Harrod picked it up. 
 A French stamp it was post-marked "Paris." He 
 studied that envelope with a frowning attention al 
 most idiotic. Finally, he smoothed it out and slipped 
 it into his pocket. He did not know why. 
 
 The telephone rang. It rang thrice before it 
 received his attention. Dr. Thorpe was calling 
 Dr. Dunster Thorpe. 
 
 As Ruth came from her room she saw her father 
 at the telephone and heard him saying, u Please ask 
 Dr. Thorpe to excuse us this evening. Please tell 
 him Miss Lilia and I are both very tired after a 
 rather hard week and . . ." 
 
 "Oh, father!" she interrupted him, "If you don't 
 very much mind, I should like to see Dr. Thorpe." 
 
 "Oh ! I thought. . . . One moment, please!" 
 he then called into the receiver. "I've changed my 
 mind. Kindly ask Dr. Thorpe to step up." 
 
 Ruth never told her father that he had called her 
 Lilia and had been unaware of his mistake. Some 
 how she felt it might annoy him. 
 
 "I'm sorry, father," she explained. "I know 
 this is a nuisance to you. I know you don't like 
 

 172 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Dunster Thorpe; but I do the more I see of him. 
 I've seen a good deal of him since Lilia wrote and 
 asked me to. And Lilians in real trouble this time. 
 She's broken with her father finally. Yes for a 
 good reason. I'll tell you what I can when Dr. 
 Thorpe comes. " 
 
 Dr. Harrod's love for Ruth was unchangeable; 
 yet, deep in his heart, he never quite forgave her 
 for waiting now to tell him more of Lilia's trouble 
 until Dr. Thorpe was with them. Ruth felt her 
 father's sudden constraint; it pained her; but she 
 could not regret her decision. 
 
 Dr. Thorpe's reaction to her present news would 
 tell her much much that it was necessary for her 
 to know. For Lilia's sake yes; but perhaps a little 
 for her own sake as well. That Lilia loved Dunster 
 Thorpe she could not doubt; there were, in Lilia's 
 letters, points of transparency where the full light 
 broke through. As for herself well, Ruth was 
 not in the habit of telling herself lies. At Lilia's 
 request, she had, as she had just reminded her 
 father, "seen a good deal" of Dr. Thorpe these 
 past weeks more, much more, than she had meant 
 to see of him. Dr. Thorpe had, seemingly, been 
 grateful for an unexpected attention, which in itself 
 did so much to quash certain disagreeable rumors 
 that he had fallen into the bad graces of the Pres 
 ident. He had quickly availed himself of the 
 proffered opportunity to know "poor little Miss 
 Harrod" better, and to do him justice he had 
 soon recognized the distinction and delicacy of her 
 nature, and had blamed himself for not having 
 earlier discerned in Ruth Harrod a possible and 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 173 
 
 valuable friend. v Dunster's friendship for Ruth, 
 when once awakened, was genuine and lasting, 
 yet Ruth uncomfortably suspected that a grain or 
 so of calculation had somewhat marred its begin 
 nings. She saw through Dunster rather easily. She 
 saw through him yet she liked him. Perhaps, 
 even, she something more than liked him. She hoped 
 not; but always now in his presence she was aware 
 of a deeper perturbation than she had ever before 
 experienced. She was almost frighteningly aware of 
 it as Dunster knocked at the door, then entered to 
 greet them. 
 
 It was at once evident to Ruth that Dunster had 
 been finding his vacation in New York not only 
 agreeable but highly encouraging, so far as his 
 future plans were concerned. Arthur Carswick, his 
 Harvard friend on The New Age, had left for 
 him four or five skillful letters of introduction which 
 had pleasantly placed him in contact with persons of 
 more or less importance in the publishing and the 
 atrical worlds. He had been lunching and dining 
 with the very people he most wanted to know, the 
 very people who might soon be of use to him. He 
 was full of his experiences and eager to talk about 
 them, and it was some moments before he began to 
 feel that Ruth and Dr. Harrod were giving him a 
 merely forced attention. The discovery, for it came 
 as a discovery, annoyed him. He had supposed 
 Ruth, at least, would be interested to hear of his 
 first adventures or, rather, of his first steps, bold 
 yet wary, toward all he was determined should prove 
 the Great Adventure of his life. But he was now 
 
174 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 chillingly aware that his enthusiastic recital was 
 somehow falling into a void, and he faltered 
 flushing in spite of himself and rather lamely broke 
 it off. 
 
 "I'm boring Dr. Harrod, I'm afraid talking 
 of myself like this. It's only that it's all so new to 
 me and yet I feel so at home in it, too. I see it's 
 what I've always wanted. . . ." And he turned to 
 Dr. Harrod. "But of course, sir, I should have 
 realized that people like Stevens and Isidore Fuld 
 are of no particular interest to you." 
 
 "On the contrary, Thorpe. But it happens 
 you find us somewhat worried greatly so, in fact. 
 Ruth has just had a letter from Lilia." 
 
 "Oh" 
 
 Dunster knew this response inadequate, but he 
 was powerless to expand it. He avoided Ruth's 
 eyes. Ruth, however, was prompt to help him and 
 cover his confusion. 
 
 "I had hardly read the letter through when you 
 sent up your name. Father's still in the dark. He 
 only knows Lilia has broken with her father. We 
 were waiting till you came up " 
 
 "Good heavens!" Dunster exclaimed, "Why 
 didn't you shut me off sooner! I apologize " 
 
 "Nonsense. How could you know? Father and 
 I apologize, don't we, father?" 
 
 "You haven't heard from her, Thorpe?" asked 
 Dr. Harrod. 
 
 Dunster shook his head. "Lilia hasn't written 
 me since she left. Not a line. I've written several 
 times." He paused a moment, then nerved himself 
 to add, "That day in your office, sir I suppose it 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 175 
 
 finished things for Lilia, so far as I'm concerned." 
 
 "But it didn't," said Ruth, quietly. 
 
 Dr. Harrod was puzzled. Was Dunster Thorpe 
 in love with Lilia or was he not? On the whole 
 he thought not, yet he was far from certain. "I've 
 no wish to pry into the matter," he said and darkly 
 dismissed it. "Why has Lilia left her home, Ruth?" 
 
 Ruth took time to reflect. Wishing to soften her 
 father's undoubted snub, she addressed herself to 
 Dunster. "Lilia said I would know what to tell 
 you and what I mustn't. It's difficult . . . 
 Well," she continued presently, "it comes to this: 
 Lilia's found Mr. Chenoworth out. She knows 
 him now for what he is a ruthless egotist. She 
 feels he cares nothing for her, and she doesn't re 
 spect him. Can't. He tried to induce her to do 
 something for him well, something she couldn't 
 do. So she had to leave him being Lilia. I I'm 
 not sure there's anything more I ought to say." 
 
 "May I ask this, Ruth?" suggested Dr. Harrod. 
 "Was Lilia's break with her father connected in 
 any way with his recent um somewhat sensational 
 marriage?" 
 
 "Yes; with that and, in a sense, with her moth 
 er's death. Lilia feels Mr. Chenoworth did nothing 
 to help her protect her mother from herself. That's 
 as far as I can go perhaps I've already gone too 
 far. But the important thing is, Lilia's done the 
 only thing possible for her under all the circum 
 stances." 
 
 "I'm sure of that," said Dr. Harrod. 
 
 "Yes," said Dunster, with quiet conviction. "She 
 would." 
 
176 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Ruth kindled to his sincerity. "Isn't it magnifi 
 cent how we believe in Lilia! How one must 
 instinctively!" 
 
 "It's because she's always so instinctively 
 right" Dunster, with the words, had lost all self- 
 consciousness, and it was part of the wonder of it 
 that he was entirely unaware of a change. He got 
 to his feet and walked slowly about the room, with 
 bent head; and for perhaps the first time in many 
 years he was not immediately thinking of himself. 
 "Dr. Harrod," he continued, "do you remember 
 when I first went to you and complained of her? 
 Funny it should come back to me that she was 
 right that time, too. We were reading Julius 
 Caesar and I asked her to start the recitation. I'd 
 never called on her before and I asked her to 
 begin reading on from where the previous recitation 
 had left off. It's a small matter, of course but so 
 like her. You see, we'd left off in the middle of an 
 important scene, and Lilia simply excused herself 
 asked me to call on someone else. I remember just 
 what she said. 'I can't jump into the middle of a 
 scene like that and do it justice I can't really! I 
 don't believe anybody can' Well, of course, no one 
 could who was honestly able to appreciate the scene 
 feel it, as actors say! It was just stupid routine 
 teaching on my part. I had no business to be angry 
 with her." He stopped before Ruth and laughed 
 shortly. "Lilia left the room, you know made no 
 fuss about it just got up quietly and walked out. 
 Wasn't it splendid of her!" 
 
 "Splendid!" echoed Ruth, with a warmly approv- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 177 
 
 ing smile. "And that's precisely what she's done 
 now, you see." 
 
 "Yes. It's what she did when she threw me 
 over," added Dunster merely as one states an 
 obvious fact, without special emphasis. "Dr. Har- 
 rod will tell you how right she was then." 
 
 "My dear Thorpe !" 
 
 "Well, she was, sir I Lilia's the real thing. I 
 thought I was. I'm not. I'm a pretty cheap sort 
 of imitation. Most people are, beside Lilia." He 
 turned suddenly to Ruth. "Where is she now?" he 
 demanded. "Is there anything we can do ?" 
 
 "Ah! That's the point, Ruth!" exclaimed Dr. 
 Harrod. "That's what I'm waiting for! Never 
 mind the past. What is Lilia's situation now? 
 What's she up to?" 
 
 "She doesn't say, father. The letter comes from 
 Paris without explanations and without an ad 
 dress." 
 
 "Good heavens !" The President of Alden leaped 
 to his feet. His agitation was almost painfully ap 
 parent. "I shall cable her father at once for full 
 information. That child!" 
 
 He seized his hat, without further words, and 
 hurriedly left the room. 
 
178 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 XI 
 
 "Won't you please sit down, Dr. Thorpe? I can't 
 talk to you comfortably or sensibly while you're 
 wandering about." 
 
 Dunster answered her smile. "Forgive me," he 
 said, and drew up a chair beside her. "And won't 
 you please not call me 'Dr. Thorpe' !" 
 
 "I'll try not to if you'll meet me half-way?" 
 
 "More than that, Ruth! I wish I could even 
 begin to tell you how grateful I am to you for 
 making friends. You might so easily have well, 
 distrusted me as Dr. Harrod does. . . . He has 
 reason to, of course," added Dunster. 
 
 "Yes," Ruth quietly admitted, "he has some rea 
 son to. You are a strange person, Dunster Thorpe. 
 You begin everything badly and improve as you 
 go on. You began badly with Lilia." 
 
 "Ended badly. There's nothing right about me, 
 so far as Lilia's concerned." 
 
 After a momentary pause "That depends," said 
 Ruth. "May I be horrid to you?" 
 
 "Please." 
 
 "What are you wanting most from life this 
 instant, I mean?" 
 
 "Wanting most ?" 
 
 "Oh, don't be on your guard! I'm not trying to 
 trap you. If you'll answer the question honestly to 
 yourself, you needn't answer it to me." 
 
 There was an edge of impatience in her voice and 
 Dunster winced beneath it. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 179 
 
 "You're right. It's a question I must learn to 
 answer somehow honestly. I could have before 
 I met Lilia. I wanted to be famous. I wanted 
 money lots of it so I could do as I pleased." 
 
 "But now ?" 
 
 Dunster got up again and took a long, frowning 
 turn about the room. Ruth's eyes followed him, 
 anxiously. Was he having it out with himself or 
 was he merely hunting a loophole? It was char 
 acteristic of all she most feared for him that he might 
 be doing just that. 
 
 "Ruth," he said presently, "I can't answer you 
 honestly; not yet. You see, I want to believe in 
 myself; I want you to think well of me. Those are 
 the things I'm wanting most just now as I try to an 
 swer you. They cloud the whole issue. Of course, 
 what I'd like to say is I want above everything to 
 become worthy of Lilia. Something fine and noble 
 and romantic like that. . . . Not that I think I 
 could fool you!" he went on, hastily. "At any rate, 
 I shan't try. I still want to be famous to count 
 down here in this world I'm just getting the feel of. 
 I still want money lots of it. When I see myself 
 at forty and I'm always at it I see myself rich 
 and celebrated; a brilliant success. I can't help it. 
 It's born in me to want all that, whether I ever get 
 it or not. I couldn't count the world well lost for 
 Lilia or any woman. I couldn't do it. I suppose 
 that's somewhere near the disgusting truth about 
 
 me." 
 
 "But you do want Lilia? She's mixed in with it 
 all?" 
 
 "Sometimes I wish to God I'd never seen her!" 
 
180 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 he broke out. "It's all more difficult now. She's 
 changed things." 
 
 "Ah! If it isn't what she would call success it 
 won't count! Is that it?" demanded Ruth. 
 
 "Perhaps. It's hard to say. ... But it's a ter 
 rible thing to feel humiliated as I do. Deep inside. 
 I've hated her at times for all that." 
 
 "Humiliated!" flashed Ruth. "But when you see 
 yourself at forty, isn't Lilia on her knees too with 
 the other worshipers?" 
 
 It was like a physical wound to him; he cried out 
 against the pain of it. 
 
 "How could you know! . . . Yes, I'm still like 
 that, now and then. I revel in it. But I can be 
 ashamed as well I am now. Please try to believe 
 that much good of me." 
 
 "I believe much more," said Ruth, and quietly put 
 out her hand to him. "Dunster Thorpe for your 
 own sake why don't you drop everything that 
 doesn't matter ? . . . Why don't you go over to her 
 i at once, I mean and bring her home?" 
 
 XII 
 
 When Dr. Harrod, after a prolonged absence, 
 returned to the sitting-room, he found Ruth and 
 Dunster still in earnest conversation, which he did 
 not scruple at once to interrupt. "Ruth," he ex 
 claimed, "a most singular and fortunate thing has 
 happened! Just as I stepped from the elevator I 
 ran into Betty Oilman's brother yes precisely 
 young Dr. Oilman who was so helpful at the time 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 181 
 
 yes. . . . He's on the staff of the Rockefeller 
 Institute, you know. Didn't you know ? I under 
 stand he's perhaps the most brilliant of their younger 
 investigators he's specializing on cancer means to 
 devote his life to it. Not practising, Thorpe pure 
 science. It seems he and Betty are orphans and 
 have some property of their own. I was very glad 
 to see him again very glad indeed. He impressed 
 me most favorably at Alden." 
 
 Dr. Oilman, it presently appeared, had been din 
 ing at the Waldorf with Henri Mockel, the world- 
 famous French embryologist, who, after a year spent 
 at the Rockefeller Institute, was just on the point 
 of returning to Paris. Dr. Gilman was going over 
 with him for a few months to collaborate with the 
 great man on certain abstruse investigations (the ul 
 timate factors in cellular growth were in question) 
 which might or might not eventually prove of 
 the highest value to the human race. 
 
 "The moment I learned that," beamed Dr. Har- 
 rod, "I felt how almost providential this meeting 
 with Dr. Gilman might prove. He sails in four or 
 five days. By that time I shall have an answer to 
 my cable which will at least give us Lilia's address. 
 I think we can count on Chenoworth for that much. 
 Then Dr. Gilman can see Lilia in Paris and discover 
 just what her situation is. And he's the very man 
 for a mission of that kind; one trusts him instinc 
 tively! . . . I've asked him to lunch with us to 
 morrow, Ruth." 
 
 To Dr. Harrod's surprise his announcement did 
 not produce on Ruth quite the joyous effect he had 
 expected. 
 
182 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "It will be nice to see Dr. Gilman again," she 
 said; "but Providence, as usual, seems to be mud 
 dling things a little.' 7 
 
 Dr. Harrod was too immediately astonished to 
 reply. 
 
 "You see, father," Ruth continued, "I've just 
 persuaded Dr. Thorpe that he owes it to Lilia 
 and to himself to drop everything and go to her. 
 So we have a surplus of messengers." 
 
 Dunster had risen when Dr. Harrod returned 
 and had since stood a little apart from him, listening 
 without comment to his enthusiastic narration. Now, 
 however, he joined Ruth and her father and met Dr. 
 Harrod's eyes squarely. 
 
 "I'm going, sir, just as soon as I can get off. I'm 
 sorry to leave you in the lurch for the next half- 
 year, but even if my courses have to be dropped I 
 suppose the sun will go on rising and setting. Per 
 haps I can even make the same boat as Dr. Gilman." 
 
 "But my dear fellow ! As things have turned out, 
 I hardly see the necessity " 
 
 "Then you're very blind, father. Dr. Thorpe 
 hopes to bring Lilia back with him as his wife." 
 
 "Do you, Thorpe ?" 
 
 "No, sir. I more than hope to. I mean to." 
 
 Dr. Harrod frowned. "I should like your deter 
 mination better, my boy, if it had not needed Ruth 
 to bring you to it." 
 
 "So should I, sir." 
 
 "Ah! that took courage. If you can feel that, 
 Thorpe, then I've been unjust to you." 
 
 "You are unjust to him," said Ruth. 
 
 Dunster, to his own astonishment, laughed out his 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 183 
 
 protest. "Nonsense! In the main, Dr. Harrod's 
 quite right about me. ... The only place you go 
 wrong, sir," he added, "is in doubting my love for 
 Lilia. If you'll believe in that well, perhaps you'll 
 learn to believe a little more in me. I mean, if I 
 can feel all that's splendid in her then I've got 
 something to hang on to through life . . . don't 
 you see?" 
 
 Dr. Harrod frowned again, and folded his arms. 
 "I'm afraid I'm more interested, Thorpe, in what 
 Lilia will have to hang on to ?" 
 
 Dunster answered him sharply. "Now you are 
 unjust, sir ! But not to me to Lilia. If I'm not 
 the man for her if there's a yellow streak in me 
 that can't be cleared up Lilia won't be able to go 
 through with it, whether she cares for me or not. 
 So you needn't worry about Lilia. She simply hap 
 pens to be made that way." 
 
 He found his hat and coat, shook hands with 
 Ruth, nodded a rather abrupt good-night to Dr. 
 Harrod, and was gone. 
 
 "I've offended him, Ruth, and it wasn't nice of 
 me. I must go to him to-morrow and apologize. 
 But I wish I could like him better !" 
 
 Dr. Harrod went close to his daughter and slipped 
 his arm about her. Her face was turned from him, 
 and he was comfortlessly aware that she had made 
 a slight motion as if to avoid him. And now he 
 thought he knew why, for her whole body was 
 trembling within his arm. 
 
 "Tired out, dear?" he asked. "Of course you 
 are. I'm sorry." 
 
184 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 She seized the lapels of his coat almost fiercely. 
 "No, I'm not tired out for once. I shall be soon 
 enough, I suppose. . . . But not to-night! . . . 
 Father, something absurd has happened to me to 
 me. And you've got to laugh at me and help me 
 bear it. ... Father, when Dunster Thorpe said 
 good-night to me just now I wanted to throw my 
 arms round his neck and beg him to love me. . . . 
 Why don't you laugh, dear! It it's the funniest 
 thing that has ever happened in all my life." 
 
 XIII 
 
 Two young men, Dr. Franklin P. Gilman and 
 Dr. Dunster Thorpe, were seated side by side in 
 a retired corner of the smoking-room of one of 
 the smaller French liners. It was proving a com 
 fortless voyage. The ship was rolling and shudder 
 ing on through heavy mid-winter seas and the smok 
 ing-room was far from crowded. Across the cabin 
 from them a single game of bridge was in progress, 
 forming a somewhat languid centre of interest for 
 three or four bilious-looking spectators. 
 
 The two young men had Scotch whiskey and a 
 siphon before them, but their filled glasses were 
 almost untouched. They were conversing steadily, 
 without laughter, and were quite unaware that old 
 Peter Creel, who was fraternizing with himself and 
 had just lighted his final pipeful before turning in, 
 was observing them with a sardonic amusement which 
 did not alter his habitual expression. Old Peter 
 Creel had spent the greater part of a solitary life 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 185 
 
 in observing his fellow-men with sardonic amuse 
 ment, and he had crossed the Seven Seas so many 
 times that he had found leisure to reduce certain 
 of his observations to rather clumsy aphorisms. 
 u When a group of men in a smoking-room get tired 
 of telling dirty stories, they always start a serious 
 discussion and they always end up by discussing 
 religion." That was one of his aphorisms. And 
 he was engaged just now in betting himself that 
 those two keen-eyed youngsters over there were 
 engaged in settling the hash of the Universe. So 
 too, perhaps, they were ; though not quite so directly 
 as he imagined. 
 
 "Well, at any rate,'* Dr. Gilman was saying, "we 
 know where we stand now. We've had the decency 
 at last to play square with each other. It's taken 
 us five days which isn't so bad at that, come to 
 think of it! Judging by the run of folks we might 
 never have played square and made it a stand-up 
 fight at all. Genteel knifing in the back's more the 
 ordinary line in these cases, isn't it?" 
 
 "Probably," Dunster admitted, with a half-smile. 
 "I confess the temptation." 
 
 "Oh, so do I. I suppose even a white man's 
 first thought, when he finds himself up against a 
 rival, is to do him dirt somehow. However, I guess 
 we are white " 
 
 "Whitish, anyway!" struck in Dunster. Dr. Gil 
 man nodded, and persisted. "That's it. So the 
 final decision rests with Lilia. We may neither of 
 us win out, for that matter. But I'm going to take 
 her away from you if I can and don't you forget 
 it." 
 
186 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "I'm not likely to," Dunster quietly responded. 
 "You can't take away what I've never honestly won 
 yet so you've a right to your chance. I've had 
 one chance and missed it. You wouldn't have 
 missed it. Well but that doesn't prove anything. 
 It takes some men longer than others to find them 
 selves that's all. If it weren't for Lilia I might 
 never have found myself. ... If I have found my 
 self!" 
 
 The boat sharply plunged, then rolled over to 
 what the spines of the passengers protested as a 
 perilous angle and, for a sickening moment, hung 
 there. The young men snatched at their glasses to 
 save them. 
 
 "That was a corker!" grunted Oilman. "Of 
 course, I'm not entirely a romantic dam-fool. If I 
 should lose out, I don't mean to say I'd let it ruin 
 my life, or any book-rubbish like that. I've got a 
 difficult job to do, and I happen to want to do it, if 
 possible, before I get composted. I know what love 
 is, all right and where it belongs. I'm biologist 
 enough not to let a blind instinct fool me into think 
 ing marriages are made in heaven or that there 
 is any such idiotic sky-factory. But I've a whole 
 some respect for Nature, too ; and when she tells me 
 to do something or take the consequences well, I 
 know my boss and get busy. And there isn't a 
 doubt in my mind about Lilia hasn't been ever 
 since the day her boat pulled out. I've written her 
 and told her so and not had a line from her. Not 
 even to turn me down. She's the queerest kid ever, 
 I guess. . . ." He lifted his glass to his lips and 
 drank slowly. "Damn it all, Thorpe we're both 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 187 
 
 jokes at bottom, you know; any unprejudiced out 
 sider would say so. Lilians wonderful to us because 
 old lady Nature has put her best patented trick 
 spell on us; but all the same, strictly speaking, she's 
 just another girl. We're drugged and dreaming, 
 that's all ; we can't help ourselves, for the time being, 
 and there's no particular reason why we should ; but 
 you can't get away from the fact that it's all nothing 
 but chemistry. Eh? ... Let's go to bed." 
 
 "Might as well," said Dunster. "As for Lilians 
 being just another girl . . . oh, well, I've a job too, 
 if it comes to that. Good-night." 
 
 "Same to you. We'll be hating each other like 
 hell, I suppose, sooner or later; it's part of the reac 
 tion. The minute I saw you in Prexy's office with 
 Lilia, up at Alden that day, I began getting ready 
 to dislike you. Funny thing chemistry! If it 
 wasn't for Lilia we might have met and been friends. 
 Now what I chiefly want is to down you. But we're 
 quits there, I guess. Well . . ." 
 
 The two young men got with some difficulty to 
 their feet and waited, swaying with the ship, for a 
 moment of precarious balance. Dignity is one of 
 the prerogatives of manhood and they were both 
 concentrating upon its preservation before attempt 
 ing to steer across the smoking-room. Old Peter 
 Creel, approaching his ultimate puff, still sat watch 
 ing them out of the corner of his eye. "Humph! 
 They've got it all settled, have they!" he commented 
 to his Ego with grim self-appreciation. "Got it all 
 straight. God and everything. Babies !" 
 
 He knocked out his pipe. 
 
188 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 xiy 
 
 At Havre, in the inner port, and just before 
 disembarkation, a cablegram was handed to Dun- 
 ster Thorpe. His hands trembled as he opened it, 
 for he knew it would be from Isidore Fuld, one 
 of the younger theatrical managers of New York, 
 who had been doing some rather fine and successful 
 things during the past three or four seasons. Arthur 
 Carswick, who, being an editor, made it his business 
 to know everybody, as a matter of course knew 
 Fuld; and before leaving town for the holidays he 
 had taken the trouble to arrange for a meeting 
 between Fuld and Dunster. Dunster had written 
 Arthur Carswick, in strict confidence, that he had 
 completed a comedy and was eager to bring it to 
 Isidore Fuld's attention. Dunster knew very little 
 of the New York theatre, save what he could read 
 of it in the newspapers; but, being academically 
 trained, he had been a good deal impressed by Fuld's 
 clever exploitation of himself, in the public prints, 
 as a manager with modernist tendencies and uncom 
 promising artistic ideals. Fuld's experiments, for 
 example, with what was beginning to be called the 
 "new" staging, while by no means revolutionary, 
 had brought to one or two of his recent productions 
 the perfervid admiration of the "advanced." This 
 had proved, as Fuld had shrewdly foreseen, a good 
 and comparatively cheap form of advertising. The 
 "advanced" are nothing if not loquacious, both with 
 tongue and pen ; once start them talking and writing 
 and the flood rolls on of its own momentum. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 189 
 
 Dunster, then, had lunched with Isidore Fuld and 
 had nerved himself to talk to him frankly and fully 
 about his dramatic ambitions. Fuld was too intel 
 ligent himself not to recognize exceptional intelli 
 gence when he met with it; and he could feel, more 
 over, in Dunster 's every word, the emotional drive 
 of a consuming "will to power." A man thus ener 
 gized and equipped, if he should prove also to have 
 any natural knack for dramatic composition, might 
 be nursed and developed into a real find for the 
 American theatre and for himself. He suspected 
 that the comedy, which Dunster described for him, 
 would prove a sufficiently pretentious and amateur 
 ish affair; but there was certainly an "idea" (mean 
 ing a situation) back of it, and the manuscript 
 would soon tell him what he most wanted to know. 
 Fuld's instinct for the theatre was profound. If 
 young Thorpe had it in him to write for the theatre, 
 Fuld was confident he would be able to discover this 
 essential fact before he had finished three pages of 
 "The Tight-Rope Lady." (That was a good title, 
 by the way; a surprisingly good title for a beginner; 
 he could smell money in it!) 
 
 Dunster, as a result of his conversation with 
 Isidore Fuld, had returned at once to his manuscript 
 in a rage of determination. An extraordinary chance 
 glimmered before him, and no imperfection in his 
 work, which he was capable of discovering, must 
 be permitted to jeopardize it. Shut safe from inter 
 ruption in Arthur Carswick's snug quarters on Forty- 
 fourth Street, he spent what was left of the after 
 noon in re-reading his comedy aloud; trying out the 
 entrances and exits, the feel of the speeches, the 
 
190 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 swing of the scenes noting with an almost savage 
 self-criticism any spots or sustained passages that 
 seemed to him flat or dull, to lack progression, con 
 tinuous movement toward a pre-arranged, climactic 
 goal. When he had worked through his manuscript 
 in this way, he glanced at his watch and was aston 
 ished to find it already a quarter to eight. There 
 would be just time for him to get a hasty bite, with 
 a cup of strong coffee, at a little "Rotisserie" on 
 Sixth Avenue, and then go on to u The Missing 
 Link" if he could manage to procure a single seat 
 from a speculator: "The Missing Link" being with 
 out question the most successful comedy produced in 
 New York for a number of years. His sudden de 
 sire to see "The Missing Link" was not due, how 
 ever, to any light craving for rest and entertainment. 
 It was the next step in his immediate purpose. If 
 "The Missing Link" was the most successful com 
 edy now running, then he must immediately analyze 
 it and discover the secret of its peculiar attraction. 
 When he returned to his rooms from "The Miss 
 ing Link" he was feeling enormously encouraged. 
 He had found this popular comedy to be a very 
 superficial piece of work, an awkward blending of 
 farce and romantic sentimentality. On the tech 
 nical side it was adroit, but no more than that; 
 and as for the characters, they were puppets on 
 wires any semblance of life they possessed being 
 loaned to them by the mere physical presence 
 and idiosyncrasies of the actors. He felt, too, 
 that he now fully understood the secret of its amaz 
 ing popularity. From beginning to end, it was a 
 play that flattered the average man and woman. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 191 
 
 It flooded the commonplace American scene with a 
 roseate glow. Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Brown, stein, 
 and ski went out from it stroked and purring; 
 confirmed in all their cheeriest prejudices. It was 
 for them the world had been created, and it was 
 obviously, for them, the best of all possible worlds : 
 a world wherein a very moderate shrewdness 
 might easily achieve the ultimate bliss of getting- 
 rich-quick; a world wherein the faithlessness of hus 
 bands was a possible joke, but never, finally, a dis 
 agreeable fact; a world wherein the hardest and 
 coarsest of feminine hearts melted into tenderness 
 and truth in the presence of a strong man's sorrow, 
 or at some chance, pathetic word on the lips of a 
 neglected child. Yes; it would be easy enough to 
 play this simple game of flattery, if, on the whole, it 
 should prove advisable to play it. One could refine 
 on this hat-and-rabbit trick, perhaps; play it a little 
 more delicately and still "get away with it!" As 
 a diplomatic stroke, an immediate dramatic success 
 might well be worth some slight sacrifice of artistic 
 sincerity. For, after all, one must get there some 
 how; one must definitely arrive, and put money in 
 one's purse. With a bank account and a popular 
 following once established, nothing simpler than to 
 detach oneself gradually from the mob and spend 
 one's maturer years in placating posterity. 
 
 Thus, in his heart of hearts, Dunster. And it 
 was in this cynical spirit of compromise that he had 
 again, that night, taken up "The Tight-Rope Lady." 
 Thirty-six hours later he carried his revised man 
 uscript to a type-writing agency, and within four days 
 a fair copy was in the hands of Isidore Fuld. It 
 
192 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 was the evening of the day when he had handed his 
 manuscript to Fuld that he had belatedly remem 
 bered it was his duty to call on Ruth Harrod and 
 her father. . . . 
 
 Yes ; Lilia needed him now and Lilia was worth 
 any sacrifice. Success might or might not come to 
 him soon; sooner or later it must come; it would be 
 welcome at any time; but it would not be perfect 
 unless Lilia were with him to crown it unless her 
 love should then give him the ultimate praise and 
 adoration his ego craved. All the same, it was a 
 rash adventure a costly one, too, for a man whose 
 savings were not large, and whose immediate future 
 was still uncertain; and it was difficult to leave New 
 York with so much hanging in the balance. Surely 
 Lilia would appreciate this and be touched to find 
 he had not hesitated . . . (well, no; he had not 
 hesitated at least, not long!) 
 
 And, on the very eve of sailing, it was exasperating 
 to learn that Isidore Fuld, caught in an unexpected 
 eddy of work, had not even found time to open his 
 manuscript. Fuld, however, had promised to get 
 at it the following day one day too late! and 
 Dunster had wrung from him a promise to cable, at 
 Dunster's expense, his first impression of the man 
 uscript whether favorable or the reverse. Fuld 
 had been patient with Dunster's insistence, but obvi 
 ously a little bored by it. "It's very unlikely," he 
 had explained, "that I shall be able to send you any 
 thing definite after a first reading. In any case I 
 should be unable to make any arrangement with you 
 until after you return. I hope you are not counting 
 upon a production; but if I see any possibilities in 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 193 
 
 the thing, we may be able later to talk matters over." 
 With this Dunster had had, perforce, to be con 
 tent. . . . And now the cable itself was in his hand. 
 No wonder his fingers twitched and fumbled clum 
 sily at the envelope ! 
 
 Play excellent but needs work. Strongly urge im 
 mediate return if production desired. Answer. 
 
 FULD. 
 
 The improbable words danced a jig on the paper 
 before Dunster' s eyes. Using his solar plexus as a 
 centre, the Universe swung with a smooth rush 
 round him. When, finally, the Cosmic Top ceased 
 spinning, Dunster found himself sitting on the edge 
 of a trunk, weak and sick and supremely happy. Of 
 course he would go back at once ! Just as soon as 
 he could reach Paris and arrange for the return 
 sailing! He would be able to see Lilia and explain 
 to her all he now rationally hoped for them both ! 
 Perhaps, even, he would not have to return alone. 
 But alone or not, he would be able to make Lilia 
 understand how supremely now, for her sake, he 
 valued this stroke of fortune. Why, of course she 
 would understand. How could she help but under 
 stand! She must / 
 
 Five words sped back beneath the Atlantic : 
 
 Sailing within the week. 
 
 THORPE. 
 
194 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 XV 
 
 When Lilia, two days before her father's wed 
 ding, had slipped away to Paris, she had not 
 chosen her destination at random. For in Paris 
 lived and labored M. Emile Quillard, that kindly, 
 elephantine autocrat, that fanatic idealist of the the 
 atre; a man who had visited her father at his villa 
 on more than one occasion. M. Quillard' s last ap 
 pearance in Settignano had been during the spring 
 of the year that brought President Harrod so un 
 expectedly into Lilia's life ; and since that time Lilia 
 had not seen M. Quillard, but she had had one letter 
 from him, sent shortly after his departure, which, 
 though it had first amused her, she had ever since 
 cherished. The truth is that M. Quillard an im 
 pressionable being had been much struck by the 
 piquancy and temperamental charm of Chenoworth's 
 little daughter and had divined in her an exceptional 
 talent for the stage. He had even offered, if M. 
 Chenoworth would consent, to train her himself in 
 his own special company, such an offer as many 
 a despairing aspirant in France would have given 
 her last drop of blood to receive ! M. Chenoworth, 
 however, without consulting Lilia, had declined the 
 offer. Bohemian in a sense though he was, it 
 was evident that Anson Chenoworth did not con 
 sider a career on the French stage as entirely suitable 
 for a daughter of his house. M. Quillard had been, 
 perhaps, a little piqued by his refusal. ... At any 
 rate, on leaving Settignano, he had written the letter 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 195 
 
 to Lilia which she still cherished and which, roughly 
 translated, said in part: 
 
 as you grow older , mademoiselle, you will find 
 / am sure of it you were not created for the 
 stupidities of life. There is in you a something vivid 
 and impetuous, a something with wings. You are 
 of those who aspire or perish. But why, then, per 
 ish? That is to say, why perish ingloriously? Why 
 not aspire? 
 
 To be an artist is to desire perfection. Therefore 
 it is true, since life knows not perfection, that the 
 life of every artist is a personal tragedy. I will not 
 deceive you, mademoiselle. All life is failure, but 
 only in the life of art is all failure self -conscious. 
 The true artist, however celebrated, knows always 
 that he has failed. The so-called vanity of the artist 
 is a most pitiful sham. It is just another masque he 
 wears. Do not be misled by it, mademoiselle. I 
 myself am called a vain man. I who bleed in 
 wardly, night and day! 
 
 It is not true that Prometheus conquered. He 
 died on his rock. He would depose the dull God 
 of the bourgeoisie and build a more beautiful world. 
 He was the first artist. And he died on his rock.. 
 We others are the children of Prometheus, made- 
 moiselle. You also. You will spread wings and beat 
 against your chains. And you will die, torn and 
 bleeding. But you will be glad of that death, mad 
 emoiselle. Only those who have died so have really 
 lived. 
 
 And there are, meanwhile, compensations ah, 
 but yes! compensations! There is I do not know 
 
196 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 what of ecstasy in this martyrdom! Courage, mad 
 emoiselle. I do not offer you roses, I offer you 
 thorns. For example, a place in my company. 
 We play only plays that live. No hack-work. No 
 commercial trickery. Life. Beauty. Form. The 
 Soul. // you speak but a yes or a no if you merely 
 walk on and off again you will not, at least, be 
 serving Mammon. I beg you to think it over, mad 
 emoiselle. You are young. But one is never too 
 young to be oneself to assert oneself. On the 
 contrary. Only one is often, and before one knows 
 it, already too old. 
 
 Lilians first impression of this letter had been 
 of its flamboyant absurdity. She was flattered by 
 it, yet it made her laugh. The picture of that poor, 
 fat M. Quillard as Prometheus, bleeding inwardly 
 night and day ! It was too grotesque. But later 
 she grew ashamed of her mirth. M. Quillard, after 
 all, was an artist, a great artist. Money meant noth 
 ing to him. He cared for beauty; he did aspire. . . . 
 And if such a man could detect in her some sparks 
 of the true Promethean! Well, it finally came to 
 this, that Lilia dated her womanhood a new birth 
 from the hour when M. Quillard's letter no longer 
 struck her as merely funny. She had carried his 
 letter with her to Alden. It was with her on the 
 train to Paris when she had left her father's house 
 and protection for the last time. 
 
 On reaching Paris, she telephoned at once, from 
 the Gare de Lyon, to M. Quillard. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 197 
 
 XVI 
 
 Emile Quillard, better known to the world, 
 perhaps, by his later stage-name, "Mondory," 
 lived and labored in the same building, an ancient 
 structure on the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, in the 
 heart of the old Marais quarter of Paris. He could 
 hardly, after long searching, have selected a less 
 eligible spot to establish a theatre. The Marais 
 quarter, it is true, is of the highest interest to the 
 antiquarian, containing precious relics of the pictur 
 esque, insanitary mediaeval Paris, most of which is 
 already with the snows of yesteryear; but the mod 
 ern Paris of affairs, of fashion, of art, knows it not. 
 Or, rather, knew it not until, shortly after the 
 opening of the century, the eccentric Mondory suc 
 ceeded, against every probability, in attracting "tout 
 Paris" to the performances of the repertoire com 
 pany he had established (and then, it was predicted, 
 had buried) in that remote tangle of mean streets. 
 "Les Comediens du Marais" for that was the 
 name M. Quillard had given his theatre became a 
 success of curiosity in its first season, a success of 
 esteem in its second, and an international institution 
 within the two or three seasons which more pros 
 perously followed. It had by then established itself 
 as one of the things in Paris not to be missed; and 
 touring American school-ma'ams, from Maine to 
 Nebraska, had it down in their little red note-books 
 as one of the indispensable "sights" along with 
 Mona Lisa, the Sainte Chapelle, and the Moulin 
 
198 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Rouge. Thus it is that the impossible not infre 
 quently comes to pass. 
 
 Emile Quillard, when he first undertook this sin 
 gular venture, was a mature man with an already 
 solid Parisian reputation as character actor, as 
 theatrical director, and as an "original." He had 
 audacity, a rapid pen and a ready tongue, and his 
 "originality" chiefly consisted in his constantly and 
 wittily expressed disgust with the modern stage 
 from which, however, he had been sufficiently tal 
 ented and astute to derive a moderate fortune. His 
 incessant diatribes against the theatres which he 
 served were considered amusing enough and were 
 thought to be merely a pose; so, when he suddenly 
 announced his intention of breaking once for all with 
 the Parisian theatre as organized, when he declared, 
 moreover, that he would devote the rest of his life 
 to the creation of something better, all Paris laughed, 
 shrugged its shoulders, and murmured indulgently 
 "this good Quillard!" 
 
 But when, a little later, it became known that this 
 good Quillard had purchased what degraded frag 
 ments remained of the once magnificent Hotel Cha- 
 bert, a down-at-heels antiquity situated on of all 
 streets the Rue des Francs Bourgeois; when, too, 
 the rumor spread that he was actually proposing to 
 remodel it into a combination of theatre and labora 
 tory of dramatic art why, all Paris looked grave; 
 maliciously grave. "A little touched, after all, the 
 poor man! He wishes to ruin himself, at his age! 
 Quel dada!" 
 
 Nevertheless, the poor man mounted his hobby 
 with a large smiling tranquillity. Journalistically 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 199 
 
 petitioned as to why he had selected so mad a loca 
 tion, he was content to be cryptic. "I am an artist 
 of the theatre in an age that has no theatre. Alors 
 I return to my origins. I begin again at the foun 
 tain-head. You will see." 
 
 And a later pronunciamento was considered equal 
 ly fantastic. "Art has but one passion beauty. But 
 the theatre of our days is divorced from art. If 
 you are a lover of beauty never enter a modern 
 playhouse whether subventioned by the State, or 
 by American tourists. It is time to end all this. 
 I announce for next season a new company: 'Les 
 Comediens du Marais? ' This was signed "Mon- 
 dory"; but it was immediately understood that 
 Mondory was but a nom de guerre and the latest 
 whimsy of "this good Quillard." 
 
 Lilians taxi stopped before the banded pillars of 
 a heavy late-Renaissance archway squeezed between 
 a huddle of mean buildings. A great, double, nail- 
 studded door closed the archway, above which hung 
 an old-fashioned sign-board of brightly painted wood 
 (gold, scarlet, ultramarine) : "Les Comediens du 
 Marais" At a smaller door, let into one of the 
 valves of the great door and now standing open, 
 loomed M. Quillard, hat in hand, vast, affable, 
 serene. He stepped across the raised lintel into the 
 street and himself opened the door of the taxi. 
 "My dear child," he said simply, "it was predestined. 
 I knew, sooner or later, you would come." Then 
 he paid off the taxi-driver and reaching into the cab 
 seized Lilia's trim American suit-case. "Not a word ! 
 For the present, mademoiselle, you are my guest. 
 
200 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 That is understood. . . . Ah good! Frangoise 
 carry this for me to the room you are preparing for 
 Mile. Chenowort'. . . . My dear child, how for 
 tunate you should come to me precisely now. We 
 are blocking in a new play and there's a small part 
 oh, merely a bit a tiny spot of color, but the 
 tone must be pure and vibrant which I have been at 
 my wits* end to fill!" 
 
 Lilia now found herself beside M. Quillard in 
 an interior court, of moderate dimensions, paved 
 with cobblestones. A restored and modified Hotel 
 Chabert surrounded her on three sides. The fagade 
 before her was a delightful composition of the early 
 Renaissance, blending Gothic and Roman details 
 with a wayward fantasy, an effect almost childlike, 
 which was yet like the contemporary poems of 
 Ronsard the tended flower of a profound artistic 
 seriousness and sophistication. Into this, the main 
 body of the ancient structure, M. Quillard had 
 introduced a small theatre, seating not more than 
 three hundred and, perhaps, twenty or thirty per 
 sons; but unlike most Parisian theatres seating 
 them comfortably, without crowding, and in a setting 
 of studied and quiet distinction. For the present, 
 however, Lilia though she longed to do so was 
 not permitted to visit the theatre itself. M. Quil 
 lard led her at once toward a low doorway in the 
 wing of the hotel at their left, the great scarred 
 basement stones of which were first laid together 
 when Charles V. was King of France. But both the 
 rather cramped wings of the lovely main pavilion, 
 Lilia had noted, were, in effect at least, starkly 
 mediaeval. No doubt the centuries had misused 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 201' 
 
 them sadly, effacing whatever grim picturesqueness- 
 they may once have possessed; and M. Quillard,. 
 content merely to repair and refit them, had not 
 attempted to remodel the flat, prison-like surface 
 of their exterior walls. One charming detail re 
 mained, however; an authentic fragment a tiny 
 mediaeval tourelle, with a single window, set in the 
 angle between the main pavilion and the wing which 
 Lilia was about to enter. As she crossed the court,, 
 her eyes were drawn to this delicate tourelle, and 
 she paused transfixed by a sudden and poignant 
 sense of recognition. She had seen it before, known 
 it before but when, where ! Oh, but certainly 
 how could she have forgotten it was part of her 
 life! That picture in the old fairy-book; once her 
 favorite book, her favorite picture I Page 227. . . . 
 Why, that was the window from which the Princess 
 Rapunzel let down her golden torrent of hair 
 only, she, she herself, had always in those days been 
 the Princess Rapunzel! That was her little tower, 
 then her tower; her window; her room beyond it! 
 
 "My dear child, you have tears in your eyes!" 
 exclaimed M. Quillard. 
 
 Lilia smiled at him, dimly. "Tears of joy! I've 
 found it again after all these years. My tower 
 my own little tower. I was the Princess, you see 
 I let my hair down oh, yards and yards of it 
 from that very window. My shining hair I" 
 
 "Lucky Prince!" murmured M. Quillard. And 
 added, indulgently, "May one ask his fortunate 
 name?" 
 
 "His name? Oh, but the Prince never seemed 
 to matter. It was the little tower that mattered,. 
 
202 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 and the window, and most of all, I'm afraid 
 just me" 
 
 M. Quillard became grave. "You are right, 
 Princess. Those are the things that finally matter 
 to every born artist. Ah, yes! In the end, not 
 even the Public matters only our private dreams. 
 But there will always be a Prince beneath your win 
 dow, and you may even let down your shining hair 
 to him who knows ! These things, these negligible 
 things, happen; they even become habitual. But 
 always you will forget him; or simply, one day, 
 he will no longer seem important no, not important 
 at all." Then M. Quillard clapped his hands softly, 
 and laughed like a great overgrown boy. "Good! 
 good! The coincidence is perfect! The window 
 of the tourelle lights an alcove of the very room 
 Frangoise has prepared for you Didn't I tell you 
 it was all predestined ? This way, if you please. 
 ... I entreat you to enter my enchanted palace, 
 Mile, la Princesse Lointaine " 
 
 XVII 
 
 Half an hour later, Lilia, again conducted by 
 Frangoise, a taciturn, middle-aged chambermaid 
 wearing the inevitable felt slippers of her profession, 
 descended from the little suite of two rooms which 
 had been rather hastily prepared for her to Mon- 
 dory's sacro-sanct private study; a small, bare cham 
 ber, more like the cell of a monk than like the 
 usual cluttered, luxurious "den" of an artistic celeb- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 203 
 
 rity. The great man was seated on a long, low 
 bench before a long, plain table of oak, on which 
 were a number of drawings color notes, costume 
 designs, and the like and two or three working- 
 models for stage-sets neatly made from pasteboard. 
 One of these working-models stood directly before 
 him; he had evidently been studying it with absorbed 
 attention. Without rising, he nodded in friendly 
 fashion to Lilia and beckoned her to a place on the 
 bench beside him. Frangoise silently withdrew and 
 closed the door of the study after her. 
 
 Lilia was fully aware that by every ordinary 
 social standard her position in this house for she 
 had already decided to remain there was a com 
 promising one; but she was equally aware that she 
 was now entering, deliberately, upon a life to which 
 ordinary standards did not apply. On the Con 
 tinent the artist, in any medium, is more definitely a 
 person apart from the canalized flow of our mechano- 
 mercantile civilization than he is ever quite per 
 mitted to be in England or America. The continen 
 tal races understand rather better, perhaps, what 
 the dedicated artist is driving at, and they instinc 
 tively respect him whereas the Englishman or 
 American instinctively distrusts him. And no doubt, 
 granted their immediate aims, they do well; for no 
 artist worthy the name will ever fit comfortably into 
 a scheme of life whose normal aims are efficiency 
 and respectability. In everything beautiful there 
 is always a touch of wildness, a something appar 
 ently accidental not merely given or foreseen; and 
 the varied bohemianism of the artist has its roots 
 deep, therefore, in the not wholly tamed nature of 
 
204 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 his creative task. His creative task being is it not ? 
 to respond by secret affinities to certain harmonic 
 effects, or patterns, which would otherwise remain 
 hidden in the welter of existence to respond to 
 them, and even perhaps, if fortunate after long 
 effort, to disengage and isolate them for the con 
 tinuing joy of mankind. . . . But Lilia was not 
 metaphysical, and she felt all this more simply, as 
 a too-long-absent happiness, an exultation, a cri de 
 cosur: 
 
 "At last! At last!" 
 
 Not that the words themselves passed her lips; 
 but they sang within her, and the full emotion be 
 hind them found an outward expression that needed 
 no words. Turning toward her once more, the great 
 Mondory was almost startled by the sparkling inten 
 sity of life which seemed to radiate visibly from 
 Lilians slight body, from her clear green-blue eyes, 
 her vivid, half-smiling mouth, her vivid hair 1 
 
 "Magnificent!" he murmured, "Magnificent. . . . 
 My dear child, never let it die !" 
 
 Her eyebrows drew slightly together. Die. . . . 
 The word seemed strange to her just then; meaning 
 less. "Die ?" she echoed. 
 
 "That flame in you! Superb. To have that is 
 to have everything everything!" 
 
 He spread his hands before her in a momentary 
 attitude that was pure adoration, an adoration freed 
 from every element of personal desire : a brief, in 
 stinctive tribute to the one goddess he served, Beauty 
 now so unexpectedly, and so quintessentially re 
 vealed. Then his hands dropped, and he sighed. 
 "Ah, mademoiselle I am growing old ! . . . Come 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 205 
 
 then to work, to work! God is doubtless good; 
 but the good God, in my humble opinion, is bored 
 by the flattery of idlers. Are you willing to work 
 hard, Lilia? To be a slave? But a galley-slave, 
 I tell you. Heinr 9 
 
 For all answer, Lilia ran to him, took her place 
 on the low bench beside him and laid her hand in 
 his. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Dr. Thorpe and Dr. Gilman, lunching together on 
 the boat-train to Paris, had agreed to play fair with 
 one another. They had tossed a coin for the oppor 
 tunity of the first call upon Lilia; and Dr. Thorpe 
 had won. Each young man had in his possession a 
 copy of the following cablegram, the original having 
 been received by Dr. Harrod two days before they 
 sailed: 
 
 Comediens Marais, Rue Francs Bourgeois. De 
 plorable. Writing. 
 
 CHENOWORTH. 
 
 To say that this cablegram had puzzled and dis 
 turbed Dr. Harrod and Ruth, and these two young 
 men, is a mild assertion. 
 
 "We've all heard of the Comediens du Marais, 
 of course," Dr. Harrod had commented. "Every 
 body has. In fact, the last time I was in Paris I 
 attended a performance there; a very fine one, I'm 
 bound to say : a play by the Russian writer, Tchek- 
 
206 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 hof 'The Cherry Orchard.' Queer, rambling, in 
 consequential sort of piece; I was amazed at the 
 effect it made on me. However is it possible Lilia 
 can have joined the company? Would she be able 
 to play in French, Ruth, do you suppose?" 
 
 They had discussed Chenoworth's message from 
 every possible angle, but no one of them felt that 
 much light had been generated, although Dunster 
 had been able to inform them that Lilia's heart was 
 set upon a stage career. 
 
 One gusty, comfortless morning on the boat, hud 
 dled together in a lounge-corner of the empty smok 
 ing-room, Dunster and Frank Oilman had, as by 
 common consent, returned to this doubtful matter. 
 
 "I've been talking to Mockel," Dr. Oilman began 
 suddenly. "He's a rabid scientist; but all the same, 
 like most Frenchmen, I guess, he loves the theatre. 
 And he knows everybody in Paris worth knowing. 
 I mentioned no names naturally not. But I can't 
 say I got much comfort from the conversation." 
 
 "What kind of comfort were you looking for?" 
 
 "O come ! Let's spit it out what we're both 
 afraid of! What's the use trying to disguise it from 
 each other? I don't suppose the stage is a school 
 of morality for young girls in any country. But 
 in France on the Continent generally, so far as I 
 can learn chastity is a positive barrier to success 
 as an actress. No matter how much talent she has, 
 a beginner can't even get a job unless she's willing 
 to pay for it. Mockel simply shrugs and smiles. 
 There's only one question to ask about an actress 
 can she act? That's his way of putting it. As for 
 the Comediens du Marais, Mockel says he knows the 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 207 
 
 director well. His name's Quillard, but he calls 
 himself Mondory. Mockel thinks he runs the most 
 satisfying theatre in Paris. . . . Well; finally I 
 asked Mockel whether it would be possible for a 
 girl, without previous stage experience, to get a job 
 from Mondory. ( Oh, nothing's impossible,' he an 
 swered; 4 I presume Mondory has his little weak 
 nesses like another. . . .' ' Frank Oilman paused 
 for a moment, then, as Dunster did not respond, he 
 continued quietly: u Not that I'm a Puritan, you un 
 derstand. Only, if Lilia's that sort " 
 
 Dunster interrupted him. 
 "She isn't that sort. Don't you know that?" 
 "Her mother was. And you needn't look shocked 
 either, Thorpe ! You're just as worried as I am 
 just as worried as Dr. Harrod was, and Miss Har- 
 rod, too! If we were convinced that Lilia couldn't 
 possibly go wrong under such circumstances, why 
 should we be worried? We wouldn't be. Only 
 
 we are." 
 
 "I'm not," said Dunster. "All that sort of thing 
 no; it would be too ugly for her. She couldn't 
 go on with it." He had surprised himself by the 
 passionate certainty of his reply. 
 
 "But there's plenty to worry about," he contin 
 ued, still with that odd accompanying sense of self- 
 surprise. "Lilia's quite likely to ruin her life in her 
 own way. She has no common sense, no" the word 
 astounded him as he uttered it "no grab in her! 
 But I'm not getting it I'm not half getting what I 
 mean. See here, Gilman put it this way : I want to 
 write plays; Lilia wants to act. But what I want 
 most is independence and to be known everywhere, 
 
208 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 l>y everybody. I can't write anything, you see, with 
 out wondering whether it's a step in the right direc 
 tion without scheming to make it so. That's ex 
 actly what Lilia dislikes in me. Life with her is 
 pure impulse. She wants to act well, because she 
 wants to act. It's the one way she can give herself 
 entire. . . . Oh, I can't explain it as I'd like to! 
 But beauty I wish I'd the nerve to call it spiritual 
 beauty that's the clue to Lilia, somehow. . . . 
 Have you the least idea what I'm driving at?" 
 
 "Yes," said Frank Gilman. "Pure science is an 
 other way, you know." 
 
 "Another way ?" 
 
 "Of giving yourself entire. But I always 
 thought the one impulse behind acting, even great 
 acting, was personal vanity." 
 
 Dunster grunted his dissent. "Pure science has a 
 lot to learn, then!" 
 
 "It has," admitted Frank Gilman. "That's pre 
 sumably why it exists. And I'll admit I've always 
 been prejudiced against people like the kid like 
 Lilia if she's really what you say she is. All in 
 stinct and intuition, I mean with no grasp on real 
 ity. But I didn't get that side of her at all. What 
 hit me so hard was her being so damn pretty and 
 then, her grit! The way nothing downed her. . . . 
 Of course, when you begin to talk about Beauty, 
 with a capital B, I'm lost I'm not even in the neigh 
 borhood. That's the kind of artists' prattle that 
 makes me sick. I never heard the kid talk like that, 
 and I was with her a good part of every day for 
 nearly two weeks." 
 
 "Oh," said Dunster, dry and short, "you'll never 
 
JLILIA CHENOWORTH 209 
 
 hear Lilia talk like that; nor me again, probably. 
 I was merely trying to show you what she lives by; 
 and it isn't Lilia's fault if I made a mess of it. Any 
 way, you seem to have muffed the one point I was 
 trying to make. Lilia won't 'go wrong/ as you put 
 it at least, not for her own advantage. Do you 
 realize she's thrown her father over just when he's 
 married an enormous fortune? If you must worry 
 about Lilia, that's the sort of thing to worry about. 
 She hasn't the least notion of what it means to play 
 safe." 
 
 Forty-eight hours after this conversation these 
 friendly-hostile young men, lunching together on the 
 boat-train to Paris, had tossed a coin. . . . 
 
 At the office of the steamship agent Dunster had 
 had no difficulty in arranging for his return passage; 
 the boat would sail in just seven days. He had 
 thought best to make certain of all this before tak 
 ing a cab to the distant Rue des Francs Bourgeois. 
 It was not yet half-past-four, but night had come 
 suddenly upon Paris, accompanied by a penetrating 
 drizzle of rain. Dunster, who had rushed from the 
 boat-train to his hotel and from hotel to steamship 
 agency in a state of mind which he supposed to be 
 wholly collected and matter of fact, but which was 
 in reality dream-like, now stepped out from the 
 lighted office of the agency to the comparative dark 
 ness of a broad, thronged street. And suddenly 
 everything went hostile and strange to him and he 
 was aware of a spinal thrill that was almost fear. 
 Paris! What was he doing in this unknown city, 
 whose people spoke a living tongue which he had 
 
210 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 studied from books like a dead language ! What 
 was this gabble, this jargon, all about him in the 
 semi-darkness, which brought to him only an elusive, 
 meaningless, but as it seemed to him sinister 
 humming and hissing: the unfriendly vibrations of 
 an alien swarm. Why, the mere look of everything 
 was odd, and hence in his momentary, hallucinated 
 mood forbidding! Above, gray upon gray, a faint 
 silhouette of chimneyed mansards; then, the form of 
 the windows ; the street signs ; the street lamps, and, 
 caught by their rays, eyes and teeth that gleamed 
 briefly, maliciously out at him from beneath furtive 
 umbrellas! The very smells hanging sourly about 
 him in that sodden atmosphere added to his panic; 
 singly he might have placed them, but in their special 
 combination they were unfamiliar, and so held a 
 threat. . . . For the passing fraction of a second he 
 wanted to shut his eyes, lower his head, and run 
 run blindly, anywhere run away! 
 
 Jostled, he fell back against a wall and pressed 
 himself flat against it; and, as he felt the atavistic 
 relief of its contact along his spine (attack from the 
 rear impossible), reason returned and with it a 
 private, shamefaced smile. . . . u Why, you damn 
 fool!" he murmured; and thought prolonged the 
 half-amused, half-disgusted admonition, "What in 
 time's the matter with you ! You haven't the sense 
 you were born with!" (Which was precisely, how 
 ever, the sense that had played these pranks.) 
 
 Just then he caught sight of what he hoped might 
 prove an empty taxi; it was coasting along slowly 
 close by the curb. He darted forward. 
 
 The taxi driver, an unusually favorable specimen 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 211 
 
 of a doubtful species, was certain the American gen 
 tleman must be mistaken. It was a long course to 
 the Comediens du Marais and quite unnecessary; one 
 could obtain tickets at a Bureau on the Avenue de 
 1'Opera, close at hand. But at last Dunster's vocab 
 ulary and grasp of French grammar proved equal 
 to the strain of explanation. He desired to call on 
 a member of the company. The taxi driver re 
 ceived this information with sympathy and respect. 
 "Ah, m'sieu, then, has an appointment!" He even 
 descended from his wheel and opened the door of 
 his cab with something of a flourish. Dunster, 
 hoping further to impress him, entered the cab non 
 chalantly, sank back with easy indifference, and pro 
 ceeded to light a cigarette. . . . 
 
 The taxi skirted the humped mass of Garnier's 
 masterpiece and charged perilously into the confused 
 traffic of the Boulevards. But Dunster gave little 
 attention to the dim-bright panorama of streets. 
 ... A new, deeper, and more lasting mood of won 
 der had now fallen upon him. Life, really, was too 
 incredible. Paris ! He was being hurtled through 
 Paris toward Lilia ! How had he gotten there? 
 What amazing fortuities had produced just this im 
 probable this wholly agitating result? Why was 
 he, Dunster Thorpe, an obscure teacher of English 
 literature, racing thus madly through the unknown 
 and toward the unknown! Lilia Chenoworth 
 what a fantastic name ! and only a name to him, 
 after all! Who was she? Some heroine of fiction 
 of eighteenth century romance? Lilia Chen . . . 
 Paris had vanished now. He was standing by 
 the garden door of his bedroom in Alden, his arms 
 
212 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 clasped about about a slight, tense girl, who did 
 not yield to him, yet who did not struggle to win 
 free. An incredible stillness, an unbreakable silence 
 enveloped them. . . . Ass ! Why had he let her 
 go? Out of respect for her ? for himself ? 
 Nonsense! He had been a coward; he had been 
 glad to escape to be allowed to escape. Only, he 
 had not escaped; he would never escape. No, thank 
 God, he would never escape ! No matter what hap 
 pened now, that fact in itself was a kind of torturing 
 success. But, all the same, it would serve him right 
 if she should look at him now in a certain way (he 
 could see her!) with a sort of quizzical surprise. 
 . . . And perhaps as she dismissed him, thanked 
 him for calling, said good-by to him perhaps, just 
 as he turned from her he would feel that she had 
 shrugged her shoulders. . . . God! if that was to be 
 the way of it, if he should so much as suspect her of 
 doing that, he would simply turn back and take her 
 in his arms again and this time make her under 
 stand yes, make her make her ! 
 
 The last expiring pinch of his cigarette seared his 
 fingers and he shook it from him with an oath and sat 
 sharply up in his corner. The cab, engulfed in a 
 black defile, was honking at some invisible obstruc 
 tion. Presently it made a sharp dash and skidded 
 round a blind corner, with brakes devastatingly ap 
 plied. . . . 
 
 It was more like an accident than arrival. How 
 ever, the taxi-driver was opening the door for him 
 with an ingratiating smile ; and Dunster at last made 
 out that he desired to know whether he might have 
 the happiness to wait for m'sieu. It would be diffi- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 213 
 
 cult for the American gentleman to find a suitable 
 taxi in this quarter when he needed it. Moreover, 
 it would not be the act of an American gentleman to 
 leave a poor fellow stranded without a return fare 
 in a quarter where return fares did not precisely 
 linger on every corner. A somewhat extravagant 
 pourboire soon disposed of this little difficulty, and 
 Dunster found himself standing in a courtyard, not 
 too well lighted, in spite of a small electric sign above 
 the sensitively carved stone portal beside him : "Les 
 Comediens du Marais." 
 
 "After all," thought Dunster, "I was a fool to 
 get rid of the taxi. Lilia doesn't live here of course. 
 I suppose her father doesn't know her real address. 
 I shall have to ask for it at the box-office." 
 
 He passed through the portal beneath the small 
 electric sign and entered a perfectly proportioned 
 foyer of moderate size, constructed entirely of stone, 
 but giving an effect of lightness and beauty which 
 amazed him. An aperture in the right wall, framed 
 by delicate carving in low relief, was not too ob 
 viously the ticket seller's window; he advanced to 
 it, but found it dark, and the aperture closed by a 
 light grille of wrought iron. "A singular theatre," 
 he reflected; "there must be somebody about some 
 where !" And he took a bewildered turn or two 
 round the lovely little foyer, feeling wholly at a loss 
 and, absurdly enough, rather guilty and apprehen 
 sive, as if he had intruded upon some forbidden 
 place. Indeed, he was almost at the point of re 
 treating hastily, without further effort of running 
 away, back to his hotel room, the one nook in this 
 odd, formidable city where he could shut himself 
 
214 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 in and defy the unknown when an unbidden mem 
 ory flashed upon him, shamed him, and stung him to 
 action. It was the memory of that evening at Dr. 
 Hatred's, when he and Lilia had so strangely been 
 left alone together for an hour and more; but it 
 was specifically the memory of Lilia herself cross 
 ing the room and without a second of hesitation 
 firmly pressing the button of an electric bell. . . . 
 Dunster walked at once to the only interior door of 
 the foyer, a double swinging door of bronze Spanish 
 leather, tried it, and knew he had only to push it 
 open. He passed through and found himself at the 
 back of a small shadowy auditorium, and facing at 
 no great distance a small bare stage lighted only by 
 a bunch-light which stood at one side of the stage 
 beside a plain deal table. A big man with a big pale 
 face, dressed wholly in black, and wearing a soft black 
 hat with a wide brim, a soft low collar, a flowing black 
 tie, was seated at this table, lounging half across it on 
 his elbows, with his chin in his hands. He was speak 
 ing in French, volubly but quietly, to a slim girl in 
 white who stood across the table from him, half lost 
 in shadow; for the imposing bulk of the man was 
 cutting off from her the direct rays of the bunch- 
 light. Dunster could not catch the tenor of his re 
 marks. Presently the man pushed himself back 
 from the table, making a decisive gesture as he did 
 so, and Lilia's face started out from the shadows, 
 so unexpectedly that Dunster was barely able to sup 
 press a cry. He had forgotten how exquisite she 
 was! Hardly breathing, he stared at her as a 
 hushed devotee might stare at some supernatural 
 vision. He saw that her eyes were fixed on the 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 215 
 
 man's eyes with a rapt attention. For a second only, 
 however. Then her whole slight body became fluid, 
 expressive, and she began to speak reciting some 
 five or six lines of what Dunster could at least rec 
 ognize to be French Alexandrine verse. But the 
 big man checked her, impatiently, and once more 
 shouldered forward across the table, cutting the light 
 from her, and with raised finger made some brief, 
 high-pitched staccato comment. Dunster, with in 
 dignation, saw Lilia's hands open before him with 
 a feeling almost of appeal for mercy. Then she 
 stepped back a little, as if to collect herself, and 
 began the lines again . . . 
 
 "Ah! enfin! Ca va mieux, cherie n'est-ce pas! 
 Beaucoup mieux- /" 
 
 Dunster was straining his ears to catch at the sense 
 of the big man's words. He had risen as he spoke 
 them and had gone to Lilia, taking her hands in his. 
 His vast shadow engulfed her. . . . "Damn you! 
 Can't you even keep your fat hands off her !" Dun 
 ster muttered, and strode rapidly down the centre 
 aisle. 
 
 "Pardon, monsieur pardon!" he exclaimed, in 
 his stiff, heavily accented French. u je suis un ami de 
 Mile. Chenoworth un ami americain . . . Lilia! 
 I'm sorry to break in like this ! I know I've no busi 
 ness to ... but I came over to see you just to see 
 you and I didn't know how else to find you. There 
 was no one about outside, and " 
 
 "Dunster Thorpe ?" she interrupted him on a 
 tone of incredulous wonder. "Of all people I" 
 
 "I know, Lilia. But can't you give me five or ten 
 
216 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 minutes alone somewhere so I can tell you ex 
 plain 
 
 She burst out laughing nervously, but there was 
 kindness and welcome, too, in her laughter. "Let 
 me introduce M. Mondory, our director. He speaks 
 English, Dunster, so you needn't struggle with your 
 French again." She was still clinging to Mondory's 
 hand and now she turned to him brightly. "This 
 of all unexpected visitors is an old teacher and 
 friend of mine from America, you know! Dr. 
 Thorpe " 
 
 The great Mondory slightly inclined his ponder 
 ous head and murmured, U M. le docteur T'orpe 
 charme !" Then, in a rapid undertone, to Lilia : 
 u Ah, the Prince at last, hein? Are you going to 
 let down your hair to him? Have I wasted my 
 time?" 
 
 Lilia pushed Mondory's hand from her with a 
 sudden frown and stepped forward. "Do climb up! 
 It's so funny your popping out of the darkness 
 like this! I can't believe it. Are you really real? 
 There ! jump up on that seat ! You'll forgive him 
 this once, won't you, Mondory? . . . That's it! 
 Look out, though! . . . Let me give you a hand !" 
 
 Dunster was beside her now on the stage. He 
 gripped her hand hard in his and leaned to her. 
 "I've come for you. I shan't let you go this time 
 
 ever." 
 
 But it was Lilia's maddening, remembered shrug 
 which answered him answered and angered him. 
 He dropped her hand. 
 
 Lilia turned at once to Mondory, but spoke in 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 217 
 
 English. "I'm sorry I didn't please you to-day. I 
 will to-morrow. I will. 11 
 
 "Ah? Bon! . . . But it is to-night you must 
 please me," Mondory replied. 
 
 Dunster saw Lilia tremble. u To-night ?" 
 
 "But certainly. Fabrice is unwell. You must play 
 her part to-night. No nerves, remember. And 
 perhaps M. le docteur T'orpe will oblige us by at 
 tending your debut? Now I go. Delight' to 'ave 
 met you, Monsieur. Au revoir." 
 
 The great Mondory turned on his heel and made 
 one of his famous quiet exits nature itself, said the 
 critics which was assuredly not lacking in its 
 effect. 
 
 Lilia's hands went to her throat; her face now 
 was finely drawn, and the discreet touches of rouge 
 defined themselves with a merciless precision. She 
 stared at Dunster with frightened eyes. 
 
 "Did you hear him?" she almost babbled. "Do 
 you understand ? . . . But I can't ! . . . You don't 
 know what it means the opportunity to play here I 
 Oh I can't!" 
 
 For a brief second two warring thoughts, or emo 
 tions, fought it out in Dunster's breast. "He's let 
 ting her play, of course, because he's mad about her. 
 He sees a rival in me. It's his highest bid and he 
 hopes to exact his price. But if she breaks down 
 now that will end it !" 
 
 There was, however, a finer emotion, and for once 
 it triumphed, speaking from lips and heart. 
 
 "Lilia ! I've never seen you afraid before. Only, 
 you're not afraid and there's no question about 
 your playing. All that's over now, isn't it? You're 
 
218 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 glad of the chance you've always wanted it you're 
 ready for it and thank God I'm here to see you 
 take it, and the public and critics along with it. 
 You'll simply gather us all in, you know, and do 
 what you please with us. ... Oh, yes, dear, you'll 
 do it and he knows you'll do it ... Lilia ! if 
 you'd only give me the right to ask you to play to 
 night" (but he fumbled awkwardly over the clos 
 ing words) "to-night somehow specially for 
 me . . ." 
 
 As he spoke the terror left her eyes; her face 
 softened and bloomed before him. 
 
 "Thanks," she murmured, "O thank you ! Bless 
 you for coming to me so differently just now. 
 It's a miracle !" 
 
 He took her in his arms and she clung to him. 
 
 Someone a woman, standing unseen in the 
 wings, laughed out with intention, a clear calculated 
 ripple of wounding laughter. With a gasp of dis 
 may Lilia broke from Dunster's arms, and, stopping 
 for not even a word of explanation, fled off through 
 the opposite wings. For an instant Dunster was too 
 astonished to pursue her, and in that brief interval 
 of hesitation the woman who had laughed was beside 
 him and had laid a hand on his arm. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 219 
 
 XIX 
 
 "I spik Anglis' ver' good, m'sieu. . . . You are 
 her leaver hein? No ?" 
 
 The half-light about them may have favored the 
 illusion, but Dunster felt certain at once that he had 
 never seen anywhere a prettier woman. Pretty was 
 the exact word for her. She had the vaporous pink 
 and blue piquancy, the ethereal sensuousness (to risk 
 an impossible phrase), of some nymph on a fan 
 painted by Boucher or Van Loo. 
 
 "Eet ees amusant, no ? Zees petite novice 
 zees leetle Lilia so chaste so how you say on 
 Broadway, m'sieu? so op-stage I" Again that clear 
 calculated ripple of laughter. 
 
 Her hand still touched, lightly, the sleeve of Dun- 
 ster's coat. 
 
 He was seriously annoyed; he was impatient to 
 follow Lilia; but it would have been difficult for 
 Cato the Elder, in person, to be immediately curt or 
 boorish to such an apparition. Moreover, Dunster 
 was prompt to feel what was due his self-esteem as 
 artist, as man of the world; he wished to appear in 
 her eyes quite sophisticated enough to be equal to 
 this, or any other, delicate situation. He smiled 
 down at her with a touch of cynical amusement which 
 he hoped (vainly) might strike her as habitual. 
 
 "Are you a member of this company, made 
 moiselle?" 
 
 Her voice sharpened a little. "You not know 
 
220 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "I arrived from America only this morning." 
 
 "Ah I" (with open relief). "Bot I haf play also 
 in New York. Two year ago I haf' play zer yes. 
 M. Forrest yes 'ee 'as feature me in a vaudeville 
 a farce, not? oh, ver' stoopeed yes! 'Zee 
 Lingerie Girl' you not see 'eem?" Dunster shook 
 his head. "Vraiment! Bot everee-wan 'as see 'eem! 
 Ver' populair yes. Suppose to be ver' naughtee. 
 Bot ver' stoopeedf Nozzing 'as 'appen in zees 
 vaudeville! Zee police, hein? Zee puritain! Zee 
 prrr-ude ! Always in your countree, hein, zees 
 zees sales especes de . . . !" And the rosebud lips 
 uttered with the most smiling serenity a phrase 
 filthy enough to have daunted a neo-realist, and far 
 too idiomatic for Dunster's comprehension. 
 
 He continued to smile, but he was determined now 
 to break from this conversation. Lilia was undoubt 
 edly waiting for him; was perhaps within earshot, 
 wondering why he permitted himself to be detained. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he began firmly, "I must beg you 
 to excuse me. I came all the way from America to 
 see Miss Chenoworth. I hope to take her back with 
 me, you understand " 
 
 "Ah! vraiment! I congratulate. Elle est char- 
 mante tout a fait charmante ! la petite Lilia ! An' 
 sly a leetle no? 'Oo would 'ave suspec'? . . . 
 Ah! ce pauvre Mondory! 'ow she 'ave fool 'eem, 
 no? So grrr-eat an artiste so beeg a babee! Ah! 
 poor fel-low!" 
 
 Dunster checked her impatiently. 
 
 "Really, mademoiselle, I can't stop to discuss it 
 with you whatever it is. Miss Chenoworth is 
 waiting for me." 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 221 
 
 "Mees Chen' wort' ! You t'ink so, hein ? Per'aps. 
 You are so ver' reech, no?" 
 
 Dunster laughed out his denial. "Hardly." And 
 he thought it might impress this Frenchwoman fa 
 vorably to add, "I'm a poverty-stricken poet, you 
 see." He understood one could admit that sort 
 of thing openly in Paris without making oneself 
 ridiculous. 
 
 To his surprise this mixture of fan-nymph and 
 street-arab beside him gave forth a full-throated 
 burst of laughter, planting hands on hips, tilting her 
 chin back, yielding herself to raucous jubilation. 
 "Po-etf Zat ees good! Po-et! Et vous n'avez 
 pas le sou meme ! Alors ! Eet ees Mondory I 
 congratulate !" And with the lightest, suddenest of 
 movements she patted Dunster's cheek. "Ah, mon 
 cher! No wondair she was confuse w'en I 'ave 
 caught her in your arms ! Suppose I am mechante ? 
 Suppose I am go to Mondory an' say, 'Ah, mon 
 pauvre la nouvelle poupee elle est casseeP . . . 
 Vous comprenez ga, peut-etre? Zee new doll she 
 ees broken? Ah, zees petite Lilia She know ver' 
 well how to say to fethair 'er nest." And she 
 laughed raucously once more. "So you 'ope to take 
 'er 'ome wiz you ! Dieu ! que c'est tordant, ga ! 
 je m'etouffe!" 
 
 Dunster was too angry by this time to be success 
 fully sarcastic, but he made a supreme effort for dig 
 nity. "Adieu, mademoiselle. It's a privilege, of 
 course, to have amused you." He started away. 
 
 Again she was lightly beside him. 
 
 "Good luck M. le Poete sans Sou! Mais eet 
 ees a pretence, hein, zat you not know me?" 
 
222 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 "No," said Dunster, sharp and cold, "I haven't 
 the least idea who you are." And he turned his back 
 on the tormentor and walked rapidly off through the 
 dusky wings in the direction which Lilia had taken. 
 
 Fabrice de Silva followed his departure with ma 
 licious eyes. One is not the darling of all Paris for 
 nothing. The American Poet without a Penny would 
 regret his rudeness; her shrug which was not in 
 the least like Lilia's said so as she momentarily 
 dismissed him and walked thoughtfully to her dress 
 ing-room. She had merely stopped at the theatre 
 to give an order to her maid about her costume for 
 the evening. She had been perhaps the least little 
 bit tipsy the night before and had, that very morn 
 ing, telephoned Mondory that she couldn't possibly 
 play to-night. She was too unwell. But this was 
 merely a veiled protest against the part assigned her. 
 Fabrice detested that part. It was only a bit not 
 thirty lines in all in a new one-act fantasy by a half- 
 starved and fully pock-marked young poet; and Fa 
 brice detested it. However, it was a sacred rule of 
 Mondory's that there is no part in an accepted play 
 unworthy of being perfectly rendered, and to pro 
 test against Mondory's assignment of parts meant 
 instant dismissal. Not one of his most celebrated 
 players had ever dared, during the past years of his 
 theatre's fame, to refuse a role. Fabrice herself 
 would not have dared, save by delicate indirection; 
 and she had further covered her tracks by telling 
 Mondory how glad she was that Mile. Landry, her 
 understudy, would at last have a chance to play. It 
 was the first time in three years she had failed him, 
 and she hoped he would forgive her for once. . . . 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 223 
 
 But Mondory had forgiven her far too easily. In 
 fact, Mondory, the brute, had made far too little 
 fuss about it altogether; and Fabrice had not been 
 pleased. So, after all, having breakfasted and 
 sulked and turned off her weeping masseuse for im 
 aginary incompetence, she had decided to play. . . . 
 
 XX 
 
 But on reaching her dressing-room Fabrice made 
 a shocking discovery : she was not to be permitted to 
 play that evening. She found awaiting her in ad 
 dition to her frightened maid Mile. Landry, her 
 understudy, in a state of tremulous excitement and 
 tragic tears. And what she at last learned from 
 Mile. Landry was, unexpectedly, this : Mondory had 
 informed Mile. Landry that he would not require 
 her services for the evening; he had definitely re 
 assigned the part of the slave girl, Akeenah, to Mile. 
 Chenoworth. 
 
 There are certain natural phenomena, earth 
 quakes, tornadoes, and the like, which are really too 
 difficult to describe; the meager effect produced for 
 a possible reader is not worth the mental and emo 
 tional wear and tear on the author. And so now 
 with the catastrophic rage of Fabrice de Silva ! . . . 
 Moreover, her language or, rather, her staccato 
 succession of throaty snarls and half-strangled 
 shrieks is not translatable ; it was too richly 
 charged from a gutter, a grand egout, which has 
 never been cleansed since the days of Rabelais. 
 
224 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Nor shall a brief scene which followed hard upon, 
 wherein Fabrice, having sought out Mondory in his 
 most inviolable sanctum, rather bettered the per 
 formance which she had but rehearsed in her dress 
 ing-room, be attempted by the present unambitious 
 recorder. Let the inevitable result suffice: a great 
 director, superbly calm, dismissing a great artiste, 
 no longer resembling a fan-nymph by Boucher, 
 whom at the moment it would not have been safe to 
 trust with any destructive weapon, so murderous was 
 her passion ! 
 
 One further, and more secret, glimpse of Fabrice 
 on the war-path must, however, be attempted. 
 
 The program for the evening was made up of 
 three one-act plays, two of them already established 
 in the repertoire of the company; the third and last 
 being that new fantasy by the half-starved, pock 
 marked young poet, in which Lilia as fate had now 
 decided was to appear. This fantasy in verse was 
 a delicate blending of irony and lyric daintiness, 
 which required the most careful handling, being a 
 fabric almost too finespun of gossamer for the plas 
 tic stage. Its scene was laid in a mythical kingdom, 
 east of the sun, west of the moon; or, say, some for 
 gotten valley folded in by the realms of Titania and 
 of Prester John. "The Hanging Gardens of the Pal 
 ace of King Koro" such was the exact locale; and 
 Mondory, never happier than when confronted by 
 such a problem, had himself devised every detail of 
 the setting and costumes giving them, in form and 
 color, a vaguely Persian feeling, a light, clear mag 
 nificence, rainbow-hued. . . . He had conceived, 
 simply, a high, an exaggeratedly high retaining wall 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 225 
 
 of cream-colored stucco, cutting the stage starkly at 
 a slight angle from left to right; down the face of 
 which came, from some imagined upper terrace, a 
 broad, plain flight of steps, without a guard-railing; 
 and at the foot of this flight of steps stood a single 
 dark cypress, its muscled trunk springing from the 
 terrace below the wall the stage-level itself, which 
 was paved with dull blue tiles, and which was broken 
 only by a small round pool wearing a single wine-red 
 lily on its breast. Nothing could have stirred the 
 imagination more persistently than this cunning re 
 straint. One felt that everywhere, above, below, yet 
 always tantalizingly beyond one's vision, bloomed 
 the profusion of an ineffable loveliness. . . . Well, 
 but that high, steep stair along the wall, that stair 
 without a railing that was the master-stroke ! On 
 every alternate step, motionless against the cream- 
 colored wall, would stand a naked Nubian, coal- 
 black, shining with palm oil; each with a vivid 
 breech-clout, a vivid turban; each holding a bared 
 scimitar; all grave, enigmatic the Eunuchs of the 
 King. But only the feet and legs of the topmost 
 eunuch would be seen from the auditorium; the legs 
 as far as the knee; for the stair, presumably, and 
 the great retaining wall soared up and up to a fan 
 tastic, a vertiginous height. 
 
 It was to him who would that night be the second 
 eunuch below the topmost eunuch that Fabrice de 
 Silva presently addressed herself. He was an extra- 
 man, engaged merely for this special performance; 
 and she knew him well. She had, in fact, sent him 
 to Mondory to obtain this not very remunerative 
 job. Twelve eunuchs in all were required; and they 
 
226 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 must all be splendid physical specimens, and over six 
 feet tall. Such men, at the wages offered, were not 
 too easy to obtain. But Fabrice, when Mondory 
 had first mentioned his difficulty, had bethought her 
 of one man who would answer. He was a young 
 Algerian tribesman, formerly in the Colonial army, 
 dismissed thence for an unknown cause, who had 
 found his way to Paris at last, where he had posed 
 for a time in the studios, becoming almost famous 
 for his beauty until the lower Bohemian life of the 
 eccentric quarters had quietly engulfed and destroyed 
 him. He had taken to drugs and drink and a crim 
 inal way of life, becoming one of the bad boys of 
 Paris an apache by adoption. Fabrice, who had 
 known him in better days, had already on one occa 
 sion since his decline found the fellow useful; he 
 had, at a price, thoroughly chastised for her a for 
 mer admirer who had taken to being more than rude. 
 She had thought it wise to retain his friendship a 
 weak woman was so often at a disadvantage; she 
 knew where to find him; and, ignoring dinner, she 
 went directly to him now. 
 
 Her trim DeDion landaulet threaded strange 
 streets off the Boulevard du Temple and stopped a 
 little on the hither side of a small drinking-shop, 
 open to the pavement, and crowded at this hour 
 with artisans in baggy corduroys. She instructed her 
 young chauffeur, in his neat, black uniform, and he 
 left her with an undisguised shrug; it was evident 
 that he did not relish his commission. However, 
 he returned presently, unscathed, with Hussein, a 
 raffish giant, slouching along the foul pavement at 
 his heels, yet towering over him like an afreet a 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 227 
 
 somewhat blowsy and degenerate afreet, it must be 
 acknowledged. And Fabrice de Silva outwardly 
 once more the faultless fan-nymph by Boucher 
 leaned forth from the window of her landaulet and 
 greeted Hussein with the most seductive of smiles. 
 . . . "Hussein, my child/* she began unexpectedly, 
 "let me hear thee sneeze . ." 
 
 XXI 
 
 Dunster, as it happened, was not again to see 
 Lilia before the evening performance. When he 
 had left his tormentor, Fabrice, and had tardily pur 
 sued Lilia off into the dusky wings, it was only to 
 find himself at a loss in a dim region with walls of 
 fire-brick, against which were stacked "flats" and 
 other bulkier scenic contrivances. A single shut iron 
 door in the lateral fire-wall offered the sole possibil 
 ity of escape at this side of the stage; through that 
 door, then, Lilia must certainly have preceded him. 
 Dunster tried it, pushed it open. It led him to a 
 lighted passage, with a door at the farther end, and 
 lined on either side, like a prison gallery, with evenly 
 spaced iron doors. Summoning all his persistence, 
 he called Lilia's name several times not loudly, but 
 as loudly as he dared, lest he make himself too 
 ridiculous. An old man in shirt-sleeves, with a tight 
 black cap on a great hairless skull, came scrabbling 
 ratlike through the door at the farther end of the 
 passage and challenged him in a shrill falsetto. Dun 
 ster was startled more startled than he later cared 
 
228 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 to admit to himself. However, the old man proved 
 merely to be keeper of the stage-door, though of a 
 suspicious temper like all his fellows; and Dunster, 
 in his embarrassment, had the most humiliating diffi 
 culty in making himself understood or explaining his 
 presence in the corridor. Indeed, after the ratlike 
 old man had at length permitted him to pass out 
 through the stage-door into a sort of side-alley, Dun 
 ster had grave doubts whether it was not a five-franc 
 note, rather than his halting phrases, which had ac 
 complished even so much or so little for him as 
 this! The truth is, it had seemed simpler to Dun 
 ster to make a fresh start and find his way round to 
 the entrance-court of the theatre, where a second ap 
 pearance might bring him better luck, and where he 
 could at least account for his presence without feel 
 ing an utter fool. 
 
 It was raining dismally now, and the deserted 
 alley, taken in the direction which he supposed would 
 lead him to the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, proved 
 to be a fetid cut de sac. Dunster had to retrace his 
 steps, and, while doing so, he could not conceal from 
 himself the fact that he was a good deal annoyed 
 with Lilia annoyed with her for leaving him so ab 
 ruptly, and so needlessly, in such a fix! She might 
 at least, he thought, have dropped a word as she fled 
 where to go, or where to find her, or wait for her. 
 Didn't she realize how much he had already done 
 for her, how far he had come for her ! Her flight 
 was a sudden panic, of course not unnatural under 
 the circumstances; but well wasn't the manner of 
 it a little thoughtless of him, to say the least! The 
 fetid alley had now led him into another narrow 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 229 
 
 street, and so into a perplexity of turnings. Fully 
 a quarter of an hour had passed by the time he had 
 again discovered the arched entrance to the court 
 yard of the Comediens du Marais. Damp, in per 
 son and spirit, he hurried across the courtyard, only 
 to find himself checked midway by some obscure im 
 pulse which lifted his eyes and there he stood, half 
 puzzled at himself, staring up toward a lighted win 
 dow in a little round tower-like excrescence that 
 clung, snail-like, within one of the interior angles of 
 the court. As he stood thus, someone a girl, he 
 imagined far up there in that oddly improbable 
 little tower chamber, passed between the light and 
 his eyes and, for the merest instant, was vaguely sil 
 houetted against the window. And the passing im 
 pression brought swiftly, yet vaporously, to his con 
 sciousness some old tale a floating wisp of some 
 thing he had read once, or had been told when he 
 was a little fellow in of all incongruous spots! 
 Vanesburg, Ohio. Something, wasn't it, about a 
 Princess but what was her name ? a Princess 
 who had let down bright hair from just such an 
 absurd little tower-window lowered the soft flaxen 
 weight of it to some adventurous Princeling in the 
 courtyard, that he might defy fate and climb up to 
 her and perilously claim her. . . . Funny thing! 
 such a tag-end of fairy tale drifting back to him at 
 such a time ! Funny thing, the association of ideas ! 
 Funny, that he couldn't recall the name of the beau 
 tiful Princess! . . . rel zel Merribelle ? No 
 no. . . . And then, as he entered once more the 
 foyer of the theatre, he wondered if by any chance 
 that might have been Lilia up there but only to 
 
230 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 dismiss the queer notion, with a smile, as irrelevant, 
 a fantastic whimsy born of the unfamiliarity of his 
 surroundings. 
 
 Although the foyer was still deserted, the window 
 of the box-office was lighted now; was ready for 
 business. 
 
 Dunster applied there, to a disdainful young man 
 in black, with coal-black eyes, a pointed coal-black 
 moustache, and sleek anthracitic hair. This young 
 man, true to the international traditions of his em 
 ployment, was insufferable, and contrived at once, 
 subtly, to express his total contempt for the person 
 before him. It was clear to him that Dunster, speak 
 ing French with difficulty, was at his mercy, and he 
 toyed, black-leopard-like, with his victim. Had it 
 not been for the grille between them, Dunster would 
 joyously have throttled him; but that was impossible. 
 He could only swallow his rage; perhaps the least 
 digestible morsel known to the human dietary. He 
 was, then, in no receptive mood for Lilia's brief 
 note which the coal-black young man at last pushed 
 through the bars to him, with a twitch of moustache- 
 tips that dismissed Dunster (in the phrase of an 
 equally insufferable Teuton) as "the last mushroom 
 on the dunghill of romanticism." 
 
 The envelope thus received by Dunster contained 
 two tickets for the evening performance; and the 
 following scribbled message : 
 
 MY DEAR 
 
 I couldn't face her / won't ask forgiveness. I'm 
 not responsible to-night. Mondory insisted on two 
 seats for you and asks you, and whatever friend you 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 231 
 
 bring but aren't you alone? I hope so to sup 
 per with him. It's a great honor for you a great 
 nuisance for me. I'll be there, of course more 
 dead than alive but I didn't want it to happen like 
 that. I'm a slave, you see. Mondory's word is my 
 law. Unless I fail to-night when he'll still be kind, 
 but done with me, I suppose. But I won't fail. I 
 
 couldn't now for him or for, you 
 
 LILIA. 
 
 "Supper where?" was Dunster's first crabbed, 
 instinctive thought. "How am / to know! It strikes 
 me Lilia's so absorbed in herself, her career, she 
 doesn't even see my end of it at all. She lets me 
 slip into one awkward situation after another." For 
 which instinctive reaction (but must one always be 
 charitable to one's hero?) it is probable that the 
 black leopard of the box-office was largely to blame. 
 
 It is somewhat more to Dunster's credit that, as 
 he read the scribbled words a second time, he saw 
 only Lilia; saw her as an exquisite, gallant child, 
 fighting the dark forces of life with a smile, with just 
 that remote little shrug of hers, the full significance 
 of which now came to him poignantly, awakening a 
 passionate tenderness until his throat tightened and 
 there were tears in his eyes. Well; one thing at 
 least was settled; she would no longer fight alone. 
 Her battle was his now, and they would win it, ulti 
 mately, together. 
 
 But is it to his credit, or the reverse, that a third 
 reading of the note brought to him a pang of unrea 
 soning jealousy? "I'm a slave, you see. Mondory's 
 word is my law " 
 
 What did Lilia mean by that? 
 
232 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Dunster well knew, even as he asked the question, 
 that Lilia meant by it nothing he did not already un 
 derstand. Yet he could not at once dismiss the mat 
 ter. He asked himself that question again and 
 again as he returned slowly, in a lopsided fiacre, 
 and without eyes for the new and strange about him 
 to his hotel. It was not that the question tortured 
 him; no: but, when a supposedly sound tooth first 
 begins to grumble a little well, it was just like that. 
 He was anxiously aware of the question's existence. 
 
 It was past seven when he reached his hotel, but 
 there was still plenty of time for him to dress and 
 get a bite of dinner. The performance at the 
 Comediens du Marais would not begin until nine. 
 ... As for his second ticket, he would simply turn 
 it in at the box-office when he got back to the theatre. 
 Frank Gilman might be glad to use it, of course ; but 
 on the whole . . . 
 
 XII 
 
 Lilia to Ruth : a Postscript. 
 
 RUTH DEAR: 
 
 For the past three weeks I've been writing you 
 a journal-letter I'm sending it along with this, but 
 it's of no consequence if you read this first, trying 
 to tell you of my life here in this new ugly-beautiful 
 world, my world I think now for ever and ever. 
 In just half an hour I must go down to my dressing- 
 room and begin making-up for my first professional 
 appearance. Writing you will steady me, meanwhile 
 but it always steadies me. Only it does more 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 233 
 
 so much more than I can say! How can you look so 
 frail, Ruth, and yet be such a tower of strength to 
 me to everyone who really knows you? Dearest, 
 thank heaven I believe in souls if I didn't I 
 couldn't understand you at all, even if it puzzles me 
 so that you don't believe in souls yourself. When 
 you're all that, I mean nothing else but that! If 
 you'd only believe in yourself, Ruth, you'd believe in 
 everything worth believing in. And will you please 
 feel that I'm giving you a great big bear-hug this 
 very minute? I do love you 
 
 / know you're smiling a little. I know you 
 know what a strung-up, sentimental state I'm in, 
 writing like this what a palpitating idiot I am! I 
 can't help it, Ruth. Did you send him over to 
 me? Somehow I think you did. Well, if you did, 
 you got him here just in time. Except that he'll want 
 me to marry him, I suppose and I can't now, not 
 yet. I've something to do first, something I must 
 do. I was born to do it, and I'm just beginning. Be 
 ginning to-night Ruth, he'll have to go home and 
 do his own work and wait for me, if he cares to wait. 
 But I think he will. I know he will. I believe in him 
 at last for the first time. But [This "but" was 
 crossed out, however, by a sharp stroke of the pen, 
 which ended in a blotted smudge.] 
 
 No, I won't question anything He gave me 
 courage to-day, when I needed it most. 
 
 Ruth, I believe it's all going to be as it should be. 
 I'm in a believing mood hardly touching earth. I 
 feel as if nothing could go wrong 
 
 Oh am I just an ecstatic fool! I'm afraid so. 
 I've never gushed like this before, and I couldn't 
 
234 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 even now to anyone but you and not even to you if 
 you were sitting here with me. 
 
 Ruth, I'm in my "Tower Chamber"! You'll 
 understand that, when you read the rest of my let 
 ter or if you've read it first. But, you see, one has 
 to be some kind of an imprisoned Princess to have 
 any real right to a Tower Chamber. Well, I am 
 one kind. I feel like a Princess to-night even if 
 I am going to play a slave-girl. But I expect they're 
 the same thing, really for there's something I can't 
 escape from and can't express. If a nun, a "be 
 lieving" nun, falls in love and runs away from her 
 convent with her lover, do you suppose she ever 
 really escapes from from "what?" I don't know. 
 I'm too stupid to think it out. But I've never thought 
 anything out / can't. I can only live things out, 
 as they come Or else simply leave them, go away. 
 Time's up, Ruth dear. Bless you you and Dun- 
 ster. I'm not a bit afraid now. Do you know, I've 
 the funniest conviction that when I first step out on 
 the stage to-night it will feel like coming home. 
 That's a feeling I've never had, Ruth coming 
 home 
 
 Well, I'm happy 
 
 Your L. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 235 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Lilia, waited on by Frangoise, had supped very 
 lightly in her room; but just before doing so, she 
 had gone down to the small, bare dressing-room as 
 signed her and had made certain necessary arrange 
 ments. She was really astonished by her own cool 
 ness, although she well knew that a deep excitement 
 possessed her, a simmering tranquillity. What she 
 had feared a little was too long a period of waiting, 
 but the postscript to Ruth had filled in the interval 
 she had dreaded most. And now she was ready, she 
 was even eager for what no longer seemed to her an 
 ordeal. Her eyes were luminous and serene. 
 
 When she again reached the dressing-room she 
 found in possession of it a middle-aged woman whom 
 she had never seen before : a fat, gross creature with, 
 however, a kindly enough twinkle in her heavily 
 pouched eyes. This intruder at once made herself 
 known as Mme. d'Albert, and explained that the 
 great Mondory, in person, had only two hours ago 
 reached her by telephone and had requested her, as a 
 special favor to him, to take Mile. Chenowort' under 
 her wing for the evening and see that all went well 
 with her. "I used to be mistress of the wardrobe 
 here," she continued with a purring volubility; "but 
 then I was a widow. It was before I married M. 
 d'Albert, who supplies electrical devices to many of 
 our leading theatres. Naturally, I now devote myself 
 to his little affairs; but ah, mademoiselle, I have rest 
 less evenings. But restless, I tell you ! I miss the at 
 mosphere of the stage; it has been my life. You 
 
236 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 must forgive me, cherie, if I envy you so young, so 
 exquisite, at the threshold of your career ! Ah, yes, 
 but you will have a career that goes without saying. 
 One has not won the favor of this good Mondory 
 for nothing, heinf So great an artist!" 
 
 And so the good-humored, fleshly creature bab 
 bled on. Meanwhile her fat, efficient hands were not 
 idle. Cumbrous, yet deft, she moved about the little 
 room, laying out Lilia's dressing-gown and her cos 
 tume, a slight silken tunic of apple-green shot through 
 with gold; arranging the material and implements 
 for her make-up on a wooden shelf below the mir 
 ror; taking upon herself, in short, all the duties of 
 a highly trained maid. If Lilia had been a world- 
 famous star she could not have been more skilfully 
 served. 
 
 "Ought you to do all this for me ?" asked Lilia, a 
 trifle bewildered. "When I learned I was to play 
 to-night it was too late to think of engaging anyone. 
 Besides, I can't afford to be so luxurious. It's true, 
 though, that Mme. Cornells, who isn't playing, was 
 good enough to offer to lend me her maid " 
 
 "Yes; she came but I sent her away. I prefer it 
 like this. So much depends on the costume, cherie 
 how it is worn. And the make-up, too, that is 
 very important. I have seen more than one debut 
 spoiled by too much red or white. Oh, but I assure 
 you. . . . How fortunate, by the way, that you 
 should have ordered a costume in advance!" 
 
 "Mondory insisted on that two weeks ago." 
 
 "Ah ! then he intended all along you should play 
 this part. Good good!" 
 
 "But that can't be true!" exclaimed Lilia. "If 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 237 
 
 Mile, de Silva hadn't been feeling indisposed ? 
 Why, she telephoned only this morning, you know, 
 that she would prefer not to play." 
 
 Mme. d' Albert chuckled deeply, a contralto rou 
 lade. "So much the simpler, then, for Mondory, 
 my little cabbage ! He has great luck, the good 
 man. But I know him too well. If he meant you 
 to play bah ! it isn't that minx, Fabrice, who would 
 have stopped him. He would take a part from her 
 as from another yes, at the last minute, too ! He's 
 afraid of no one. Why should he be, in his posi 
 tion ? It's well known he thinks only of what is 
 best for his plays. . . . Ah, I felicitate you, cherie. 
 If Mondory believes in you, your battle is won in 
 advance. . . . But you must take care, all the same." 
 
 "Take care?" 
 
 "But yes assuredly. It isn't only yourself you 
 must watch, either. For example ! Suppose that to 
 night you make an impression that arrives now and 
 then, not? Very well! Do you think Fabrice will 
 love you for that, hein? One must think of these lit 
 tle things, you see keep one's eyes open. If you 
 begin to be known, Fabrice will do everything in her 
 power to injure you and not only Fabrice. Ah! 
 the life of an artiste it isn't all roses, I tell you! 
 She must fight for every inch, and often with teeth 
 and claws, like a tigress a veritable tigress. But 
 with Mondory behind you as protector pouff 
 That simplifies matters. . . . And at his age you 
 have not so much to fear. You can easily hold him, 
 cherie, with a little tact, isn't it true ? You can make 
 him eat cake, and the crumbs, too, from your pretty 
 hands." 
 
238 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 As she paused in her chatter, she slipped over 
 Lilia's bared shoulders a simple, quaintly cut dress 
 ing-gown of dull green China silk. Lilia quietly 
 thanked her, then sank down upon the chair before 
 the mirror with a sigh. It would be useless, she well 
 knew, for her to protest to this good, fleshly Mme. 
 d' Albert against the interpretation she placed upon 
 her relations with Mondory. If she did so, Mme. 
 d' Albert would be polite, would say nothing further 
 to her; but she would not be able to change her 
 opinion. So much, in even so brief an apprentice 
 ship, Lilia had learned now, once for all. There 
 were certain situations which, in this singular world 
 she had entered, were taken for granted; and that 
 was the end of it. No one seemed to think the worse 
 of her; on the contrary, they seemed, rather, to envy 
 her luck, or to admire her successful audacity. But 
 it was ugly, all the same ugly ugly ! Why, it was 
 just as if she were playing a game with dishonest 
 competitors, who were quite ready to applaud her 
 for cheating, if only she could manage it cleverly 
 enough to score. In such company the mere fact of 
 scoring at all was an admission of fellowship in guilt. 
 And those at the top, the leaders, were, by implica 
 tion, the biggest rascals. . . . Oh, well; what did it 
 matter? She must take this special world as she 
 found it and perhaps, the sudden thought struck 
 her, it wasn't so different from the world at large, 
 after all; she must regard it as a necessary, although 
 imperfect, medium, bring to it her own vision, and 
 give through it (or even in spite of it) whatever she 
 had to give. And she would not be quite alone. To 
 begin with, Mondory would understand and Ruth, 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 239 
 
 and Dunster ? Oh, yes! yes! It made her heart 
 beat more quickly, it brought a swift suffusion of life 
 and joy to feel now, beyond possibility of question, 
 that Dunster would understand. . . . 
 
 Meanwhile, Mme. d' Albert had loosened Lilia's 
 hair, with many profanely pious ejaculations of won 
 der and delight. The good woman was in ecstasies 
 over its length, its fineness, the warm living glow of 
 it! Lilia must let it flow unrestrained down her back, 
 and a careless strand or so over one bared shoulder. 
 A slave-girl the part would permit of that; nat 
 urally! And Mme. d' Albert predicted for Lilia's 
 unbound hair an independent sensation. Her voice 
 took on solemn tones, almost a quaver of awe. "They 
 will mention it in the Press !" 
 
 "All the same, it's a pity," she added, "that your 
 shoulders and arms the neck, too are still so thin. 
 Et la poitrine ah, mon Dieu ! You are like a boy, 
 an entirely little boy ! But happily for you, it's bet 
 ter to be too thin than too fat nowadays. With a 
 little discretion in the draperies yes, we shall man 
 age. Still for a slave-girl one would prefer. . . . 
 However ! The hair is marvellous marvellous ! A 
 feast in itself! Only, what one fears for you, a tiny 
 bit, cherie, is a lack of temperament le diable dans 
 le corps. Tres important! . . . Fabrice now . . ." 
 
 Lilia answered her with a disarming smile. 
 
 "Yes; but Fabrice would exploit herself. That's 
 what Mondory feared, Mme. d' Albert. You see, 
 this play is a sort of revery, a poet's day-dream 
 and the web is so delicate, so easily broken. . . . 
 Fabrice doesn't appreciate it; she has so little im 
 agination almost none, I think. . . . And may I 
 
240 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 tell you something more ? My flat chest won't damn 
 me, and my long hair won't save me. Indeed, if the 
 Press even mentions my hair, I shall know I have 
 failed. . . . But Fabrice wouldn't understand that, 
 do you think?" 
 
 Nor did Mme. d' Albert understand it. In spite 
 of Lilia's disarming smile she was a little ruffled. 
 This child, after all a novice! Whereas Fabrice 
 de Silva ! 
 
 "Good, good!" she muttered. "I congratulate 
 you on your assurance, cherie. You're a cool one. 
 . . . But, after all, a word or so of advice from an 
 experienced woman that does no harm, I hope !" 
 
 "Ah, please don't be annoyed, dear Mme. d' Al 
 bert! You are quite right. It will do me no harm 
 at all," said Lilia. 
 
 It took Mme. d' Albert a long while to transform 
 Lilia, to her satisfaction, into Akeenah, the beauti 
 ful slave-girl; for while the costume was simplicity 
 itself, a mere knee-length slip of vivid silk with a 
 loose hip-girdle of linked and variegated jade, the 
 make-up was tedious and difficult. The bared legs 
 and arms, the feet, the hands, the throat, the shoul 
 ders, had to be given just the soft, even, amber tone 
 which a child of the desert who had been cherished 
 delicately in the palace of a king might be supposed 
 to have retained. But at last there was nothing fur 
 ther to be done ; not another touch that could wisely 
 be added; and Mme. d' Albert stepped back with a 
 triumphant sweep of arms and a deep dramatic 
 breath: "Voilal" 
 
 Lilia was surveying herself thoughtfully in the 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 241 
 
 mirror. "Yes," she said quietly, "thank you. It's 
 perfect. I couldn't have managed it without you. 
 I see that now. . . . Of course, my eyes are all 
 wrong they should be big and soft and expression 
 less ; the eyes of a gazelle. But God didn't make me 
 a gazelle!" Her eyes encountered Mme. d' Albert's 
 in the mirror, and she kissed finger tips to her with 
 the slow grace of a langour that was Akeenah's, not 
 her own. "But I begin to feel like a gazelle that's 
 the important thing, a tame, pampered, lazy ga 
 zelle in a dim cypress garden. I've been feeding on 
 sweetmeats; the young king has been feeding me by 
 a lily pool. The air is warm and still and sleepy 
 with perfume. ... I have no soul." And she 
 rather swayed than turned from the mirror, bal 
 ancing on her hips with that slight rolling motion of 
 the torso which is the East itself. The enchantment 
 was upon her. She was no longer Lilia Chenoworth. 
 
 Mme. d' Albert clasped fat hands, and stood with 
 hanging jaw,, stupid with amazement. Lilia burst 
 out laughing and sank down on a chair, relaxed and 
 content The enchantment was communicable, then; 
 even here in this stuffy dressing-room and to this dull 
 clay. It would work ! 
 
 But she had always known that. It seemed the 
 most natural thing in the world. 
 
242 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 XXIV 
 
 While Lilia's part in this little play "The King 
 Decides" (even the title, as we shall see, being grace 
 fully ironic) was in a sense a minor one, it was so 
 placed that it provided the turning point, the cli 
 mactic moments, of the perhaps too slight action 
 involved. 
 
 Koro the King, young inheritor of a great but 
 moribund empire, is a minor poet who cares noth 
 ing for affairs of state. He is bored by his respon 
 sibilities and evades them. Shut from the world in 
 his hanging-gardens, he lives the life of an artistic 
 voluptuary. 
 
 But now the safety of his empire is threatened by 
 a greater, a rising, empire a cold, white, implacable 
 empire to the north, whose ruler is a woman, Dag- 
 mar the Undefeated. This Dagmar, by report, is a 
 self-righteous Amazon, high-minded, ambitious, and 
 distressingly efficient. Dagmar desires to conquer 
 the known world and then reform it; she has already 
 brought most of it under her sway. However, that 
 great decadent empire to the south, the empire of 
 Koro the King, has still to fall into her hands. She 
 could easily take it by the sword; but she is young 
 and unmarried; and she is aware that Koro the King 
 is young and unmarried, too. Moreover, she has 
 heard that he is very handsome and very vicious, and 
 she finds herself longing to be the means of bringing 
 him to a better way of life. Her ministers suggest 
 an alliance as the easiest method for benevolent 
 assimilation. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 243 
 
 The ministers of Koro the King have been ap 
 proached, and knowing resistance to Dagmar the 
 Undefeated would be useless they have advised Koro 
 to submit to his fate. "I must see her first," answers 
 Koro, indifferently. So it is arranged, after some 
 diplomatic difficulties, that Dagmar the Undefeated 
 shall visit the King. 
 
 All this we learn, wittily enough, with much pleas 
 ant innuendo, from certain male and female parasites 
 of Koro the King, who are loafing about one of the 
 terraces of his hanging-gardens a method of expo 
 sition which set Mondory's teeth on edge ; yet he for 
 gave it, this once, because of its incidental graces, 
 and because of what was to follow. For the longer 
 he worked over this trifling play the better he liked 
 it; and it was one of his fixed principles never to re 
 construct an author's scenes, nor to cut or alter his 
 lines. If a play could not be made to play as writ 
 ten, it was not for Mondory. 
 
 Presently Koro the King, tranced in a luxurious 
 melancholy, enters with his favorite flute-player and 
 goes to the lily pool. And there, in silence, he feeds 
 his goldfish and listlessly endures the mournful 
 strains of his flute-player. 
 
 A messenger comes. Dagmar the Undefeated has 
 arrived, with all her suite, and is awaiting Koro the 
 King in the throne-room of the palace. "I dislike 
 the throne-room," replies Koro. "My poor father's 
 taste was execrable. Bring Dagmar the Undefeated 
 to me here." 
 
 The messenger trembles but departs. 
 
 The flute-player resumes his mournful warbling. 
 
244 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 The parasites, male and female, fidget and ex 
 change sophisticated glances. 
 
 Koro the King sighs and turns again to his gold 
 fish. 
 
 A second messenger crawls in on his belly, sweat 
 ing with anguish. 
 
 Dagmar the Undefeated has resented the King's 
 message as an insult, a challenge to battle, and has 
 departed with all her suite. 
 
 "Was she a pretty woman ?" asks the King. 
 
 The second messenger takes heart. "She is dif 
 ferent your Majesty. . . . She is tall and white 
 and massive, with eyes like steel. Her wrath was 
 terrible to look upon!" 
 
 "Then how fortunate I am not to have seen it," 
 remarks the King. 
 
 And now his aged ministers, tremulous with ap 
 prehension, totter in and prostrate themselves be 
 fore Koro the King, surrounding the lily pool with 
 their humped, servile backs. All is lost ! Unless 
 And the Grand Vizier of Koro the King finds breath 
 and beseeches this Son of the Moon and Stars to 
 pursue Dagmar the Undefeated pursue her, over 
 take her, apologize for his rudeness! although it 
 may even so be too late. For no soldiers can stand 
 against the number and strength of her soldiers. 
 
 But Koro the King wearily smiles. It would be 
 too fatiguing. And besides, he has no wish to marry, 
 even for political reasons. "Then, too, I have 
 heard," he adds, "that this Dagmar has no ear for 
 music, no love for the harmony of verse, and never 
 drinks wine " 
 
 "That is true, your Majesty. But she will destroy 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 245 
 
 your people; she will raze the walls of your palace 
 and capture your sacred person; she will bind you 
 with chains. For her wrath was terrible to look 
 upon!" 
 
 "Tall white massive with eyes like steel. 
 . . . I have never seen a woman like that," muses 
 Koro the King, with a certain wistfulness. Then he 
 shrugs his shoulders. "My lords! I have only this 
 morning written a new poem. Would you like to 
 hear it ? It is a lament to Akeenah. It is in praise 
 of Akeenah." 
 
 The groans of the aged ministers echo against the 
 high parapet-wall of the garden. The parasites of 
 Koro the King whisper together and exchange 
 sophisticated glances. Only the Eunuchs of the 
 King, motionless on the mounting stair, are silent. 
 
 Koro the King smiles sadly, and softly claps his 
 hands. "Bring me Akeenah," he murmurs. ... A 
 slave departs, running swiftly on hands and feet, up 
 the high, straight stair of the parapet-wall. 
 
 Then Koro the King stands by the lily pool and 
 recites his despairing verses in praise of Akeenah. 
 (These verses are beautiful.) 
 
 As he concludes them, the slave-girl appears from 
 the unseen terrace, above. She descends the long 
 stair, graceful, indifferent, with slightly swaying hips. 
 She does not speak. 
 
 At the foot of the stair Koro, the young King, 
 meets her and takes her by the hand. He leads her 
 across toward the hump-backed ministers and the 
 Grand Vizier. 
 
 "Behold my true conqueror," says Koro the King. 
 "Queen Dagmar may imperil my empire which is 
 
246 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 nothing. But Akeenah imperils my self-esteem 
 which is everything! I love her and she does not 
 love me. Is it not so, Akeenah?" 
 
 "Am I not your Majesty's slave?" answers Akee 
 nah. 
 
 "But I know you do not love me, Akeenah. For 
 even now my hand trembles on yours; but yours does 
 not tremble in mine. Do you love me, Akeenah?" 
 
 Akeenah is silent. 
 
 "Speak, insolent one !" quavers the Grand Vizier. 
 "Speak if once only ! Then let us have done with 
 words. For the empire crumbles ! Inform the Son 
 of the Moon and Stars that you love him, madly 
 and you, slaves, let the swift-footed camels be pre 
 pared!" 
 
 Koro the King raises his slender eyebrows : "For 
 what purpose, O Vizier?" 
 
 "That your Majesty may the sooner follow after 
 Dagmar the Queen!" 
 
 "Speak, Akeenah !" pleads Koro the King. And 
 Akeenah, briefly, speaks : 
 
 "Alas, it is true, O Son of the Moon and Stars, 
 that I do not love you. For it is not given us to love 
 or not to love, or, loving, to love always one and no 
 other. And if I loved you yesterday, who knows that 
 I should love you to-day? And if to-morrow brought 
 love to my heart for you, who knows that it would 
 not die with the morrow's sun? But my beauty is 
 yours, O King; for I am your handmaiden. You 
 may .cherish my loveliness with pearls, or you may 
 command your Eunuchs to stain and deface it for 
 ever with blood loosened from my heart. I am yours 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 247 
 
 to enjoy. I am yours to trample under foot. You 
 are the King." 
 
 "But soon, soon, Akeenah, I too may be a slave 
 the slave of Dagmar the Undefeated." 
 
 And Akeenah, briefly, speaks : 
 
 "That will be as the Stars ordain, Koro the King! 
 And it may be, then, when you are far from my in 
 difference, and in chains, that I shall love you a 
 little, but too late." 
 
 And she turns on a rosy heel and slowly, with a 
 negligent aloofness, mounts the long, straight stair 
 to the unseen terrace. 
 
 Koro, the young King, his hump-backed ministers 
 about him, watches her till she has passed from his 
 sight. 
 
 A slave enters ; falls prostrate. 
 
 "The camels, the fleet camels, are made ready, O 
 King!" 
 
 And Koro turns to the Grand Vizier. 
 
 "This Dagmar, now ? Did one not say she is 
 tall white massive with eyes like steel? Did 
 you, indeed, not thus describe her?" 
 
 "Not I, your Majesty. Yet, verily, it is so. She 
 is a woman like no other." 
 
 "Ah ? The phrase lingers in my mind," mur 
 murs Koro the King. "It intrigues me, strangely. 
 Tall white massive with eyes like steel. ... I 
 have never seen a woman like that. . . . Come, my 
 lords! The camels, the fleet camels, are waiting!" 
 
 But as he goes out, with his bewildered ministers, 
 to pursue the suite of Dagmar the Undefeated, he 
 stops a moment at the foot of the long straight stair 
 and gazes upward. And the curtain falls. 
 
248 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 Rather subtle, perhaps, that ending and not, 
 theatrically speaking, very effective. It leaves one 
 at a loss to know precisely what the half-starved, 
 pock-marked young poet intended does it not? 
 
 XXV 
 
 Akeenah, the slave-girl, then, was the part in 
 which Lilia Chenoworth was presently to brave the 
 scrutiny of an audience as sophisticated, as mali 
 ciously critical, as any in the civilized world. And it 
 is surely obvious that Akeenah's silent entrance, fol 
 lowing upon the ecstatic verses in praise of her 
 beauty as chanted by Koro the King, and followed, 
 too, by the slow, silent descent of the long stairway 
 past those ebon statues, the Eunuchs, could hardly 
 have been made more trying to the nerves of a mor 
 tal actor. If the prolonged silent entrance did not 
 carry, did not create for its spectators just that 
 mood of tranced admiration which the pock-marked 
 young poet intended, then Akeenah and the play 
 crumbled together and no later touch would save 
 them. 
 
 Mondory knew this only too well. He hoped 
 that Lilia did not. It was a cruel test for the child 
 and must prove so for him. Watching from the 
 wings, he knew that he would be in agony from the 
 moment Lilia placed her bared feet on the top step, 
 high above him, until she had reached the bottom 
 step and had stretched her hand out to the King. 
 He knew that that descent would seem to him ten 
 years long; he would be old and tired when it was 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 249 
 
 completed. What a crazy thing for him to entrust 
 so much to an inexperienced girl ! Was he losing his 
 wits his grip on the hard fact that only the utmost 
 technical assurance, coupled with the most striking 
 beauty, would suffice for such an ordeal! Fabrice, 
 after all, might have managed it acceptably enough 
 in her fashion. . . . Well ! It was too late now 
 for regrets. But his company, his beloved company, 
 had never, never once, produced a fiasco; by which 
 he understood not a popular failure, but a failure in 
 discriminating art. Ah ! what torture ! 
 
 When the call-bell for the third play of the 
 evening sounded, Mondory, to his own dark amaze 
 ment, found himself wedged into a shadowy corner 
 behind a set-piece from one of the earlier plays. He 
 had no recollection of going there; the past min 
 utes were blank to him. It was as if he had crawled 
 apart like a wounded dog crawled under a bush. 
 It was absurd. . . . Yet there he absurdly stood, 
 and wiped great sliding drops of sweat from his 
 jowls, from behind his ears. That poor child the 
 whole thing was impossible ! He ought to dash out 
 at once, issue prompt orders, forbid that the curtain 
 be lifted. . . . Some explanation could be made, 
 of course. . . . That was always possible. . . . 
 But, name of God, he had never suffered like this ! 
 
 Although he was not to appear in person on the 
 stage, Mondory the great Mondory was a victim 
 of stage-fright in its most hideous form. 
 
 He was aware that he ought to go at once to 
 Lilians dressing-room and speak an encouraging word 
 to her; but he no longer felt capable of uttering 
 it. 
 
250 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 The actors were gathering in the wings now; he 
 could hear them talking in subdued and, as it seemed 
 to him, troubled tones. This new play, no one better 
 knew, was considered a doubtful experiment by all 
 his associates for he always thought of them as 
 co-laborers, fellow-artists, although he ruled and 
 over-ruled them like the creative autocrat he was. 
 And suddenly he longed to rush out through the 
 stage-door into the night but that woujd not do. 
 So he began to count instead: slowly, very slowly, 
 through his mind one dragging number followed on 
 the heels of another. He counted up to one hun 
 dred two hundred two hundred and sixteen. . . . 
 Then a hot flash swept through him! They were 
 playing now; there could be no doubt of it. His 
 knees would just support him as he backed out from 
 his undignified retreat, worked his way round back 
 stage, crept silently to his station in the wings. An 
 under-electrician, in charge of a baby-spot which 
 from this point commanded the high, steep stair 
 way, moved aside for his revered chief with an 
 exaggerated respect. 
 
 u The first view superb " he murmured. u One 
 felt the effect out there. . . ." 
 
 Mondory made no reply. He leaned heavily 
 against the inner casing of the proscenium arch. 
 What was it all about ? That idiot, Souchon ! why 
 was he shrieking so! He had told the fool he was 
 too loud : several times, at rehearsal, he had taken 
 pains to remonstrate. . . . These actors! . . . 
 Nom de Dieu! what a metier was his. Making 
 bricks without straw always always. . . . Drole 
 de vie que ! . . . 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 251 
 
 And everything swam before him. It was several 
 moments before he was able to concentrate his atten 
 tion, follow the progress of the play 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Once again the technique of the film will prove 
 convenient: a "flash-back" is indicated. 
 
 Lilia, in her dressing-room, had burst out laugh 
 ing before Mme. d' Albert and had then seated her 
 self, relaxed and tranquil, to wait for her call. It 
 was but a moment after that someone knocked at 
 the door. Mme. d' Albert smiled, knowingly, and 
 answered the summons. She was prepared to slip 
 away, leave the field without a word; for she had 
 no doubt the Great Man in person was waiting. . . . 
 However, she found at the door an arresting, though 
 rather oddly clothed, young man, who by his prim 
 speech and weighted accent at once revealed his 
 transatlantic origin. He was wearing a dinner 
 jacket, but over it a long ulster of rough, light brown 
 tweed, and he carried a brown, soft-brimmed felt 
 hat in his hand. On hearing his voice Lilia sprang 
 up. "Dunster!" she cried: "Oh, my dear bless 
 you a second time ! I have twenty minutes left to 
 accumulate nerves but now they'll seem nothing, 
 they won't exist. Only how in the world did you 
 get by the Ogre at the Gate ?" 
 
 "The stage door ? I bribed him." He had 
 answered abruptly, almost harshly, and Lilia felt 
 
252 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 at once that he was restraining a profound agitation. 
 What could have caused it? What could have in 
 duced him to come to her thus, at such a time ? But 
 her first impulse, under the devouring eyes of Mme. 
 d'Albert, was to protect him from himself. She 
 laughed delightedly. 
 
 "I wonder if the Prince in the Fairy Book 
 ever did that to Dragons and things? I'm sure 
 he did, but was far too romantic to mention it!" 
 Then she seized Dunster's hand and drew him past 
 the astounded Mme. d' Albert into the small, close 
 dressing-room. It was not there she would have 
 chosen to receive him, in that too intimate disorder. 
 The room was not attractive. The flat sweet smell 
 of cosmetics was heavy upon it. 
 
 Mme. d'Albert, in the doorway, was massively 
 staring. Not having a word of English, she was 
 the more piqued by this unexpected intrusion. Lilia 
 concealed her annoyance. She introduced Dunster 
 as an old friend from America, and quickly added, 
 "I must have ten minutes' chat with him, dear ma- 
 dame. I know you'll forgive me and I know you'll 
 see that we're not interrupted. I have so many 
 questions to ask. . . ." 
 
 Mme. d'Albert, for all reply, rolled eyes and 
 spread fat hands, but her implications were unmis 
 takable, and Dunster's whole nervous system re 
 sented them with a hot sudden flush. There was 
 no need for words. Lilia sought his eyes, and re 
 sponded quietly: 
 
 "No, she doesn't understand and no one could 
 make her understand. That's the pity of it. So 
 it's useless to explain." And she dismissed Mme. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 253 
 
 cT Albert to the corridor with a nod, a bright smile, 
 and herself firmly closed the door upon her. She was 
 resolute not to show Dunster that his agitation, now 
 openly manifest, was wakening her own. She turned 
 to him with a smile, half deprecating, half appealing. 
 
 "Dear ? Please. ... I hate it as much as you 
 do more. But you shouldn't have come to me now 
 if I mean, I'm not even meant to be looked at 
 close." She managed a little half-hearted shrug. 
 "I'm just an impressionist daub from here. I'm not 
 in the picture yet. You'll like me better out there. 
 Oh, but will you like me out there ? Will they?" 
 
 "They!'" he groaned. "It's because of them 
 I'm here now!" For an instant he hesitated, avert 
 ing his eyes from Lilia, struggling to master the 
 indescribable tumult of body and mind which pos 
 sessed him. He had come with a single purpose. 
 He had little time to accomplish it. Nothing not 
 even the disappointment, the pain, he was bringing 
 her must turn him aside. 
 
 He lifted his eyes miserably to hers. 
 
 "Lilia . . . you can't play here to-night." The 
 bald statement came from him simply, crudely, with 
 a sincerity that was final. 
 
 He had expected well, he knew not what : some 
 thing, surely, it would be difficult to bear the seeing 
 of, the hearing of! What he could never have 
 expected was the sudden glow, the splendor in Lilia's 
 eyes. A vital wave of strength, courage, joy, seemed 
 to sweep visibly through her slight body and lift 
 her to him : 
 
 "Brave ! ... I watched your eyes suffer for 
 me. . . . oh, it's not just a blind, ugly thing in 
 
254 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 us, is it is it! It was, at first. We hated each 
 other for it. That's why we couldn't find each 
 other. . . . We have now. We've grown. I've 
 found you! 9 She laughed out, not loudly, but on 
 a clear note of happy confidence. Her arms tight 
 ened about his neck. And then she was away from 
 him, even as she had come, lightly, swiftly, before 
 he knew. . . . "Now tell me,'* she said, "what 
 are you trying to save me from ? What is it you're 
 afraid of for me? I'm not afraid." 
 
 He could tell her now. But the minutes were 
 passing. Could he speak out clearly, briefly enough 
 convince her at once that she must on no account 
 appear before them them! "Don't question me," 
 he pleaded. "I'll give you facts. They are facts. 
 Lilia, they're all against you out there; they 
 mean mischief. You know Mondory's public, I 
 suppose; I don't. But for a new play, it seems, it's 
 a special group critics, theatrical folk, writers. . . . 
 They all know each other. Why, during the inter 
 missions, in that wonderful room with the carved 
 panels, it's like a brilliant reception!" 
 
 Lilia's face grew grave now, but with no trace of 
 faltering; and Dunster caught wonderingly the im 
 pression of a radiance all about her, at once soft 
 and vivid the afterglow of her exaltation. 
 
 "You see, I'm here alone : you asked that. So after 
 the first play I followed the crowd half the audi 
 ence, at least and I happened to meet two friends. 
 One of them's a French biologist, Henri Mockel. 
 The other's Frank Oilman yes, your Dr. Gilman; 
 he came over on the boat with me. No, don't don't 
 question me! I'll tell you later. Or Frank will. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 255 
 
 He wants to see you " (But why couldn't he get 
 it said and over! It was like being in a nightmare 
 house breaking through door after door. . . . ) 
 He plunged on : 
 
 "Frank was terribly upset. He simply grabbed 
 my arm and told me there was trouble brewing. You 
 see, I was a little late getting here; the taxi no 
 matter. I just missed an announcement of Mile, 
 de Silva's illness that she'd be unable to appear 
 and her part would be taken by Mile. Chenoworth. 
 Frank says the instant it was made there was an 
 angry sort of buzz all round him. He hadn't known 
 you were going to play, and the way the house took 
 the announcement scared him. He explained things 
 to Mockel his special interest in you ; he may have 
 mentioned you to him before. So Mockel began 
 gathering news for him as soon as the first curtain 
 fell. I ran into them shortly after. . . . 
 
 "Lilia, there's no doubt of it! Mockel says the 
 house is full of personal friends of Mile, de Silva; 
 and she's managed somehow to spread among them 
 that you're a young upstart from God knows where 
 rather pretty, with a touch of talent, but without 
 any training or finesse whatever; and with no more 
 right to a place in this company than a girl from 
 the streets. And your not being French seems to 
 count against you. ... As for Mondory, you're 
 supposed to have infatuated him to be making an 
 utter fool of him; and you tricked him somehow 
 into a quarrel with Fabrice (that's what Mockel 
 calls her) so you could coax him to give you her 
 role tonight. Mockel says there's a small inner 
 clique of hers deliberately organizing the house 
 
256 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 against you. The point of view is, that the director 
 of a theatre like this is entitled to his private caprices, 
 but that the moment he lets them interfere with his 
 artistic conscience he insults all that's finest in the 
 intellectual life of Paris. That's how Mockel puts 
 it and it strikes me as weird ! But he knows them 
 the mood they're in; I can see that; and they 
 won't even give you a fighting chance. . . . Do you 
 hear me, Lilia? You can't do it. No one could. 
 You've got to rely on me now and do as I tell you. 
 I want you to leave with me as soon as possible. 
 I'll see Mondory. He can call off the play, even 
 if it is the last moment or find a substitute or go 
 to the devil ! What he can't do is to expose you to 
 them! Damn them! . . . I'll be back for you 
 right away. . . ." 
 
 But Lilia was at the door. . . . 
 
 Whenever, in later years, this moment returned 
 to Dunster, as it so often and poignantly did, always 
 with it revived his faith that then, first, he had 
 known reality. The supreme intuition. . . . Not 
 that which accepts and submits, but that which re 
 fuses and transcends. Romance, religion, poetry 
 these are names. It is the invincible spark in man. 
 Now clogged, faint; now blinding in some swift 
 happy release of power: it is never extinct. The 
 granite of human dullness cannot smother it, nor the 
 seven seas of human misery blot it out. Everywhere 
 it remains; it kindles. It is kindling the holocaust 
 of Time. . . . Well, such rhetoric, with its poor 
 straining to break through speech, might come in its 
 season! For the revelation itself there was only 
 Lilia : one slight, negligible female of an imperfect, 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 257 
 
 though dominant, animal species which has for some 
 generations bred, huckstered and died on its neg 
 ligible pill of dust. One young female among mil 
 lions, with such brief attractions for the occasional 
 male as the blind chemistry of nature has let happen 
 here on earth: a young female, too, preposterously 
 smeared with tinted grease, "gotten up" in the sem 
 blance of a "slave girl" for some quaint mortal 
 mummery called a "play!" Only Lilia, in short, 
 and something that gleamed out from her on Dun- 
 ster and rebuked him and humbled him. Yet she was 
 gentleness itself; and what she said was simple, al 
 most apologetic: 
 
 "Dear, I'm sorry. You may be right. I can't 
 reason with you. . . . And I shan't like it: only, 
 I'm afraid I shall, in a way. I mean there's a sort 
 of thrill in it ... not just a thrill, exactly; deeper. 
 I couldn't go on with life go on living at all if 
 I didn't see this through, somehow. I'd feel dowdy 
 all horrid and second rate ; inside, you know. It's 
 not being sensible, of course . . . and I do trust 
 you. I know what you're trying to spare me. I 
 love you for trying. . . . Oh, I am sorry not to 
 do what you ask me to! But I can't help it. It 
 isn't just being stubborn or conceited or thinking that 
 I but I can't tell you what it is. It's a sort of 
 compulsion. There are things I have to do my 
 own stupid way, just to feel right, or I'm done for. 
 Please stand by me ?" 
 
 Stand by her ! His weakness by her strength I It 
 was laughable ... no; it was torture. God in 
 heaven, if she should guess even the half of his 
 cowardice ! Would she then, because of his help- 
 
258 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 less need of her, still stand by him? For it was clear 
 enough now his life. All his days he had been 
 twisting, turning, skulking to right and left, stepping 
 (as he hoped, adroitly) to this side and that. Where 
 did his personal advantage lie? Over yonder? 
 Well, he would get there, somehow, in time ; it would 
 take time, though. He must first manoeuvre a little 
 . . . there were several possible dangers (quite pos 
 sible discomforts, at least) just ahead. He could 
 not reply to her. He was stunned and futile. He 
 had an odd momentary sense of her hovering far 
 above him . . . that Princess of the Tower, in his 
 old book rel-zel what was her name ! And there 
 was no twist or turn now that would reach her; 
 there was no climbing up to her, unless she should 
 take compassion on his great need of her. . . . 
 
 Dunster put out his hand, timidly^ he knew not 
 why and touched Lilians hair. 
 
 She caught his hand in both hers; her eyes filled 
 with tears. "Poor boy! it will be so much worse 
 for you, out there, if they are really ugly to me. . . . 
 I shan't mind it much. I'll be fighting them. . . ." 
 
 A bell sounded from the corridor, a sharp metallic 
 trill; it was just outside the dressing-room door. 
 Lilia responded to its brief clamor with instant ani 
 mation, with the gayest, most heart-breaking little 
 shrug of defiance. "Via, m'sieu. The first call. In 
 five minutes the curtain rises and I must beg you 
 to leave my dressing-room instantly!" 
 
 She pressed Dunster's hand tight against her 
 heart, slowly released it; and herself opened the 
 door. 
 
 Mme. d' Albert (as that good woman explained 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 259 
 
 volubly) was at that very moment raising her hand 
 to knock. Lilia greeted her with a smile. . . . 
 
 XXVII 
 
 When Dunster found himself alone in the closed 
 corridor he first started in the direction of the stage- 
 door: then stopped, after an uncertain step or two, 
 with taut muscles and clenching hands. No; it was 
 impossible. He could not return to his seat in the 
 third row and sit there, unobtrusively, during the 
 ordeal before them. For it was their ordeal now, 
 and he must be near Lilia, yet not so as to trouble 
 her ; he must watch her every movement, expression ; 
 he must be ready and able, if need be, to help her, 
 take some decisive action he knew not what. 
 
 There was just one thing to do, then ; he must find 
 some post behind the scenes, some favorable corner 
 if such a spot could be supposed to exist where 
 he could at once escape observation and command a 
 view of the stage. But how, in the given state of 
 his ignorance concerning that highly organized, yet 
 highly confusing, region "behind," he was to make 
 his way to this desired (if existent) spot well, that 
 was a problem, among other problems, which he 
 dared not even wait to envisage. 
 
 For all his ardent interest in the theatre, an in 
 terest he had had chiefly to nourish upon its liter 
 ature, Dunster knew little of the practical conduct 
 of a performance; the vague, dim world of "back 
 stage" still remained for him (to his secret chagrin) 
 
260 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 a region of unsatisfied curiosity, of potential ro 
 mance. As a boy in Vanesburg, it is true, he had 
 scraped acquaintance, while fishing one day down 
 river, with the stage-carpenter of the local Opera 
 House, and had later on more than one occasion 
 managed to snuff about dog-like at his heels through 
 the chill, musty, rope-hung twilight behind the asbes 
 tos curtain; but, being only fourteen and appropri 
 ately shy, he had never quite dared to "work" his 
 august Olympian (in shirt sleeves) as he so longed to 
 do; nor had the Olympian, who lacked the divine 
 gift of sympathy, ever of his own accord asked him 
 to "come round some night" though Dunster had 
 for several months lived just at the thrilling brink 
 of that supreme possibility. Then his friend, the 
 carpenter, was discharged for drunkenness and all 
 was over. . . . 
 
 Now, strangely, that world which he had al 
 ways believed, in the least humble of senses, would 
 be his world, as it had once been, however humbly, 
 his mother's was all about him; and he was not 
 even aware of it as an experience in itself, an oppor 
 tunity long postponed. He was aware of nothing 
 but his purpose. He was an intruder here without 
 rights, but he must assume his rights and make good 
 his intrusion. Above all, and without delay, he must 
 discover the precise nook from which he could most 
 effectively watch, and watch over, Lilia ; and he must 
 manage somehow to stay there even if staying 
 there meant a shattering of every rule and precedent 
 of the house. He was already questing and thus far 
 had made his way without challenge, though fol 
 lowed by more than one surprised glance as he passed 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 261 
 
 from the corridor into the wings, where a group of 
 ten or more apparently naked Nubians stood whis 
 pering together. To avoid them, Dunster, with as 
 casual an air as he could assume, had strolled off 
 "up stage," and now, to get his bearings, was stand 
 ing in a space of deep shadow blocked out from the 
 already lighted fore-stage, where the actors would 
 soon be playing their parts, by an unbroken and 
 immensely high screen of unpainted canvas, elab 
 orately reinforced, propped and stayed: the reverse 
 side of Mondory's daring terrace-wall. From top 
 to bottom of this canvas wall, which was faintly 
 translucent, cut the sharp dead-black silhouette of 
 the solidly framed stairway on its further side ; and 
 Dunster had noted from the corridor door a steep 
 ladder-like construction with light hand-rails, which 
 mounted dizzily to a small railed-in platform. That 
 platform, he now made out, must give access to those 
 silhouetted steps in whose shadow he briefly hes 
 itated. That high-hung platform was evidently the 
 one entrance on this side of the stage into the 
 "box-set" (a term of doubtful accuracy for an "ex 
 terior," however masked from the wings) which 
 so completely shut him out from the rather shal 
 low space, between the canvas wall and the curtain, 
 reserved for the acted play. He must cross, then, 
 the full breadth of the canvas wall, to the opposite 
 wings. 
 
 While he had thus been studying his ground more 
 minutes had slipped by him than he was aware of, 
 and he had barely turned to tread cautiously over 
 when he was startled and rooted again by the timed, 
 slow thuds of three clumping, portentous blows, as 
 
262 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 of a wooden maul on a butcher's block a signal tra 
 ditional in France from at least the days of Moliere. 
 These were immediately followed by a pervasive, 
 indefinable whirring, and the faint translucence on 
 the vast canvas screen strengthened perceptibly. A 
 strong draught of cold air swirled about him, bring 
 ing with it a composite mustiness which momentarily 
 caught him back to boyhood and Vanesburg to the 
 chill, rope-hung twilight behind the asbestos curtain 
 of the old Opera House. (So homogeneous is this 
 special world!) Then from just beyond the canvas 
 screen came voices, declaiming or rather, it seemed 
 to him, shouting, with an exaggerated emphasis both 
 false and absurd: the inevitable first impression of 
 a novice taken, during the progress of a play, "be 
 hind." Dunster's throat tightened; his spine regis 
 tered that authentic, unduplicated quaver which only, 
 for its born votaries, the lifting or withdrawing 
 curtain of a theatre can give. . . . 
 
 But he must now make haste. Moving cautiously, 
 however, for there were several looming obstruc 
 tions ahead, Dunster crossed on the balls of his feet, 
 and as he did so the figure of a man drew out from 
 some cave of darkness and moved shadow-like be 
 fore him. There was, for Dunster, a sense of the 
 furtive here; and he was the more surprised, when 
 some hidden source of light suddenly defined this 
 figure, to recognize the remembered bulk of M. 
 Mondory. Dunster stopped in his tracks. M. Mon- 
 dory, he felt, might very well not be in a mood to 
 suffer an intruder gladly. But his next and happier 
 intuition was to pursue him, and he was just at his 
 heels when Mondory squeezed forward between the 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 263 
 
 under-electrician and the inner casing of the pro 
 scenium. 
 
 It would just be possible, Dunster saw, to push 
 through after the great man who was doubtless also 
 an abruptly difficult man and so place himself close 
 beside him; but this would be only to risk what he 
 had already gained by following him a position 
 quite as favorable as he could have hoped. By 
 standing a little back from a short ape-like figure in 
 charge of some lighting apparatus, Dunster was him 
 self in shadow, impeding no one; and which was 
 after all the essential he commanded a fairly com 
 prehensive view of the stage. Moreover, the arch 
 way which provided the one entrance to the stage 
 on this side was shut off from him by an elbow of 
 scenery, part of the "backing" of the arch, and this 
 concealed him from the actors making their exits, 
 or waiting for their entrance cues in the wings. The 
 ape-like creature at the light had, it is true, felt his 
 presence and cast a doubtful backward eye on him; 
 but had then dismissed him as doubtless one more 
 satellite of the Master, duly drawn in to a tolerated 
 orbit, and so not to be disturbed. As for M. Mon- 
 dory, his attention was elsewhere. . . . 
 
 Dunster's first glance had brought him the tem 
 porary, slight relief of Lilia's mere absence from 
 the stage. He had reached his present post in a 
 state of almost suffocating apprehension, and it was 
 only by a supreme effort that he had forced himself 
 to take in the scene before him. Lilia was not 
 there . . . and for an instant he had closed his 
 eyes. When he had again looked outward his will 
 had triumphed; the mutiny of his nerves was dom- 
 
264 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 inated; the captain, at last was in control. But 
 those twin pen-strokes between his brows had never 
 been deeper, more sharply defined. . . . 
 
 And his eyes now as if independently of his mind 
 were aware of beauty: a beauty which, even at 
 this close range and from an unfortunate angle, his 
 anxieties could not wholly deny him; for it was the 
 beauty of an achieved simplicity, attained by the 
 cunningest omissions, by the mere leaving out of 
 much that a less inspired director might easily have 
 considered essential. It was a beauty, in the setting, 
 of broad masses, plain surfaces, suggestively com 
 posed into a whole whose proportions, and all 
 of whose values for the imagination, were seized 
 by the eye directly, as at a stroke. And in the 
 costumes it was a beauty of quiet line, but of 
 daring, complex color a stir of color which in 
 itself created, through underharmonies and sharp 
 surface dissonances, the very atmosphere, at once 
 troubling and enervating, of the palace gardens of 
 Koro the King. . . . Yet of the play itself Dunster 
 knew nothing; Lilia had not mentioned it; and though 
 the strangeness of her make-up had puzzled him, 
 as had the naked Nubians in the wings, there had 
 been no opportunity for questions. And now the 
 dialogue escaped him; he caught but a chance word 
 or so at best; his ear was untrained his preoccupa 
 tion too absorbing. It did not matter. The eye 
 crosses all borders and knows a universal language. 
 Thanks to the evoking magic of Mondory, the flow 
 ing pantomime of the actors, he was aware of beauty 
 and perhaps more calmed and heartened by it than 
 he could possibly have been aware. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 265 
 
 And still Lilia was not on the stage. Her en 
 trance came late, then. He was glad of that. No 
 doubt his concern for her had led him to exaggerate 
 the importance of her part. Why he could not im 
 agine he saw now, of course, that it was absurd, 
 but he had somehow persuaded himself that she was 
 to attempt a leading role ! Three seconds of com 
 mon sense might have saved him that anxiety. Mon- 
 dory wasn't an idiot he was a director of genius. 
 Whatever his feeling for Lilia, however highly he 
 thought of her, he would never have assigned her 
 the impossible. He wouldn't have risked too much, 
 either for her or for himself. Indeed, it might 
 well be 
 
 In short, what Dunster now began desperately to 
 hope was that the charm of the play itself a charm 
 which had penetrated even to him in his wretched 
 distraction might, in a sense, fight Lilia's battle 
 for her and carry her through at least to safety. 
 If only her entrance were long enough delayed to 
 establish the mood of enchantment, the very spell 
 of the play ! But wasn't it even now established? 
 
 From where he stood no part of the audience was 
 visible, but none the less he was feeling its presence 
 now as a responsive entity a tuned and vibrating 
 instrument. Its silences were surely not hostile, for 
 they were absolute, broken only from time to time 
 by a wordless murmur just the stirring of a little 
 breeze over still waters; the very breath of appreci 
 ation. Rarely, too, came a subdued ripple of laugh 
 ter at some fortunate sally, some mot which had 
 always just escaped Dunster though he thrilled to 
 it tardily, not for itself, but in sympathetic response 
 
266 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 to them! It was difficult to feel that an audience 
 yielding itself so graciously could be nursing a griev 
 ance. Yet he was rather puzzled than reassured. . . . 
 
 One certainty came to him, however. As the 
 moments passed he more and more felt how nat 
 urally, how inevitably, with what instinctive delight, 
 Lilia must have entered during long hours of study 
 and rehearsal into the uncompromisingly artistic 
 life of Mondory's theatre and of this little play. 
 Here indeed was her world ! A world of no conces 
 sions, a world apart; existing solely in and for that 
 beauty which is the radiant effluence, the breath and 
 being, of the free creative spirit of man. Lilians 
 world. . . . He had often guessed at it blindly 
 enough. Now, when he might least have expected 
 clearness, it all came clear; and for the first time 
 he understood that felt strangeness in Lilia, the touch 
 of aloofness which kept her always, in spite of her 
 almost startling vividness of feeling and directness 
 of action, a little detached from life or rather, 
 from the common conception of what things in life 
 are prizes to be struggled for, intrigued for, seized 
 and held at all costs, no matter how ruthlessly or 
 meanly. It was a revelation. But was it not, he 
 asked himself, a revelation that carried with it a 
 naked sword and placed it between them? For 
 Lilia's world was not yet his; was perhaps even 
 barred to him, since he had never before truly per 
 ceived it; had never before honestly, and now almost 
 despairingly, desired to enter it. He had been too 
 long, too consciously, too persistently, wanting (and 
 scheming for) other things. . . . 
 
 The hushed waters out there were stirred 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 267 
 
 again; there was even a light riffle of applause; and 
 Dunster's mind was caught back from its moment of 
 wandering. The spell of the play was still potent, 
 then; was intact. They were not barbarians out 
 there. Surely, when Lilia came, they would at least 
 wait suspend judgment. . . . They would at least 
 let her speak. . . . That was all he asked. He 
 knew it impossible that Lilia herself should break 
 this spell. Exquisite as the play was, her beauty 
 would accord with it, would bring to it overtones. 
 If only God! if only, when she first stepped out to 
 them, this fine-spun web were not torn, this bright 
 bubble pricked, by some swift gesture of malice which 
 she could neither foresee nor control ! 
 
 Dunster dug his nails deep into the palms of his 
 hands. All the intolerable, suffocating weight of his 
 anxiety rolled back upon him. His eyes rested dully, 
 without vision, upon Koro, the young King, who now 
 languidly graceful stood by the lily pool among 
 his hump-backed ministers. Yet he was being su 
 perbly rendered, Koro ! He brought his slim, indif 
 ferent hands soundlessly together and Dunster heard 
 him utter the name "Akeenah" ... A crouching 
 slave turned at the name and swiftly, on all fours, 
 leaped up that interminable straight stair, lined with 
 those motionless black-men. . . . Dunster pressed 
 forward, staring above the very shoulder of the 
 intent, ape-like creature of the light. He could see 
 now the small entrance-platform at the top of the 
 stair. On reaching this the slave stood up ; his atti 
 tude became negligent. There was no hurry now. 
 He had made his exit. But he remained on the high 
 platform, waiting apparently for someone who was 
 
268 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 mounting to it from the wings below. Meanwhile, 
 Koro the King was declaiming verses exquisite 
 verses in praise of Akeenah: and no one in all 
 Paris reads verse more alluringly than Paul Fri- 
 bourg; that is understood. These were his golden 
 moments, and he was making the most of them. But 
 Dunster had forgotten his existence. His eyes were 
 straining upward, fixed on that high-hung platform ; 
 and he was not alone. Mondory's eyes, too, were 
 staring upward. ... And neither Mondory, the 
 great director, nor Dunster, the obscure teacher of 
 English, was conscious of a burst of applause, a 
 genuine tribute of enthusiasm which swept over the 
 house. Paul Fribourg was inimitable; there was 
 really nobody like him; he had scored again. . . . 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 There was probably no one in the theatre, not 
 even the moderately gratified Paul Fribourg, more 
 attentive to that spontaneous tribute of applause 
 than Lilia. It was, she felt, a good omen ; correctly 
 timed by her, it would serve to cover a somewhat 
 awkward entrance, against which, as she knew, 
 Fabrice had vainly protested those first rather 
 giddy steps downward. Young Raoul Dubosc, the 
 messenger-slave, who was madly in love with Lilia 
 and with several other young ladies in other com 
 panies, had remained beside her on the platform to 
 encourage her, to wish her every success. As the 
 applause began he seized her hand. "It's going 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 269 
 
 splendidly," he whispered. "Nobody thought it 
 would but the old Magician. Trust him! You'll 
 have a triumph, Lilia and Fabrice will die of it. 
 Try not to forget me to-morrow when you're fa 
 mous!" He pressed her hand, hard, and Lilia gave 
 him the very smile he had hoped for. A nice boy, 
 Raoul but she was listening, listening. . . . The 
 applause slowly diminished. She snatched her hand 
 sharply from Raoul, not meaning to rebuke him (in 
 deed, she was no longer aware of him) . She stepped 
 forward to the edge of the platform. The demon 
 stration was all but over. . . . 
 
 It was her instinct just to anticipate its dying 
 away; and she was right although she knew it a 
 theatrical crime to break in even by a split second 
 upon another actor's "round." But this moment 
 might prove critical for her, and hence for the play. 
 It was to the play itself that she felt her responsi 
 bility not to Paul Fribourg. And if Dunster's 
 information was correct, if there was the least prob 
 ability the house would turn ugly when she appeared 
 before it and try in some way to punish Mondory, 
 through her, then she must do everything possible 
 to disarm that mistaken malice. Moreover, that 
 wretched young poet with his white, pock-marked 
 face ! Unstrung by privation and by the im 
 minence of what still seemed to him a fantastic hope, 
 he had fled from Paris down to his old home, St. 
 Remy, far in the south. . . . He had made a beau 
 tiful thing, and she would fight for it; she would 
 fight for him ! It would be difficult for them out 
 there to break from applause into immediate hos 
 tility. She must manage an inconspicuous entrance; 
 
270 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 take them unaware As she stepped from the plat 
 form she was conscious again of that strange sense 
 of duality which sometimes came to her, and always 
 with a rapt elation. She seemed rather to be floating 
 beside her body, to be directing it from without, than 
 to be trammeled by it. Nor was it the eyes of the 
 house that she felt now fastened upon her. Akeenah 
 would do for them; a slave-girl. But there was a 
 greater drama than Akeenah's afoot a more thrill 
 ing role. "Lilia Chenoworth" . . . and no one 
 else could play that part. It was hers to create 
 hers. And what an audience ! What a magnificent 
 scene to play! 
 
 Koro the King was awaiting Akeenah now at the 
 foot of the stair; he had summoned Akeenah, and 
 Akeenah must descend to him. But even here, in 
 these sheltered gardens, the day was warm, and 
 Akeenah need not hurry. Soon enough he would 
 touch her hand with his long, clinging, pulseless fin 
 gers ; but one must not shiver, even so very little, at 
 the touch of a King. . . . Let Akeenah loiter, then, 
 step by step. Let Akeenah fancy she was going else 
 where down into that dusty courtyard, perhaps, 
 which a certain balcony of the women's quarters 
 overlooked: the courtyard of the camel-drivers. 
 Surely that youngest of the drivers the boy with 
 the wild eyes, the blue-black shag of hair, the skin 
 like a ripe olive dipped in gold-dust would be wait 
 ing for her ! . . . And thus Lilia loitered down the 
 long stair, past the motionless Eunuchs, the aloofness 
 and seduction of her languor drawn tantalizingly 
 about her like a veil. There was a dream in her eyes, 
 and the slight smile on her lips was born of that 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 271 
 
 dream. It was evidently not for Koro the King, her 
 smile ! 
 
 Lilia's descent of the long, straight stair was a 
 triumph of the intuitive imagination. There was no 
 escaping its Tightness. She was simply recreating in 
 its integrity the young pock-marked poet's private 
 but no longer incommunicable dream. 
 
 Nevertheless, as she neared the stair's foot the 
 attempted demonstration against her began. A cer 
 tain group toward the back of the house broke out 
 in shrill sifflets, mingled with a tentative groan or 
 two, and one sharply launched, satirical "J'aime 
 son jeu quoif Jeux d'enfance!" followed by a 
 woman's high, forced whinny of laughter. But 
 there were instant cries of protest and indignation 
 and a gathering indefinable hum from every part of 
 the house, as of swarming bees. . . . Lilia saw Paul 
 Fribourg's handsome, self-satisfied face change sud 
 denly before her to the stiff mask of panic; his hand 
 as he raised it to invite her own was shaking gro 
 tesquely. He started to lead her across to his hump 
 backed ministers. As he did so, the hissing was 
 sharply renewed, and as sharply protested. The au 
 dience began to seethe like a cauldron. Fribourg 
 completely unnerved stopped dead. It was a deso 
 lating moment. To break the rhythm of the per 
 formance, Lilia knew, might be to forfeit every 
 thing; and yet it would be impossible to play at all if 
 the house, because of her, divided and lost itself in 
 the excitement of its own emotions. Lilia snatched 
 her hand from Paul Fribourg's and walked forward 
 to the edge of the stage. There were no footlights, 
 the lighting was contrived from above; she could 
 
272 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 look into the very eyes of the audience. She stood 
 quietly before them, her hands clasped behind her 
 and presently there was astounded silence. Then she 
 spoke to them, with simplicity, with dignity, almost 
 with detachment; but the careful restraint of her 
 words was in the most piquant contrast to the spark 
 ling intensity of life flung out like a challenge a 
 glove in the face of all Paris from those vivid 
 green-blue eyes, from that tossed flame of hair. 
 
 "Mesdames et messieurs whether I please or 
 displease you is of small importance. My role, hap 
 pily for you and for me, it seems is brief. If I 
 plead with you, it is on behalf of our play, and of the 
 poet who has sacrificed so much to create it. He is 
 young, he is poor, he is ill too ill to be present to 
 night. But he, at least, is worthy of you; he can 
 dream exquisite dreams for you; he has the secret 
 of beauty. And if beauty is not respected in 
 France above all, here, in this theatre " 
 
 The house rose to her. Her words were drowned 
 in their cheering, their frantic applause. . . . Dun- 
 ster found himself, momentarily, in full sight of the 
 audience, wedged tight between the famous director, 
 Mondory, and the ape-like under-electrician. Mon- 
 dory had seized his hand and was wringing it with 
 violence. They were all a little mad but Lilia. 
 Dunster saw her turn easily from them, with that 
 slight, remembered shrug of hers, and give her hand 
 again to the stupefied Paul Fribourg; but he could not 
 hear her sharp, whispered command to him "Play, 
 idiot! . . .begin playing . . . lead me over . . . 
 We must play !" 
 
 Paul Fribourg mechanically obeyed her led her 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 273 
 
 across to his ministers, several of whom had ceased 
 to remember that they were hump-backed and old. 
 It was fortunate, both because of its halting delivery 
 and the dangerous matter of it, that the first resumed 
 speech of Koro the King went for nothing in the sub 
 siding tumult of the house. But Lilia shuddered, 
 and for the first time her heart sank within her, as 
 he read the lines. Their "sensitiveness" their pat 
 absurdity in the given circumstances cut through 
 her confidence like a knife. If they should begin to 
 laugh, out there ! . . . However, the still shaken 
 Fribourg rather mumbled than spoke : 
 
 "Behold my true conqueror. . . . Queen Dagmar 
 may imperil my empire which is nothing. But 
 Akeenah imperils my self-esteem which is every 
 thing ... I love her and she does not love me. 
 Is it not so, Akeenah ?" 
 
 Ah ! That was over safely. And Akeenah 
 responded with her serene aloofness : "Am I not your 
 Majesty's slave?" The far-away dream had re 
 turned to her eyes, and the mystery of that slight, 
 distant smile (so evidently not for Koro the King) 
 again played, elusive as light on leaf-flecked water, 
 about her lips. The house was hushing itself rest 
 lessly to attention. Everything would depend now, 
 if the rhythm, the spell, of this day-dream were to 
 be recreated, upon Paul Fribourg's instant recovery 
 of his role. Possibly some interior echo from that 
 unheard line of his "But Akeenah imperils my self- 
 esteem" had so shocked his vanity as to sweep 
 away, at a breath, all the inhibitions of his panic. 
 His taut muscles relaxed, the ironic melancholy of 
 
274 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 his fine voice did not fail him; he resumed at once all 
 the charm and authority of his studied art. 
 
 But the moments leading up to Lilia's last her 
 one long and important speech were far too brief. 
 The house had quieted itself, indeed; but was still 
 too acutely conscious of its repressed corporate ex 
 citement. As she began the speech Lilia felt this 
 self-consciousness of the audience like an impeding 
 veil; she could not reach freely out to them; but she 
 felt also that she could at least win through. For 
 they were u with" her now out there; but rather in 
 a sporting sense, as partisan backers, than in the one 
 sense that makes inspired playing possible. An au 
 dience must yield itself to a performer unconsciously, 
 as a lulled instrument to be played upon; if it is se 
 cretly humming with independently stirred vibrations 
 no actor, however gifted or experienced, can master 
 it. Ah no matter ! She would do what she could. 
 If the play were no longer in danger as she left the 
 stage, she would be content. 
 
 The delicate cadence of the lines drew from her 
 a pure, unforced music: 
 
 "Alas, it is true, O Son of the Moon and Stars, 
 that I do not love you. For it is not given us to love 
 or not to love, or, loving, to love always one and no 
 
 other. And if I loved you yesterday, who knows 
 
 
 Then a grotesque, an incredible thing happened. 
 One of the King's Eunuchs, one of that line of gigan 
 tic black men ranged, with their bright scimitars, 
 along the high, straight stairway to the unseen ter 
 race above, suddenly, enormously sneezed. . . . 
 He was the second Eunuch below the topmost the 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 275 
 
 last as the eye mounted whose entire figure was vis 
 ible from the orchestra chairs; and not only did he 
 sneeze thus once, but it was immediately clear, from 
 his agonized expression, that he must soon sneeze 
 again: only, he did not. . . . With contorted 
 shoulders, writhen forehead, with one black paw 
 clutched tightly across his nose and mouth, he waited 
 waited then ever so tentatively relaxed, resum 
 ing his former fixed pose ; immobile silent. It was 
 more than flesh and blood, already at fever pitch, 
 could stand. The audience rocked with hysterical 
 laughter; wildly, obscenely. . . . The play, Lilia, 
 were blotted from existence. 
 
 (Are they not, in truth, blotted from the sympa 
 thies, the very consciousness, of you who merely 
 read of this "mirth-provoking incident"? Yet you 
 may not even plead the emotional contagion of the 
 crowd, of those shaken ones set shoulder to shoulder 
 about you. You are presumably alone. And it 
 may just be possible to ask you to reflect a little on 
 tragedy and comedy and why what is irresistibly 
 absurd is never for the philosopher if such a being 
 exists quite so funny as it seems. For laughter is 
 but a mechanism of our weakness; an escape. We 
 escape by it from the intolerable. It is intolerable 
 that yonder man, made in the image of God, should 
 resemble a gorilla ; so we laugh and sink helplessly 
 back into chaos. It is intolerable that a statesman 
 should be a rascal, or a saint prove a hypocrite, or 
 that a fat man should fall in love; so we laugh 
 and escape. But above all is it intolerable that what 
 is noble and exquisite in life should lie always, in 
 
276 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 some sense, at the mercy of what is ignoble, or ma 
 licious, or merely banal ! This baffles, confounds us; 
 the universe should not be made so; we cannot bear 
 it and we escape. That is, we laugh O we laugh 
 consumedly! until the tears roll down our cheeks 
 and we are in pain, the full circle of folly ending as 
 it began. . . . Ha ! ha ! laugh and grow fat, my 
 children above all, fat-headed ! There lies the ulti 
 mate back-door from humanity; the perfect escape.) 
 
 For an instant Lilia stood dazed, staring outward, 
 her eyes childlike, incredulous. For an instant only 
 . . . It was over, then But no, it was not over! 
 She had still one part left to play: her own. Her 
 hands clenched at her sides; she caught at her breath; 
 and she finished her lines flinging every word out 
 clearly against that torturing clamor. But the day 
 dream was dead; a beautiful thing had been broken, 
 destroyed. . . . As she turned slowly and walked 
 from Koro the King to the foot of the stair, her 
 eyes went blind with tears, and she felt a crushing 
 fatigue, an immense lassitude, descend upon her and 
 fold itself about her. It was as if someone had 
 thrown a cape of lead across her slight shoulders. 
 It weighed her down. The thought of mounting that 
 steep, endless flight was an agony; but she straight 
 ened her shoulders; she set her feet to the stairs. If- 
 she could only reach that high, distant platform, 
 somehow and sink down on it and rest a moment 
 rest. ... As she neared her exit the full enthu 
 siasm of the house, roused again by her pathetic 
 gameness and no longer to be restrained, swept up 
 to her and swirled about her. Lilia was conscious of 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 277 
 
 it only as an inexplicable confusion. She had reached 
 the high platform now; she was away from them 
 at last. But she was curiously weak and giddy; the 
 prospect of that ladder-like descent to the wings 
 daunted her. The cape of lead still clasped her, fold 
 upon fold. It was all going to be rather difficult. 
 What was wrong with her with her head? She 
 had never felt just like this before or but once . . . 
 that time in Naples, with her father. . . . Her head 
 had no top to it; she put up her hand, vaguely; there 
 was a queer emptiness above her eyes. . . . She be 
 gan the steep descent to the wings almost blindly, 
 clinging to the hand-rails with desperation. . . . 
 Someone was calling up to her Her father ? 
 Ah, no. It was the Prince bless him. He hadn't 
 failed her, then! And sometimes she had feared, 
 just a little, he might be like like whom? It didn't 
 matter now, since he'd been fighting for her. Only, 
 she couldn't get down to him, so far ; it wasn't pos 
 sible. . . . And why did he keep calling to her ? 
 If they were ever ever to meet he must climb up 
 to her . . . only . . . that was the worst of these 
 towers . . . tower chambers . . . page 227 . . . 
 The Prince was coming, though . . . climbing . . . 
 oh, quickly, quickly ! She must help him! . . . 
 But who who was it she must help ? 
 
 She no longer knew. Yet she had thrown out her 
 hands to him as all went dark. She pitched forward. 
 
BOOK III 
 
 Extract from a letter sent by Dr. Franklin P. Gil- 
 man to Miss Betty Oilman, his sister, 
 a Senior at Alden. 
 
 Dunster Thorpe is on his feet again physically. 
 His broken arm was nothing, of course; but the 
 knee was badly wrenched and knee-joints are al 
 most always the devil. Mondory who is more of 
 a he-man than I supposed an actor could be, every 
 way has insisted, all through, on keeping Dunster 
 down there at that queer joint of his beside his 
 damned theatre. Personally, I don't see how Dun 
 ster can stand the place. Every time I go to see him, 
 and have to cross the courtyard right in front of the 
 lobby, it makes me feel ill. But Dunster and Mon 
 dory have become great friends, considering the dif 
 ference in their ages. Besides, I'm discovering you 
 never can tell how people with any kind of artistic 
 streak in them will take things. They're a queer lot 
 queerer even, I mean, than their reputation for be 
 ing queer; but I'm beginning to like them a good deal 
 some of them. For the kid's sake, I guess. 
 
 That isn't a reference to Dunster, naturally. He 
 hasn't got it, quite something, but God knows 
 what to call it, that Lilia had, and that Mondory has 
 a trace of too, I think. But I'm stronger for Dun- 
 
 279 
 
280 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 ster right along, as a person. He's taken this whole 
 thing exceptionally well. Damn language, when 
 you want to spread yourself and can't! I mean he's 
 been great. The real thing. But you've reason 
 to know how I feel about him, if you read my let 
 ters. As you don't always answer them very 
 promptly, I can't tell. 
 
 It will be just six weeks to-morrow since the kid's 
 death. 
 
 Bimps, old lady it's funny. You know I try to 
 be honest with myself and with you. And there's no 
 doubt I fell mighty hard for the kid, that week in 
 New York when I looked after her and that rotten 
 old wreck, her mother. I was crazy about her 
 thought I was, anyway I guess it comes to the same 
 thing. But I didn't know anything about her; I 
 hadn't even caught a glimpse of her then. I'm 
 only just beginning to find out what she really was 
 through Mondory and Dunster mostly now that 
 she's gone. Well, if she' d lived but the fact is I 
 never can think of her as not alive. But if she 
 had lived, I mean I'd have lost out anyway to 
 Dunster; and I suppose I'd have hated him and been 
 sore at her and cut up rough for a time. And then, 
 after awhile, I'd have gotten down to work, and the 
 whole thing would have worn of, and likely enough 
 I'd have fallen just as hard or harder for some other 
 girl, more of my own stripe. And of course, as it 
 is, I, probably shall do just that, some day. It's the 
 way we critters are made. But I'm not sticking to 
 my point, if I have one. 
 
 I guess what I'm trying to say is, that the kid's 
 death all the circumstances of it all that followed 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 281 
 
 my being the first doctor to get back there to her 
 and Dunster the newspaper sensation, filed with 
 the slimiest mixture of hysterics and scandal and 
 then her fishy father coming on like the Grand Mo 
 gul, smearing us all with crocodile tears, and bear 
 ing her poor broken little body of in a kind of infer 
 nal triumph well, the whole miserable, senseless, 
 pitiful mess 
 
 It was the strongest jolt of my life, that's all. 
 
 It's upset and shaken round a lot of things inside 
 of me. Sometimes I think my brain cells have an 
 entirely different arrangement. 
 
 I'm not heart-broken or anything foolish like it. 
 I'm not disgusted with life, not nearly so much so as 
 I ought to be. I don't feel a bit like quitting in fact, 
 I'm all right. I've been getting down to some real 
 work with Mockel lately and enjoying the grind 
 again. 
 
 But I'm a lot more willing to grant, than I was, 
 that there are a few things such as the kid lived by 
 we're never going to be able to find formulas for 
 in our laboratories. 
 
 I shan't forget Lilia. When I'm married and 
 have children and a long string of fancy letters 
 after my name in Who's Who and at least one of 
 my feet in the grave, at that she'll be right with 
 me, in a sort of way. And if the good wife doesn't 
 like it, she'll jusP have to lump it if she ever finds 
 out about it; which she won't unless I develop 
 senile complexes and talk in my sleep. And you can 
 tell the dear little predestined woman so for me, if 
 the occasion ever arises with my compliments! 
 
 Dunster insists he's going to sail home next week* 
 
282 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 He wants to get to work again, too. There's a play 
 of his some manager in New York has taken an in 
 terest in, and I supposed of course he was going back 
 to try to get it put on. I've been urging him to 
 tackle the manager hard and land him. But Dun- 
 ster tells me he's lost all interest in the thing; simply 
 says it's no good and shuts up like a clam. Doesn't 
 even want to talk about it. He rather thinks he'll 
 go directly back to his old job at Alden if you'll 
 have him. But that's a passing phase, I hope. He's 
 far too good for you, anyway just as the kid was. 
 Still, as I say, you never can tell what people with 
 an artistic streak will do. Certain things hit them 
 differently, and then they're stubborn as hell. 
 
 Sorry I swear so much in my letters. I know you 
 don't like it. But it's nothing to my usual language, 
 Bimps. So let's hope you don't up and marry a par 
 son on me, 'cause he might come between us and 
 then I'd have to do murder. I'm even learning to 
 swear pretty comfortably in French. Give me credit 
 for that much industry, at any rate! And remem 
 ber me to Prexy, some time, if you ever run into him 
 alone. I was strong for him, old lady oh, well, 
 naturally I was. He was so keen about the kid 
 
 II 
 
 Dunster Thorpe to Ruth Harrod : written on ship 
 board, while bound for New York. 
 DEAR RUTH 
 
 I'm in no mood on this ship for making conversa 
 tion to strangers; my knee is still too uncertain for 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 283 
 
 much walking about on ram-slippery decks; and I 
 can't read bad novels which don't interest me or 
 good ones either; they seem to interest me even less 
 twenty-four hours a day. May I talk to you? 
 
 All that I've been able to write you, or your father, 
 up to now, has come from the surface. I haven't 
 dared at any time to strike in. I've given you the 
 outside of everything. Now, selfishly, I want to give 
 you the inside. I don't know why I should presume 
 to ask you to help me straighten out my mind again, 
 except that I know how under standingly you loved 
 Lilia. That is, I know I can count on you and I 
 haven't the strength to resist the temptation. You 
 were Lilia' s nearest friend, and I. quite frankly and 
 shamelessly now want you to be mine. I think Lilia 
 would want that, too. 
 
 But some of the straightening-out work is done al 
 ready the worst of it. I began writing you, on im 
 pulse, four days ago, and hour after hour during 
 those four days I tumbled every pent-up thing in me 
 out on paper, letting them come without order or 
 reason just as they would. As a result, I got some 
 sleep last night honest sleep for the first time 
 since sailing; and to-day I'm at least moderately 
 clear-headed. And all that chaotic stuff has gone into 
 a waste-basket where it belongs. This letter will 
 be different. For one thing, though it may be much 
 too long, it won { t be interminable. 
 
 The first week or two after Lilia' s death I could 
 think of nothing when I could think at all but the 
 absolutely meaningless cruelty and defeat of it. 
 What maddened me was the fact that her death was 
 
284 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 sheer accident; it might just as easily not have hap 
 pened. It seems to me that when a death is inevi 
 table, however much we may suffer because of it, we 
 are at least not affronted by it made sick and 
 ashamed at heart by the very spectacle of the uni 
 verse we live in. The universe then, at least, doesn't 
 seem to leer at us with the awful face of a congenital 
 idiot. 
 
 You see, Lilia had really won out. I keep hoping 
 she realized that; but one can't be sure. I had rushed 
 around back-stage with Mondory to tell her so. 
 When we got to the steps on the other side, she had 
 managed more than half the descent to the wings, but 
 we saw at once there was something wrong and called 
 to her to stay where she was and I started right up 
 for her. I had almost reached her, too, when she 
 fainted dead of. She was clinging to both the hand 
 rails at the time, and, steep as they were, if she had 
 simply sunk down on the steps I could have saved her 
 from falling. But just as she dropped, before I could 
 quite get to her, she flung her arms out and pitched 
 straight forward against me, and we were carried 
 down together. Well, even so, she might have been 
 slightly injured, as I was; or she might have been 
 seriously injured, and yet not have been killed. When 
 a person faints every muscle relaxes, and that's some 
 thing of a safeguard in itself. Then, too, I was par 
 tially able to break her fall; and Mondory, a big 
 man physically as well as every other way, was at the 
 foot of the steps and didn't hesitate to throw his full 
 weight under us both in an effort to protect Lilia. It 
 simply need not have happened; all the probabilities 
 were against it. It happened, though. And not to 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 285 
 
 me, or to Mondory, who was only shaken and 
 bruised but to her. 
 
 Forgive me for paining you again with all this. 
 But it's just from all this that I've had to start and 
 try to find my way to the possibility of caring to live 
 at all in a world, a scheme of things, that can cre 
 ate loveliness with a chance indifference and then f 
 with an equal indifference, let it be destroyed. 
 
 Well, God knows I haven't found my way to 
 caring much yet; but I believe I'm going to find it, 
 through Lilia. I don't mean by that I've any notion 
 she's leaning down toward me from the gold bar of 
 some medieval painter's heaven. And yet, in a way, 
 I do mean pretty much that if you'll take it all as 
 a symbol for something we can't possibly reason 
 about or understand. We have to think in images, 
 using the stuff our senses bring us; and all that our 
 senses know is earth earth and the stars. We can't 
 help our limitations; but neither can I help, now, a 
 conviction that they really are "limitations." The 
 real Bible, the true book of God, is sealed to us; 
 written in a language we haven't yet learned to de 
 cipher. But we shall learn; we must. 
 
 It all comes with me, finally, to this: Lilia' s death 
 wasn't the ending of her story ; so it couldn't possibly 
 be the ending of mine. And even if I were forced 
 to admit (which I'm not) that when Lilia pitched 
 forward from those steps all the beauty of her, that 
 clear flame in her, vanished at a breath I should 
 still say y Lilia's story isn't over. For even so, in 
 what sense has she vanished for you or for me? 
 She is as real to us now, when we think of her, as 
 when we might have put out our hands to touch her. 
 
286 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 She's far more real to me now, more in all things 
 a part of my life, than she was when we last talked 
 about her together in New York. 
 
 But I'm in no mood for concessions. It isn't only 
 in our fallible memories, or through her influence on 
 our uncertain lives, that Lilia's story remains unfin 
 ished. Lilia "is." / know little more than that, 
 and nothing more surely. 
 
 There's another, less comforting, conviction has 
 come to me, too. 
 
 If Lilia had lived, she would have grown beyond 
 me, and I should ultimately have lost her. 
 
 There were some lines in the part she was playing 
 that night which I can't get out of my head. I keep 
 hearing them, exactly as she gave them, over and 
 over "For it is not given us to love or not to love, 
 or, loving, to love always one and no other. And if 
 
 I loved you yesterday, who knows " That's a 
 
 fair translation of them. I've translated the whole 
 play from Mondory's prompt copy. I want to see if 
 I can't get it done somewhere at home. But Mon- 
 dory shrugs his shoulders over that. tf There's no 
 money in it," he says. 
 
 Of course, why Lilia should have loved me at all 
 and I say it with no false humbleness / can't pos 
 sibly imagine. It isn't a clap-trap phrase when I ad 
 mit I was unworthy of her. I am unworthy of 
 her. She was always quite literally above me. 
 She lived wholly by instinct in a world of ideal values. 
 She made no effort to do so, had no theories about 
 it; it was her natural home. It isn't mine, and may 
 never be. But it may partly become so, simply be- 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 287 
 
 cause I'm too lonely now, in my own over-crowded 
 world, without her. 
 
 There's some old fairy story that keeps vaguely 
 buzzing round me nowadays just the dim impres 
 sion of it. I can't get it back distinctly, but it seems 
 to fit in well, to everything. A Princess in a tower 
 and her lover far below, earth-chained. Then she 
 loosens the bright ladder of her hair to him, and he 
 begins to climb. Yes, it must have been painful for 
 the Princess, and difficult for the lover; but don't 
 smile! Children accept such things because there is 
 "magic" in them. Just as I accept this old story 
 somehow, as a kind of prophetic dream, because 
 there was magic in her . 
 
 Mondory felt that magic, believed in it as I do. 
 All artists are children. It's because there's still a 
 child in me, somewhere, that I begin to hope. Some 
 day I may even find the artist in myself and begin 
 to climb. 
 
 I wish you could know Mondory. You wouldn't 
 like him at first. He's a vast, pufy -looking man, liv 
 ing behind a sort of perpetual disguise, a travesty of 
 himself. Frank Gilman couldn't stand him, thought 
 him at least half charlatan, until one night, when 
 Frank had come down to see me, Mondory walked 
 into my bedroom, sat down on the edge of my bed, 
 and began to talk about Lilia. He speaks English 
 pretty fluently, but with a grotesque accent. Well, 
 he said one or two things then just threw them of 
 casually with his great elephantine shrug that I'll 
 not soon forget. I spare you his accent 
 
 "Dr. Gilman is a scientist not? Alors! he 
 
288 LILIA CHENOWORTH 
 
 thinks the soul is a little chemistry, hein? Some tem 
 porary glue? Ah, bonf But how will he explain 
 for us our little Lilia? He cannot." 
 
 And later he added: "Ah, mes enfants, beauty 
 is always defeated; and never defeated. But you 
 shall ask not me but le bon Dieu to tell you why!" 
 
 Always defeated and never defeated. That's 
 the paradox I've got to learn to accept and live by, 
 Ruth. "Glory and loveliness have passed away" 
 Only, they can't pass away since they are part of 
 it all. 
 
 Will you please tell your father for me that I shall 
 stay in New York two or three days, not longer; 
 then return to Alden and if he'll permit me take 
 up my old duties there? He may not care to arrange 
 this, or it may no longer be possible. But in any 
 case I shall go up to see him, and you and my 
 dear Mrs. Sterrett. I'm homesick for her, I find 
 and for my old rooms. 
 
 What I shall do next year I haven't the least idea. 
 I may go back to Paris and apprentice myself, so to 
 speak, to Mondory. He says he's willing to have 
 me no, I'll be honest; he particularly urged me to 
 come. But I don't know. That's an alien world for 
 me, and always would be. I'm a provincial Amer 
 ican at heart. I don't know 
 
 / must learn to care more first what becomes of 
 me. I do care and I don't. I suppose I'm more 
 tired than I realize, and, because of that, more dis 
 couraged. It will all take time 
 
 For you see, I've discovered at last that I'm not 
 a genius like Lilia. I'm inhibited in too many ways. 
 
LILIA CHENOWORTH 289 
 
 Yet I know one thing clearly. The one possible re 
 lease for me now is the release of art of an art 
 uncompromising in its quest for beauty. If I can 
 ever find strength and courage for that quest, I 
 shall be at peace. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Ruth Harrod brought this letter to her father, 
 in his study. Seating herself on the arm of his chair, 
 she read it to him. When she concluded, they were 
 both silent. Then Dr. Harrod slipped his arm about 
 her. u Yes yes," he mused, "so Lilia was right 
 about him, too, after all. . . ." 
 
 "Do you mind his coming here, Ruth?" he added. 
 
 Ruth avoided her father's eyes. But she shook 
 her head slowly, once, and leaned her shoulder 
 against his. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Lilia Chenoworth. 
 
 PS3507 
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 1$ 
 
 1922 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS