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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1d3aacd --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #62821 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62821) diff --git a/old/62821-0.txt b/old/62821-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 485f20f..0000000 --- a/old/62821-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3680 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poet, by Meredith Nicholson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Poet - -Author: Meredith Nicholson - -Illustrator: Franklin Booth - W. A. Dwiggins - -Release Date: August 2, 2020 [EBook #62821] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POET *** - - - - -Produced by D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -By Meredith Nicholson - - - THE POET. Illustrated. - - OTHERWISE PHYLLIS. With frontispiece in color. - - THE PROVINCIAL AMERICAN AND OTHER PAPERS. - - A HOOSIER CHRONICLE. With Illustrations. - - THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS. With illustrations. - - -HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - -BOSTON AND NEW YORK - - - - -THE POET - - -[Illustration: POOR MARJORIE (p. 3)] - - - - - THE POET - - BY - - MEREDITH NICHOLSON - - WITH PICTURES BY FRANKLIN BOOTH - AND DECORATIONS BY W. A. DWIGGINS - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - - The Riverside Press Cambridge - 1914 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - _Published October 1914_ - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - “POOR MARJORIE!” (Page 3) _Frontispiece_ - - “EVERY TRIFLING THING HAD TO BE ARGUED” 74 - - THE APPROACHING CANOE 110 - - “ELIZABETH!” 188 - - - - -[Illustration: PART ONE] - - - - -[Illustration] - -PART ONE - -I - - -“The lonesomeness of that little girl over there is becoming painful,” -said the Poet from his chair by the hedge. “I can’t make out whether -she’s too dressed up to play or whether it’s only shyness.” - -“Poor Marjorie!” murmured Mrs. Waring. “We’ve all coaxed her to -play, but she won’t budge. By the way, that’s one of the saddest -cases we’ve had; it’s heartbreaking, discouraging. Little waifs like -Marjorie, whose fathers and mothers can’t hit it off, don’t have a fair -chance,--they are handicapped from the start.--Oh, I thought you knew; -that’s the Redfields’ little girl.” - -The Poet gazed with a new intentness at the dark-haired child of five -who stood rigidly at the end of the pergola with her hands clasped -behind her back. The Poet All the People Loved was a philosopher also, -but his philosophy was not quite equal to forecasting the destiny of -little Marjorie. - -“Children,” he observed, “should not be left on the temple steps when -the pillars of society crack and rock; the good fairies ought to carry -them out of harm’s way. Little Marjorie looks as though she had never -smiled.” And then he murmured with characteristic self-mockery,-- - - “Oh, little child that never smiled-- - -Somebody might build a poem around that line, but I hope nobody ever -will! If that child doesn’t stop looking that way, I shall have to cry -or crawl over there on my knees and ride her pickaback.” - -Mrs. Waring’s two daughters had been leading the children in a march -and dance that now broke up in a romp; and the garden echoed with -gleeful laughter. The spell of restraint was broken, and the children -began initiating games of their own choosing; but Marjorie stood -stolidly gazing at them as though they were of another species. Her -nurse, having failed to interest her sad-eyed charge in the games that -were delighting the other children, had withdrawn, leaving Marjorie to -her own devices. - -“She’s always like that,” the girl explained with resignation, “and you -can’t do anything with her.” - -A tall, fair girl appeared suddenly at the garden entrance. The abrupt -manner of her coming, the alert poise of her figure, as though she had -been arrested in flight and had paused only for breath before winging -farther, interested the Poet at once. - -She stood there as unconscious as though she were the first woman, -and against the white gate of the garden was imaginably of kin to the -bright goddesses of legend. She was hatless, and the Poet was grateful -for this, for a hat, he reflected, should never weigh upon a head so -charming, so lifted as though with courage and hope, and faith in -the promise of life. A tennis racket held in the hollow of her arm -explained her glowing color. Essentially American, he reflected, this -young woman, and worthy to stand as a type in his thronging gallery. -She so satisfied the eye in that hesitating moment that the Poet -shrugged his shoulders impatiently when she threw aside the racket -and bounded across the lawn, darting in and out among the children, -laughingly eluding small hands thrust out to catch her, and then -dropped on her knees before Marjorie. She caught the child’s hands, -laughed into the sad little face, holding herself away so that the -homesick, bewildered heart might have time to adjust itself, and then -Marjorie’s arms clasped her neck tightly, and the dark head lay close -to the golden one. - -There was a moment’s parley, begun in tears and ending in laughter; -and then Marian tripped away with Marjorie, and joined with her in the -mazes of a dance that enmeshed the whole company of children in bright -ribbons and then freed them again. The Poet, beating time to the music -with his hat, wished that Herrick might have been there; it was his -habit to think, when something pleased him particularly, that “Keats -would have liked that!”--“Shelley would have made a golden line of -this!” He felt songs beating with eager wings at the door of his own -heart as his glance followed the fair girl who had so easily turned a -child’s tears to laughter. For Marjorie was laughing with the rest now; -in ten minutes she was one of them--had found friends and seemed not to -mind at all when her good angel dropped out to become a spectator of -her happiness. - -“I have saved my trousers,” remarked the Poet to Mrs. Waring, who had -watched the transformation in silence; “but that girl has spoiled her -frock kneeling to Marjorie. I suppose I couldn’t with delicacy offer to -reimburse her for the damage. If there were any sort of gallantry in me -I would have sacrificed myself, and probably have scared Marjorie to -death. If a child should put its arms around me that way and cry on my -shoulder and then run off and play, I should be glad to endow laundries -to the limit of my bank account. If the Diana who rescued Marjorie has -another name--” - -“I thought you knew! That’s Marian Agnew, Marjorie’s aunt.” - -“I’ve read of her in many books,” said the Poet musingly, “but she’s an -elusive person. I might have known that if I would sit in a pleasant -garden like this in June and watch children at play, something -beautiful would pass this way.” - -Mrs. Waring glanced at him quickly, as people usually did to make sure -he was not trifling with them. - -“You really seem interested in the way she hypnotized Marjorie! Well, -to be quite honest, I sent for her to come! She was playing tennis a -little farther up the street, but she came running when I sent word -that Marjorie was here and that we had all given her up in despair.” - -“My first impression was that she had dropped down from heaven or -had run away from Olympus. Please don’t ask me to say which I think -likelier!” - -“I’m sorry to spoil an illusion, but after all Marian is one of the -daughters of men; though I remember that when she was ten she told me -in solemn confidence that she believed in fairies, because she had seen -them--an excellent reason! She graduated from Vassar last year, and I -have an idea that college may have shaken her faith in fairies. She’s -going to begin teaching school next fall,--she has to do something, -you know. She’s an eminently practical person, blessed with a sound -appetite, and she can climb a rope, and swim and play tennis all day.” - -“The Olympians ate three meals a day, I imagine; and we shouldn’t -begrudge this fair-haired Marian her daily bread and butter. Let me -see; she’s Marjorie’s aunt; and Marjorie’s father is Miles Redfield. I -know Redfield well; his wife was Elizabeth Agnew. I saw a good deal of -them in their early married days. They’ve agreed to quit--is that the -way of it?” - -“How fortunate you are that people don’t tell you gossip! I suppose -it’s one of the rewards of being a poet! The whole town has been upset -by the Redfields’ troubles;--they have separated. I’ve sent Elizabeth -up to Waupegan to open my house--made an excuse to get her away. -Marjorie’s with her grandmother, waiting for the courts to do something -about it;--as though courts could do anything about such cases!” she -ended with feeling. - -The Poet, searching for Marjorie in the throng of children, made no -reply. - -“You are a poet,” Mrs. Waring resumed tauntingly, with the privilege of -old friendship, “and have a reputation for knowing the human heart. -Why can’t you do something about the Redfields’ troubles?--there’s a -fine chance for you! It begins to look as though sentiment, romance, -love--all those things you poets have been writing about for thousands -of years--have gone out with the old-fashioned roses. I confess that -it’s because I’m afraid that’s true that I’m clinging to all the -flowers my grandmother used to love--and I’m nearly seventy and a -grandmother myself.” - -She was still a handsome woman, and the Poet’s eyes followed her -admiringly as she crossed the lawn, leaving him to find an answer to -her question. In the days of his beginnings she had been his steadfast -friend, and he was fond of telling her that he had learned the -kindliness and cheer he put into his poems from her. - -She and her assistants were marshaling the children for refreshments -under a canopy at the farther corner of the garden, and the animated -scene delighted and charmed him. He liked thus to sit apart and -observe phases of life,--and best of all he loved scenes like this -that were brightened by the presence of children. He was a bachelor, -but the world’s children were his; and he studied them, loved them, -wrote for them and of them. He was quite alone, as he liked to be -often, pondering the misfortunes of the Redfields as lightly limned -by Mrs. Waring. Little Marjorie, as she had stood forlornly against -the pergola, haunted him still in spite of her capitulation to the -charms of her Aunt Marian. He knew perfectly well that Mrs. Waring -hadn’t meant what she said in her fling about the passing of poetry and -romance; she was the last woman in the world to utter such sentiments -seriously; but he was aware that many people believed them to be true. - -Every day the postman brought him letters in dismaying numbers from -people of all sorts and conditions who testified to the validity of his -message. The most modest of men, he found it difficult to understand -how he reached so many hearts; he refused to believe himself, what -some essayist had called him, “a lone piper in the twilight of the -poets.” With maturity his attitude toward his own genius had changed; -and under his joy in the song for the song’s sake was a deep, serious -feeling of responsibility. It was a high privilege to comfort and -uplift so many; and if he were, indeed, one of the apostolic line of -poets, he must have a care to keep his altar clean and bright for those -who should come after him. - -He was so deep in thought that he failed to observe Marian advancing -toward him. - -“If you please, I have brought you an ice, and there will be cake and -bonbons,” said the girl. “And Mrs. Waring said if you didn’t mind I -might sit and talk to you.” - -“You should be careful,” said the Poet, taking the plate, “about -frightening timid men to death. I was thinking about you so hard that -my watch and my heart both stopped when you spoke to me.” - -“And this,” exclaimed the girl, “from the poet of gracious words! I’ve -been told that I’m rather unexpected and generally annoying, but I -didn’t know I was so bad as that!” - -“Then let us begin all over again,” said the Poet. “Mrs. Waring told -me your name and gave you a high reputation as an athlete, and spoke -feelingly of your appetite. It’s only fair to give you a chance to -speak for yourself. So kindly begin by telling me about Marjorie and -why she’s so forlorn, and just what you said to her a while ago!” - -The color deepened in the girl’s face. It was disconcerting to be -sitting beside the Poet All the People Loved and to be talking to him -for the first time in her life; but to have him ask a question of so -many obscure connotations, touching upon so many matters that were best -left to whispering gossips, quite took her breath away. - -“Not a word that I can remember,” she answered; “but Marjorie said, -‘Take me home!’--and after she had cried a little she felt better and -was glad to play.” - -“Of course that’s only the most superficial and modest account of the -incident,” the Poet replied; “but I can’t blame you for not telling. If -I knew how to do what you did, I should very likely keep the secret. -Another case of the flower in the crannied wall,-- - - Little flower--but _if_ I could understand - What you are, root and all, and all in all, - I should know what God and man is!” - -“You give me far too much credit,” the girl responded gravely. “It was -merely a matter of my knowing Marjorie better than any one else at -the party; I hadn’t known she was coming or I should have brought her -myself.” - -“I thought you would say something like that,” the Poet observed, “and -that is why I liked you before you said it.” - -She looked at him with the frank curiosity aroused by her nearness to -a celebrity. Now that the first little heartache over the mention of -Marjorie had passed, she found herself quite at ease with him. - -“My feelings have been hurt,” he was saying. “Oh, nobody has told -me--at least not to-day--that I am growing old, or that it’s silly to -carry an umbrella on bright days! It’s much worse than that.” - -Sympathy spoke in her face and from the tranquil depths of her violet -eyes. - -“I shall hate whoever said it, forever and forever!” she averred. - -“Oh, no! That would be a very serious mistake! The person who hurt my -feelings is the nicest possible person and one of my best friends. So -many people are saying the same thing that we needn’t ascribe it to any -individual. Let us assume that I’ve been hurt by many people, who say -that romance and old-fashioned roses are not what they were; that such -poetry as we have nowadays isn’t of any use, and that we are all left -floundering here - - As on a darkling plain, - Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, - Where ignorant armies clash by night. - -I want you to tell me, honestly and truly, whether you really believe -that.” - -He was more eager for her reply than she knew; and when it was not -immediately forthcoming a troubled look stole into his face. The -readiness of the poetic temperament to idealize had betrayed him for -once, at least, and he felt his disappointments deeply. The laughter of -the children floated fitfully from the corner of the garden where they -were arraying themselves in the tissue caps that had been hidden in -their bonbons. A robin, wondering at all the merriment, piped cheerily -from a tall maple, and a jay, braving the perils of urban life, winged -over the garden with a flash of blue. The gleeful echoes from the -bright canopy, the bird calls, the tender green of the foliage, the -scents and sounds of early summer all spoke for happiness; and yet -Marian Agnew withheld the reply on which he had counted. She still -delayed as though waiting for the robin to cease; and when a flutter of -wings announced his departure, she began irresolutely:-- - -“I wish I could say no, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am to -disappoint you--you, of all men! I know you wouldn’t want me to be -dishonest--to make the answer you expected merely to please you. Please -forgive me! but I’m not sure I think as you do about life. If I had -never known trouble--if I didn’t know that faith and love can die, then -I shouldn’t hesitate. But I’m one of the doubting ones.” - -“I’m sorry,” said the Poet; “but we may as well assume that we are -old friends and be frank. Please believe that I’m not bothering you in -this way without a purpose. I think I know what has obscured the light -for you. You are thinking of your sister’s troubles; and when I asked -you what sorcery you had exercised upon little Marjorie, you knew her -mother had been in my mind. That isn’t, of course, any of my affair, -in one sense; but in another sense it is. For one thing, I knew your -sister when she was a girl--which wasn’t very long ago. And I know -the man she married; and there was never any marriage that promised -so well as that! And for another thing, I don’t like to think that -we’ve cut all the old moorings; that the anchorages of life, that were -safe enough in old times, snap nowadays in any passing gust. The very -thought of it makes me uncomfortable! You are not fair to yourself when -you allow other people’s troubles to darken your own outlook. When you -stood over there at the gate, I called the roll of all the divinities -of light and sweetness and charm to find a name for you; when you ran -to Marjorie and won her back to happiness so quickly, I was glad that -these are not the old times of fauns and dryads, but that you are very -real, and a healthy-minded American girl, seeing life quite steadily -and whole.” - -“Oh, but I don’t; I can’t!” she faltered; “and doesn’t--doesn’t the -mistake you made about me prove that what poets see and feel isn’t -reality, isn’t life as it really is?” - -“I object,” said the Poet with a humorous twinkle, “to any such -sacrifice of yourself to support the wail of the pessimists. I -positively refuse to sanction anything so sacrilegious!” - -“I’m not terribly old,” she went on, ignoring his effort to give a -lighter tone to the talk; “and I don’t pretend to be wise; but life -can’t be just dreams and flowers: I see that! I wish it were that way, -for everything would be so simple and easy and every one would live -happy ever after.” - -“I’m afraid that isn’t quite true,” said the Poet. “I can’t think of -anything more disagreeable than half an hour spent in a big hothouse -full of roses. I’ve made the experiment occasionally; and if all -creation lived in such an atmosphere, we should be a pale, stifled, -anæmic race. And think of the stone-throwing there would be if we all -lived in glass houses!” - -She smiled at this; and their eyes met in a look that marked the -beginnings of a friendship. - -“There’s Marjorie, and I must go!” she cried suddenly. “Isn’t she quite -the prettiest of them all in her paper cap! We haven’t really decided -anything, have we?” she asked, lingering a moment. “And I haven’t even -fed you very well, for which Mrs. Waring will scold me. But I hope -you’re going to like me a little bit--even if I am a heathen!” - -“We were old friends when the stars first sang together! Something -tells me that I shall see you soon again--very soon; but you have not -got rid of me yet; I crave the honor of an introduction to Marjorie.” - -In a moment the Poet stood with Marjorie close at his side, her hand -thrust warmly and contentedly into his, while all the other children -pressed close about. He was telling them one of the stories in rhyme -for which he was famous, and telling it with an art that was not less -a gift from Heaven than the genius that had put the words into his -ink-pot. Thousands of children had heard that poem at their mothers’ -knees, but to-day it seemed new, even to those of the attentive young -auditors whose lips moved with his, repeating the quaint, whimsical -phrases and musical lines that seem, indeed, to be the spontaneous -creation of any child who lisps them. - -And when he began to retreat, followed by the clamorous company with -demands for more, he slipped away through the low garden gate, leaned -upon it and looked down upon them with feigned surprise as though he -had never seen them before. - -“How remarkable!” he exclaimed, lingering to parley with them. “Tell -you another story! Who has been telling stories! I just stopped -to look at the garden and all the flowers jumped up and became -children--children calling for stories! How very remarkable! And all -the brown-eyed children are pansies and all the blue-eyed ones are -roses,--really this is the most remarkable thing I ever heard of!” - -They drew closer as he whispered:-- - -“You must do just what I tell you--will you promise, every single boy -and girl?” - -They pressed nearer, presenting a compact semicircle of awed faces, -and nodded eagerly. An older boy giggled in excess of joy and in -anticipation of what was to come, and his neighbors rebuked him with -frowns. - -“Now, when I say ‘one,’ begin to count, and count ten slowly--oh, very -slowly; and then, when everybody has counted, everybody stand on one -foot with eyes shut tight and hop around real quick and look at the -back wall of the garden--there’s a robin sitting there at this very -minute;--but don’t look. Nobody must look--yet! And when you open your -eyes there will be a fairy in a linen duster and a cocked hat; that is, -_maybe_ you’ll see him! Now shut your eyes and count--one!” - -When they swung round to take him to task for this duplicity, he had -reached the street and was waving his hand to them. - - - - -II - - -Under the maples that arched the long street the Poet walked homeward, -pondering the afternoon’s adventures. His encounter with the children -had sent him away from Mrs. Waring’s garden in a happy mood. Down -the long aisle of trees the tall shaft of the soldiers’ monument -rose before him. He had watched its building, and the memories that -had gone to its making had spoken to his imagination with singular -poignancy. It expressed the high altitudes of aspiration and endeavor -of his own people; for the gray shaft was not merely the center of -his city, the teeming, earnest capital of his State; but his name and -fame were inseparably linked to it. He had found within an hour’s -journey of the monument the material for a thousand poems. As a boy -he had ranged the near-by fields and followed, like a young Columbus, -innumerable creeks and rivers; he had learned and stored away the -country lore and the country faith, and fixed in his mind unconsciously -the homely speech in which he was to express these things later as -one having authority. So profitably had he occupied his childhood and -youth that years spent on “paven ground” had not dimmed the freshness -of those memories. It seemed that by some magic he was able to cause -the springs he had known in youth (and springs are dear to youth!) -to bubble anew in the crowded haunts of men; and urban scenes never -obscured for him the labors and incidents of the farm. He had played -upon the theme of home with endless variations, and never were songs -honester than these. The home round which he had flung his defense of -song domiciled folk of simple aims and kindly mirth; he had established -them as a type, written them down in their simple dialect that has the -tang of wild persimmons, the mellow flavor of the pawpaw. - -He turned into the quiet street from which for many years he had sent -his songs winging,--an absurdly inaccessible and delightful street that -baffled all seekers,--that had to be rediscovered with each visit by -the Poet’s friends. Not only was its seclusion dear to him; but the -difficulties experienced by his visitors in finding it tickled his -humor. It was pleasant to be tucked away in a street that never was -in danger of precipitating one into the market-place, and in a house -set higher than its neighbors and protected by an iron fence and a -gate whose chain one must fumble a moment before gaining access to the -whitest of stone steps, and the quaint door that had hospitably opened -to so many of the good and great of all lands. - -There was a visitor waiting--a young man who explained himself -diffidently and seemed taken aback by the cordiality with which the -Poet greeted him. - -“Frederick Fulton,” repeated the Poet, waving his hand toward a -chair. “You are not the young man who sent me a manuscript to read -last summer,--and very long it was, indeed, a poetic drama, ‘The -Soul of Eros.’ Nor the one who wrote an ode in hexameters ‘To the -Spirit of Shelley,’ nor yet the other one who seemed bent on doing -Omar Khayyám over again--‘Verses from Persian Sources’ he called it. -You needn’t bother to repudiate those efforts; I have seen your name -in the ‘Chronicle’ tacked to very good things--very good, and very -American. Yes, I recall half a dozen pieces under one heading--‘Songs -of Journeys’ End’--and good work--excellent! I suppose they were all -refused by magazines or you wouldn’t have chucked them into a Sunday -supplement. Oh, don’t jump! I’m not a mind reader--it’s only that I’ve -been through all that myself.” - -“Not lately, though, of course,” Fulton remarked, with the laugh that -the Poet’s smile invited. - -“Not so lately, but they sent me back so much when I was young, and -even after I wasn’t so young, that the account isn’t balanced yet! -There are things in those verses of yours that I remember--they were -very delicate, and beautifully put together,--cobwebs with dew clinging -to them. I impudently asked about you at the office to make sure there -really was a Frederick Fulton.” - -“That was kind and generous; I heard about it, and that emboldened me -to come and see you--without any manuscript in my pocket!” - -“I should like another handful like those ‘Journeys’ End’ pieces. -There was a rare sort of joy in them, exultance, ardor. You had a line -beginning-- - - ‘If love should wait for May to come--’ - -that was like a bubble tossed into the air, quivering with life and -flashing all manner of colors. And there was something about swallows -darting down from the bank and skimming over the creek to cool their -wings on the water. I liked that! I can see that you were a country -boy; we learned the alphabet out of the same primer!” - -“I have done my share of ploughing,” Fulton remarked a little later, -after volunteering the few facts of his biography. “There are lots of -things about corn that haven’t been put into rhyme just right; the -smell of the up-turned earth, and the whisper and glisten of young -leaves; the sweating horses as the sun climbs to the top, and the -lonesome rumble of a wagon in the road, and the little cloud of dust -that follows and drifts after it.” - -“And little sister in a pink sunbonnet strolls down the lane with a jug -of buttermilk about the time you begin to feel that Pharaoh has given -you the hardest job in his brickyard! I’ve never had those experiences -but”--the Poet laughed--“I’ve sat on the fence and watched other boys -do it; so you’re just that much richer than I am by your experience. -But we must be careful, though, or some evil spirit will come down -the chimney and tell us we’re not academic! I suppose we ought to be -threshing out old straw--you and I--writing of English skylarks and -the gorse and the yew and nightingales, instead of what we see out of -the window, here at home. How absurd of us! A scientist would be caught -up quick enough if he wrote of something he knew nothing about--if, -for example, an astronomer ventured to write an essay about the -starfish; and yet there are critics who sniff at such poetry as yours -and mine”--Fulton felt that the laurel had been pressed down on his -brows by this correlation--“because it’s about corn and stake-and-rider -fences with wild roses and elderberry blooming in the corners. You had -a fine poem about the kingfisher--and I suppose it would be more likely -to impress a certain type of austere critics if you’d written about -some extinct bird you’d seen in a college museum! But, dear me, I’m -doing all the talking!” - -“I wish you would do much more. You’ve said just what I hoped you -would; in fact, I came to-day because I had a blue day, and I needed to -talk to some one, and I chose you. I know perfectly well that I ought -really to quit bothering my head about rhyme. I get too much happiness -out of it; it’s spoiling me for other things.” - -“Let’s have all the story, then, if you really want to tell me,” said -the Poet. “Most people give only half confidences,” he added. - -“I went into newspaper work after I’d farmed my way through college. -I’ve been with the ‘Chronicle’ three years, and I believe they say I’m -a good reporter; but however that may be, I don’t see my way very far -ahead. Promotions are uncertain, and the rewards of journalism at best -are not great. And of course I haven’t any illusions about poetry--the -kind I can do! I couldn’t live by it!” - -He ended abruptly with an air of throwing all his cards on the table. -The Poet picked up a paper-cutter and began idly tapping his knee with -it. - -“How do you know you can’t!” - -It was an exclamation rather than a question, and he smiled at the -blank stare with which Fulton received it. - -“Oh, I mean that it won’t pay my board bill or buy clothes! It feeds -the spirit, maybe, but that’s all. You see, I’m not a genius like you!” - - -“We will pass that as an irrelevant point and one you’d better not -try to defend. I agree with you about journalism, so we needn’t argue -that. But scribbling verses has taught you some things--the knack of -appraising material--quick and true selection--and the ability to write -clean straight prose, so you needn’t be ungrateful. Very likely it has -cultivated your sympathies, broadened your knowledge of people, shown -you lights and shadows you would otherwise have missed. These are all -worth while.” - -“Yes, I appreciate all that; but for the long future I must have a -surer refuge than the newspaper office, where the tenure is decidedly -uncertain. I feel that I ought to break away pretty soon. I’m -twenty-six, and the years count; and I want to make the best use of -them; I’d like to crowd twenty years of hard work into ten and then -be free to lie back and play on my little tin whistle,” he continued -earnestly. “And I have a chance to go into business; Mr. Redfield has -offered me a place with him; he’s the broker, you know, one of the real -live wires and already very successful. My acquaintance with people all -over the State suggested the idea that I might make myself useful to -him.” - -The Poet dropped the paper-cutter, and permitted Fulton to grope for it -to give himself time to think. - -The narrow circumference within which the game of life is played had -always had for the Poet a fascinating interest; and he read into -coincidences all manner of mysteries, but it was nothing short of -startling that this young man, whom he had never seen before, should -have spoken Miles Redfield’s name just when it was in his own mind. - -“I know Redfield quite well,” he said, “though he’s much younger than I -am. I understand that he’s prospering. He had somewhat your own problem -to solve not so very long ago; maybe you don’t know that?” - -“No; I know him only in a business way; he occasionally has news; he’s -been in some important deals lately.” - -“It’s odd, but he came to me a dozen years ago and talked to me much as -you have been talking. Art, not poetry, was his trouble. He had a lot -of talent--maybe not genius but undeniable talent. He had been to an -art school and made a fine record, and this, he used to say jokingly, -fitted him for a bank clerkship. He has a practical side, and most -of the year could clean up his day’s work early enough to save a few -daylight hours for himself. There’s a pen-and-ink sketch of me just -behind your head that’s Miles’s work. Yes; it’s good; and he could -pluck the heart out of a landscape, too;--in oils, I mean. He was -full of enthusiasm and meant to go far. Then he struck the reefs of -discouragement as we all do, and gave it up; got a job in a bank, got -married--and there you are!” - -“It’s too bad about his domestic affairs,” Fulton volunteered, as the -Poet broke off with a gesture that was eloquent with vague implications. - -“He seems to have flung aside all his ideals with his crayons and -brushes!” exclaimed the Poet impatiently. “Mind you, I don’t blame him -for abandoning art; I always have an idea that those who grow restless -over their early failures and quit the game haven’t heard the call very -clearly. A poet named McPhelim once wrote a sonnet, that began-- - - ‘All-lovely Art, stern Labor’s fair-haired child,--’ - -working out the idea that we must serve seven years and yet seven -other years to win the crown. We might almost say that it’s an endless -apprenticeship; we are all tyros to the end of the chapter!” - -“It must be the gleam we follow forever!” said the young man. “No -matter how slight the spark I feel--I want to feel that it’s worth -following if I never come in sight of the Grail.” - -It was not the way of the Poet to become too serious even in matters -that lay nearest his heart. - -“We must follow the firefly even though it leads us into bramble -patches and we emerge on the other side with our hands and faces -scratched! It’s our joke on a world that regards us with suspicion -that, when we wear our singing robes into the great labor houses, we -are really more practical than the men who spend their days there. I’m -making that statement in confidence to you as a comrade and brother; -we must keep our conceit to ourselves; but it’s true, nevertheless. -The question at issue is whether you shall break with the ‘Chronicle’ -and join forces with Miles Redfield; and whether doing so would mean -inevitably that you must bid your literary ambitions get behind you, -Satan.” - -Fulton nodded. - -“Of course,” he said, “there have been many men who first and last have -made an avocation of literature and looked elsewhere for their daily -bread: Lamb’s heart, pressed against his desk in the India office, was -true to literature in spite of his necessities. And poets have always -had a hard time of it, stealing like Villon, or inspecting schools, -like Arnold, or teaching, like Longfellow and Lowell; they have usually -paid a stiff price for their tickets to the Elysian Fields.” - -The Poet crossed the room, glanced at the portrait that Redfield had -made of him, and then leaned against the white marble mantel. - -“We’ve wandered pretty far afield; we are talking as though this thing -we call art were something quite detachable--something we could stand -off and look at, or put on or off at will. I wonder if we won’t reach -the beginning--or the end--of the furrow we’re scratching with our -little plough, by agreeing that it must be in our lives, a vital part -of us, and quite inseparable from the thing we are!” - -“Yes; to those of high consecration--to the masters! But you are -carrying the banner too high; my lungs weren’t made for that clearer -ether and diviner air.” - -“Let us consider that, then,” said the Poet, finding a new seat by the -window. “I have known and loved half a dozen men who have painted,--we -will take painters, to get away from our own shop,--and have passed the -meridian and kept on painting without gaining any considerable success -as men measure it; never winning much more than local reputation. They -have done pot-boilers with their left hands, and not grumbled. They’ve -found the picking pretty lean, too, and their lives have been one long -sacrifice. They’ve had to watch in some instances men of meaner aims -win the handful of silver and the ribbon to wear in their coats; but -they’ve gone on smilingly; they are like acolytes who light tapers -and sing chants without ever being summoned to higher service at the -altar--who would scruple to lay their hands on it!” - -“They, of course, are the real thing!” Fulton exclaimed fervently, “and -there are scores of such men and women. They are amateurs in the true -sense. I know some of them, and I take off my hat to them!” - -“I get down on my knees to them,” said the Poet with deep feeling. -“Success is far from spelling greatness; it takes a great soul to find -success and happiness in defeat. You will have to elect whether you -will take your chances with the kind of men I’ve mentioned or delve -where the returns are surer; and that’s a decision you will have to -make for yourself. All I can do is to suggest points for consideration. -Quite honestly I will say that your work promises well; that it’s -better than I was doing at your age, and that very likely you can -go far with it. How about prose--the novel, for example? Thackeray, -Howells, Aldrich--a number of novelists have been poets, too.” - -“Oh, of course I mean to try a novel--or maybe a dozen of them! In -fact,” Fulton continued, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m working -right now on a poetical romance with a layer of realism here and there -to hold it together. It’s modern with an up-to-date setting. I’ve done -some lyrics and songs to weave into it. There’s a poet who tends an -orchard on the shore of a lake,--almost like Waupegan,--and a girl he -doesn’t know; but he sees her paddling her canoe or sometimes playing -tennis near an inn not far from his orchard. He leaves poems around -for her to find, tacked to trees or pinned to the paddle in her canoe; -I suppose I’m stealing from Rosalind and Orlando. She’s tall, with -light brown hair,--there’s a glint of gold in it,--and she’s no end -beautiful. He watches her at the tennis court--lithe, eager, sure of -hand and foot; and writes madly, all kinds of extravagant songs in -praise of her. The horizon itself becomes the net, and she serves her -ball to the sun--you see he has a bad case! You know how pretty a girl -is on a tennis court,--that is, a graceful girl, all in white,--a tall, -fair girl with fluffy hair; a very human, wide-awake girl, who can make -a smashing return or drop the ball with maddening ease just over the -net with a quick twist of the wrist. There’s nothing quite like that -girl--those girls, I should say!” - -“I like your orchard and the lake, and the goddess skipping over the -tennis court; but I fancy that behind all romance there’s some realism. -You sketch your girl vividly. You must have seen some one who suggested -her; perhaps, if it isn’t impertinent, you yourself are imaginably the -young gentleman casually spraying the apple trees to keep the bugs off!” - -It was in the Poet’s mind that young men of poetical temperament are -hardly likely to pass their twenty-sixth birthday without a love -affair. He knew nothing of Fulton beyond what the young man had just -told him, and presumably his social contacts had been meager; but his -voluble description of his heroine encouraged a suspicion that she was -not wholly a creature of the imagination. - -“Oh, of course I’ve had a particular girl in mind!” Fulton laughed. -“I’ve gone the lengths of realism in trying to describe her. I was -assigned to the Country Club to do a tennis tournament last fall, -and I saw her there. She all but took the prize away from a girl -college champion they had coaxed out from the East to give snap to -the exhibition. My business was to write a newspaper story about the -game, and being a mere reporter I made myself small on the side lines -and kept score. Our photographer got a wonderful picture of her--my -goddess, I mean--as she pulled one down from the clouds and smashed -it over the net, the neatest stroke of the match. It seemed perfectly -reasonable that she could roll the sun under her racket, catch it up -and drive it over the rim of the world!” - -“Her name,” said the Poet, as Fulton paused, abashed by his own -eloquence, “is Marian Agnew.” - -“How on earth did you guess that!” exclaimed the young man. - -“Oh, there is something to be said for realism, after all, and your -description gave me all but her name. I might quote a poem I have seen -somewhere about the robin-- - - ‘There’s only one bird sings like that-- - From Paradise it flew.’” - -“I haven’t heard her sing, but she laughed like an angel that -day,--usually when she failed to connect with the ball; but she didn’t -even smile when the joke was on the other girl,--that’s being a good -sportsman! I rather laid myself out praising her game. But if you know -her I shall burn my manuscript and let you do the immortalizing.” - -“On the other hand, you should go right on and finish your story. Don’t -begin to accumulate a litter of half-finished things; you’ll find such -stuff depressing when you clean up your desk on rainy days. As to -Marian, you’ve never spoken to her?” - -“No; but I’ve seen her now and then in the street, and at the theater, -and quite a bit at Waupegan last fall. She has plenty of admirers and -doesn’t need me.” - -“I’m not so sure of that,” the Poet replied absently. - -“I must be going,” said the young man, jumping up as the clock chimed -six. “You’ve been mighty good to me; I shan’t try to tell you how -greatly I appreciate this talk.” - -“Well, we haven’t got anywhere; but we’ve made a good beginning. I wish -you’d send me half a dozen poems you haven’t printed, in the key of -‘Journeys’ End.’ And come again soon!” - -He stood on the steps and watched the young fellow’s vigorous stride as -he hurried out of the tranquil street. Oftener than not his pilgrims -left nothing behind, but the Poet was aware of something magnetic -and winning in Fulton. Several times during the evening he found -himself putting down his book to recur to their interview. He had not -overpraised Fulton’s verses; they were unusual, clean-cut, fresh, and -informed with a haunting music. Most of the young poets who sought the -Poet’s counsel frankly imitated his own work; and it was a relief to -find some one within the gates of the city he loved best of all who had -notched a different reed. - -The Poet preferred the late hours for his writing. Midnight found him -absorbed in a poem he had carried in his heart for days. Some impulse -loosened the cords now; it began to slip from his pencil quickly, line -upon line. It was of the country folk, told in the _lingua rustica_ -to which his art had given dignity and fame. The lines breathed -atmosphere; the descriptive phrases adumbrated the lonely farmhouse -with its simple comforts as a stage for the disclosure of a little -drama, direct, penetrating, poignant. He was long hardened to the -rejections of rigorous self-criticism, and not infrequently he cast -the results of a night’s labor into the waste-paper basket; but he -experienced now a sense of elation. Perhaps, he reflected, the various -experiences of the day had induced just the right mood for this task. -He knew that what he had wrought was good; that it would stand with his -best achievements. He made a clean copy of the verses in his curiously -small hand with its quaint capitals, and dropped them into a drawer -to lose their familiarity against the morrow’s fresh inspection. Like -all creative artists, he looked upon each of his performances with -something of wonder. “How did I come to do that, in just that way? -What was it that suggested this?” If it were Marjorie and Marian, or -Elizabeth Redfield!... Perhaps young Fulton’s enthusiasm had been a -contributing factor. - -This association of ideas led him to open a drawer and rummage among -old letters. He found the one he sought, and began to read. It had been -written from Lake Waupegan, that pretty teacupful of blue water which, -he recalled, young Fulton had chosen as the scene for his story. The -Redfields had gone there for their honeymoon, and Elizabeth had written -this letter in acknowledgment of his wedding gift. It was not the usual -formula of thanks that brides send fluttering back to their friends; -and it was because it was different that he had kept it. - - * * * * * - -“We are having just the June days that you have written about, and -Miles and I keep quoting you, and saying over and over again, ‘he must -have watched the silvery ripple on the lake from this very point!’ or, -‘How did he know that clover was like that?’ And how did you?... Miles -brought his painting-kit, and when we’re not playing like children he’s -hard at work. I know you always thought he ought to go on; that he had -a real talent; and I keep reminding him of that. You know we’ve got a -little bungalow on the edge of Nowhere to go to when we come home and -there’ll be a line of hollyhocks along the fence in your honor. Miles -says we’ve got to learn to be practical; that he doesn’t propose to let -me starve to death for Art’s sake! I’m glad you know and understand -him so well, for it makes you seem much closer; and the poem you wrote -me in that beautiful, beautiful Keats makes me feel so proud! I didn’t -deserve that! Those things aren’t true of me--but I want them to be; -I’m going to keep that lovely book in its cool green covers where I -shall see it the first and last thing every day. Your lines are already -written in my heart!” - - * * * * * - -The Poet turned back to the date: only seven years ago! - -The sparrows under the eaves chirruped, and drawing back the blind he -watched the glow of dawn spread through the sky. This was a familiar -vigil; he had seen many a dream vanish through the ivory portals at the -coming of day. - - - - -III - - -A certain inadvertence marked the Poet’s ways. His deficiencies in -orientation, even in the city he knew best of all, were a joke among -his friends. He apparently gained his destinations by good luck rather -than by intention. - -Incurable modesty made him shy of early or precipitate arrivals at any -threshold. Even in taking up a new book he dallied, scanned the covers, -pondered the title-page, to delay his approach, as though not quite -sure of the author’s welcome and anxious to avoid rebuff. The most -winning and charming, the most lovable of men--and entitled to humor -himself in such harmless particulars! - -The affairs that men busied themselves with were incomprehensible to -him. It was with a sense of encroachment upon forbidden preserves -that he suffered himself to be shot skyward in a tall office building -and dropped into a long corridor whose doors bore inscriptions that -advertised divers unfamiliar occupations to his puzzled eyes. - -The poem that had slipped so readily from his pencil in the watches -of the night had proved, upon inspection in the light of day, to be -as good as he had believed it to be, but he carried it stowed away in -his pocket, hoping that he might yet detect a shaky line that further -mulling would better, before submitting it to other eyes. - -This was a new building and he had never explored its fastnesses -before. He was staring about helplessly on the threshold of Miles -Redfield’s office, where there was much din of typewriters, when his -name was spoken in hearty tones. - -“Very odd!” the Poet exclaimed; “very odd, indeed! But this is the way -it always happens with me, Miles. I start out to look for a dentist and -stumble into the wrong place. I’m in luck that I didn’t fall down the -elevator shaft. I can’t recall now whether it was the dentist I was -looking for or the oculist.” - -“I hoped you were looking for me!” said Redfield; “it’s a long time -since you remembered my presence on earth!” - -The typewriters had ceased to click and three young women were staring -their admiration. The Poet bowed to them all in turn, and thus -rubricated the day in three calendars! Redfield’s manifestations of -pleasure continued as he ushered the Poet into his private office. -Nothing could have been managed more discreetly; the Poet felt proud -of himself; and there was no questioning the sincerity of the phrases -in which Redfield welcomed him. It was with a sense of satisfaction -and relief that he soon found himself seated in a mahogany chair by -a broad window, facing Redfield, and listening to his assurances that -this was an idle hour and that he had nothing whatever to do but to -make himself agreeable to poets. The subdued murmur of the clicking -machines and an occasional tinkle of telephones reached them; but -otherwise the men were quite shut off from the teeming world without. -Redfield threw himself back in his chair and knit his hands behind his -head to emphasize his protestations of idleness. - -“I haven’t seen you since that last dinner at the University Club where -you did yourself proud--the same old story! I don’t see you as much as -I did before you got so famous and I got so busy. I wish you’d get into -the habit of dropping in; it’s a comfort to see a man occasionally that -you’re not inclined to wring money out of; or who adds zest to the game -by trying to get some out of you!” - -“From all accounts you take pretty good care of yourself. You look -almost offensively prosperous; and that safe would hold an elephant. -I suppose it’s crammed full of works of art--some of those old -etching-plates you used to find such delight in. I can imagine you -bolting the door and sitting down here with a plate to scratch the -urban sky-line. Crowd waiting outside; stenographers assuring them that -you will appear in a moment.” - -“The works of art in that safe are engravings all right,” laughed -Redfield; “I’ve got ’em to sell,--shares of stock, bonds, and that -sort of trash. I’ll say to you in confidence that I’m pretty critical -of the designs they offer me when I have a printing job to do. There’s -a traction bond I’m particularly fond of,--done from an old design of -my own,--corn in the shock, with pumpkins scattered around. Strong -local color! You used to think rather well of my feeble efforts; I -can’t remember that any one else ever did! Hence, as I rather like to -eat, I gave over trying to be another Whistler and here we are!” - -“Rather shabby, when you come to think of it,” laughed the Poet, “to -spurn my approval and advice to keep on. If you’d gone ahead--” - -“If I had, I should be seizing a golden opportunity like this to make a -touch--begging you for a few dollars to carry me over Saturday night! -No; I tell you my talent wasn’t big enough; I was sharp enough to -realize my limitations and try new pastures. Where a man can climb to -the top, art’s all right; but look at McPherson, Banning, Myers,--these -other fellows around here we’re all so proud of,--and where have they -got? Why, even Stiles, who gets hung in the best exhibitions and has a -reputation, barely keeps alive. I saw him in New York last week, and he -was in the clouds over the sale of a picture for two hundred dollars! -Think of it--and I wormed it out of him that that fixed his high-water -mark. He was going to buy an abandoned farm up in Connecticut -somewhere; two hundred dollars down on a thousand dollars of New -England landscape; said he hoped to paint enough pictures up there this -summer to make it possible to keep a horse! There’s an idea for you; -being rich enough to keep a horse, just when the zoölogical museums are -hustling to get specimens of the species before the last one dies! You -could do something funny, awfully funny on that--eminent zoölogist out -looking for a stuffed horse to stand up beside the ichthyosaurus and -the diplodocus.” - -The Poet expressed his gratitude for the suggestion good-naturedly. He -was studying the man before him in the hope of determining just how far -he had retrograded, if indeed there had been retrogression. Redfield -was a trifle stouter than he had been in the days of their intimacy, -and spoke with a confidence and assurance that the Redfield of old -days had lacked. The interview had come about much easier than he had -hoped, and Redfield’s warmth was making it easier. He was relieved to -find on this closer inspection that Redfield had not changed greatly. -Once or twice the broker’s brown eyes dimmed with a dreaminess that -his visitor remembered. He was still a handsome fellow, not over -thirty-five the Poet reckoned, and showing no traces of hard living. -The coarse, unruly brown hair had not shared the general smoothing-out -that was manifest in the man’s apparel. It was a fine head, set -strongly on broad shoulders. The Poet, always minutely observant in -such matters, noted the hands--slim, long, supple, that had once been -deft with brush and graver. In spite of the changes of seven years, -concretely expressed in the “Investment Securities” on the outer door, -the Poet concluded that much remained of the Miles Redfield he had -known. And this being true increased his difficulties in reconciling -his friend with the haunting picture of Marjorie as she had stood -plaintively aloof at the children’s party, or with the young wife whose -cheery, hopeful letter he had read in the early hours of the morning. - -“I passed your old house this afternoon,” the Poet observed casually. -“I was out getting a breath of country air and came in through Marston. -You were a pioneer when you went there and it’s surprising how that -region has developed. I had a hard time finding the cottage, and -shouldn’t have known it if it hadn’t been for some of the ineffaceable -marks. The shack you built for a studio, chiefly with your own hands, -seems to have been turned into a garage by the last tenant--Oh, -profanest usurpation! But the house hasn’t been occupied for some time. -That patch of shrubbery you set out against the studio has become a -flourishing jungle. Let me see,--I seem to recall that I once did a -pretty good sonnet in the studio, to the gentle whizz of the lawn-mower -you were manipulating outside.” - -“I remember that afternoon perfectly--and the sonnet, which is one of -your best. I dare say a bronze tablet will be planted there in due -course of time to mark a favorite haunt of the mighty bard.” - -Redfield had found the note of reminiscence ungrateful, and he was -endeavoring to keep the talk in a light key. He very much hoped that -the Poet would make one of his characteristic tangential excursions -into the realms of impersonal anecdote. It was rather remarkable that -this man of all men had happened in just now, fresh from an inspection -of the bungalow and the studio behind the lilacs that Elizabeth had -planted. He began to feel uncomfortable. It was not so much the -presence of the small, compact, dignified gentleman in the chair by -the window that disturbed him as the aims, standards, teachings that -were so inseparably associated with his visitor’s name. Redfield’s -perplexity yielded suddenly to annoyance, and he remarked shortly, as -though anticipating questions that were presumably in his friend’s -mind:-- - -“Elizabeth and I have quit; you’ve probably heard that.” And then, -as though to dispose of the matter quickly, he added: “It wouldn’t -work--too much incompatibility; I’m willing to take the blame--guess -I’ll have to, anyhow!” he ended grimly. “I suppose it’s rather a shock -to a friend like you, who knew us at the beginning, when we were -planting a garden to live in forever, to find that seven years wound it -up. I confess that I was rather knocked out myself to find that I had -lost my joy in trimming the hedge and sticking bulbs in the ground.” - -“I noticed,” said the Poet musingly, “that the weeds are rioting -deliriously in the garden.” - -“Weeds!” Redfield caught him up harshly; “I dare say there are weeds! -Our trouble was that we thought too much about the crocuses, and forgot -to put in cabbages!” - -“Well, you’re putting them in now!” - -“Oh, don’t be hard on me! I’ll let most people jump on me and never -talk back, but you with your fine perceptions ought to understand. Life -isn’t what it used to be; the pace is quicker, changes come faster, and -if a man and woman find that they’ve made a mistake, it’s better to cut -it all out than to live under the same roof and scowl at each other -across the table. I guess you can’t duck that!” - -“I shan’t try to duck it,” replied the Poet calmly. “There’s never -anything gained by evading a clean-cut issue. It’s you who are dodging. -Remember,” he said, with a smile, “that I shouldn’t have broached the -subject myself; but now that you’ve brought it up--” - -He paused, in his habitual deliberate fashion, reflecting with grateful -satisfaction upon the care with which he had hidden his tracks! He was -now in Redfield’s office; and his old friend had instructed the clerks -outside that he was not to be disturbed so long as this distinguished -citizen chose to honor him. The Poet, for the first time in his life, -took advantage of his reputation. Redfield, on his side, knew that it -was impossible to evict the best-loved man in the Commonwealth, whose -presence in his office had doubtless sent a thrill to the very core of -the skyscraper. - -“Of course, these things really concern only the parties immediately -interested,” Redfield remarked, disturbed by his caller’s manner and -anxious to hide behind generalizations. He swung himself round in his -chair, hoping that this utterance would deflect the discussion into -more comfortable channels; but the Poet waited patiently for Redfield -to face him again. - -“That is perfectly true,” he admitted; “and I should certainly resent -the interference of outsiders if I were in your plight.” - -Redfield was nodding his assent, feeling that here, after all, was a -reasonable being, who would go far to avoid an unwelcome intrusion upon -another’s affairs. He was still nodding complacently when the Poet -remarked, with a neatness of delivery that he usually reserved for -humorous effects,-- - -“But it happens, Miles, that I _am_ an interested party!” - -The shock of this surprise shook Redfield’s composure. He glanced -quickly at his caller and then at the door. - -“You mean that Elizabeth has sent you!” he gasped. “If that’s the -case--” - -“No; I haven’t seen Elizabeth for some time--not since I heard of your -troubles; and I’m not here to represent her--at least, not in the way -you mean.” - -Redfield’s face expressed relief; he had been about to refer his -visitor to his lawyer, but he was still pretty much at sea. - -“I represent not one person, but several millions of people,” the Poet -proceeded to explain himself unsmilingly, in a tone that Redfield did -not remember. “You see, Miles, your difficulties and your attitude -toward your family and life in general are hurting my business; this -may sound strange, but it’s quite true. And it’s of importance to me -and to my clients, so to speak.” - -Redfield stared at him frowningly. - -“What on earth are you driving at?” he blurted, still hoping that this -parley was only the introduction to a joke of some sort. There was, -however, nothing in the Poet’s manner to sustain this hope--nor could -he detect any trace of the furtive smile which, he recalled, sometimes -gave warning of the launching of some absurdity by this man who so -easily played upon laughter and tears. - -“There’s no such thing as you and me in this world, Redfield,” pursued -the Poet--and his smile reappeared now, fleetingly, and he was wholly -at ease, confident, direct, business-like. “We’re all Us--you might -say that mankind is a lot of Us-es. And when you let the weeds grow up -in your garden they’re a menace to all the neighbors. And you can’t -just go off and leave them; it isn’t fair or square. I see you don’t -yet quite understand where I come in--how you’re embarrassing me, -cheating me, hurting my business, to put it flatly. You’re making it -appear that I’m a false prophet, a teacher of an outworn creed. Any -reputation that you’re willing to concede I have doesn’t rest upon -profound scholarship, which I don’t pretend to possess, but upon the -feeble testimony I’ve borne to some very old ideals. You’ve known me -a long time and you can’t say that I’ve ever bragged of myself--and -if you knew how humbly I’ve taken such success as I’ve had you’d know -that I’m not likely to be misled by the public’s generous kindness -toward my work. But I owe something to the rest of Us; I can’t afford -to stand by and see the little fringes I’ve tacked on to old fabrics -torn off without making a protest. To put it another way, I’m not going -to have it said that the gulf is so widening between poetry and life -that another generation will be asking what our rhymed patter was all -about--not without a protest. I hope you see what I’m driving at, and -where I’m coming out--” - -Redfield walked to the window and stared across the roofs, with his -hands thrust into his pockets. - -“It isn’t easy, you know, Miles, for me to be doing this: I shouldn’t -be doing it if your affairs hadn’t been thrown in my face; if I didn’t -feel that they were very much my business. Yesterday I saw Marjorie--it -was at a children’s party at Mrs. Waring’s--and the sight of her was -like a stab. I believe I wrote some verses for her second--maybe it was -her third--birthday--pinned one of my little pink ribbons on her, so to -speak, and made her one of my children. I tell you it hurt me to see -her yesterday--and know that the weeds had sprung up in _her_ garden!” - -Redfield flung round impatiently. - -“But you’re applying the wrong tests;--you don’t know all the -circumstances! You wouldn’t have a child brought up in a home of -strife, would you? I’m willing for Elizabeth to have full charge of -Marjorie--I’ve waived all my right to her. I’m not as callous as you -think: I’d have you know that it’s a wrench to part with her.” - -“You haven’t any right to part with her,” said the Poet. “You can’t -turn her over to Elizabeth as though she were a piece of furniture that -you don’t particularly care for! It isn’t fair to the child; it’s not -fair to Elizabeth. Don’t try to imagine that there’s anything generous -or magnanimous in waiving your claims to your own child. A man can’t -throw off his responsibilities as easily as that. It’s contemptible; it -won’t do!” - -“I tell you,” said Redfield angrily, “the whole thing had grown -intolerable. It didn’t begin yesterday; it dates back three years ago, -and--” - -“Just how did it begin?” the Poet interrupted. - -“Well, it began with money--not debts, strange to say, but the -other way around! My father died and left me about eight thousand -dollars--more than I ever hoped to hold in my hand at once if I lived -forever. It looked bigger than a million, I can tell you. I was a -bank-teller, earning fifteen hundred dollars a year and playing at art -on the side. We lived on the edge of nowhere and pinched along with no -prospect of getting anywhere. When that money fell in my lap I saw the -way out--it was like a dream come true, straight down from heaven. I’d -picked up a good deal about the bond business in the bank--used to take -a turn in that department occasionally; and it wasn’t like tackling -something new. So I quit my bank job and jumped in for myself. After -the third month I made expenses, and the second year I cleaned up five -thousand dollars--and I’m not through yet,” he concluded with a note of -triumph. - -“And how does all that affect Elizabeth?” asked the Poet quietly. - -“Well, Elizabeth is one of those timid creatures, who’d be content to -sit on a suburban veranda all her days and wait for the milk wagon. She -couldn’t realize that opportunity was knocking at the door. How do you -think she wanted to invest that eight thousand--wanted me to go to New -York to study in the League; figured out that we could do that and then -go to Paris for a year. And if she hadn’t got to crying about it, I -might have been fool enough to do it!” - -He took a turn across the room and then paused before his caller with -the air of one about to close a debate. The Poet was scrutinizing the -handle of his umbrella fixedly, as though the rough wood presented a -far more important problem than the matter under discussion. - -“Elizabeth rather showed her faith in you there, didn’t she?” he asked, -without looking up. “Eight thousand dollars had come into the family, -quite unexpectedly, and she was willing to invest it in _you_, in a -talent she highly valued; in what had been to her the fine thing in -you--the quality that had drawn you together. There was a chance that -it might all have been wasted--that you wouldn’t, as the saying is, -have made good, and that at the end of a couple of years you would not -only have been out the money, but out of a job. She was willing to take -the chance. The fact that you ignored her wishes and are prospering in -spite of her isn’t really the answer; a man who has shaken his wife and -child--who has permitted them to be made the subjects of disagreeable -gossip through his obstinate unreasonableness isn’t prospering. In -fact, I’d call him a busted community.” - -“Oh, there were other things!” exclaimed Redfield. “We made each other -uncomfortable; it got to a point where every trifling thing had to -be argued--constant contention and wrangle. When I started into this -business I had to move into town. After I’d got the nicest flat I could -hope to pay for that first year, Elizabeth insisted on being unhappy -about _that_. It was important for me to cultivate people who would -be of use to me; it’s a part of this game; but she didn’t like my new -acquaintances--made it as hard for me as possible. She always had a -way of carrying her chin a little high, you know. These people that -have always lived in this town are the worst lot of snobs that ever -breathed free air, and just because her great-grandfather happened to -land here in time to say good-bye to the last Indian is no reason for -snubbing the unfortunates who only arrived last summer. If her people -hadn’t shown the deterioration you find in all old stock, and if her -father hadn’t died broke, you might excuse her; but this thing of -living on your ancestors is no good--it’s about as thin as starving -your stomach on art and feeding your soul on sunsets. I tell you, my -good brother,”--with an ironic grin on his face he clapped his hand -familiarly on the Poet’s shoulder,--“there are more things in real life -than are dreamed of in your poet’s philosophy!” - -[Illustration: EVERY TRIFLING THING HAD TO BE ARGUED] - -The Poet particularly disliked this sort of familiarity; his best -friends never laid hands on him. He resented even more the leer -that had written itself in Redfield’s face. Traces of a coarsening of -fiber that he had looked for at the beginning of the interview were -here apparent in tone and gesture, and did not contribute to the Poet’s -peace of mind. The displeasure in his face seemed to remind Redfield -that this was not a man one slapped on the back, or spoke to leeringly. -He flushed and muttered an apology, which the Poet chose to ignore. - -“A woman who has had half an acre of Mother Earth to play in for seven -years and has fashioned it into an expression of her own soul, and -has swung her baby in a hammock under cherry trees in bloom, must be -pardoned if she doesn’t like being cooped up in a flat and asked to be -polite to people her husband expects to make money out of. I understand -that you have left the flat for a room at the club.” - -“I mean to take care of them--you must give me credit for that!” said -Redfield, angry that he was not managing his case more effectively. -“But Elizabeth is riding the high horse and refuses to accept anything -from me!” - -“I should think she would! She would be the woman I’ve admired all -these years if she’d let you throw crumbs to her from your club window!” - -“She thinks she’s going to rub it into me by going to work! She’s going -to teach a kindergarten, in the hope, I suppose, of humiliating me!” - -“It would be too bad if some of the humiliation landed on your door!” - -“I’ve been as decent as I could; I’ve done everything I could to -protect her.” - -“I suppose,” observed the Poet carelessly, “there’s another woman -somewhere--” - -“That’s a lie!” Redfield flared. “I’ve always been square with -Elizabeth, and you know it! If there’s any scandalous gossip of that -kind afloat it’s damnably unjust! I hoped you had a better idea of me -than that!” - -“I’m sorry,” said the Poet, with sincere contrition. “We’ll consider, -then, that there’s no such bar to a reconciliation.” - -He let his last word fall quietly as though it were a pebble he had -dropped into a pool for the pleasure of watching the resulting ripples. - -“If that’s what’s in your mind, the sooner you get it out the better!” -snapped Redfield. “We’ve gone beyond all that!” - -“The spring was unusually fine,” the Poet hastened to remark with -cheerful irrelevance, as though all that had gone before had merely -led up to the weather; “June is justifying Lowell’s admiration. Your -view off there is splendid. It just occurs to me that these tall -buildings are not bad approximations of ivory towers; a good place for -dreams--nice horizons--edges of green away off there, and unless my -sight is failing that’s a glimpse of the river you get beyond those -heaven-kissing chimneys.” - -Redfield mopped his brow and sighed his relief. Clearly the Poet, -realizing the futility of the discussion, was glad to close it; and -Redfield had no intention of allowing him to return to it. - -He opened the door with an eagerness at which the Poet smiled as he -walked deliberately through the outer room, exposing himself once more -to the admiring smiles of the girls at the typewriters. He paused -and told them a story, to which Redfield, from the threshold of his -sanctum, listened perforce. - -At the street entrance the Poet met Fulton hurrying into the building. - -“I was just thinking of you!” cried the young man. “Half a minute -ago I dropped a little packet with your name on it into the box at -the corner, and was feeling like a criminal to think of what I was -inflicting!” - -“It occurs to me,” mused the Poet, leaning on his umbrella, quite -indifferent to the hurrying crowd that swept through the entrance, -“that the mail-box might be a good subject for a cheerful jingle--the -repository of hopes, ambitions, abuse, threats, love letters, and duns. -It’s by treating such subjects attractively that we may hope to reach -the tired business man and persuade him that not weak-winged is song! -Apollo leaning against a letter-box and twanging his lyre divine for -the muses to dance a light fantastic round--a very pretty thought, Mr. -Fulton!” - -The Poet, obviously on excellent terms with the world, indulged himself -further in whimsical comment on possible subjects for verse, even -improvising a few lines of doggerel for the reporter’s amusement. - -And then, after he had turned away, he called the young man back, as -though by an afterthought. - -“As to Redfield, you haven’t done anything yet?” - -“No; I’m on my way to see him now.” - -“Well, don’t be in a hurry about making the change. You’d better go up -to the lake Sunday and sit on the shore all day and let June soak in. -You will find that it helps. I’ll meet those verses you’re sending me -at the outer wicket; I’m sure I’ll like them!” - - - - -IV - - -When Saturday proved to be the fairest of June days, the Poet decided -that it was a pity to remain in city pent when three hours on the train -would carry him to Waupegan, a spot whose charms had been brought -freshly to his attention by the sheaf of verses Fulton had sent him. He -had hoped to find Fulton on the train; but when the young man did not -appear, he found compensation in the presence of Mrs. Waring, who was -bound for Waupegan to take possession of her house. - -“Marian took Marjorie up yesterday. It occurred to me, after I’d -posted Elizabeth off with a servant to straighten up my house, that -I’d done the crudest thing imaginable, for Elizabeth went honeymooning -to Waupegan--I gave her and Miles my house for a fortnight, as you may -remember. I wanted to get her out of town and I never thought of that -until she’d gone.” - -“Isn’t it a good sign that Elizabeth would go? It shows that the -associations of the lake still mean something to her.” - -“Oh, but they don’t mean anything to him--that’s the trouble! If there -ever was a brute--” - -“There are worse men--or brutes,” the Poet mildly suggested. - -“I can’t imagine it!” Mrs. Waring replied tartly. - -“I’m going fishing,” the Poet explained, when Mrs. Waring demanded to -know what errand was carrying him lakeward. His dislike of railway -journeys was well known to all his friends; and no one had ever heard -of his going fishing. - -“I have asked you to the lake scores of times to visit me, and you -have scorned all my invitations. Now that I’ve caught you in the act -of going up alone, I demand that you make me the visit you’ve been -promising for twenty years.” - -“Fishing,” observed the Poet soberly, “is a business that requires -the closest attention and strictest privacy. I should be delighted -to make that visit at this time, but when I fish I’m an intolerable -person--unsociable and churlish; you’d always hate me if I accepted -your hospitable shelter when I would a-fishing go.” - -“You’ll not find the hotel a particularly tranquil place for literary -labor, and the food at my house couldn’t be worse than you’ll get -there. I’ve warned you!” - -She was frankly curious as to the nature of his errand, and continued -to chaff him about his piscatorial ambitions. He gave his humor full -rein in adding to her mystification. - -“Perhaps,” he finally confessed, “I shall hire a boy to do the fishing -for me, while I sit under a tree and boss him.” - -“No boy with any spirit would fish for anybody else--no respectable, -well-brought-up boy would!” - -“There’s where you’re quite mistaken! I expect to find a boy--and a -pretty likely young fellow he is, reared on a farm, and all that--I -expect to find him ready for business in the morning. Mind you, he -didn’t promise to come, but if he’s the youngster I think he is, he’ll -be there right side up with care to-morrow morning.” - -“I don’t believe I like you so well when you play at being mysterious. -This idea, that if you serenely fold your hands and wait--John -Burroughs, isn’t it?--your own will come to you, never worked for me. I -should never have got anywhere in my life if I had folded my hands and -waited.” - -“There must always be one who journeys to meet him who waits, and with -your superb energy you have done the traveling. I’m playing both parts -in this affair just as an experiment. To-day I travel; to-morrow I -shall sit on the dock and wait for that boy who’s to do my fishing for -me. I’m not prepared for disappointment; I have every confidence that -he will arrive in due season. Particularly now that you tell me Marian -is already illuminating the landscape!” - -Mrs. Waring was giving him only half attention, but she pricked up her -ears at this statement. - -“Marian! What on earth has she to do with this fishing-trip?” - -“Nothing, except that I have a message for her from the cool slopes of -Parnassus. It’s almost like something you read of in books--her being -here waiting for the sacred papyri.” - -He tapped his pocket and smiled. - -“I hadn’t the slightest idea she was up there waiting,” he continued. -“You must confess that it’s rather remarkable! Folding her hands, -utterly unconscious of what Fate has in store for her; and poems being -written to her, and my fisher-boy on the trail looking for me--and -her!” - -“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re driving at, but you’d better keep -your verses for somebody else. Marian’s a much more practical girl than -Elizabeth; I don’t quite see her receiving messages from the Muses -with more than chilly politeness. You may be sure she will profit -by Elizabeth’s experience. Elizabeth married a man with an artistic -temperament and she’s paid dearly for it. A blow like that falling -so close to Marian is bound to have its effect. If you want to win -her smiles, don’t appeal to her through poetry. As I was saying the -other day, poetry is charming, and sometimes it’s uplifting; but we’re -getting away from it. These are changing times, and pretty soon it -won’t be respectable to be decent!” - -“You said something to the same effect the other day when your garden -was full of children. I was greatly disappointed in you; it wasn’t fair -to the children to talk that way--even if they didn’t hear you. I was -all broken up after that party; I haven’t been the same man since!” - -“Oh, I didn’t mean to reflect on you or your work; you know that!” - -“I know nothing of the kind,” returned the Poet amiably. “You have -said it twice, though the first time was enough. I’m a different -person; you’ve changed the whole current of my life! I’m making a -journey, on a very hot afternoon, that I should never have thought -of making if it hadn’t been for your cynical remarks. I’ve taken -employment as an agent of Providence, just to prove to you that my -little preachments in rhyme are not altogether what our young people -call piffle. I’ve come down out of the pulpit, so to speak, to put my -sermons into effect--a pretty good thing for all parsons to do. Or, to -go back to the starting-point, I’ve hung my harp on the willows that I -may fish the more conveniently.” - -“You ought to be ashamed of yourself to make sport of a woman of my -years! You had better tell me a funny story,” said Mrs. Waring, fearing -that he was laughing at her. - -“I shall do nothing of the kind! I am heavily armed with magazines and -I shall read the rest of the way to Waupegan. Besides, I need time for -planning my work to-morrow. It will be my busiest day!” - - * * * * * - -It was dark when the train paused at the lake station, and Mrs. -Redfield was waiting, having come over in a launch to meet Mrs. Waring. -She was wrapped in a long coat and carried a lantern, which she held up -laughingly to verify her identification of the Poet. - -“Marian and I have just been talking of you! She and Marjorie have told -me all about the garden-party, and of the beautiful time you gave the -children.” - -“If she didn’t mention the beautiful time they gave me, she didn’t -tell the whole story. And if I hadn’t gone to Mrs. Waring’s party, I -shouldn’t be here!” - -“Don’t pay any attention to him,” interposed Mrs. Waring, counting her -trunks as they were transferred to the miniature steamer that plied -the lake. “There’s some joke about his coming here; he’s told you one -story and an hour ago he was assuring me that he had come up to fish!” - -She turned away for a moment to speak to some old friends among the -cottagers, leaving Mrs. Redfield and the Poet alone. - -“I’m glad you are here,” said the Poet, “for I shall stay a few days -and I hope we can have some talks.” - -“I hope so; but I must go very soon. I’ve only been waiting for Mrs. -Waring to come. It was like her to make a chance for me to get away; -you know Waupegan is like home; my father used to have a cottage here -and we children were brought up on the lake.” - -She was a small, dark-eyed woman, a marked contrast to her tall, fair -sister. Her sense of fun had always been a delight to her friends; -she was a capital mimic and had been a star in amateur theatricals. -The troubles of the past year--or of the years, to accept Redfield’s -complaint at its full value--had not destroyed her vivacity. She was of -that happy company who carry into middle life and beyond the freshness -of youth. She had been married at twenty, and to the Poet’s eyes she -seemed little older now. - -He had been wondering since his interview with Redfield how he had ever -dared go as far in meddling with other people’s affairs. Face to face -with Redfield’s wife, he was more self-conscious than was comfortable. -It would not be easy to talk to Elizabeth of her difficulties, for the -Poet was not a man whom women took into their confidence over a teacup. -He abused himself for leaving his proper orbit for foolish adventures -in obscure, unmapped corners of the heavens. - -He said that the stars were fine, and having failed to amplify this -with anything like the grace that might be expected of a poet, -he glanced at her and found her eyes bright with tears. This was -altogether disconcerting, but it illustrated the embarrassments of the -situation into which he had projected himself. Clearly the ambition to -harmonize poetry and life was not without peril; he felt that as the -ambassador from the court of Poesy it might be necessary to learn a new -language to make himself understood at the portals of Life. Instead of -promoting peace, he might, by the least tactless remark, prolong the -war, and the thought was dismaying. - -As she turned her head to hide treasonable tears he saw her draw -herself up, and lift her head as though to prove to him that there -was still courage in her heart, no matter if her eyes did betray the -citadel. - -“You see, we hung up a new moon in honor of your coming. It’s like a -little feather, just as Rossetti says.” - -“Too suggestive of a feather duster,” he remarked lightly; and seeing -Mrs. Waring walking toward them he added, gravely:-- - -“I’ve lied like the most miserable of sinners about this trip; I -came in answer to your letter. I find that most letters will answer -themselves if you wait long enough. Yours is just seven years old!” - -“Oh,” she cried, with a quick catch of the breath; “you don’t mean that -you kept _that_!” - -“I most certainly did! It was a very beautiful letter. I happened to be -re-reading it the other night and decided that it deserved an answer; -so here I am!” - -“I’m both sorry and glad you came. It’s immensely good of you; it’s -just like you! But it’s no use; of course you know that!” - -“Oh, I should never have come on my own hook! I’m only the humble -representative of thousands and thousands of people, and the -stars--maybe--and that frugal slice of melon up there we call the moon. -Nobody else wanted the job, so I took it.” - -He laughed at the puzzled look in the dark eyes, which was like the -wondering gaze of a child, half-fearful, half-confiding. - -“Elizabeth, are you going to stand there all night talking to any poet -that comes along!” demanded Mrs. Waring; and as she joined them the -Poet began talking amusingly to allay suspicion. - -He again declined to accompany her home, protesting that he must not -disappoint the boy who would certainly be on hand in the morning to -fish for him. He waved his hand as the launch swung off, called the man -who was guarding his suit-case and followed him to the inn. - - - - -[Illustration: PART TWO] - - - - -[Illustration] - -PART TWO - -V - - -Marian and Marjorie had builded a house of sand on a strip of shaded -beach, and by the fraudulent use of sticks and stones they had made it -stand in violation of all physical laws. Now that the finishing touches -had been given to the tower, Marjorie thrust her doll through a window. - -“That will never do!” protested Marian. “In a noble château like -this the châtelaine must not stand on her head. When the knights come -riding, she must be waiting, haughty and proud, in the great hall to -meet them.” - -“Should ums?” asked Marjorie, watching her aunt gouge a new window -in the moist wall so that the immured lady might view the lake more -comfortably. - -“‘Ums should,’ indeed!” - -“Should the lady have coffee-cake for ums tea? We never made no pantry -nor kitchen in ums house, and lady will be awful hungry. I’ll push ums -a cracker. There, you lady, you can eat ums supper!” - -“When her knight comes riding, he will bring a deer or maybe a big -black boar and there will be feasting in the great hall this night,” -said Marian. - -“Maybe,” suggested Marjorie, lying flat and peering into the château, -“he will kill the grand lady with ums sword; and it will be all over -bluggy.” - -“Horrible!” cried Marian, closing her eyes and shuddering. “Let us -hope he will be a parfait, gentil knight who will be nice to the lady -and tell her beautiful stories of the warriors bold he has killed for -love of her.” - -“My boy doll got all smashed,” said Marjorie; “and ums can’t come -a-widing.” - -“A truly good knight who got smashed would arrive on his shield just -the same; he wouldn’t let anything keep him from coming back to his -lady.” - -“If ums got all killed dead, would ums come back?” - -“He would; he most certainly would!” declared Marian convincingly. “And -there would be a beautiful funeral, probably at night, and the other -knights would march to the grave bearing torches. And they would repeat -a vow to avenge his death and the slug-horn would sound and off they’d -go.” - -“And ums lady would be lonesome some more,” sighed Marjorie. - -“Oh, that’s nothing! Ladies have to get used to being lonesome when -knights go riding. They must sit at home and knit or make beautiful -tapestries to show the knights when they come home.” - -“Marjorie not like to be lonesome. What if Dolly est sit in the -shotum--” - -“Château is more elegant; though ‘shotum’ is flavorsome and colorful. -Come to think of it ‘shotum’ is just as good. Dolly must sit and keep -sitting. She couldn’t go out to look for her knight without committing -a grave social error.” - -These matters having been disposed of, Marjorie thought a stable should -be built for the knights’ horses, and they began scooping sand to that -end. Marian’s eyes rested dreamily upon distant prospects. The cool -airs of early morning were still stirring, and here and there a white -sail floated lazily on the blue water. The sandy beach lay only a short -distance from Mrs. Waring’s house, whose red roof was visible through -a cincture of maples on the bluff above. - -“If knights comes widing to our shotum and holler for ums shootolain, -would you holler to come in?” asked Marjorie, from the stable wall. - -“It would be highly improper for a châtelaine to ‘holler’; but if I -were there, I should order the drawbridge to be lowered, and I should -bid my knight lift the lid of the coal-bucket thing they always wear on -their heads,--you know how they look in the picture books,--and then -ask him what tidings he brought. You always ask for tidings.” - -“Does ums? Me would ask ums for candy, and new hats with long fithery -feathers; and ums--” - -“Hail, ladies of the Lake! May a lone harper descend and graciously -vouchsafe a song?” - -From the top of the willow-lined bluff behind them came a voice with -startling abruptness. In their discussion of the proprieties of château -life they had forgotten the rest of the world, and it was disconcerting -thus to be greeted from the unknown. - -“Is it ums knight come walking?” whispered Marjorie, glancing round -guardedly. - -Marian jumped up and surveyed the overhanging willow screen intently. -She discerned through the shrubbery a figure in gray, supported by a -tightly sheathed umbrella. A narrow-brimmed straw hat and a pair of -twinkling eye-glasses attached to the most familiar countenance in the -Commonwealth now contributed to a partial portrait of the lone harper. -Marian, having heard from her sister and Mrs. Waring of the Poet’s -advent, was able to view this apparition without surprise. - -“Come down, O harper, and gladden us with song!” she called. - -“I have far to go ere the day end; but I bring writings for one whom -men call fair.” - -He tossed a long envelope toward them; the breeze caught and held it, -then dropped it close to the château. Marjorie ran to pick it up. - -“Miss Agnew,” said the Poet, lifting his hat, “a young gentleman will -pass this way shortly; I believe him to be a person of merit. He will -come overseas from a far country, and answer promptly to the name of -Frederick. Consider that you have been properly introduced by the -contents of yonder packet and bid him welcome in my name.” - -“Ums a cwazy man,” Marjorie announced in disgust. “Ums the man what -told a funny story at Auntie Waring’s party and then runned off.” - -The quivering of the willows already marked the Poet’s passing. He had -crossed the lake to the Waring cottage, Marian surmised, and was now -returning thither. - -Marjorie, uninterested in letters, which, she had observed, frequently -made people cry, attacked with renewed zeal the problem of housing the -knights’ horses, while Marian opened the long envelope and drew out -half a dozen blue onion-skin letter-sheets and settled herself to read. -She read first with pleasurable surprise and then with bewilderment. -Poetry, she had heard somewhere, should be read out of doors, and -clearly these verses were of that order; and quite as unmistakably -this, of all the nooks and corners in the world, was the proper spot in -which to make the acquaintance of these particular verses. Indeed, it -seemed possible, by a lifting of the eyes, to verify the impressions -they recorded,--the blue arch, the gnarled boughs of the beeches, the -overhanging sycamores, the distant daisy-starred pastures running down -to meet the clear water. Such items as these were readily intelligible; -but she found dancing through all the verses a figure that under -various endearing names was the _dea ex machina_ of every scene; -and this seemed irreconcilable with the backgrounds afforded by the -immediate landscape. Pomona had, it appeared, at some time inspected -the apple harvest in this neighborhood:-- - - The dew flashed from her sandals gold - As down the orchard aisles she sped;-- - -or this same delightful divinity became Diana, her arrows cast aside, -smashing a tennis ball, or once again paddling a canoe through -wind-ruffled water into the flames of a dying September sun. Or, the -bright doors of dawn swinging wide, down the steps tripped this same -incredible young person taunting the waiting hours for their delay. Was -it possible that her own early morning dives from Mrs. Waring’s dock -could have suggested this! - -Marian read hurriedly; then settled herself for the more deliberate -perusal that these pictorial stanzas demanded. It was with a feeling -of unreality that she envisaged every point the slight, graceful -verses described. Where was there another orchard that stole down to -a lake’s edge; or where could Atalanta ever have indulged herself at -tennis to the applause of rapping woodpeckers if not in the court by -the casino on the other side of the lake? The Poet--that is, the Poet -All the People Loved--was not greatly given to the invoking of gods -and goddesses; and this was not his stroke--unless he were playing -some practical joke, which, to be sure, was quite possible. But she -felt herself in contact with someone very different from _the_ Poet; -with quite another poet who sped Pomona down orchard aisles catching -at the weighted boughs for the joy of hearing the thump of falling -apples, and turning with a laugh to glance at the shower of ruddy -fruit. A lively young person, this Pomona; a spirited and agile being, -half-real, half-mythical. A series of quatrains, under the caption “In -September,” described the many-named goddess as the unknown poet had -observed her in her canoe at night:-- - - I watched afar her steady blade - Flash in the path the moon had made, - And saw the stars on silvery ripples - Shine clear and dance and faint and fade. - - Then through the windless night I heard - Her song float toward me, dim and blurred; - ’Twas like a call to vanished summers - From a lost, summer-seeking bird. - -There were many canoes on Waupegan; without turning her head she -counted a dozen flashing paddles. And there were many girls who played -capital tennis, or who were quite capable of sprinting gracefully -down the aisles of fruitful orchards. She had remained at the lake -late the previous year, and had perhaps shaken apple boughs when in -flight through orchards; and she had played tennis diligently and had -paddled her canoe on many September nights through the moon’s path -and over quivering submerged stars; and yet it was inconceivable that -her performances had attracted the attention of any one capable of -transferring them to rhyme. It would be pleasant, though, to be the -subject of verses like these! Once, during her college days, she had -moved a young gentleman to song, but the amatory verses she had evoked -from his lyre had been pitiful stuff that had offended her critical -sense. These blue sheets bore a very different message--delicate and -fanciful, with a nice restraint under their buoyancy. - -While the Poet had said that the author of the verses would arrive -shortly, she had taken this as an expression of the make-believe in -which he constantly indulged in his writings; but one of the canoes she -had been idly observing now bore unmistakably toward the cove. - -Marjorie called for assistance and Marian thrust the blue sheets into -her belt and busied herself with perplexing architectural problems. -Marjorie’s attention was distracted a moment later by the approaching -canoe. - -“Aunt Marian!” she chirruped, pointing with a sand-encrusted finger, -“more foolish mans coming with glad tidings. Ums should come by horses, -not by ums canoe.” - -“We mustn’t be too particular how ums come, Marjorie,” replied Marian -glancing up with feigned carelessness. “It’s the knights’ privilege to -come as they will. Many a maiden sits waiting just as we are and no -knight ever comes.” - -“When ums comes they might knock down our house--maybe?” She tacked on -the query with so quaint a turn that Marian laughed. - -“We mustn’t grow realistic! We must pretend it’s play, and keep -pretending that they will be kind and considerate gentlemen.” - -Her own efforts to pretend that they were building a stable for the -steeds of Arthur’s knights did not conceal her curiosity as to a young -man who had driven his craft very close inshore, and now, after a -moment’s scrutiny of the cove, chose a spot for landing and sent the -canoe with a whish up the sandy beach half out of the water. - -He jumped out and begged their pardon as Marjorie planted herself -defensively before the castle. - -“Ums can go ’way! Ums didn’t come widing on ums horse like my story -book.” - -“I apologize! Not being Neptune I couldn’t ride my horse through the -water. And besides I’m merely obeying orders. I was told to appear here -at ten o’clock, sharp, by a gentleman I paddled over from the village -and left on Mrs. Waring’s dock an hour ago. He gave me every assurance -that I should be received hospitably, but if I’m intruding I shall -proceed farther upon the wine-dark sea.” - -[Illustration: THE APPROACHING CANOE] - -“Is ums name Fwedwick?” asked Marjorie. - -Fulton controlled with difficulty an impulse to laugh at the child’s -curious twist of his name, but admitted gravely that such, indeed, was -the case. - -“Then ums can stay,” said Marjorie in a tone of resignation, and -returned to her building. - -Marian, who, during his colloquy with Marjorie, had risen and was -brushing the sand from her skirt, now spoke for the first time. - -“It’s hardly possible you’re looking for me--I’m Miss Agnew.” - -He bowed profoundly. - -“A distinguished man of letters assured me that I should find him -here,” the young man explained as he drew on a blue serge coat he had -thrown out of the canoe; “but unless he is hiding in the bushes he -has played me false. Such being the case I can’t do less than offer to -withdraw if my presence is annoying.” - -The faint mockery of these sentences was relieved by the mischievous -twinkle in his eyes. They were very dark eyes, and his hair was -intensely black and brushed back from his forehead smoothly. His face -was dark even to swarthiness and his cheek bones were high and a trifle -prominent. - -He was dressed for the open: white ducks, canvas shoes, and a flannel -shirt with soft collar and a scarlet tie. - -In spite of his offer to withdraw if his presence proved ungrateful to -the established tenants of the cove, it occurred to Marian that he was -not, apparently, expecting to be rebuffed. Marjorie, satisfied that the -stranger in no way menaced her peace, was addressing herself with new -energy to the refashioning of the stable walls along lines recommended -by Marian. - -“The ways of the Poet are inscrutable,” observed Fulton; “he told me -your name and spoke in the highest terms of your kindness of heart and -tolerance of stupidity.” - -“He was more sparing of facts in warning me of your approach. He said -your name would be Frederick, as though the birds would supply the rest -of it.” - -“Very likely that’s the way of the illustrious--to assume that we are -all as famous as themselves; highly flattering, but calculated to -deceive. As the birds don’t know me, I will say that my surname is -Fulton. A poor and an ill-favored thing, but mine own.” - -“It quite suffices,” replied Marian in his own key. “We have built a -château,” she explained, “and the châtelaine is even now gazing sadly -upon the waters hoping that her true knight will appear. We have mixed -metaphor and history most unforgivably--a French château, set here on -an American lake in readiness for the Knights of the Round Table.” - -“We mustn’t quibble over details in such matters; it’s the spirit -of the thing that counts. I can see that Marjorie isn’t troubled by -anachronisms.” - -The blue sheets containing, presumably, this young man’s verses, -were still in her belt, and their presence there did not add to her -comfort. Of course he might not be the real author of those tributes -to the lake’s divinities. His appearance did not strongly support the -suspicion. The young man who had sent her flowers accompanied by verses -on various occasions was an anæmic young person who would never have -entrusted himself to so tricksy a bark as a canoe. Frederick Fulton -was of a more heroic mould; she thought it quite likely that he could -shoulder his canoe and march off with it if it pleased him to do so. -He looked capable of doing many things besides scribbling verses. His -manner, as she analyzed it, left nothing to be desired. While he was -enjoying this encounter to the full, as his ready smile assured her, -he did not presume upon her tolerance, but seemed satisfied to let her -prescribe the terms of their acquaintance. This was a lark of some -kind, and whether he had connived at the meeting, or whether he was -as much in the dark as she as to the Poet’s purpose in bringing them -together, remained a mystery. - -She found a seat on a log near the engrossed Marjorie, and Fulton -settled himself comfortably on the sand. - -“This has been a day of strange meetings,” he began. “I really had -no intention of coming to Waupegan; and I was astonished to find our -friend the Poet on the hotel veranda this morning. He had told me to -come;--it was rather odd--” - -“Oh, he told you to come!” - -“In town, two days ago he suggested it. I wonder if he’s in the habit -of doing that sort of thing.” - -“It would hardly be polite for me to criticize him now that he has -introduced us. I fear we shall have to make the best of it!” - -“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of it in that way!” - -They regarded each other with searching inquiry and then laughed. Her -possession of the verses had already advertised itself to him; she -saw his eyes rest upon them carelessly for an instant and then he -disregarded them; and this pleased her. If he were their author--if, -possibly, he had written them of her--she approved of his good breeding -in ignoring them. - -“I know this part of the world better than almost any other,” he went -on, clasping his hands over his knees. “I was born only ten miles from -here on a farm; and I fished here a lot when I was a boy.” - -“But, of course, you’ve escaped from the farm into the larger world or -the Poet wouldn’t know you.” - -“Well, you see, I’m a newspaper reporter down at the capital and -reporters know everybody.” - -“Oh, the Poet doesn’t know everybody; though everybody knows him. -Perhaps we’d better pass that. Tell me some more about your early -adventures on the lake.” - -“You have heard all that’s worth telling. We farm boys used to come -over and fish before the city men filched all the bass and left only -sunfish and suckers. Then I grew up and went to the State Agricultural -School--to fit me for a literary career!--and I didn’t get here -again until last fall when my paper gave me a vacation and I spent a -fortnight at the farm and used to ride over here on my bicycle every -morning to watch the summer resorters and read books.” - -“It’s strange I never saw you,” said Marian, “for I was here last -fall. My own memories of the pioneers go back almost to the Indians. My -father used to own that red-roofed cottage you see across the lake; and -I’ve tumbled into the water from every point in sight.” - -“September and June are the best months here, I think. It was all much -nicer, though, before the place became so popular.” - -“Hardly a gracious remark, seeing that Marjorie and I are here, and all -these cottagers are friends of ours!” - -“I haven’t the slightest objection to you and Marjorie. You fit into -the landscape delightfully--give it tone and color; but I was thinking -of the noisy people at the inns down by the village. They seem rather -unnecessary. The Poet and I agreed about that this morning while we -were looking for a quiet place for an after-breakfast smoke.” - -“It must be quite fine to know him--really know him,” she said -musingly. - -“Yes; but before you grow too envious of my acquaintance I’ll have to -confess that I’ve known him less than a week.” - -“A great deal can happen in a week,” she remarked absently. - -“A great deal has!” he returned quickly. - -This seemed to be rather leading; but a cry for help from Marjorie -provided a diversion. - -Fulton jumped up and ran to the perplexed builder’s aid, neatly -repaired a broken wall, and when he had received the child’s grave -thanks reseated himself at Marian’s feet. The blue onion-skin paper had -disappeared from her belt; he caught her in the act of crumpling the -sheets into her sleeve. - -With their disappearance she felt her courage returning. His -confessions as to the farm, the university, the newspaper--created an -outline which she meant to encourage him to fill in. Journalism, like -war and the labors of those who go down to the sea in ships, suggests -romance; and Marian had never known a reporter before. - -“I should think it would be great fun working on a newspaper, and -knowing things before they happen.” - -“And things that never happen!” - -She was quick to seize upon this. - -“The imagination must enter into all writing--even facts, history. -Bryant was a newspaper man, and he wrote poetry, but I heard in school -that he was a very good editor, too.” - -“I’m not an editor and nobody has called me a poet; but the suggestion -pleases me,” he said. - -“If our own Poet offered you a leaf of his laurel, that would help -establish your claims,--set you up in business, so to speak.” - -“I should hasten to return it before it withered! My little experiments -in rhyme are not of the wreath-winning kind.” - -“Then you do write verses!” - -“Yards!” he confessed shamelessly. - -She was taken aback by this bold admission. His tone and manner implied -that he set no great store by his performances, and this piqued her. -It seemed like a commentary on her critical judgment which had found -them good. Fulton now became impersonal and philosophical. - -“It’s a great thing to have done what our Poet has done--give to the -purely local a touch that makes it universal. That’s what art does when -it has heart behind it, and there’s the value of provincial literature. -Hundreds of men had seen just what he saw,--the same variety of types -and individuals against this Western landscape,--but it was left for -him to set them forth with just the right stroke. And he has done -other things, too, besides the _genre_ studies that make him our own -particular Burns; he has sung of days like this when hope rises high, -and sung of them beautifully; and he has preached countless little -sermons of cheer and contentment and aspiration. And he’s the first -poet who ever really understood children--wrote not merely of them but -to them. He’s the poet of a thousand scrapbooks! I came up on a late -train last night and got to talking to a stranger who told me he was -on his way to visit his old home; pulled one of the Poet’s songs of -June out of his pocket and asked me to read it; said he’d cut it out -of a newspaper that had come to him wrapped round a pair of shoes in -some forsaken village in Texas, and that it had made him homesick for a -sight of the farm where he was born. The old fellow grew tearful about -it, and almost wrung a sob out of me. He was carrying that clipping -pinned to his railway ticket--in a way it was his ticket home.” - -“Of course our Poet has the power to move people like that,” murmured -Marian. “It’s genius, a gift of the gods.” - -“He’s been able to do it without ever cheapening himself; there’s never -any suggestion of that mawkishness we hear in vaudeville songs that -implore us to write home to mother to-night! He takes the simplest -theme and makes literature of it.” - -Marian was thinking of her talk with the Poet at Mrs. Waring’s -garden-party. Strange to say, it seemed more difficult to express her -disdain of romance and poetry to this young man than it had been to -the Poet. And yet he evidently accepted unquestioningly the Poet’s -philosophy of life, which she had dismissed contemptuously, and in -which, she assured herself, she did not believe to-day any more than -she did a week ago. The incident of a pilgrim from Texas with a poem -attached to his railway ticket had its touch of sentiment and pathos, -but it did not weigh heavily against the testimony of experience -which had proved in her own observation that life is perplexing and -difficult, and that poetry and romance are only a lure and mesh to -delude and betray the trustful. - -“Poets have a good deal to fight against these days,” she said, wishing -to state her dissent as kindly as possible. “The Bible is full of -poetry, but it has lost its hold on the people; it’s like an outworn -sun that no longer lights and warms the world. I wish it weren’t so; -but unfortunately we’re all pretty helpless when it comes to the iron -hoofs of the Time-Spirit.” - -“Oh!” he exclaimed, sitting erect, “we mustn’t make the mistake of -thinking the Time-Spirit a new invention. We’re lucky to live in the -twentieth century when it goes on rubber heels;--when people are living -poetry more and talking about it less. Why, the spirit of the Bible -has just gone to work! I was writing an account of a new summer camp -for children the day before I came up--one of those Sunday supplement -pieces around a lot of pictures; and it occurred to me as I watched -youngsters, who had never seen green grass before, having the time of -their lives, that such philanthropies didn’t exist in the good old -days when people dusted their Bibles oftener than they do now. There’s -a difference between the Bible as a fetish and as a working plan for -daily use. Preaching isn’t left to the men who stand up in pulpits in -black coats on Sundays; there’s preaching in all the magazines and -newspapers all the time. For example, my paper raises money every -summer to send children into the country; and then starts another fund -to buy them Christmas presents. The apostles themselves didn’t do much -better than that!” - -“Of course there are many agencies and a great deal of generosity,” -replied Marian colorlessly. The young men she knew were not in the -habit of speaking of the Bible or of religion in this fashion. Religion -had never made any strong appeal to her and she had dabbled in -philanthropy fitfully without enthusiasm. Fulton’s direct speech made -some response necessary and she tried to reply with an equally frank -confidence. - -“I suppose I’m a sort of heathen; I don’t know what a pantheist is, but -I think I must be one.” - -“Oh, you can be a pantheist without being a heathen! There’s a natural -religion that we all subscribe to, whether we’re conscious of it or -not. There’s no use bothering about definitions or quarreling with -anybody’s church or creed. We’re getting beyond that; it’s the thing -we make of ourselves that counts; and when it comes to the matter of -worship, I suppose every one who looks up at a blue sky like that, -and knows it to be good, is performing a sort of ritual and saying a -prayer.” - -There was nothing in the breezy, exultant verses she had thrust into -her sleeve to prepare her for such statements as these. While he spoke -simply and half-smilingly, as though to minimize the seriousness of -his statements, his utterances had an undeniable ring of sincerity. He -was provokingly at ease--this dark young gentleman who had been cast -by the waters upon this tranquil beach. He was not at all like young -men who called upon her and made themselves agreeable by talking of the -theater or country club dances or the best places to spend vacations. -She could not recall that any one had ever spoken to her before of -man’s aspirations in the terms employed by this newspaper reporter. - -Marjorie, having prepared for the stabling of all the king’s horses -and all the king’s men, announced her intention of contributing a -wing to the château. This called for a conference in which they all -participated. Then, when the addition had been planned in all soberness -and the child had resumed her labors, Marian and Fred stared at the -lake until the silence became oppressive. Marian spoke first, tossing -the ball of conversation into a new direction. - -“You have confessed to yards of verses,” she began, gathering up a -handful of sand which she let slip through her fingers lingeringly, -catching the grains in her palm. “I’ve seen--about a yard of them.” - -Clearly flirtation was not one of his accomplishments. His “Oh, I’ve -scattered them round rather freely,” ignored a chance to declare -gracefully that she had been the inspiration of those lyrics, written -in a perfectly legible hand on onion-skin letter-sheets, that were -concealed in her sleeve. His indifference to the opening she had made -for him piqued her. She was quite dashed by the calm tone in which he -added, with no hint of sidling or simpering:-- - -“I’ve written reams of poems about you.” (He might as well have said -that he had scraped the ice off her sidewalk or carried coal into her -cellar, for all the thrill she derived from his admission.) “I hope -you won’t be displeased; but when I was ranging the lake last September -we seemed to find the same haunts and to be interested in the same -sort of thing, and it kept me busy dodging you, I can tell you! I -exhausted the Classical Dictionary finding names for you; and it wasn’t -any trouble at all to make verses about you. I was really astonished -to find how necessary you were to the completion of my pen-and-ink -sketches of all this,”--a wave of the arm placed the lake shores in -evidence,--“I liked you best in action; when the spirit moved you to -run or drive your canoe over the water. You do all the outdoor things -as though you had never done anything else; it’s a joy to watch you! I -was sitting on a fence one day over there in Mrs. Waring’s orchard and -you ran by,--so near that I could hear the swish of your skirts,--and -you made a high jump for a bough and shook down the apples and ran off -laughing like a boy afraid of being caught. I pulled out my notebook -and scribbled seven stanzas on that little incident.” - -Any admiration that was conveyed by these frankly uttered sentences -was of the most impersonal sort conceivable. She was not used to being -treated in this fashion. Even his manner of asking her pardon for his -temerariousness in apostrophizing her in his verses had lacked, in her -critical appraisement of it, the humility a self-respecting young woman -had a right to demand of a young poet who observes her without warrant, -is pleased to admire her athletic prowess, her ways and her manners, -and puts her into his verses as coolly as he might pick a flower from -the wayside and wear it in his coat. - -“Then you used me merely to give human interest to your poems; any girl -running through Mrs. Waring’s orchard and snatching at the apples would -have done just as well?” - -“Oh, I shouldn’t say that,” he replied, unabashed; “but even the -poorest worm of a scribbler has to have an ideal and you supplied -mine. You were like a model who strolls along just when it occurs to -the painter that his landscape needs a figure to set it off. You don’t -mind, I hope?” - -This made it necessary for her to assure him in as few words as -possible that she didn’t in the least object to his view of the matter; -and she added, not without a trace of irony, that she was always glad -to be of use; that if she could further the cause of art in any way she -was ready to do it. - -“Please don’t; that hurt a little! By the way, the Poet told me I ought -to know you. He recommended you in the noblest terms. I see now what -was in his mind; he thought I needed your gentle chastening.” - -“It’s more likely he thought it well for you to see your ideal -shattered! It’s too bad, for the sake of your ambitions, that I didn’t -remain just an unknown girl in an orchard--who suggested Pomona -inspecting her crops and then vanished forever.” - -“Oh, I had to know you; it was inevitable,” he replied with irritating -resignation. “You see I’ve written about you in prose, too; you’ve been -immensely provocative and stimulating. My best prose, as well as my -only decent jingles, has had you for a subject. I laid myself out to -describe you at the tennis tournament last fall. Next to watching you -run through an orchard trippingly, like one of Swinburne’s long lines, -I like you best when you show your snappy stroke with the racket and -make a champion look well to her knitting.” - -She turned crimson at this, remembering very well the “Chronicle’s” -report of the tennis match, which she had cut out and still treasured -in her portfolio. Clearly, her obligations to this impudent young man -were increasing rapidly. - -Marjorie, seized with an ambition to add a new tower to the château, -opportunely demanded their assistance. The architectural integrity of -the château was in jeopardy and the proposed changes called for much -debate by the elders. This consumed considerable time, and after the -new tower was finished by their joint labors they set Marjorie to work -constructing a moat which Fulton declared to be essential. - -He got on famously with Marjorie; and this scored heavily in his favor -with Marian. His way with the child was informed with the nicest tact -and understanding; he entered into the spirit of the château-building -with just the earnestness that her young imagination demanded. He -promised to take her canoeing to a place where he thought there might -be fairies, though he would not go the length of saying that he had -seen them, to be sure, for when people saw fairies they must never -tell any one; it wouldn’t be kind to the fairies, who got into the -most dreadful predicaments when human folk talked about them. Marjorie -listened big-eyed, while he held her sandy little fingers. Yes; there -was something pleasing in this young man, who described tennis matches -for the sporting page of a newspaper or wrote verses or spoke of -religion or fairies all as part of the day’s work. - -“The Poet will think I’ve fallen into the lake,” he remarked -presently. “The ride to Mrs. Waring’s dock was a great concession on -his part and he expressed misgivings as to allowing me to paddle him -back to the inn. He’s waiting at this moment on Mrs. Waring’s veranda, -hoping that I won’t show up with the canoe so he can take passage on -the steamer and reduce the hazards of the journey. The height of the -sun proclaims the luncheon hour, and Marjorie must be hungry. Won’t you -honor my humble argosy!” - -Marian could think of no good reason for declining this invitation, -particularly after Marjorie had chirruped an immediate and grateful -acceptance. Moreover, Mr. Fulton had made himself so agreeable and had -contributed so many elements to the morning’s pleasure, that it was not -in her heart to be rude to him. - -They embarked after a promise had been exacted by Marjorie that “ums” -should all meet again on the morrow, to perfect the moat and build a -drawbridge. - -“I’m glad to have an excuse for staying,” Fulton declared, “and I -hope I’m not the man to go off and leave a noble shotum without -the finishing touches. We shall meet frequently, maid Marjorie. In -fact”--he lifted the paddle and let it drip with a pleasant tinkle into -the calm water, while he half-turned toward Marian--“I don’t believe -I’ll ever go back to ‘the heat and dust and noise of trades.’ As old -Walt says, in effect, the earth, that is sufficient; so why not stay -close to it?” - -“Ums splashed water on me!” protested Marjorie. - -“A thousand pardons, my young realist!” - -“The Poet and Elizabeth are waving to us from the landing,” remarked -Marian. “Perhaps you’d better save the rest of the peroration until -to-morrow.” - -“No unkinder word was ever spoken!” cried Fulton cheerfully, and swept -the light craft forward with long, splashless strokes. - - - - -VI - - -“It’s beautifully kind of you to want to help; but you see how -impossible it is!” - -“I don’t like that word,” replied the Poet patiently. “Most things are -possible that we really want to do.” - -For two hours that morning Mrs. Redfield and he had talked of her -troubles, first with a reluctance, a wariness on both sides that -yielded gradually to the warmth of his kindness. However, on the whole, -the Poet found her easier to talk to than her husband had been. She -understood, as Redfield had not, that his appearance in the matter was -not merely the assertion of a right inhering in an old friendship, -but that it was dictated by something larger,--a resentment of an -apostasy touching intimately his own good faith as a public teacher. -This attitude had not only its poignancy for her, but it broadened -the horizon against which she had been contemplating the broken and -distorted structure that had been her life. - -“I suppose,” she said bravely, “that we oughtn’t to ask so much! We -ought to be prepared for calamity; then we shouldn’t break under it -when the blow falls. When I saw other people in just such troubles -I used to think, ‘There’s something that will never come to me’: I -suppose Miles is right in saying that I have no ambition, that I had -become merely a drag on him. And I can see his side of it; there wasn’t -much ahead of him but standing behind a bank counter to the end of his -days. The novels are full of the conflicts between the man who wants to -rise and the woman without wings. It’s my misfortune to be one of the -wingless ones.” - -She was less bitter than he expected; and he took courage from this -fact. He had hoped to avoid any minute dissection of the situation; but -she had given him a pretty full account of the whole affair, and he -was both dismayed and relieved to find how trivial the details of the -dissension proved. She had wept--beyond doubt there had been tears--and -Miles on his side had exhausted persuasion before her obstinacy kindled -his wrath. The crux had come with his demand that she should do her -part toward cultivating acquaintances that he believed to be essential -to the success of his new undertaking. She had never known such -people, she assured the Poet, feeling that he knew she never had and -would sympathize with her position. Miles had no right to ask her to -countenance them, and all that. - -The Poet preferred to be amused by this. The obnoxious persons were -strangers to him; he had merely heard of them; he admitted that he -would never deliberately have chosen them for intimate companionship. -And yet it was not so egregious a thing to sit at the same table for an -hour with a man and woman one wouldn’t care to meet daily. - -“If there weren’t such people as the Farnams in the world we’d never -know how to appreciate our own kind of folks,” remarked the Poet. -“And that fellow can’t be so bad. I heard only recently of an instance -of his generosity--he made a very handsome subscription to the new -children’s hospital. Men of that stamp frequently grow emotional when -they’re touched on the right chord.” - -“But you wouldn’t have Miles--the Miles you used to know--become like -that, or get down on his knees to such people in the hope of getting -some of their money!” - -The Poet chuckled. - -“If Miles can pry that particular man loose from any of his money I’d -say it proved that Miles was right and you were wrong! Farnam doesn’t -carry his philanthropy into his business affairs. He’s quite capable of -eating your lobster to-night and to-morrow morning exacting the last -ounce of flesh from the man who paid for it. It’s possible that Miles -will pay dearly for his daring; I understand that this new business is -beset with pitfalls.” - -“Oh, I want him to succeed! He’s free now to do as he likes and I hope -he will prosper. At any rate, Marjorie and I are not dragging him down!” - -Angry tears came with this; the Poet looked away to the green-fringed -shores. When she was calm again he thought it wise to drop the matter -for the present. At least it was best to withdraw to safe ground, from -which it might, however, be possible to approach the citadel obliquely. - -“Marian,” he remarked, “is a charming girl.” - -She seconded his praise of her sister ardently, saying that Marian had -been splendid throughout her troubles. - -“She sees everything so clearly; I don’t know what I should have done -without her.” - -“She sees things your way, then,” he ventured quietly. “I’m a little -afraid we always prefer counselors who tell us we’re doing the right -thing.” - -“Oh, she reasons things out wonderfully. I hope she will profit by my -troubles! Fortunately we’re unlike; she’s much more practical than I -am. She has a wider outlook; I think her college training shows there.” - -“We must see to it that she doesn’t make mistakes,” said the Poet, -his thoughts reverting to his efforts to place some new ideals -where Marian might contemplate them without suspecting that he was -responsible for putting them in her way. The humorous aspects of his -intervention--and particularly his employment of the unconscious Fulton -as a missionary--caused him to smile--a smile which Mrs. Redfield -detected but failed to understand. - -“I can never look on marriage again as I used to,” she ventured. “Most -of the good things of life have been spoiled for me.” - -“I can’t agree to that: you are less than thirty, which isn’t the -age at which we can afford to haul down the flag. If I’d subsided at -thirty,--had concluded that the world would never listen to my little -tin horn,--I should have missed most of the joy of life. And Marian -at twenty-two mustn’t be allowed to say that the world at best is a -dreary place. She mustn’t be allowed to form foolish opinions of life -and destiny and call to the stage-hands to drop the curtain the first -time some actor misses his cue. And do you know,” he continued with the -humor glinting through his glasses, “that girl had the bad manners to -tell me to my face only a few days ago that there was no substance to -all our poetizing--that the romance had been trampled out of life! To -think of that--at twenty-two _or_ thirty!” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Redfield, a little defiantly, “you must remember that -_I’ve_ tried poetry and romance.” - -It was clear from her tone that she thought this scored heavily on her -side, and offset any blame that might attach to her in his mind. She -was surprised by the quickness with which he retorted. - -“Ah, but have you!” - -This was rather discouraging when she had been at such pains to tell -him the truth; when she had bared her soul to him. She felt that it -was unchivalrous for him to question her fairness when she had been so -frank. - -“You can hardly say,” he went on, “that you made much of a trial of -romance when you dropped it at the first sign of trouble. Please don’t -misunderstand me. That letter you wrote me during your honeymoon from -this very house was in a sense the declaration of a faith. You meant -to live by it always; and if no troubles had ever come it would have -been perfectly satisfactory--no doubts, no questions! You were like -a mariner who doesn’t question his charts when the sea is calm; but -who begins to doubt them when he hears the breakers roaring on hidden -reefs. Ideals are no good if we haven’t a tolerably strong faith in -them. I’m going to tell you something that may surprise you. You and -Miles have been an ideal of mine. Not only was your house with its -pretty garden and the hollyhocks a refuge, but it was one of my chief -inspirations. A good many of the best things I’ve written came out of -that little establishment. I was astonished the other day, in looking -over my work of the past half-dozen years, to find how much of you -and Miles there is in it. And now I feel that I ought to modify those -things--stick in footnotes to say that the ideal home--the ideal of -happiness I had derived from you--was all a fraud. Just think how that -would look: an asterisk tacked to the end of every stanza, leading the -eye down to an admission that my statements were not true, only poetry, -romance, a flimsy invention which no one need be deceived by!” - -“I hope,” she said despairingly, “that I haven’t lost everything! I’ve -got to hold on to something for Marjorie’s sake!” - -“But Miles,” he persisted, “what about him!” - -“That isn’t kind or fair,” she replied, at the point of tears again. -“If I’ve lost my ideals he’s responsible! He’s thrown away all of his -own!” - -“No, not quite! If he had he wouldn’t have been angry at me when I went -to him to discuss these matters!” - -“So you’ve talked to him! Then, of course, you came to me prejudiced in -his favor! I don’t call that being fair. And if he asked you to talk to -me--” - -Her eyes flashed indignantly. - -“It’s rather funny that both of you should be so afraid of that. -Nothing is further from the truth!” - -“I know you mean to be kind, and I know it wasn’t easy for you to -come to me. But you can see that matters have gone too far--after the -heartache and the gossip--” - -“The heartache is deplorable, and the gossip isn’t agreeable,” he -assented readily. “We mustn’t let the chatter of the neighbors worry -us. Think how a reconciliation would dull the knives of the expectant -cynics and hearten the good people--and they are the majority, after -all--who want to see the gospel of happiness and love rule this good -old world. As for things having gone too far, nothing’s been done, no -irrevocable step taken--” - -“You don’t understand, then,--” and there was a note of triumph in -this,--“I’ve brought a suit; it will be determined in October.” - -“October,” replied the Poet, with his provoking irrelevance, “is a -month of delight, ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.’ The warmth -of summer still hovering; the last flowers challenging the frost to do -its worst; plans for the indoor life of winter--the fire, cozy talks -that aren’t possible anywhere but at the hearthside; the friendly lamp -and the neglected book calling us back. I don’t think you and Miles -are going to have a very happy winter of it under different roofs. I’m -sure I’ll miss the thought of you, running upstairs on tiptoe when you -thought you heard Marjorie. Miles was always reading Kipling aloud and -we’d forget ourselves and laugh till you’d hush us and run away in a -panic. You know,” he continued, “your cottage wasn’t only a place -for you to live in; it was my house of dreams--a house of realities -that were dreams come true. I’ve sat by the table many a time when -you didn’t know I was there--an intruder stealing in, a cheerful sort -of ghost, sensible of an unspoken welcome. Odd, isn’t it, about the -spirit of place? Not a great many places really take hold of most of -us; but they have a way of haunting us; or maybe it’s the other way -round and we haunt _them_, and without knowing how we get into them. We -explore strange frontiers into undiscovered countries; we cross from -our own existences into other people’s lives,--lose identity, feel, -see as other people do,--and then lift our heads, rub our eyes, and -become our old selves again--but not quite. We are likely to be wiser -and more just and tolerant. And it’s discouraging,” he went on, “to -go to your house of dreams and find it plastered with ‘for rent’ and -‘for sale’ signs--or worse yet, to let yourself in with your old key to -find only ghosts there! That’s what I’ve been doing. Your bungalow is -empty--doubly empty--for the last tenant didn’t stay long; the ghosts -were probably too much for him! But I’m there--in spirit, you might -say. If the owner knew how much I loaf there, in a disembodied sort of -fashion, he’d begin to charge me rent! But it’s mighty lonesome--nobody -around to dig out old songs and play the airs for me, as you used to, -while I limped along with Miles’s old banjo.” - -He spoke with a certain air of injury, as though after all he were the -chief sufferer from the passing of the old familiar faces from his -house of dreams. He complained as a guest might who suddenly finds -that his hosts have taken their departure without warning, leaving him -sitting at their fireside all unconscious of their flight. - -Elizabeth was surprised to find that his interposition in this fashion -impressed her more than the counsels of other friends who, supporting -her cause loyally, urged her to maintain her “stand” and recommended -sharp reprisals. She had not recovered from her amazement that this -shyest and most unobtrusive of men should have come to her in any -guise; and when he spoke of his house of dreams--_her_ house with its -old-fashioned garden that contained the flowers he scattered oftenest -through his poems--she was half-persuaded that he was really a sad, -wistful visitor of this house of dreams--_her_ house--that symbolized -for him contentment and peace. - -His way of stating the case touched her deeply, and seeing this he rose -and walked to the veranda rail and scanned the limpid water. - -“That looks like the boy I sent to do my fishing for me,” he remarked. -“He’s bringing Marian and Marjorie home. A pretty capable boy, that! -What do you think of a youngster who pops up out of nowhere and chucks -bunches of verses into mail-boxes on crowded corners where any one with -any sort of ear, passing along, would hear them singing inside! Let’s -go down and meet them.” - -On their way to the dock the Poet continued to talk of the young man in -the canoe as though he were a great personage. His extravagant praise -of Frederick Fulton justified any one in believing that either Shelley -or Keats had stolen away from Paradise and was engaged just now in -paddling a canoe upon Lake Waupegan. The Poet had risen from the long -interview with apparent satisfaction and was now his more familiar -amusing self. - -“How on earth did Marian get acquainted with this young man?” asked -Mrs. Redfield in perplexity, as Fulton skillfully maneuvered the canoe -inshore. - -“Why assume that I know anything about it? Marian doubtless knows -scores of people that I never heard of; she’s not an old friend like -you. I dare say he saw her wandering alone on the shore and at once -landed and handed her a poem as though it were the advertisement of a -ventriloquist billed for one night at Waupegan Town Hall! Very likely, -being a girl of discriminating literary taste, she liked his verses and -bade him welcome. And what could be more natural than that he should -offer to bring her home! The longer I live the more I wonder that -people meet who were always destined to meet. We think we’re yielding -to chance when we’re really doing things we’ve been rehearsing in our -subconsciousness for a thousand years!” - -When the party landed he parleyed with Marjorie to make it necessary -for Marian to introduce Fulton to Elizabeth. He avoided Marian’s eyes, -and warily eluded the combined efforts of the sisters to detain him. -The obvious result of his artfulness, so far as Marian and Fulton were -concerned, was eminently satisfactory. The most delightful comradeship -seemed to have been established between the young people. The Poet was -highly pleased with his morning’s work, but having dared so much he -was anxious to retire while the spell of mystification was still upon -them. Luncheon was offered; Mrs. Waring would soon be home and would be -inconsolable if she found they had come in her absence. - -“We are very busy--fishing,” said the Poet as he entrusted himself with -exaggerated apprehensions to the canoe. “When you have a boy fishing -for you you have to watch him. He’ll hide half the fish if you’re not -careful.” - -“You absurd man!” cried Marian, with an accession of boldness, as -Fulton swung the canoe round with sophisticated strokes. - -“Ims a cwazy man,” piped Marjorie; “but ims nice!” - - - - -VII - - -The Poet was amusing himself the next afternoon with a book of Scotch -ballads when Fulton found him, with his back against a big beech, -apparently established for all time. The young man didn’t know that -the Poet was rather expecting him--not anxiously or nervously, in -the way of people unconsoled by a sound philosophy; but the Poet had -nevertheless found in the ballads some hint that possibly Frederick -Fulton would appear. - -Fulton carried a tennis racket and an old geography with the leaves -torn out which served him as a portfolio. These encumbrances seemed in -nowise related to each other, a fact which called for a gibe. - -“I telephoned down to the office last night and arranged to take my -vacation now,” Fulton explained. “In two weeks I can do some new poems -to relieve the prose of my story and round it out. The lake’s my scene, -you know; I planned it all last September--and a lot of things will -occur to me here that I’d never get hold of in town.” - -“There’s something in that,” the Poet agreed; “and by putting aside -the pen for the racket occasionally you can observe Marian in her -golden sandals at short range. And then,” he deliberated, “if she -doesn’t prove to be quite up to the mark; if you find that she isn’t as -enchanting as you imagined when you admired her at a distance, you can -substitute another girl. There are always plenty of girls.” - -Fulton met the Poet’s eyes squarely and grinned. - -“So far my only trouble is my own general incompetence. The scenery and -the girl are all right. By the way, you got me into a nice box showing -her my verses! I suffered, I can tell you, when I followed your advice -and paddled up in my little canoe and found her with those things!” - -The Poet discounted his indignation heavily, as Fulton clearly meant -that he should. - -“Formal introductions bore me, and in your case I thought we’d do -something a little different. From the fact that you’re going off now -with your scribble-book and racket to find her I judge that my way of -bringing you to each other’s attention has been highly successful. Pray -don’t let me detain you!” he ended with faint irony. - -“I wanted to tell you,” said Fulton, “that I’ve decided not to accept -Redfield’s offer; I’ve just written to him.” - -The Poet expressed no surprise. He merely nodded and began searching -for a knot in the cord attached to his eye-glasses. - -“We can usually trust June with our confidences and rely on her -judgments,” he remarked pensively. “January is first-rate, too; -February and March are tricky and unreliable. April, on the other hand, -is much safer than she gets credit for being. But it was lucky that -we thought of June as an arbiter in your case. If we would all get -out under a June sky like this with our troubles we’d be a good deal -happier. It was a bad day for the human race when it moved indoors.” - -The Poet, absorbed in the passage of a launch across the lake, had not -applauded Fulton’s determination not to ally himself with Redfield, -as the young man had expected. Fulton felt that the subject required -something more. - -“I mean to stick to the newspaper and use every minute I have outside -for study and writing,” he persisted earnestly. “I’ve decided to keep -trying for five years, whether I ever make a killing or not.” - -“That’s good,” said the Poet heartily. “I’m glad you’ve concluded to do -that. Your determination carries you halfway to the goal; and I’m glad -you see it that way. I didn’t want to influence you about Redfield; but -I wanted you to take time to think.” - -“Well, I’m sure I should always have regretted it, if I’d gone with -him. And now that I’ve met Mrs. Redfield, I’m fully convinced that I’m -making no mistake. It doesn’t seem possible--” - -He checked himself, and waited for a sign from the Poet before -concluding. The Poet drew out and replaced in the ballads the slim -ivory paper-cutter he used as a bookmark. - -“No, it doesn’t seem possible,” he replied quietly. “It was just as -well for you to see her before making up your mind about going in with -Redfield.” (His own part in making it possible for Fulton to meet -Mrs. Redfield at this juncture was not, he satisfied his conscience, -a matter for confession!) “Of course their affairs will straighten -out--not because you or I may want them to, but because they really -need each other; or if they don’t know it now they will. I’m inclined -to think Marian will help a little. Even you and I may be inconspicuous -figures in the drama--just walking on and off, saying a word here and -there! None of us lives all to himself. All of us who write must keep -that in mind;--our responsibility. When I was a schoolboy I found a -misspelled word in a book I was reading and I kept misspelling that -word for twenty years. We must be careful what we put into print; we -never can tell who’s going to be influenced by what we write. Don’t let -anybody fool you into thinking that the virile book has to be a nasty -one. There’s too much of that sort of thing. They talk about warning -the innocent; but there’s not much sense in handing a child the hot end -of a poker just to make it dread the fire. There are writers who seem -to find a great joy in making mankind out as bad as possible, and that -doesn’t help particularly, does it? It doesn’t help you or me any to -find that some man we have known and admired has landed with a bump at -the bottom of the toboggan. But,” he ended, “when we hear the bump it’s -our job to get the arnica bottle and see what we can do for him. By the -way, I’m leaving this afternoon.” - -“Not going--not to-day!” cried Fulton with unfeigned surprise and -disappointment. - -“As I never had the slightest intention of coming, it’s time I was -moving along. And besides, I’ve accomplished all the objects of my -visit. If I remained any longer I might make a muddle of them. I’m a -believer in the inevitable hour and the inevitable word. ‘Skip’ was -the first word that popped into my head when I woke up this morning. -At first I thought Providence was kindly indicating the passing of a -prancing buccaneer who began pounding carpets under my window at 5 -A.M.; but that was too good to be true. I decided that it was in the -stars that I should be the skipper. Unless the innkeeper is an exalted -liar my train leaves at four, and I shall be occupied with balladry -until the hour arrives. We must cultivate repose and guard against -fretfulness. There’s no use in trying to hasten the inevitable hour by -moving the dial closer to the sun. If you’re not too busy you might -bring Marjorie and Marian over to see me off. It would be a pleasant -attention; and besides, I should be much less likely to miss the train.” - - - - -VIII - - -Mrs. Redfield, Marian, and Marjorie were back in town by the first of -July. The sisters had taken a small house on a convenient side street -and were facing their to-morrows confidently. Mrs. Redfield was to open -a kindergarten in October and Marian was to teach Latin in a private -school. Fulton still clung to the manuscript of his romance for the -revision it constantly invited. Since returning to town he had seen the -Poet frequently, and had kept that gentleman informed of the movements -and plans of Mrs. Redfield and Marian. - -The Poet wandered into the “Chronicle” office one humid afternoon and -found the reporter writing an interview with a visiting statesman. On -days when every one else complained bitterly of the heat, the Poet was -apparently the coolest person in town. - -“I hope you have enough raisins in your pudding to spare a few,” he -remarked. And then, as Fulton groped for his meaning, he drew an -envelope from his pocket. “I took the liberty of purloining a few of -those things you gave me a month ago before I passed them on to Marian -and here’s the ‘Manhattan Magazine’ kindly inclosing a check for fifty -dollars for four of them. I suggested to the editor that they ought -to be kept together and printed on one page. If you don’t like the -arrangement, you can send back the check. I’d suggest, though, that you -exchange it for gold and carry the coins in your pocket for a day or -two. The thrill of the first real money you get for poetry comes only -once. Of course, if you’re not satisfied and want to send it back--” - -He feigned to ignore the surprise and delight with which the young man -stared at the slip of paper in his hand while he tried to grasp this -astonishing news. - -“Send it back!” he blurted, breaking in upon the Poet’s further -comments on the joy of a first acceptance. “Send it back! Why, they’ve -sent me back dozens of better pieces! And if it hadn’t been for -you--Why,” he cried, with mounting elation, “this is the grandest -thing that ever happened to me! If I wasn’t afraid of getting arrested -I’d yell!” - -“Of course,” continued the Poet calmly, “I had to tell the magazine -people that you made your sketches from life--and that they might -get into a libel suit by printing them. I suppose you’re hardly in a -position to ask Miss Agnew’s leave to print! You haven’t been seeing -much of her, of course!” - -An imaginary speck of mud on his umbrella engaged the Poet’s attention -at the moment so that he missed the color that deepened in Fulton’s -face. - -“Oh, I’ve seen a good deal of Miss Agnew,” he confessed, “both at -the lake and since I’ve come home. We do some tennis together every -afternoon I can get off. I suppose there might be some question as to -using the poems without asking her about it. Very likely no one would -ever guess that she inspired them--and yet I have a guilty feeling--” - -“You know, of course; and she, being, we will say, a person of average -intelligence, knows, too, perfectly well. There you have it--a very -delicate question! And the fact that she doesn’t care for such -foolishness as poetry and romance makes a difference. You’ve got to -consider that.” - -His insinuations had been of the mildest, but his keen scrutiny marked -the flash of resentment in Fulton’s eyes. - -“Well, she was very nice about my putting her into the story. It did -rather stagger her at first--to know that I had been worshiping from -afar, and grinding rhymes about her for a year without ever knowing -her.” - -“The enchantment wasn’t all a matter of distance, I hope,” the Poet -persisted. “I wasn’t quite sure about her. She struck me as being a -little bitter; seemed to think life a string of wrong numbers and the -girl at the exchange stupid and cross. I should be sorry if you got any -such notions from her; it couldn’t fail to make your ideal totter on -its pedestal. It would be rough to find that your Pomona, in shaking -the boughs in the orchard, was looking for an apple with a worm-mark in -its damask cheek. It would argue for an unhappy nature. We must insist -that our goddesses have a cheerful outlook; no grumbling when it rains -on the picnic!” - -“Well,” Fulton admitted, “she did seem a little disdainful and rather -generally skeptical about things at first; but I met that by rather -overemphasizing the general good that’s lying around everywhere, most -of which I got from your books. Her father had lost his money, and her -sister’s troubles couldn’t fail to spoil some of her illusions; but -she’s going into her school-teaching with the right spirit. She’s been -reading the manuscript of my story and has made some bully suggestions. -I’ve rewritten one of the chapters and improved it vastly because she -pointed out a place where I’d changed the key a little--I must have -been tired when I wrote it. I’d rather got off the romantic note I -started with and there were a dozen dead, pallid pages right in the -middle of the thing.” - -“She was afraid the romantic element flagged there?” asked the Poet -carelessly. - -“Well, I suppose that’s about what it came to. My heroine and the hero -had a tiff; and I was giving the girl the best of it and making _him_ -out unreasonable; and she said she thought that wasn’t fair; that the -trouble was all the girl’s fault. She thought the girl shouldn’t have -been so peevish over a small matter when the young orchardist had shown -himself chivalrous and generous. It seemed to be Miss Agnew’s idea that -when you go in for romance you ought to carry through with it.” - -The Poet’s attention seemed to wander, and he suppressed a smile with -difficulty. He then began searching his pockets for something, and not -finding it, remarked:-- - -“People who never change their minds aren’t interesting; they really -are not.” - -“Well, I’m glad enough to change mine,” replied Fulton, not knowing -what was in the Poet’s mind; “and I hope I’ll never get to a place -where I can’t take criticism in the right spirit.” - -“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of you,” remarked the Poet. - -He rose and moved quickly toward the door, as though to escape from -Fulton’s renewed thanks for his kind offices in disposing of the verses. - -“Don’t work yourself to death,” he warned Fulton in the hall. “I’m -glad Marian’s influence is so beneficent. When your proof comes, hold -it a day or two: there’s always the chance of bettering a thing.” - - - - -IX - - -As September waned, Fulton heard disquieting news touching Redfield. -It was whispered in business circles that the broker had, the previous -year, sold stock in a local industrial venture that had already come to -grief. Redfield’s friends were saying that he had been misled by the -enthusiasm of the men who had promoted the company, but this was not -accepted at face value by some of his business rivals. Fortunately the -amount was not large--a mitigating circumstance for which he was not -responsible; he would have sold more, it was said, if investors had -proved less wary. The story was well calculated to injure if it didn’t -at once destroy Redfield’s chances of success as a dealer in securities. - -Fulton was a good deal disturbed by these reports, which it became his -duty to sift for the “Chronicle.” Fulton liked Redfield; Redfield was -a likable person, a good fellow. The effect upon his future of this -misfortune, attributable to his new-born zeal for money-making, was -not to be passed lightly. There was nothing for the papers to print, -as the complaining purchasers had been made whole and were anxious to -avoid publicity. Fulton had watched matters carefully with a view to -protecting Redfield if it became necessary, and he was confident that -the sanguine promoters were the real culprits, though it was pretty -clear that any scruples the broker might have had had gone down before -the promise of a generous commission. - -When quite satisfied that Redfield was safe so far as prosecution was -concerned, Fulton spoke of Redfield’s difficulties to the Poet on an -evening when he called ostensibly to report the completion of his -romance. The Poet listened attentively, but the reporter accepted his -mild expressions of regret as indicating indifference to Redfield’s -fate. The young man’s remark that if it hadn’t been for the Poet he -would have shared Redfield’s collapse elicited no comment. The Poet, -imaginably preoccupied with less disagreeable speculations, turned at -once to Fulton’s manuscript. After the final draft had been discussed -and publishers had been considered, the young man left in the cheerful -mood he always carried away from his talks with the Poet. - -But the Poet spent a restless evening. He listlessly turned over many -books without finding any to arrest his interest. He was troubled, -deeply troubled, by what Fulton had told him of Redfield. And he was -wandering whether there might not be some way of turning his old -friend’s humiliation to good account. A man of Redfield’s character -and training would feel disgrace keenly; and coming at a time when he -believed himself well launched toward success, the shock to his pride -would be all the greater. - -Nothing in the Poet’s creed was more brightly rubricated than his -oft-repeated declarations that the unfortunate, the erring, the -humbled, are entitled to mercy and kindness. The Redfields’ plight had -roused him to a defense of his theory of life; but Fulton’s story had -added a new integer that greatly increased the difficulty of solving -this problem. Seemingly Fate was using these old friends to provide -illustrations for many of the dicta that were the foundation of his -teachings. Inspiration did not visit the quiet street that night. The -Poet pondered old poems rather than new ones. “Life is a game the -soul can play,” he found in Sill; but the chessmen, he reflected, are -sometimes bafflingly obstinate and unreasonable. - -“To-morrow is All-Children’s Day,” remarked the Poet a few days later -when, seemingly by chance, he met Fulton in the street; and when the -young man asked for light the Poet went on to explain. “When Marjorie -was born her father and I set apart her birthday to be All-Children’s -Day--a crystallization of all children’s birthdays, from the beginning -of time, and we meant to celebrate it to the end of our days. It just -occurs to me that you and I might make it an excuse for calling on -Mrs. Redfield and Marian and Marjorie to-morrow afternoon, the same -being Sunday. Very likely you have another engagement--” he ended, with -provoking implications that caused Fulton, who was already pledged to -visit Marjorie and inferentially Marian and Mrs. Redfield on this very -Sunday afternoon, to stammer in the most incriminating fashion. - -“Then if you haven’t anything better to do we can call together,” said -the Poet. - -It would have been clear to less observant eyes than the Poet’s that -the reporter was on excellent terms with the household, and even if the -elders had tried to mask the cordiality of their welcome, Marjorie’s -delight in Fulton was too manifest for concealment. She transparently -disclosed the existence of much unfinished business between herself -and the young man that pointed irrefutably to many previous and recent -interviews. - -“Inside is no good for houses,” Marjorie was saying, as the Poet -accommodated himself to the friendly atmosphere; “nobody builds houses -inside of houses.” - -This suggestion of the open was promptly supported by Fulton; and in -the most natural manner imaginable Marian was pressed into service to -assist in transferring building-materials to the few square yards of -lawn at the side of the house. September was putting forth all her pomp -and the air was of summer warmth. Marjorie’s merry treble floated in -with the laughter of Marian and Fulton. They were engaged with utmost -seriousness in endeavoring to reproduce with blocks the elaborate -château of sand, sticks, and stones that had been their rallying-point -on the shores of Waupegan. - -The Poet, left alone with Mrs. Redfield, noted the presence in the tiny -parlor of some of the lares and penates that had furnished forth the -suburban bungalow and that had survived the transfer to the flat and -the subsequent disaster. They seemed curiously wistful in these new -surroundings. As though aware that this was in his mind, Mrs. Redfield -began speaking of matters as far removed from her own affairs as -possible. The Poet understood, and, when the topics she suggested gave -opportunity, played upon them whimsically. The trio in the yard were -evidently having the best of times; and their happiness stirred various -undercurrents of thought in the Poet’s mind. He was not quite sure of -his ground. It was one thing to urge charity, mercy, and tolerance in -cloistral security; to put one’s self forward as the protagonist of any -of these virtues was quite another. - -The Poet rose, picked up a magazine from the center table, scanned the -table of contents, and then said, very quietly,-- - -“Miles is in trouble.” - -He watched her keenly for the effect of this, and then proceeded -quickly:-- - -“It’s fortunate that the jar came so soon; a few years later and it -mightn’t have been possible for him to recover; but I think there’s -hope for him.” - -“What Miles does or what he becomes is of no interest to me,” she -answered sharply. “He didn’t feel that there was any disgrace to him in -casting Marjorie and me aside; his pride’s not likely to suffer from -anything else that may happen to him.” - -“He’s down and out; there’s no possibility of his going on with the -brokerage business; he’s got to make a new start. It’s to be said for -him that he has made good the losses of the people who charged him -with unfair dealing. I’m disposed to think he was carried away by his -enthusiasm; he was trying to get on too fast.” - -In spite of her flash of anger at the mention of her husband’s name, -it was clear that her curiosity had been aroused. Nor was the Poet -dismayed by a light in her dark eyes which he interpreted as expressing -a sense of triumph and vindication. - -“I suppose he’s satisfied now,” she said. - -“I fancy his state of mind isn’t enviable,” the Poet replied evenly. -“Life, when you come to think of it, is a good deal like writing a -sonnet. You start off bravely with your rhyme words scrawled at the -top of the page. Four lines may come easily enough; but the words -you have counted on to carry you through lead into all manner of -complications. You are betrayed into saying the reverse of the thing -you started out to say. You begin with spring and after you’ve got the -birds to singing, the powers of mischief turn the seasons upside down, -and before you know it the autumn leaves are falling; it’s extremely -discouraging! If we could only stick to the text--” - -His gesture transferred the illustration from the field of literary -composition to the ampler domain of life. - -She smiled at his feigned helplessness to pursue his argument further. - -“But when the rhyme words won’t carry sense, and you have to throw the -whole thing overboard--” she ventured. - -“No, oh, no! That’s the joy of rhyming--its endless fascination! The -discreet and economical poet never throws away even a single line; -there’s always a chance that it may be of use.” He was feeling his -way back to his illustration of life from the embarrassments of -sonneteering, and smiled as his whimsical fancy caught at a clue. “If -you don’t forget the text,--if you’re quite sure you have an idea,--or -an ideal!--then it’s profitable to keep fussing away at it. If a bad -line offend you, pluck it out; or maybe a line gets into the wrong -place and has to be moved around until it fits. It’s all a good deal -like the work Marjorie’s doing outside--fitting blocks together that -have to go in a certain way or the whole structure will tumble. It’s -the height of cowardice to give up and persuade yourself that you’ve -exhausted the subject in a quatrain. The good craftsman will follow the -pattern--perfect his work, make it express the best in himself!” - -And this referred to the estrangement of Miles Redfield and his wife or -not; just as one might please to take it. - -“Miles has gone away, I suppose,” she remarked listlessly. - -This made the situation quite concrete again, and any expression of -interest, no matter how indifferent, would have caused the Poet’s heart -to bound; but his face did not betray him. - -“Oh, he will be back shortly, I understand. I rather think he will -show himself a man and pull his sonnet together again! There’s a fine -courage in Miles; unless I’ve mistaken him, he won’t sit down and cry, -even if he has made a pretty bad blunder. A man hardly ever loses all -his friends; there’s always somebody around who will hand a tract in at -the jail door!” - -“You don’t mean,” she exclaimed, “that Miles has come to that!” - -“Bless me, no!” the Poet cried, with another heart throb. “The worst -is over now; I’m quite satisfied of that!” he answered with an ease -that conveyed nothing of the pains he had taken, by ways devious and -concealed, to assure himself that Miles had made complete restitution. - -“A man of cheaper metal might have taken chances with the law; I’m -confident that Miles was less the culprit than the victim. He sold -something that wasn’t good, on the strength of statements he wasn’t -responsible for. I believe that to be honestly true, and I got it -through men who have no interest in him, who might be expected to -chortle over his misfortune.” - -“In business matters,” she replied, with an emphasis that was eloquent -of reservations as to other fields, “Miles was always perfectly -honorable. I don’t believe anybody would question that.” - -It hadn’t entered into the Poet’s most sanguine speculations that she -would defend Miles, or speak even remotely in praise of him. Wisdom -dictated an immediate change of topic. He walked to the open window and -established communication with the builders outside, who had reproduced -the Waupegan château with added splendors and were anxious to have it -admired. - - - - -X - - -Indirection as a method and means to ends has its disadvantages; but -it is not to be scorned utterly. A week following Marjorie’s birthday -children idling on their way home from school in Marston grew silent -and conferred in whispers as a gentleman whose name and fame had been -interwoven in their alphabet lounged by. He turned with a smile to lift -his hat to an urchin bolder than the rest who shouted his name from a -discreet distance. - -Within a few days the signs had vanished from the Redfield cottage -and the weeds had been cut. As the Poet opened the gate, Fulton came -out of the front door: neither seemed surprised to see the other. The -odor of fresh paint elicited a sniff of satisfaction from the Poet, a -satisfaction that deepened a moment later as he entered the studio and -noted its neatness and order. - -“Mrs. Waring sent a maid out to do all this, and lent me the things -we needed for the tea-table,” Fulton explained. “I had hard work to -persuade her this wasn’t one of your jokes. I had harder work to get -Mrs. Redfield to come and bring Marjorie; but Marian supported the -scheme, and brought Mrs. Redfield round. I fell back heavily on your -argument that Marjorie ought to have a final picnic before the turn o’ -the year--a last chance to build a shotum ready for knights to come -widing.” - -“Marian is a persuasive person, I imagine,” the Poet remarked. “By -the way, I shall be a little late arriving. Myers, the artist, lives -a little farther down Audubon Road and I want to have a look at his -summer’s work. Nice fellow; good workman. Redfield promised to meet me -there; I want to be sure he doesn’t run away. We don’t want the party -spoiled after all the work we’ve done on it.” - - * * * * * - -“I wonder,” Mrs. Redfield remarked, over the tea-table, “who has bought -the place?” - -“A trust company, I think,” replied Fulton, glancing through the broad -north window of the studio with careful dissimulation. “As I passed -the other day I saw that the grounds had been put in order, and decided -that this would be just the place for a picnic.” - -“This little house would be nice for my playhouse; and we could use -that big window to watch ums knights come widing.” - -“That chimney used to roar the way you read about,” remarked Marian. “I -think every house ought to have a detached place like this, for tea and -sewing and children to play in.” - -Mrs. Redfield, ill at ease, was attending listlessly to the talk. -Fulton’s explanation had not wholly explained. She had agreed to the -excursion only after Marjorie had clamorously insisted upon the outing -her devoted cavalier had proposed. Marjorie’s comments upon the broad -yard, her childish delight in the studio playhouse, touched chords of -memory that jangled harshly. - -Fulton was in high spirits. His romance had been accepted and a -representative of the publishing house was coming to confer with him -about illustrations. - -“They say it won’t break any best-selling records, but it will give me -a start. The scoundrels had the cheek to suggest that I cut out some of -my jingles, but I scorned such impiousness in an expensive telegram.” - -“I should hope so!” cried Marian approvingly. “The story’s only an -excuse for the poems. Even the noblest prose wouldn’t express the lake, -the orchard, and the fields; if you cut out your verses, there wouldn’t -be much left but a young gentleman spraying apple trees and looking off -occasionally at the girls paddling across the lake.” - -“You do my orchardist hero a cruel injustice,” protested Fulton, “for -he saw only one girl--and a very nice girl she was--or is!” - -“What on earth are you two talking about?” asked Mrs. Redfield, looking -from one to the other, while thwarting Marjorie in a forbidden attack -upon the cookies. “It seems to me that you’ve been talking for years -about this story, and I don’t know yet what it’s all about.” - -“Hims witing books like the funny poetry man, and hims told me if I’m -good and nice to you and Aunt Marian he’ll wite a book all about me, -and my dollies, and how we builded shotums by the lake and in our yard; -and Marian can’t be in any more books, but just be sitting on a wock by -the lake, having ums picture painted.” - -“Thank you, Marjorie; I knew he was a deceiver and that proves it,” -laughed Marian, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “Let’s all go out and see -the sun go down.” - -Marjorie toddled off along the walk that bisected what had once been a -kitchen-garden. - -The sun was resting his fiery burden on the dark edge of a wood on the -western horizon. The front door of the bungalow was ajar and Mrs. -Redfield crossed the piazza and peered in. The place was clean and -freshly papered: a fire burned m the fireplace--no mere careless blaze -of litter left by workmen, but flaming logs that crackled cheerily. -Her memory distributed her own belongings; here had been the table and -there the couch and chair; and she saw restored to the bare walls the -pictures that now cluttered the attic of the home she had established -with Marian, that had once hung here--each with its special meaning for -the occupants. - -She stood, a girlish figure, with her hands thrust into the pockets of -her sweater, staring with unseeing eyes at the mocking flames. - -The Poet had spoken of the visits he paid in fancy to his house -of dreams, and she half-wondered whether she were not herself a -disembodied spirit imprisoned in a house of shadows. A light, furtive -step on the piazza startled her, and lifting her eyes with the Poet -still in her mind she saw him crossing the room quickly, like a guest -approaching his hostess. - -“It’s pleasant to find the mistress back in the house of dreams,” he -said. “And she brings, oh, so many things with her!” - -He glanced about the empty room as though envisaging remembered -comforts. - -“I might have known,” she murmured, “that this was your plan.” - -“No,” he replied, with a smile that brought to his face a rare -kindliness and sweetness, “it wasn’t mine; I’m merely an inefficient -agent. It’s all born of things hoped for--” - -He waved his hand to the bare walls, brought it round and placed -something in her palm. - -“There’s the key to my house of dreams. As you see, it needs -people--its own people--Marjorie and you, for example, to make it home -again. I shall be much happier to know you’re back....” - -[Illustration: ELIZABETH!] - -He was gone and she gazed after him with a deepened sense of unreality. -A moment later she heard Marjorie calling to him in the garden. - -She stood staring at the flat bit of metal he had left in her hand, the -key of his house of dreams; then she laid her arms upon the long shelf -of the mantel and wept. The sound of her sobbing filled the room. Never -before--not when the anger and shame of her troubles were fresh upon -her--had she been so shaken. - -She was still there, with her head bowed upon her arms, when a voice -spoke her name, “Elizabeth,” and “Elizabeth,” again, very softly. - - * * * * * - -The sun flamed beyond the woodland. The Poet joined with Marian and -Fulton in praising the banners of purple and gold that were flung -across the west, while Marjorie tugged at his umbrella. - -“It’s all good--everything is good! A pretty good, cheerful kind of -world when you consider it. I think,” he added with his eyes on Marian, -“that maybe Miles can find time to do the pictures for Fred’s book. -His old place at the bank won’t be ready until the first of the year, -and that will give him a chance to work up something pretty fine. I’ll -see that publisher about it when he comes; and--” He withdrew several -steps, and looked absently at the glories of the dying day before -concluding, “it’s just as well to keep all the good things in the -family.” - -When they hurried to the gate, they saw him walking in his leisurely -fashion toward the trolley terminus, swinging his umbrella. The golden -light enfolded him and the scarlet maples bent down in benediction. - - -THE END - - - - - The Riverside Press - CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS - U . S . A - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poet, by Meredith Nicholson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POET *** - -***** This file should be named 62821-0.txt or 62821-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/8/2/62821/ - -Produced by D A Alexander, David E. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Poet - -Author: Meredith Nicholson - -Illustrator: Franklin Booth - W. A. Dwiggins - -Release Date: August 2, 2020 [EBook #62821] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POET *** - - - - -Produced by D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="antiqua">By Meredith Nicholson</span></p> -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - - - -<div class="verse">THE POET. Illustrated.</div> - -<div class="verse">OTHERWISE PHYLLIS. With frontispiece in color.</div> - -<div class="verse">THE PROVINCIAL AMERICAN AND OTHER -PAPERS.</div> - -<div class="verse">A HOOSIER CHRONICLE. With Illustrations.</div> - -<div class="verse">THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS. With -illustrations.</div> -</div></div> - - -<p class="center">HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> - -<span class="smcap">Boston and New York</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h1>THE POET</h1> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_0" id="Page_0"></a></span></p> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_frontispiece.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="center"><span class="margin-left"><a href="#Page_3">(p. 3)</a></span></p> - -<p class="caption">POOR MARJORIE</p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="titlepage"> - - -<p><span class="xxlarge">THE POET</span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> - -<span class="xlarge">MEREDITH NICHOLSON</span></p> - -<p>WITH PICTURES BY FRANKLIN BOOTH<br /> -AND DECORATIONS BY W. A. DWIGGINS</p> - - - -<p>BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> - -HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> - -<span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press Cambridge</span><br /> - -1914</p> - -</div> -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON</p> - -<p class="center">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p> - -<p class="center"><i>Published October 1914</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></div> - - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - - -<tr><td>“<span class="smcap">Poor Marjorie!</span>” (Page 3)</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_0"> <i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“<span class="smcap">Every trifling thing had to be argued</span>” </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_74"> 74</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The approaching canoe</span> </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110"> 110</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“<span class="smcap">Elizabeth!</span>” </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_188"> 188</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_chap1.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="caption">PART ONE</p></div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i003top.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">PART ONE</h2></div> - -<h3>I</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">“The</span> lonesomeness of that little girl over -there is becoming painful,” said the Poet from -his chair by the hedge. “I can’t make out -whether she’s too dressed up to play or -whether it’s only shyness.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Marjorie!” murmured Mrs. Waring. -“We’ve all coaxed her to play, but she won’t -budge. By the way, that’s one of the saddest -cases we’ve had; it’s heartbreaking, discouraging. -Little waifs like Marjorie, whose fathers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -and mothers can’t hit it off, don’t have a fair -chance,—they are handicapped from the -start.—Oh, I thought you knew; that’s the -Redfields’ little girl.”</p> - -<p>The Poet gazed with a new intentness at the -dark-haired child of five who stood rigidly at -the end of the pergola with her hands clasped -behind her back. The Poet All the People -Loved was a philosopher also, but his philosophy -was not quite equal to forecasting the destiny -of little Marjorie.</p> - -<p>“Children,” he observed, “should not be left -on the temple steps when the pillars of society -crack and rock; the good fairies ought to carry -them out of harm’s way. Little Marjorie looks -as though she had never smiled.” And then he -murmured with characteristic self-mockery,—</p> - - - -<p class="center">“Oh, little child that never smiled—</p> - -<p>Somebody might build a poem around that -line, but I hope nobody ever will! If that child<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> -doesn’t stop looking that way, I shall have to -cry or crawl over there on my knees and ride -her pickaback.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Waring’s two daughters had been leading -the children in a march and dance that now -broke up in a romp; and the garden echoed -with gleeful laughter. The spell of restraint -was broken, and the children began initiating -games of their own choosing; but Marjorie -stood stolidly gazing at them as though they -were of another species. Her nurse, having -failed to interest her sad-eyed charge in the -games that were delighting the other children, -had withdrawn, leaving Marjorie to her own -devices.</p> - -<p>“She’s always like that,” the girl explained -with resignation, “and you can’t do anything -with her.”</p> - -<p>A tall, fair girl appeared suddenly at the -garden entrance. The abrupt manner of her -coming, the alert poise of her figure, as though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -she had been arrested in flight and had paused -only for breath before winging farther, interested -the Poet at once.</p> - -<p>She stood there as unconscious as though -she were the first woman, and against the -white gate of the garden was imaginably of -kin to the bright goddesses of legend. She -was hatless, and the Poet was grateful for this, -for a hat, he reflected, should never weigh upon -a head so charming, so lifted as though with -courage and hope, and faith in the promise of -life. A tennis racket held in the hollow of her -arm explained her glowing color. Essentially -American, he reflected, this young woman, -and worthy to stand as a type in his thronging -gallery. She so satisfied the eye in that hesitating -moment that the Poet shrugged his shoulders -impatiently when she threw aside the -racket and bounded across the lawn, darting -in and out among the children, laughingly -eluding small hands thrust out to catch her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -and then dropped on her knees before Marjorie. -She caught the child’s hands, laughed into the -sad little face, holding herself away so that the -homesick, bewildered heart might have time -to adjust itself, and then Marjorie’s arms -clasped her neck tightly, and the dark head -lay close to the golden one.</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s parley, begun in -tears and ending in laughter; and then Marian -tripped away with Marjorie, and joined with -her in the mazes of a dance that enmeshed the -whole company of children in bright ribbons -and then freed them again. The Poet, beating -time to the music with his hat, wished that -Herrick might have been there; it was his -habit to think, when something pleased him -particularly, that “Keats would have liked -that!”—“Shelley would have made a golden -line of this!” He felt songs beating with eager -wings at the door of his own heart as his -glance followed the fair girl who had so easily<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -turned a child’s tears to laughter. For Marjorie -was laughing with the rest now; in ten -minutes she was one of them—had found -friends and seemed not to mind at all when her -good angel dropped out to become a spectator -of her happiness.</p> - -<p>“I have saved my trousers,” remarked the -Poet to Mrs. Waring, who had watched the -transformation in silence; “but that girl has -spoiled her frock kneeling to Marjorie. I suppose -I couldn’t with delicacy offer to reimburse -her for the damage. If there were any -sort of gallantry in me I would have sacrificed -myself, and probably have scared Marjorie to -death. If a child should put its arms around me -that way and cry on my shoulder and then run -off and play, I should be glad to endow laundries -to the limit of my bank account. If the Diana -who rescued Marjorie has another name—”</p> - -<p>“I thought you knew! That’s Marian -Agnew, Marjorie’s aunt.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>“I’ve read of her in many books,” said the -Poet musingly, “but she’s an elusive person. -I might have known that if I would sit in a -pleasant garden like this in June and watch -children at play, something beautiful would -pass this way.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Waring glanced at him quickly, as -people usually did to make sure he was not -trifling with them.</p> - -<p>“You really seem interested in the way she -hypnotized Marjorie! Well, to be quite honest, -I sent for her to come! She was playing tennis -a little farther up the street, but she came running -when I sent word that Marjorie was here -and that we had all given her up in despair.”</p> - -<p>“My first impression was that she had -dropped down from heaven or had run away -from Olympus. Please don’t ask me to say -which I think likelier!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry to spoil an illusion, but after all -Marian is one of the daughters of men; though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -I remember that when she was ten she told me -in solemn confidence that she believed in fairies, -because she had seen them—an excellent reason! -She graduated from Vassar last year, and -I have an idea that college may have shaken -her faith in fairies. She’s going to begin teaching -school next fall,—she has to do something, -you know. She’s an eminently practical person, -blessed with a sound appetite, and she -can climb a rope, and swim and play tennis all -day.”</p> - -<p>“The Olympians ate three meals a day, I -imagine; and we shouldn’t begrudge this fair-haired -Marian her daily bread and butter. -Let me see; she’s Marjorie’s aunt; and Marjorie’s -father is Miles Redfield. I know Redfield -well; his wife was Elizabeth Agnew. I -saw a good deal of them in their early married -days. They’ve agreed to quit—is that the -way of it?”</p> - -<p>“How fortunate you are that people don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -tell you gossip! I suppose it’s one of the rewards -of being a poet! The whole town has -been upset by the Redfields’ troubles;—they -have separated. I’ve sent Elizabeth up to -Waupegan to open my house—made an excuse -to get her away. Marjorie’s with her -grandmother, waiting for the courts to do something -about it;—as though courts could do -anything about such cases!” she ended with -feeling.</p> - -<p>The Poet, searching for Marjorie in the -throng of children, made no reply.</p> - -<p>“You are a poet,” Mrs. Waring resumed -tauntingly, with the privilege of old friendship, -“and have a reputation for knowing the -human heart. Why can’t you do something -about the Redfields’ troubles?—there’s a fine -chance for you! It begins to look as though -sentiment, romance, love—all those things you -poets have been writing about for thousands of -years—have gone out with the old-fashioned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -roses. I confess that it’s because I’m afraid -that’s true that I’m clinging to all the flowers -my grandmother used to love—and I’m nearly -seventy and a grandmother myself.”</p> - -<p>She was still a handsome woman, and the -Poet’s eyes followed her admiringly as she -crossed the lawn, leaving him to find an answer -to her question. In the days of his beginnings -she had been his steadfast friend, and he -was fond of telling her that he had learned the -kindliness and cheer he put into his poems -from her.</p> - -<p>She and her assistants were marshaling the -children for refreshments under a canopy at -the farther corner of the garden, and the animated -scene delighted and charmed him. He -liked thus to sit apart and observe phases of -life,—and best of all he loved scenes like this -that were brightened by the presence of children. -He was a bachelor, but the world’s children -were his; and he studied them, loved them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -wrote for them and of them. He was quite -alone, as he liked to be often, pondering the -misfortunes of the Redfields as lightly limned -by Mrs. Waring. Little Marjorie, as she had -stood forlornly against the pergola, haunted -him still in spite of her capitulation to the -charms of her Aunt Marian. He knew perfectly -well that Mrs. Waring hadn’t meant -what she said in her fling about the passing of -poetry and romance; she was the last woman -in the world to utter such sentiments seriously; -but he was aware that many people believed -them to be true.</p> - -<p>Every day the postman brought him letters -in dismaying numbers from people of all sorts -and conditions who testified to the validity of -his message. The most modest of men, he -found it difficult to understand how he reached -so many hearts; he refused to believe himself, -what some essayist had called him, “a lone -piper in the twilight of the poets.” With maturity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -his attitude toward his own genius had -changed; and under his joy in the song for the -song’s sake was a deep, serious feeling of responsibility. -It was a high privilege to comfort -and uplift so many; and if he were, indeed, -one of the apostolic line of poets, he must have -a care to keep his altar clean and bright for -those who should come after him.</p> - -<p>He was so deep in thought that he failed to -observe Marian advancing toward him.</p> - -<p>“If you please, I have brought you an ice, -and there will be cake and bonbons,” said the -girl. “And Mrs. Waring said if you didn’t -mind I might sit and talk to you.”</p> - -<p>“You should be careful,” said the Poet, -taking the plate, “about frightening timid men -to death. I was thinking about you so hard -that my watch and my heart both stopped -when you spoke to me.”</p> - -<p>“And this,” exclaimed the girl, “from the -poet of gracious words! I’ve been told that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -I’m rather unexpected and generally annoying, -but I didn’t know I was so bad as -that!”</p> - -<p>“Then let us begin all over again,” said the -Poet. “Mrs. Waring told me your name and -gave you a high reputation as an athlete, and -spoke feelingly of your appetite. It’s only fair -to give you a chance to speak for yourself. So -kindly begin by telling me about Marjorie and -why she’s so forlorn, and just what you said -to her a while ago!”</p> - -<p>The color deepened in the girl’s face. It was -disconcerting to be sitting beside the Poet All -the People Loved and to be talking to him for -the first time in her life; but to have him ask -a question of so many obscure connotations, -touching upon so many matters that were best -left to whispering gossips, quite took her breath -away.</p> - -<p>“Not a word that I can remember,” she -answered; “but Marjorie said, ‘Take me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -home!’—and after she had cried a little she -felt better and was glad to play.”</p> - -<p>“Of course that’s only the most superficial -and modest account of the incident,” the Poet -replied; “but I can’t blame you for not telling. -If I knew how to do what you did, I should -very likely keep the secret. Another case of -the flower in the crannied wall,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">Little flower—but <i>if</i> I could understand</div> -<div class="verse">What you are, root and all, and all in all,</div> -<div class="verse">I should know what God and man is!”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“You give me far too much credit,” the girl -responded gravely. “It was merely a matter -of my knowing Marjorie better than any one -else at the party; I hadn’t known she was -coming or I should have brought her myself.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you would say something like -that,” the Poet observed, “and that is why I -liked you before you said it.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with the frank curiosity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> -aroused by her nearness to a celebrity. Now -that the first little heartache over the mention -of Marjorie had passed, she found herself quite -at ease with him.</p> - -<p>“My feelings have been hurt,” he was saying. -“Oh, nobody has told me—at least not -to-day—that I am growing old, or that it’s -silly to carry an umbrella on bright days! It’s -much worse than that.”</p> - -<p>Sympathy spoke in her face and from the -tranquil depths of her violet eyes.</p> - -<p>“I shall hate whoever said it, forever and -forever!” she averred.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! That would be a very serious mistake! -The person who hurt my feelings is the -nicest possible person and one of my best -friends. So many people are saying the same -thing that we needn’t ascribe it to any individual. -Let us assume that I’ve been hurt by -many people, who say that romance and old-fashioned -roses are not what they were; that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -such poetry as we have nowadays isn’t of any -use, and that we are all left floundering here</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="indent14">As on a darkling plain,</div> -<div class="verse">Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,</div> -<div class="verse">Where ignorant armies clash by night.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>I want you to tell me, honestly and truly, -whether you really believe that.”</p> - -<p>He was more eager for her reply than she -knew; and when it was not immediately forthcoming -a troubled look stole into his face. The -readiness of the poetic temperament to idealize -had betrayed him for once, at least, and he -felt his disappointments deeply. The laughter -of the children floated fitfully from the corner -of the garden where they were arraying themselves -in the tissue caps that had been hidden -in their bonbons. A robin, wondering at all -the merriment, piped cheerily from a tall -maple, and a jay, braving the perils of urban -life, winged over the garden with a flash of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> -blue. The gleeful echoes from the bright canopy, -the bird calls, the tender green of the foliage, -the scents and sounds of early summer -all spoke for happiness; and yet Marian Agnew -withheld the reply on which he had counted. -She still delayed as though waiting for the -robin to cease; and when a flutter of wings -announced his departure, she began irresolutely:—</p> - -<p>“I wish I could say no, and I can’t tell you -how sorry I am to disappoint you—you, of all -men! I know you wouldn’t want me to be -dishonest—to make the answer you expected -merely to please you. Please forgive me! but -I’m not sure I think as you do about life. If I -had never known trouble—if I didn’t know -that faith and love can die, then I shouldn’t -hesitate. But I’m one of the doubting ones.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry,” said the Poet; “but we may -as well assume that we are old friends and be -frank. Please believe that I’m not bothering -you in this way without a purpose. I think I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -know what has obscured the light for you. You -are thinking of your sister’s troubles; and when -I asked you what sorcery you had exercised -upon little Marjorie, you knew her mother had -been in my mind. That isn’t, of course, any -of my affair, in one sense; but in another sense -it is. For one thing, I knew your sister when -she was a girl—which wasn’t very long ago. -And I know the man she married; and there -was never any marriage that promised so well -as that! And for another thing, I don’t like to -think that we’ve cut all the old moorings; that -the anchorages of life, that were safe enough -in old times, snap nowadays in any passing -gust. The very thought of it makes me uncomfortable! -You are not fair to yourself -when you allow other people’s troubles to -darken your own outlook. When you stood -over there at the gate, I called the roll of all the -divinities of light and sweetness and charm to -find a name for you; when you ran to Marjorie<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -and won her back to happiness so quickly, I -was glad that these are not the old times of -fauns and dryads, but that you are very real, -and a healthy-minded American girl, seeing -life quite steadily and whole.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I don’t; I can’t!” she faltered; -“and doesn’t—doesn’t the mistake you -made about me prove that what poets see and -feel isn’t reality, isn’t life as it really is?”</p> - -<p>“I object,” said the Poet with a humorous -twinkle, “to any such sacrifice of yourself to -support the wail of the pessimists. I positively -refuse to sanction anything so sacrilegious!”</p> - -<p>“I’m not terribly old,” she went on, ignoring -his effort to give a lighter tone to the talk; -“and I don’t pretend to be wise; but life can’t -be just dreams and flowers: I see that! I wish -it were that way, for everything would be -so simple and easy and every one would live -happy ever after.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid that isn’t quite true,” said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> -Poet. “I can’t think of anything more disagreeable -than half an hour spent in a big hothouse -full of roses. I’ve made the experiment -occasionally; and if all creation lived in such an -atmosphere, we should be a pale, stifled, anmic -race. And think of the stone-throwing -there would be if we all lived in glass houses!”</p> - -<p>She smiled at this; and their eyes met in a -look that marked the beginnings of a friendship.</p> - -<p>“There’s Marjorie, and I must go!” she -cried suddenly. “Isn’t she quite the prettiest -of them all in her paper cap! We haven’t -really decided anything, have we?” she asked, -lingering a moment. “And I haven’t even -fed you very well, for which Mrs. Waring will -scold me. But I hope you’re going to like me -a little bit—even if I am a heathen!”</p> - -<p>“We were old friends when the stars first -sang together! Something tells me that I shall -see you soon again—very soon; but you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -not got rid of me yet; I crave the honor of -an introduction to Marjorie.”</p> - -<p>In a moment the Poet stood with Marjorie -close at his side, her hand thrust warmly and -contentedly into his, while all the other children -pressed close about. He was telling them -one of the stories in rhyme for which he was -famous, and telling it with an art that was not -less a gift from Heaven than the genius that -had put the words into his ink-pot. Thousands -of children had heard that poem at their -mothers’ knees, but to-day it seemed new, -even to those of the attentive young auditors -whose lips moved with his, repeating the -quaint, whimsical phrases and musical lines -that seem, indeed, to be the spontaneous creation -of any child who lisps them.</p> - -<p>And when he began to retreat, followed by -the clamorous company with demands for -more, he slipped away through the low garden -gate, leaned upon it and looked down upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -them with feigned surprise as though he had -never seen them before.</p> - -<p>“How remarkable!” he exclaimed, lingering -to parley with them. “Tell you another -story! Who has been telling stories! I just -stopped to look at the garden and all the -flowers jumped up and became children—children -calling for stories! How very remarkable! -And all the brown-eyed children are pansies and -all the blue-eyed ones are roses,—really this -is the most remarkable thing I ever heard of!”</p> - -<p>They drew closer as he whispered:—</p> - -<p>“You must do just what I tell you—will -you promise, every single boy and girl?”</p> - -<p>They pressed nearer, presenting a compact -semicircle of awed faces, and nodded eagerly. -An older boy giggled in excess of joy and in anticipation -of what was to come, and his neighbors -rebuked him with frowns.</p> - -<p>“Now, when I say ‘one,’ begin to count, and -count ten slowly—oh, very slowly; and then,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -when everybody has counted, everybody stand -on one foot with eyes shut tight and hop -around real quick and look at the back wall of -the garden—there’s a robin sitting there at -this very minute;—but don’t look. Nobody -must look—yet! And when you open your -eyes there will be a fairy in a linen duster and -a cocked hat; that is, <i>maybe</i> you’ll see him! -Now shut your eyes and count—one!”</p> - -<p>When they swung round to take him to task -for this duplicity, he had reached the street and -was waving his hand to them.</p> - - - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Under</span> the maples that arched the long -street the Poet walked homeward, pondering -the afternoon’s adventures. His encounter -with the children had sent him away from -Mrs. Waring’s garden in a happy mood. Down -the long aisle of trees the tall shaft of the soldiers’ -monument rose before him. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -watched its building, and the memories that -had gone to its making had spoken to his imagination -with singular poignancy. It expressed -the high altitudes of aspiration and endeavor -of his own people; for the gray shaft was not -merely the center of his city, the teeming, -earnest capital of his State; but his name and -fame were inseparably linked to it. He had -found within an hour’s journey of the monument -the material for a thousand poems. As a -boy he had ranged the near-by fields and followed, -like a young Columbus, innumerable -creeks and rivers; he had learned and stored -away the country lore and the country faith, -and fixed in his mind unconsciously the homely -speech in which he was to express these things -later as one having authority. So profitably -had he occupied his childhood and youth that -years spent on “paven ground” had not -dimmed the freshness of those memories. It -seemed that by some magic he was able to cause<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -the springs he had known in youth (and springs -are dear to youth!) to bubble anew in the -crowded haunts of men; and urban scenes never -obscured for him the labors and incidents of the -farm. He had played upon the theme of home -with endless variations, and never were songs -honester than these. The home round which -he had flung his defense of song domiciled folk -of simple aims and kindly mirth; he had established -them as a type, written them down in -their simple dialect that has the tang of wild -persimmons, the mellow flavor of the pawpaw.</p> - -<p>He turned into the quiet street from which -for many years he had sent his songs winging,—an -absurdly inaccessible and delightful -street that baffled all seekers,—that had to -be rediscovered with each visit by the Poet’s -friends. Not only was its seclusion dear to -him; but the difficulties experienced by his -visitors in finding it tickled his humor. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -pleasant to be tucked away in a street that -never was in danger of precipitating one into -the market-place, and in a house set higher -than its neighbors and protected by an iron -fence and a gate whose chain one must fumble -a moment before gaining access to the whitest -of stone steps, and the quaint door that had -hospitably opened to so many of the good and -great of all lands.</p> - -<p>There was a visitor waiting—a young man -who explained himself diffidently and seemed -taken aback by the cordiality with which the -Poet greeted him.</p> - -<p>“Frederick Fulton,” repeated the Poet, -waving his hand toward a chair. “You are not -the young man who sent me a manuscript to -read last summer,—and very long it was, -indeed, a poetic drama, ‘The Soul of Eros.’ -Nor the one who wrote an ode in hexameters -‘To the Spirit of Shelley,’ nor yet the other one -who seemed bent on doing Omar Khayym<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -over again—‘Verses from Persian Sources’ -he called it. You needn’t bother to repudiate -those efforts; I have seen your name in the -‘Chronicle’ tacked to very good things—very -good, and very American. Yes, I recall half a -dozen pieces under one heading—‘Songs of -Journeys’ End’—and good work—excellent! -I suppose they were all refused by magazines -or you wouldn’t have chucked them into a -Sunday supplement. Oh, don’t jump! I’m -not a mind reader—it’s only that I’ve been -through all that myself.”</p> - -<p>“Not lately, though, of course,” Fulton remarked, -with the laugh that the Poet’s smile -invited.</p> - -<p>“Not so lately, but they sent me back so -much when I was young, and even after I wasn’t -so young, that the account isn’t balanced -yet! There are things in those verses of yours -that I remember—they were very delicate, -and beautifully put together,—cobwebs with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> -dew clinging to them. I impudently asked -about you at the office to make sure there -really was a Frederick Fulton.”</p> - -<p>“That was kind and generous; I heard about -it, and that emboldened me to come and see -you—without any manuscript in my pocket!”</p> - -<p>“I should like another handful like those -‘Journeys’ End’ pieces. There was a rare sort -of joy in them, exultance, ardor. You had a -line beginning—</p> - -<p class="center">‘If love should wait for May to come—’</p> - -<p>that was like a bubble tossed into the air, -quivering with life and flashing all manner of -colors. And there was something about swallows -darting down from the bank and skimming -over the creek to cool their wings on the -water. I liked that! I can see that you were -a country boy; we learned the alphabet out of -the same primer!”</p> - -<p>“I have done my share of ploughing,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -Fulton remarked a little later, after volunteering -the few facts of his biography. “There are -lots of things about corn that haven’t been -put into rhyme just right; the smell of the up-turned -earth, and the whisper and glisten of -young leaves; the sweating horses as the sun -climbs to the top, and the lonesome rumble of a -wagon in the road, and the little cloud of dust -that follows and drifts after it.”</p> - -<p>“And little sister in a pink sunbonnet strolls -down the lane with a jug of buttermilk about -the time you begin to feel that Pharaoh has -given you the hardest job in his brickyard! I’ve -never had those experiences but”—the Poet -laughed—“I’ve sat on the fence and watched -other boys do it; so you’re just that much -richer than I am by your experience. But we -must be careful, though, or some evil spirit -will come down the chimney and tell us we’re -not academic! I suppose we ought to be threshing -out old straw—you and I—writing of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -English skylarks and the gorse and the yew -and nightingales, instead of what we see out of -the window, here at home. How absurd of us! -A scientist would be caught up quick enough if -he wrote of something he knew nothing about—if, -for example, an astronomer ventured to -write an essay about the starfish; and yet there -are critics who sniff at such poetry as yours and -mine”—Fulton felt that the laurel had been -pressed down on his brows by this correlation—“because -it’s about corn and stake-and-rider -fences with wild roses and elderberry -blooming in the corners. You had a fine poem -about the kingfisher—and I suppose it would -be more likely to impress a certain type of austere -critics if you’d written about some extinct -bird you’d seen in a college museum! But, dear -me, I’m doing all the talking!”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would do much more. You’ve -said just what I hoped you would; in fact, I -came to-day because I had a blue day, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -needed to talk to some one, and I chose you. -I know perfectly well that I ought really to -quit bothering my head about rhyme. I get -too much happiness out of it; it’s spoiling me -for other things.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s have all the story, then, if you really -want to tell me,” said the Poet. “Most people -give only half confidences,” he added.</p> - -<p>“I went into newspaper work after I’d -farmed my way through college. I’ve been -with the ‘Chronicle’ three years, and I believe -they say I’m a good reporter; but however that -may be, I don’t see my way very far ahead. -Promotions are uncertain, and the rewards of -journalism at best are not great. And of course -I haven’t any illusions about poetry—the -kind I can do! I couldn’t live by it!”</p> - -<p>He ended abruptly with an air of throwing -all his cards on the table. The Poet picked -up a paper-cutter and began idly tapping his -knee with it.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>“How do you know you can’t!”</p> - -<p>It was an exclamation rather than a question, -and he smiled at the blank stare with -which Fulton received it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I mean that it won’t pay my board bill -or buy clothes! It feeds the spirit, maybe, but -that’s all. You see, I’m not a genius like you!”</p> - -<p>“We will pass that as an irrelevant point and -one you’d better not try to defend. I agree with -you about journalism, so we needn’t argue -that. But scribbling verses has taught you -some things—the knack of appraising material—quick -and true selection—and the -ability to write clean straight prose, so you -needn’t be ungrateful. Very likely it has cultivated -your sympathies, broadened your knowledge -of people, shown you lights and shadows -you would otherwise have missed. These are -all worth while.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I appreciate all that; but for the long -future I must have a surer refuge than the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -newspaper office, where the tenure is decidedly -uncertain. I feel that I ought to break away -pretty soon. I’m twenty-six, and the years -count; and I want to make the best use of them; -I’d like to crowd twenty years of hard work -into ten and then be free to lie back and play on -my little tin whistle,” he continued earnestly. -“And I have a chance to go into business; Mr. -Redfield has offered me a place with him; he’s -the broker, you know, one of the real live wires -and already very successful. My acquaintance -with people all over the State suggested the -idea that I might make myself useful to him.”</p> - -<p>The Poet dropped the paper-cutter, and permitted -Fulton to grope for it to give himself -time to think.</p> - -<p>The narrow circumference within which the -game of life is played had always had for the -Poet a fascinating interest; and he read into -coincidences all manner of mysteries, but it was -nothing short of startling that this young man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -whom he had never seen before, should have -spoken Miles Redfield’s name just when it was -in his own mind.</p> - -<p>“I know Redfield quite well,” he said, -“though he’s much younger than I am. I understand -that he’s prospering. He had somewhat -your own problem to solve not so very -long ago; maybe you don’t know that?”</p> - -<p>“No; I know him only in a business way; he -occasionally has news; he’s been in some important -deals lately.”</p> - -<p>“It’s odd, but he came to me a dozen years -ago and talked to me much as you have been -talking. Art, not poetry, was his trouble. He -had a lot of talent—maybe not genius but undeniable -talent. He had been to an art school -and made a fine record, and this, he used to say -jokingly, fitted him for a bank clerkship. He -has a practical side, and most of the year could -clean up his day’s work early enough to save a -few daylight hours for himself. There’s a pen-and-ink<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -sketch of me just behind your head -that’s Miles’s work. Yes; it’s good; and he -could pluck the heart out of a landscape, too;—in -oils, I mean. He was full of enthusiasm -and meant to go far. Then he struck the reefs -of discouragement as we all do, and gave it up; -got a job in a bank, got married—and there -you are!”</p> - -<p>“It’s too bad about his domestic affairs,” -Fulton volunteered, as the Poet broke off with -a gesture that was eloquent with vague implications.</p> - -<p>“He seems to have flung aside all his ideals -with his crayons and brushes!” exclaimed the -Poet impatiently. “Mind you, I don’t blame -him for abandoning art; I always have an idea -that those who grow restless over their early -failures and quit the game haven’t heard the -call very clearly. A poet named McPhelim -once wrote a sonnet, that began—</p> - -<p class="center">‘All-lovely Art, stern Labor’s fair-haired child,—’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>working out the idea that we must serve seven -years and yet seven other years to win the -crown. We might almost say that it’s an endless -apprenticeship; we are all tyros to the -end of the chapter!”</p> - -<p>“It must be the gleam we follow forever!” -said the young man. “No matter how slight -the spark I feel—I want to feel that it’s -worth following if I never come in sight of the -Grail.”</p> - -<p>It was not the way of the Poet to become too -serious even in matters that lay nearest his -heart.</p> - -<p>“We must follow the firefly even though it -leads us into bramble patches and we emerge -on the other side with our hands and faces -scratched! It’s our joke on a world that regards -us with suspicion that, when we wear our -singing robes into the great labor houses, we are -really more practical than the men who spend -their days there. I’m making that statement<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -in confidence to you as a comrade and brother; -we must keep our conceit to ourselves; but it’s -true, nevertheless. The question at issue is -whether you shall break with the ‘Chronicle’ -and join forces with Miles Redfield; and -whether doing so would mean inevitably that -you must bid your literary ambitions get behind -you, Satan.”</p> - -<p>Fulton nodded.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” he said, “there have been many -men who first and last have made an avocation -of literature and looked elsewhere for their -daily bread: Lamb’s heart, pressed against his -desk in the India office, was true to literature -in spite of his necessities. And poets have always -had a hard time of it, stealing like Villon, -or inspecting schools, like Arnold, or teaching, -like Longfellow and Lowell; they have usually -paid a stiff price for their tickets to the Elysian -Fields.”</p> - -<p>The Poet crossed the room, glanced at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -portrait that Redfield had made of him, and -then leaned against the white marble mantel.</p> - -<p>“We’ve wandered pretty far afield; we are -talking as though this thing we call art were -something quite detachable—something we -could stand off and look at, or put on or off at -will. I wonder if we won’t reach the beginning—or -the end—of the furrow we’re scratching -with our little plough, by agreeing that it must -be in our lives, a vital part of us, and quite inseparable -from the thing we are!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; to those of high consecration—to -the masters! But you are carrying the banner -too high; my lungs weren’t made for that -clearer ether and diviner air.”</p> - -<p>“Let us consider that, then,” said the Poet, -finding a new seat by the window. “I have -known and loved half a dozen men who have -painted,—we will take painters, to get away -from our own shop,—and have passed the -meridian and kept on painting without gaining<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -any considerable success as men measure it; -never winning much more than local reputation. -They have done pot-boilers with their -left hands, and not grumbled. They’ve found -the picking pretty lean, too, and their lives -have been one long sacrifice. They’ve had to -watch in some instances men of meaner aims -win the handful of silver and the ribbon to -wear in their coats; but they’ve gone on smilingly; -they are like acolytes who light tapers -and sing chants without ever being summoned -to higher service at the altar—who would -scruple to lay their hands on it!”</p> - -<p>“They, of course, are the real thing!” Fulton -exclaimed fervently, “and there are scores -of such men and women. They are amateurs -in the true sense. I know some of them, and I -take off my hat to them!”</p> - -<p>“I get down on my knees to them,” said the -Poet with deep feeling. “Success is far from -spelling greatness; it takes a great soul to find<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -success and happiness in defeat. You will have -to elect whether you will take your chances -with the kind of men I’ve mentioned or delve -where the returns are surer; and that’s a decision -you will have to make for yourself. All I -can do is to suggest points for consideration. -Quite honestly I will say that your work promises -well; that it’s better than I was doing at -your age, and that very likely you can go far -with it. How about prose—the novel, for -example? Thackeray, Howells, Aldrich—a -number of novelists have been poets, too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course I mean to try a novel—or -maybe a dozen of them! In fact,” Fulton continued, -after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m -working right now on a poetical romance with -a layer of realism here and there to hold it together. -It’s modern with an up-to-date setting. -I’ve done some lyrics and songs to weave into -it. There’s a poet who tends an orchard on the -shore of a lake,—almost like Waupegan,—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -a girl he doesn’t know; but he sees her -paddling her canoe or sometimes playing tennis -near an inn not far from his orchard. He leaves -poems around for her to find, tacked to trees or -pinned to the paddle in her canoe; I suppose -I’m stealing from Rosalind and Orlando. She’s -tall, with light brown hair,—there’s a glint of -gold in it,—and she’s no end beautiful. He -watches her at the tennis court—lithe, eager, -sure of hand and foot; and writes madly, all -kinds of extravagant songs in praise of her. -The horizon itself becomes the net, and she -serves her ball to the sun—you see he has a -bad case! You know how pretty a girl is on a -tennis court,—that is, a graceful girl, all in -white,—a tall, fair girl with fluffy hair; a very -human, wide-awake girl, who can make a -smashing return or drop the ball with maddening -ease just over the net with a quick twist of -the wrist. There’s nothing quite like that girl—those -girls, I should say!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>“I like your orchard and the lake, and the -goddess skipping over the tennis court; but I -fancy that behind all romance there’s some -realism. You sketch your girl vividly. You -must have seen some one who suggested her; -perhaps, if it isn’t impertinent, you yourself -are imaginably the young gentleman casually -spraying the apple trees to keep the bugs -off!”</p> - -<p>It was in the Poet’s mind that young men of -poetical temperament are hardly likely to pass -their twenty-sixth birthday without a love -affair. He knew nothing of Fulton beyond -what the young man had just told him, and -presumably his social contacts had been meager; -but his voluble description of his heroine -encouraged a suspicion that she was not wholly -a creature of the imagination.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course I’ve had a particular girl -in mind!” Fulton laughed. “I’ve gone the -lengths of realism in trying to describe her. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -was assigned to the Country Club to do a tennis -tournament last fall, and I saw her there. She -all but took the prize away from a girl college -champion they had coaxed out from the East to -give snap to the exhibition. My business was -to write a newspaper story about the game, and -being a mere reporter I made myself small on -the side lines and kept score. Our photographer -got a wonderful picture of her—my goddess, -I mean—as she pulled one down from the -clouds and smashed it over the net, the neatest -stroke of the match. It seemed perfectly reasonable -that she could roll the sun under her -racket, catch it up and drive it over the rim of -the world!”</p> - -<p>“Her name,” said the Poet, as Fulton -paused, abashed by his own eloquence, “is -Marian Agnew.”</p> - -<p>“How on earth did you guess that!” exclaimed -the young man.</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is something to be said for realism,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -after all, and your description gave me all -but her name. I might quote a poem I have -seen somewhere about the robin—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">‘There’s only one bird sings like that—</div> -<div class="indent4">From Paradise it flew.’”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“I haven’t heard her sing, but she laughed -like an angel that day,—usually when she -failed to connect with the ball; but she didn’t -even smile when the joke was on the other girl,—that’s -being a good sportsman! I rather -laid myself out praising her game. But if you -know her I shall burn my manuscript and let -you do the immortalizing.”</p> - -<p>“On the other hand, you should go right on -and finish your story. Don’t begin to accumulate -a litter of half-finished things; you’ll find -such stuff depressing when you clean up your -desk on rainy days. As to Marian, you’ve -never spoken to her?”</p> - -<p>“No; but I’ve seen her now and then in the -street, and at the theater, and quite a bit at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -Waupegan last fall. She has plenty of admirers -and doesn’t need me.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not so sure of that,” the Poet replied -absently.</p> - -<p>“I must be going,” said the young man, -jumping up as the clock chimed six. “You’ve -been mighty good to me; I shan’t try to tell -you how greatly I appreciate this talk.”</p> - -<p>“Well, we haven’t got anywhere; but we’ve -made a good beginning. I wish you’d send me -half a dozen poems you haven’t printed, in -the key of ‘Journeys’ End.’ And come again -soon!”</p> - -<p>He stood on the steps and watched the young -fellow’s vigorous stride as he hurried out of the -tranquil street. Oftener than not his pilgrims -left nothing behind, but the Poet was aware of -something magnetic and winning in Fulton. -Several times during the evening he found himself -putting down his book to recur to their -interview. He had not overpraised Fulton’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -verses; they were unusual, clean-cut, fresh, and -informed with a haunting music. Most of the -young poets who sought the Poet’s counsel -frankly imitated his own work; and it was a -relief to find some one within the gates of the -city he loved best of all who had notched a -different reed.</p> - -<p>The Poet preferred the late hours for his -writing. Midnight found him absorbed in a -poem he had carried in his heart for days. -Some impulse loosened the cords now; it began -to slip from his pencil quickly, line upon line. -It was of the country folk, told in the <i>lingua -rustica</i> to which his art had given dignity and -fame. The lines breathed atmosphere; the -descriptive phrases adumbrated the lonely -farmhouse with its simple comforts as a stage -for the disclosure of a little drama, direct, penetrating, -poignant. He was long hardened to -the rejections of rigorous self-criticism, and -not infrequently he cast the results of a night’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -labor into the waste-paper basket; but he -experienced now a sense of elation. Perhaps, -he reflected, the various experiences of the day -had induced just the right mood for this task. -He knew that what he had wrought was good; -that it would stand with his best achievements. -He made a clean copy of the verses in his curiously -small hand with its quaint capitals, and -dropped them into a drawer to lose their familiarity -against the morrow’s fresh inspection. -Like all creative artists, he looked upon each -of his performances with something of wonder. -“How did I come to do that, in just that way? -What was it that suggested this?” If it were -Marjorie and Marian, or Elizabeth Redfield!... -Perhaps young Fulton’s enthusiasm had -been a contributing factor.</p> - -<p>This association of ideas led him to open a -drawer and rummage among old letters. He -found the one he sought, and began to read. -It had been written from Lake Waupegan,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -that pretty teacupful of blue water which, he -recalled, young Fulton had chosen as the scene -for his story. The Redfields had gone there for -their honeymoon, and Elizabeth had written -this letter in acknowledgment of his wedding -gift. It was not the usual formula of thanks -that brides send fluttering back to their friends; -and it was because it was different that he had -kept it.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“We are having just the June days that -you have written about, and Miles and I keep -quoting you, and saying over and over again, -‘he must have watched the silvery ripple on -the lake from this very point!’ or, ‘How did he -know that clover was like that?’ And how did -you?... Miles brought his painting-kit, and -when we’re not playing like children he’s hard -at work. I know you always thought he ought -to go on; that he had a real talent; and I keep -reminding him of that. You know we’ve got a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -little bungalow on the edge of Nowhere to go -to when we come home and there’ll be a line -of hollyhocks along the fence in your honor. -Miles says we’ve got to learn to be practical; -that he doesn’t propose to let me starve to -death for Art’s sake! I’m glad you know and -understand him so well, for it makes you seem -much closer; and the poem you wrote me in -that beautiful, beautiful Keats makes me feel -so proud! I didn’t deserve that! Those things -aren’t true of me—but I want them to be; -I’m going to keep that lovely book in its cool -green covers where I shall see it the first and -last thing every day. Your lines are already -written in my heart!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Poet turned back to the date: only -seven years ago!</p> - - -<p>The sparrows under the eaves chirruped, -and drawing back the blind he watched the glow -of dawn spread through the sky. This was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> -familiar vigil; he had seen many a dream vanish -through the ivory portals at the coming of day.</p> - - -<h3>III</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">A certain</span> inadvertence marked the Poet’s -ways. His deficiencies in orientation, even -in the city he knew best of all, were a joke -among his friends. He apparently gained his -destinations by good luck rather than by intention.</p> - -<p>Incurable modesty made him shy of early -or precipitate arrivals at any threshold. Even -in taking up a new book he dallied, scanned -the covers, pondered the title-page, to delay -his approach, as though not quite sure of the -author’s welcome and anxious to avoid rebuff. -The most winning and charming, the most -lovable of men—and entitled to humor himself -in such harmless particulars!</p> - -<p>The affairs that men busied themselves with -were incomprehensible to him. It was with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -a sense of encroachment upon forbidden preserves -that he suffered himself to be shot skyward -in a tall office building and dropped into a -long corridor whose doors bore inscriptions that -advertised divers unfamiliar occupations to his -puzzled eyes.</p> - -<p>The poem that had slipped so readily from -his pencil in the watches of the night had -proved, upon inspection in the light of day, to -be as good as he had believed it to be, but he -carried it stowed away in his pocket, hoping -that he might yet detect a shaky line that further -mulling would better, before submitting it -to other eyes.</p> - -<p>This was a new building and he had never -explored its fastnesses before. He was staring -about helplessly on the threshold of Miles Redfield’s -office, where there was much din of typewriters, -when his name was spoken in hearty -tones.</p> - -<p>“Very odd!” the Poet exclaimed; “very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -odd, indeed! But this is the way it always happens -with me, Miles. I start out to look for -a dentist and stumble into the wrong place. -I’m in luck that I didn’t fall down the elevator -shaft. I can’t recall now whether it was -the dentist I was looking for or the oculist.”</p> - -<p>“I hoped you were looking for me!” said -Redfield; “it’s a long time since you remembered -my presence on earth!”</p> - -<p>The typewriters had ceased to click and -three young women were staring their admiration. -The Poet bowed to them all in turn, -and thus rubricated the day in three calendars! -Redfield’s manifestations of pleasure continued -as he ushered the Poet into his private -office. Nothing could have been managed more -discreetly; the Poet felt proud of himself; and -there was no questioning the sincerity of the -phrases in which Redfield welcomed him. It -was with a sense of satisfaction and relief that -he soon found himself seated in a mahogany<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -chair by a broad window, facing Redfield, and -listening to his assurances that this was an idle -hour and that he had nothing whatever to do -but to make himself agreeable to poets. The -subdued murmur of the clicking machines and -an occasional tinkle of telephones reached them; -but otherwise the men were quite shut off from -the teeming world without. Redfield threw -himself back in his chair and knit his hands -behind his head to emphasize his protestations -of idleness.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t seen you since that last dinner -at the University Club where you did yourself -proud—the same old story! I don’t see you -as much as I did before you got so famous and -I got so busy. I wish you’d get into the habit -of dropping in; it’s a comfort to see a man -occasionally that you’re not inclined to wring -money out of; or who adds zest to the game by -trying to get some out of you!”</p> - -<p>“From all accounts you take pretty good<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -care of yourself. You look almost offensively -prosperous; and that safe would hold an elephant. -I suppose it’s crammed full of works -of art—some of those old etching-plates you -used to find such delight in. I can imagine you -bolting the door and sitting down here with -a plate to scratch the urban sky-line. Crowd -waiting outside; stenographers assuring them -that you will appear in a moment.”</p> - -<p>“The works of art in that safe are engravings -all right,” laughed Redfield; “I’ve got ’em -to sell,—shares of stock, bonds, and that sort -of trash. I’ll say to you in confidence that I’m -pretty critical of the designs they offer me when -I have a printing job to do. There’s a traction -bond I’m particularly fond of,—done from -an old design of my own,—corn in the shock, -with pumpkins scattered around. Strong local -color! You used to think rather well of my -feeble efforts; I can’t remember that any one -else ever did! Hence, as I rather like to eat, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -gave over trying to be another Whistler and -here we are!”</p> - -<p>“Rather shabby, when you come to think -of it,” laughed the Poet, “to spurn my approval -and advice to keep on. If you’d gone ahead—”</p> - -<p>“If I had, I should be seizing a golden opportunity -like this to make a touch—begging -you for a few dollars to carry me over Saturday -night! No; I tell you my talent wasn’t big -enough; I was sharp enough to realize my limitations -and try new pastures. Where a man -can climb to the top, art’s all right; but look -at McPherson, Banning, Myers,—these other -fellows around here we’re all so proud of,—and -where have they got? Why, even Stiles, -who gets hung in the best exhibitions and has -a reputation, barely keeps alive. I saw him in -New York last week, and he was in the clouds -over the sale of a picture for two hundred dollars! -Think of it—and I wormed it out of him -that that fixed his high-water mark. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> -going to buy an abandoned farm up in Connecticut -somewhere; two hundred dollars down on -a thousand dollars of New England landscape; -said he hoped to paint enough pictures up -there this summer to make it possible to keep -a horse! There’s an idea for you; being rich -enough to keep a horse, just when the zological -museums are hustling to get specimens of -the species before the last one dies! You could -do something funny, awfully funny on that—eminent -zologist out looking for a stuffed -horse to stand up beside the ichthyosaurus -and the diplodocus.”</p> - -<p>The Poet expressed his gratitude for the -suggestion good-naturedly. He was studying -the man before him in the hope of determining -just how far he had retrograded, if indeed -there had been retrogression. Redfield was a -trifle stouter than he had been in the days -of their intimacy, and spoke with a confidence -and assurance that the Redfield of old days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -had lacked. The interview had come about -much easier than he had hoped, and Redfield’s -warmth was making it easier. He was -relieved to find on this closer inspection that -Redfield had not changed greatly. Once or -twice the broker’s brown eyes dimmed with a -dreaminess that his visitor remembered. He -was still a handsome fellow, not over thirty-five -the Poet reckoned, and showing no traces -of hard living. The coarse, unruly brown hair -had not shared the general smoothing-out that -was manifest in the man’s apparel. It was a -fine head, set strongly on broad shoulders. The -Poet, always minutely observant in such matters, -noted the hands—slim, long, supple, -that had once been deft with brush and graver. -In spite of the changes of seven years, concretely -expressed in the “Investment Securities” -on the outer door, the Poet concluded -that much remained of the Miles Redfield he -had known. And this being true increased his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -difficulties in reconciling his friend with the -haunting picture of Marjorie as she had stood -plaintively aloof at the children’s party, or with -the young wife whose cheery, hopeful letter he -had read in the early hours of the morning.</p> - -<p>“I passed your old house this afternoon,” -the Poet observed casually. “I was out getting -a breath of country air and came in through -Marston. You were a pioneer when you went -there and it’s surprising how that region has -developed. I had a hard time finding the cottage, -and shouldn’t have known it if it hadn’t -been for some of the ineffaceable marks. The -shack you built for a studio, chiefly with your -own hands, seems to have been turned into -a garage by the last tenant—Oh, profanest -usurpation! But the house hasn’t been occupied -for some time. That patch of shrubbery -you set out against the studio has become a -flourishing jungle. Let me see,—I seem to recall -that I once did a pretty good sonnet in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -studio, to the gentle whizz of the lawn-mower -you were manipulating outside.”</p> - -<p>“I remember that afternoon perfectly—and -the sonnet, which is one of your best. I -dare say a bronze tablet will be planted there -in due course of time to mark a favorite haunt -of the mighty bard.”</p> - -<p>Redfield had found the note of reminiscence -ungrateful, and he was endeavoring to keep -the talk in a light key. He very much hoped -that the Poet would make one of his characteristic -tangential excursions into the realms of -impersonal anecdote. It was rather remarkable -that this man of all men had happened in just -now, fresh from an inspection of the bungalow -and the studio behind the lilacs that Elizabeth -had planted. He began to feel uncomfortable. -It was not so much the presence of the small, -compact, dignified gentleman in the chair by -the window that disturbed him as the aims, -standards, teachings that were so inseparably<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -associated with his visitor’s name. Redfield’s -perplexity yielded suddenly to annoyance, and -he remarked shortly, as though anticipating -questions that were presumably in his friend’s -mind:—</p> - -<p>“Elizabeth and I have quit; you’ve probably -heard that.” And then, as though to dispose -of the matter quickly, he added: “It -wouldn’t work—too much incompatibility; -I’m willing to take the blame—guess I’ll have -to, anyhow!” he ended grimly. “I suppose it’s -rather a shock to a friend like you, who knew -us at the beginning, when we were planting a -garden to live in forever, to find that seven -years wound it up. I confess that I was rather -knocked out myself to find that I had lost my -joy in trimming the hedge and sticking bulbs -in the ground.”</p> - -<p>“I noticed,” said the Poet musingly, “that -the weeds are rioting deliriously in the garden.”</p> - -<p>“Weeds!” Redfield caught him up harshly;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -“I dare say there are weeds! Our trouble was -that we thought too much about the crocuses, -and forgot to put in cabbages!”</p> - -<p>“Well, you’re putting them in now!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be hard on me! I’ll let most people -jump on me and never talk back, but you -with your fine perceptions ought to understand. -Life isn’t what it used to be; the pace -is quicker, changes come faster, and if a man -and woman find that they’ve made a mistake, -it’s better to cut it all out than to live under -the same roof and scowl at each other across -the table. I guess you can’t duck that!”</p> - -<p>“I shan’t try to duck it,” replied the Poet -calmly. “There’s never anything gained by -evading a clean-cut issue. It’s you who are -dodging. Remember,” he said, with a smile, -“that I shouldn’t have broached the subject -myself; but now that you’ve brought it up—”</p> - -<p>He paused, in his habitual deliberate fashion, -reflecting with grateful satisfaction upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -care with which he had hidden his tracks! He -was now in Redfield’s office; and his old friend -had instructed the clerks outside that he was -not to be disturbed so long as this distinguished -citizen chose to honor him. The Poet, for the -first time in his life, took advantage of his reputation. -Redfield, on his side, knew that it was -impossible to evict the best-loved man in the -Commonwealth, whose presence in his office -had doubtless sent a thrill to the very core of -the skyscraper.</p> - -<p>“Of course, these things really concern only -the parties immediately interested,” Redfield -remarked, disturbed by his caller’s manner and -anxious to hide behind generalizations. He -swung himself round in his chair, hoping that -this utterance would deflect the discussion into -more comfortable channels; but the Poet -waited patiently for Redfield to face him -again.</p> - -<p>“That is perfectly true,” he admitted; “and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -I should certainly resent the interference of -outsiders if I were in your plight.”</p> - -<p>Redfield was nodding his assent, feeling -that here, after all, was a reasonable being, -who would go far to avoid an unwelcome intrusion -upon another’s affairs. He was still nodding -complacently when the Poet remarked, -with a neatness of delivery that he usually reserved -for humorous effects,—</p> - -<p>“But it happens, Miles, that I <i>am</i> an interested -party!”</p> - -<p>The shock of this surprise shook Redfield’s -composure. He glanced quickly at his caller -and then at the door.</p> - -<p>“You mean that Elizabeth has sent you!” -he gasped. “If that’s the case—”</p> - -<p>“No; I haven’t seen Elizabeth for some -time—not since I heard of your troubles; and -I’m not here to represent her—at least, not -in the way you mean.”</p> - -<p>Redfield’s face expressed relief; he had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -about to refer his visitor to his lawyer, but he -was still pretty much at sea.</p> - -<p>“I represent not one person, but several millions -of people,” the Poet proceeded to explain -himself unsmilingly, in a tone that Redfield -did not remember. “You see, Miles, your difficulties -and your attitude toward your family -and life in general are hurting my business; this -may sound strange, but it’s quite true. And -it’s of importance to me and to my clients, so -to speak.”</p> - -<p>Redfield stared at him frowningly.</p> - -<p>“What on earth are you driving at?” he -blurted, still hoping that this parley was only -the introduction to a joke of some sort. There -was, however, nothing in the Poet’s manner to -sustain this hope—nor could he detect any -trace of the furtive smile which, he recalled, -sometimes gave warning of the launching of -some absurdity by this man who so easily -played upon laughter and tears.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>“There’s no such thing as you and me in -this world, Redfield,” pursued the Poet—and -his smile reappeared now, fleetingly, and he -was wholly at ease, confident, direct, business-like. -“We’re all Us—you might say that -mankind is a lot of Us-es. And when you let -the weeds grow up in your garden they’re a -menace to all the neighbors. And you can’t -just go off and leave them; it isn’t fair or -square. I see you don’t yet quite understand -where I come in—how you’re embarrassing -me, cheating me, hurting my business, to put -it flatly. You’re making it appear that I’m a -false prophet, a teacher of an outworn creed. -Any reputation that you’re willing to concede I -have doesn’t rest upon profound scholarship, -which I don’t pretend to possess, but upon the -feeble testimony I’ve borne to some very old -ideals. You’ve known me a long time and you -can’t say that I’ve ever bragged of myself—and -if you knew how humbly I’ve taken such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -success as I’ve had you’d know that I’m not -likely to be misled by the public’s generous -kindness toward my work. But I owe something -to the rest of Us; I can’t afford to stand -by and see the little fringes I’ve tacked on to -old fabrics torn off without making a protest. -To put it another way, I’m not going to have -it said that the gulf is so widening between -poetry and life that another generation will be -asking what our rhymed patter was all about—not -without a protest. I hope you see what -I’m driving at, and where I’m coming out—”</p> - -<p>Redfield walked to the window and stared -across the roofs, with his hands thrust into his -pockets.</p> - -<p>“It isn’t easy, you know, Miles, for me to -be doing this: I shouldn’t be doing it if your -affairs hadn’t been thrown in my face; if I -didn’t feel that they were very much my business. -Yesterday I saw Marjorie—it was at a -children’s party at Mrs. Waring’s—and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -sight of her was like a stab. I believe I wrote -some verses for her second—maybe it was her -third—birthday—pinned one of my little -pink ribbons on her, so to speak, and made her -one of my children. I tell you it hurt me to see -her yesterday—and know that the weeds had -sprung up in <i>her</i> garden!”</p> - -<p>Redfield flung round impatiently.</p> - -<p>“But you’re applying the wrong tests;—you -don’t know all the circumstances! You -wouldn’t have a child brought up in a home of -strife, would you? I’m willing for Elizabeth to -have full charge of Marjorie—I’ve waived all -my right to her. I’m not as callous as you -think: I’d have you know that it’s a wrench -to part with her.”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t any right to part with her,” -said the Poet. “You can’t turn her over to -Elizabeth as though she were a piece of furniture -that you don’t particularly care for! It -isn’t fair to the child; it’s not fair to Elizabeth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> -Don’t try to imagine that there’s anything -generous or magnanimous in waiving -your claims to your own child. A man can’t -throw off his responsibilities as easily as that. -It’s contemptible; it won’t do!”</p> - -<p>“I tell you,” said Redfield angrily, “the -whole thing had grown intolerable. It didn’t -begin yesterday; it dates back three years ago, -and—”</p> - -<p>“Just how did it begin?” the Poet interrupted.</p> - -<p>“Well, it began with money—not debts, -strange to say, but the other way around! My -father died and left me about eight thousand -dollars—more than I ever hoped to hold in -my hand at once if I lived forever. It looked -bigger than a million, I can tell you. I was a -bank-teller, earning fifteen hundred dollars a -year and playing at art on the side. We lived -on the edge of nowhere and pinched along with -no prospect of getting anywhere. When that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -money fell in my lap I saw the way out—it -was like a dream come true, straight down from -heaven. I’d picked up a good deal about the -bond business in the bank—used to take a -turn in that department occasionally; and it -wasn’t like tackling something new. So I quit -my bank job and jumped in for myself. After -the third month I made expenses, and the second -year I cleaned up five thousand dollars—and -I’m not through yet,” he concluded with -a note of triumph.</p> - -<p>“And how does all that affect Elizabeth?” -asked the Poet quietly.</p> - -<p>“Well, Elizabeth is one of those timid creatures, -who’d be content to sit on a suburban -veranda all her days and wait for the milk -wagon. She couldn’t realize that opportunity -was knocking at the door. How do you think -she wanted to invest that eight thousand—wanted -me to go to New York to study in the -League; figured out that we could do that and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -then go to Paris for a year. And if she hadn’t -got to crying about it, I might have been fool -enough to do it!”</p> - -<p>He took a turn across the room and then -paused before his caller with the air of one -about to close a debate. The Poet was scrutinizing -the handle of his umbrella fixedly, as -though the rough wood presented a far more -important problem than the matter under discussion.</p> - -<p>“Elizabeth rather showed her faith in you -there, didn’t she?” he asked, without looking -up. “Eight thousand dollars had come into -the family, quite unexpectedly, and she was -willing to invest it in <i>you</i>, in a talent she highly -valued; in what had been to her the fine thing -in you—the quality that had drawn you together. -There was a chance that it might all -have been wasted—that you wouldn’t, as -the saying is, have made good, and that at the -end of a couple of years you would not only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -have been out the money, but out of a job. She -was willing to take the chance. The fact that -you ignored her wishes and are prospering in -spite of her isn’t really the answer; a man who -has shaken his wife and child—who has permitted -them to be made the subjects of disagreeable -gossip through his obstinate unreasonableness -isn’t prospering. In fact, I’d call -him a busted community.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there were other things!” exclaimed -Redfield. “We made each other uncomfortable; -it got to a point where every trifling thing -had to be argued—constant contention and -wrangle. When I started into this business -I had to move into town. After I’d got the -nicest flat I could hope to pay for that first -year, Elizabeth insisted on being unhappy -about <i>that</i>. It was important for me to cultivate -people who would be of use to me; it’s a -part of this game; but she didn’t like my new -acquaintances—made it as hard for me as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -possible. She always had a way of carrying her -chin a little high, you know. These people that -have always lived in this town are the worst -lot of snobs that ever breathed free air, and -just because her great-grandfather happened to -land here in time to say good-bye to the last -Indian is no reason for snubbing the unfortunates -who only arrived last summer. If her -people hadn’t shown the deterioration you find -in all old stock, and if her father hadn’t died -broke, you might excuse her; but this thing -of living on your ancestors is no good—it’s -about as thin as starving your stomach on art -and feeding your soul on sunsets. I tell you, -my good brother,”—with an ironic grin on -his face he clapped his hand familiarly on the -Poet’s shoulder,—“there are more things in -real life than are dreamed of in your poet’s -philosophy!”</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_075.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="caption">EVERY TRIFLING THING HAD TO BE ARGUED</p> - -<p>The Poet particularly disliked this sort of -familiarity; his best friends never laid hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -on him. He resented even more the leer that -had written itself in Redfield’s face. Traces of -a coarsening of fiber that he had looked for -at the beginning of the interview were here -apparent in tone and gesture, and did not -contribute to the Poet’s peace of mind. The -displeasure in his face seemed to remind Redfield -that this was not a man one slapped on the -back, or spoke to leeringly. He flushed and -muttered an apology, which the Poet chose to -ignore.</p> - -<p>“A woman who has had half an acre of -Mother Earth to play in for seven years and -has fashioned it into an expression of her own -soul, and has swung her baby in a hammock -under cherry trees in bloom, must be pardoned -if she doesn’t like being cooped up in a flat -and asked to be polite to people her husband -expects to make money out of. I understand -that you have left the flat for a room at the -club.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>“I mean to take care of them—you must -give me credit for that!” said Redfield, angry -that he was not managing his case more effectively. -“But Elizabeth is riding the high horse -and refuses to accept anything from me!”</p> - -<p>“I should think she would! She would -be the woman I’ve admired all these years if -she’d let you throw crumbs to her from your -club window!”</p> - -<p>“She thinks she’s going to rub it into me by -going to work! She’s going to teach a kindergarten, -in the hope, I suppose, of humiliating -me!”</p> - -<p>“It would be too bad if some of the humiliation -landed on your door!”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been as decent as I could; I’ve done -everything I could to protect her.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” observed the Poet carelessly, -“there’s another woman somewhere—”</p> - -<p>“That’s a lie!” Redfield flared. “I’ve always -been square with Elizabeth, and you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -know it! If there’s any scandalous gossip of -that kind afloat it’s damnably unjust! I hoped -you had a better idea of me than that!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry,” said the Poet, with sincere -contrition. “We’ll consider, then, that there’s -no such bar to a reconciliation.”</p> - -<p>He let his last word fall quietly as though -it were a pebble he had dropped into a pool -for the pleasure of watching the resulting -ripples.</p> - -<p>“If that’s what’s in your mind, the sooner -you get it out the better!” snapped Redfield. -“We’ve gone beyond all that!”</p> - -<p>“The spring was unusually fine,” the Poet -hastened to remark with cheerful irrelevance, -as though all that had gone before had merely -led up to the weather; “June is justifying -Lowell’s admiration. Your view off there is -splendid. It just occurs to me that these tall -buildings are not bad approximations of ivory -towers; a good place for dreams—nice horizons—edges<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -of green away off there, and unless -my sight is failing that’s a glimpse of -the river you get beyond those heaven-kissing -chimneys.”</p> - -<p>Redfield mopped his brow and sighed his -relief. Clearly the Poet, realizing the futility -of the discussion, was glad to close it; and -Redfield had no intention of allowing him to -return to it.</p> - -<p>He opened the door with an eagerness at -which the Poet smiled as he walked deliberately -through the outer room, exposing himself once -more to the admiring smiles of the girls at -the typewriters. He paused and told them -a story, to which Redfield, from the threshold -of his sanctum, listened perforce.</p> - -<p>At the street entrance the Poet met Fulton -hurrying into the building.</p> - -<p>“I was just thinking of you!” cried the young -man. “Half a minute ago I dropped a little -packet with your name on it into the box at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -the corner, and was feeling like a criminal to -think of what I was inflicting!”</p> - -<p>“It occurs to me,” mused the Poet, leaning -on his umbrella, quite indifferent to the hurrying -crowd that swept through the entrance, -“that the mail-box might be a good subject for -a cheerful jingle—the repository of hopes, ambitions, -abuse, threats, love letters, and duns. -It’s by treating such subjects attractively that -we may hope to reach the tired business man -and persuade him that not weak-winged is -song! Apollo leaning against a letter-box and -twanging his lyre divine for the muses to -dance a light fantastic round—a very pretty -thought, Mr. Fulton!”</p> - -<p>The Poet, obviously on excellent terms with -the world, indulged himself further in whimsical -comment on possible subjects for verse, -even improvising a few lines of doggerel for -the reporter’s amusement.</p> - -<p>And then, after he had turned away, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> -called the young man back, as though by an -afterthought.</p> - -<p>“As to Redfield, you haven’t done anything -yet?”</p> - -<p>“No; I’m on my way to see him now.”</p> - -<p>“Well, don’t be in a hurry about making the -change. You’d better go up to the lake Sunday -and sit on the shore all day and let June soak -in. You will find that it helps. I’ll meet those -verses you’re sending me at the outer wicket; -I’m sure I’ll like them!”</p> - - - -<h3>IV</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Saturday proved to be the fairest of -June days, the Poet decided that it was a pity -to remain in city pent when three hours on the -train would carry him to Waupegan, a spot -whose charms had been brought freshly to his -attention by the sheaf of verses Fulton had -sent him. He had hoped to find Fulton on the -train; but when the young man did not appear,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -he found compensation in the presence of Mrs. -Waring, who was bound for Waupegan to take -possession of her house.</p> - -<p>“Marian took Marjorie up yesterday. It -occurred to me, after I’d posted Elizabeth off -with a servant to straighten up my house, that -I’d done the crudest thing imaginable, for -Elizabeth went honeymooning to Waupegan—I -gave her and Miles my house for a fortnight, -as you may remember. I wanted to get her -out of town and I never thought of that until -she’d gone.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it a good sign that Elizabeth would -go? It shows that the associations of the lake -still mean something to her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but they don’t mean anything to him—that’s -the trouble! If there ever was a brute—”</p> - -<p>“There are worse men—or brutes,” the -Poet mildly suggested.</p> - -<p>“I can’t imagine it!” Mrs. Waring replied -tartly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>“I’m going fishing,” the Poet explained, -when Mrs. Waring demanded to know what -errand was carrying him lakeward. His dislike -of railway journeys was well known to all his -friends; and no one had ever heard of his going -fishing.</p> - -<p>“I have asked you to the lake scores of times -to visit me, and you have scorned all my invitations. -Now that I’ve caught you in the act -of going up alone, I demand that you make -me the visit you’ve been promising for twenty -years.”</p> - -<p>“Fishing,” observed the Poet soberly, “is -a business that requires the closest attention -and strictest privacy. I should be delighted to -make that visit at this time, but when I fish -I’m an intolerable person—unsociable and -churlish; you’d always hate me if I accepted -your hospitable shelter when I would a-fishing -go.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll not find the hotel a particularly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -tranquil place for literary labor, and the food -at my house couldn’t be worse than you’ll get -there. I’ve warned you!”</p> - -<p>She was frankly curious as to the nature of -his errand, and continued to chaff him about -his piscatorial ambitions. He gave his humor -full rein in adding to her mystification.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” he finally confessed, “I shall hire -a boy to do the fishing for me, while I sit under -a tree and boss him.”</p> - -<p>“No boy with any spirit would fish for anybody -else—no respectable, well-brought-up -boy would!”</p> - -<p>“There’s where you’re quite mistaken! I -expect to find a boy—and a pretty likely -young fellow he is, reared on a farm, and all -that—I expect to find him ready for business -in the morning. Mind you, he didn’t promise -to come, but if he’s the youngster I think he is, -he’ll be there right side up with care to-morrow -morning.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>“I don’t believe I like you so well when you -play at being mysterious. This idea, that if -you serenely fold your hands and wait—John -Burroughs, isn’t it?—your own will come -to you, never worked for me. I should never -have got anywhere in my life if I had folded -my hands and waited.”</p> - -<p>“There must always be one who journeys -to meet him who waits, and with your superb -energy you have done the traveling. I’m playing -both parts in this affair just as an experiment. -To-day I travel; to-morrow I shall sit -on the dock and wait for that boy who’s to do -my fishing for me. I’m not prepared for disappointment; -I have every confidence that he -will arrive in due season. Particularly now that -you tell me Marian is already illuminating the -landscape!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Waring was giving him only half attention, -but she pricked up her ears at this statement.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>“Marian! What on earth has she to do with -this fishing-trip?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing, except that I have a message -for her from the cool slopes of Parnassus. It’s -almost like something you read of in books—her -being here waiting for the sacred papyri.”</p> - -<p>He tapped his pocket and smiled.</p> - -<p>“I hadn’t the slightest idea she was up -there waiting,” he continued. “You must confess -that it’s rather remarkable! Folding her -hands, utterly unconscious of what Fate has -in store for her; and poems being written to -her, and my fisher-boy on the trail looking for -me—and her!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re driving -at, but you’d better keep your verses for somebody -else. Marian’s a much more practical girl -than Elizabeth; I don’t quite see her receiving -messages from the Muses with more than chilly -politeness. You may be sure she will profit by -Elizabeth’s experience. Elizabeth married a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -man with an artistic temperament and she’s -paid dearly for it. A blow like that falling so -close to Marian is bound to have its effect. If -you want to win her smiles, don’t appeal to her -through poetry. As I was saying the other day, -poetry is charming, and sometimes it’s uplifting; -but we’re getting away from it. These are -changing times, and pretty soon it won’t be -respectable to be decent!”</p> - -<p>“You said something to the same effect the -other day when your garden was full of children. -I was greatly disappointed in you; it -wasn’t fair to the children to talk that way—even -if they didn’t hear you. I was all -broken up after that party; I haven’t been -the same man since!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I didn’t mean to reflect on you or your -work; you know that!”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing of the kind,” returned -the Poet amiably. “You have said it twice, -though the first time was enough. I’m a different<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -person; you’ve changed the whole current -of my life! I’m making a journey, on a very -hot afternoon, that I should never have thought -of making if it hadn’t been for your cynical -remarks. I’ve taken employment as an agent -of Providence, just to prove to you that my -little preachments in rhyme are not altogether -what our young people call piffle. I’ve come -down out of the pulpit, so to speak, to put my -sermons into effect—a pretty good thing for -all parsons to do. Or, to go back to the starting-point, -I’ve hung my harp on the willows -that I may fish the more conveniently.”</p> - -<p>“You ought to be ashamed of yourself to -make sport of a woman of my years! You -had better tell me a funny story,” said Mrs. -Waring, fearing that he was laughing at -her.</p> - -<p>“I shall do nothing of the kind! I am heavily -armed with magazines and I shall read the -rest of the way to Waupegan. Besides, I need<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -time for planning my work to-morrow. It will -be my busiest day!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was dark when the train paused at the -lake station, and Mrs. Redfield was waiting, -having come over in a launch to meet -Mrs. Waring. She was wrapped in a long -coat and carried a lantern, which she held up -laughingly to verify her identification of the -Poet.</p> - -<p>“Marian and I have just been talking of -you! She and Marjorie have told me all about -the garden-party, and of the beautiful time -you gave the children.”</p> - -<p>“If she didn’t mention the beautiful time -they gave me, she didn’t tell the whole story. -And if I hadn’t gone to Mrs. Waring’s party, -I shouldn’t be here!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t pay any attention to him,” interposed -Mrs. Waring, counting her trunks as -they were transferred to the miniature steamer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -that plied the lake. “There’s some joke about -his coming here; he’s told you one story and -an hour ago he was assuring me that he had -come up to fish!”</p> - -<p>She turned away for a moment to speak to -some old friends among the cottagers, leaving -Mrs. Redfield and the Poet alone.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you are here,” said the Poet, “for -I shall stay a few days and I hope we can have -some talks.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so; but I must go very soon. I’ve -only been waiting for Mrs. Waring to come. It -was like her to make a chance for me to get -away; you know Waupegan is like home; my -father used to have a cottage here and we children -were brought up on the lake.”</p> - -<p>She was a small, dark-eyed woman, a marked -contrast to her tall, fair sister. Her sense of fun -had always been a delight to her friends; she -was a capital mimic and had been a star in -amateur theatricals. The troubles of the past<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -year—or of the years, to accept Redfield’s -complaint at its full value—had not destroyed -her vivacity. She was of that happy company -who carry into middle life and beyond the -freshness of youth. She had been married at -twenty, and to the Poet’s eyes she seemed little -older now.</p> - -<p>He had been wondering since his interview -with Redfield how he had ever dared go as far -in meddling with other people’s affairs. Face -to face with Redfield’s wife, he was more self-conscious -than was comfortable. It would not -be easy to talk to Elizabeth of her difficulties, -for the Poet was not a man whom women took -into their confidence over a teacup. He abused -himself for leaving his proper orbit for foolish -adventures in obscure, unmapped corners of -the heavens.</p> - -<p>He said that the stars were fine, and having -failed to amplify this with anything like the -grace that might be expected of a poet, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -glanced at her and found her eyes bright with -tears. This was altogether disconcerting, but it -illustrated the embarrassments of the situation -into which he had projected himself. Clearly -the ambition to harmonize poetry and life was -not without peril; he felt that as the ambassador -from the court of Poesy it might be necessary -to learn a new language to make himself -understood at the portals of Life. Instead of -promoting peace, he might, by the least tactless -remark, prolong the war, and the thought -was dismaying.</p> - -<p>As she turned her head to hide treasonable -tears he saw her draw herself up, and lift her -head as though to prove to him that there was -still courage in her heart, no matter if her eyes -did betray the citadel.</p> - -<p>“You see, we hung up a new moon in honor -of your coming. It’s like a little feather, just -as Rossetti says.”</p> - -<p>“Too suggestive of a feather duster,” he remarked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -lightly; and seeing Mrs. Waring walking -toward them he added, gravely:—</p> - -<p>“I’ve lied like the most miserable of sinners -about this trip; I came in answer to your letter. -I find that most letters will answer themselves -if you wait long enough. Yours is just seven -years old!”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she cried, with a quick catch of -the breath; “you don’t mean that you kept -<i>that</i>!”</p> - -<p>“I most certainly did! It was a very beautiful -letter. I happened to be re-reading it the -other night and decided that it deserved an -answer; so here I am!”</p> - -<p>“I’m both sorry and glad you came. It’s -immensely good of you; it’s just like you! But -it’s no use; of course you know that!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I should never have come on my own -hook! I’m only the humble representative of -thousands and thousands of people, and the -stars—maybe—and that frugal slice of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -melon up there we call the moon. Nobody else -wanted the job, so I took it.”</p> - -<p>He laughed at the puzzled look in the dark -eyes, which was like the wondering gaze of a -child, half-fearful, half-confiding.</p> - -<p>“Elizabeth, are you going to stand there all -night talking to any poet that comes along!” -demanded Mrs. Waring; and as she joined -them the Poet began talking amusingly to allay -suspicion.</p> - -<p>He again declined to accompany her home, -protesting that he must not disappoint the -boy who would certainly be on hand in the -morning to fish for him. He waved his hand as -the launch swung off, called the man who was -guarding his suit-case and followed him to the -inn.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> - - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_chap2.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">PART TWO</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> - - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_097top.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">PART TWO</h2></div> - -<h3>V</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Marian</span> and Marjorie had builded a house -of sand on a strip of shaded beach, and by the -fraudulent use of sticks and stones they had -made it stand in violation of all physical laws. -Now that the finishing touches had been given -to the tower, Marjorie thrust her doll through -a window.</p> - -<p>“That will never do!” protested Marian. -“In a noble chteau like this the chtelaine -must not stand on her head. When the knights<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -come riding, she must be waiting, haughty and -proud, in the great hall to meet them.”</p> - -<p>“Should ums?” asked Marjorie, watching -her aunt gouge a new window in the moist wall -so that the immured lady might view the lake -more comfortably.</p> - -<p>“‘Ums should,’ indeed!”</p> - -<p>“Should the lady have coffee-cake for ums -tea? We never made no pantry nor kitchen in -ums house, and lady will be awful hungry. I’ll -push ums a cracker. There, you lady, you can -eat ums supper!”</p> - -<p>“When her knight comes riding, he will -bring a deer or maybe a big black boar and -there will be feasting in the great hall this -night,” said Marian.</p> - -<p>“Maybe,” suggested Marjorie, lying flat and -peering into the chteau, “he will kill the grand -lady with ums sword; and it will be all over -bluggy.”</p> - -<p>“Horrible!” cried Marian, closing her eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -and shuddering. “Let us hope he will be a -parfait, gentil knight who will be nice to the -lady and tell her beautiful stories of the warriors -bold he has killed for love of her.”</p> - -<p>“My boy doll got all smashed,” said Marjorie; -“and ums can’t come a-widing.”</p> - -<p>“A truly good knight who got smashed -would arrive on his shield just the same; he -wouldn’t let anything keep him from coming -back to his lady.”</p> - -<p>“If ums got all killed dead, would ums come -back?”</p> - -<p>“He would; he most certainly would!” -declared Marian convincingly. “And there -would be a beautiful funeral, probably at -night, and the other knights would march to -the grave bearing torches. And they would -repeat a vow to avenge his death and the slug-horn -would sound and off they’d go.”</p> - -<p>“And ums lady would be lonesome some -more,” sighed Marjorie.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>“Oh, that’s nothing! Ladies have to get -used to being lonesome when knights go riding. -They must sit at home and knit or make beautiful -tapestries to show the knights when they -come home.”</p> - -<p>“Marjorie not like to be lonesome. What if -Dolly est sit in the shotum—”</p> - -<p>“Chteau is more elegant; though ‘shotum’ -is flavorsome and colorful. Come to think of it -‘shotum’ is just as good. Dolly must sit and -keep sitting. She couldn’t go out to look for -her knight without committing a grave social -error.”</p> - -<p>These matters having been disposed of, -Marjorie thought a stable should be built for -the knights’ horses, and they began scooping -sand to that end. Marian’s eyes rested -dreamily upon distant prospects. The cool airs -of early morning were still stirring, and here -and there a white sail floated lazily on the blue -water. The sandy beach lay only a short distance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -from Mrs. Waring’s house, whose red -roof was visible through a cincture of maples -on the bluff above.</p> - -<p>“If knights comes widing to our shotum and -holler for ums shootolain, would you holler to -come in?” asked Marjorie, from the stable -wall.</p> - -<p>“It would be highly improper for a chtelaine -to ‘holler’; but if I were there, I should -order the drawbridge to be lowered, and I -should bid my knight lift the lid of the coal-bucket -thing they always wear on their heads,—you -know how they look in the picture -books,—and then ask him what tidings he -brought. You always ask for tidings.”</p> - -<p>“Does ums? Me would ask ums for candy, -and new hats with long fithery feathers; and -ums—”</p> - -<p>“Hail, ladies of the Lake! May a lone -harper descend and graciously vouchsafe a -song?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>From the top of the willow-lined bluff -behind them came a voice with startling -abruptness. In their discussion of the proprieties -of chteau life they had forgotten the rest -of the world, and it was disconcerting thus to -be greeted from the unknown.</p> - -<p>“Is it ums knight come walking?” whispered -Marjorie, glancing round guardedly.</p> - -<p>Marian jumped up and surveyed the overhanging -willow screen intently. She discerned -through the shrubbery a figure in gray, supported -by a tightly sheathed umbrella. A narrow-brimmed -straw hat and a pair of twinkling -eye-glasses attached to the most familiar -countenance in the Commonwealth now contributed -to a partial portrait of the lone harper. -Marian, having heard from her sister and -Mrs. Waring of the Poet’s advent, was able -to view this apparition without surprise.</p> - -<p>“Come down, O harper, and gladden us with -song!” she called.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>“I have far to go ere the day end; but I -bring writings for one whom men call fair.”</p> - -<p>He tossed a long envelope toward them; the -breeze caught and held it, then dropped it close -to the chteau. Marjorie ran to pick it up.</p> - -<p>“Miss Agnew,” said the Poet, lifting his -hat, “a young gentleman will pass this way -shortly; I believe him to be a person of merit. -He will come overseas from a far country, and -answer promptly to the name of Frederick. -Consider that you have been properly introduced -by the contents of yonder packet and -bid him welcome in my name.”</p> - -<p>“Ums a cwazy man,” Marjorie announced -in disgust. “Ums the man what told a funny -story at Auntie Waring’s party and then -runned off.”</p> - -<p>The quivering of the willows already marked -the Poet’s passing. He had crossed the lake -to the Waring cottage, Marian surmised, and -was now returning thither.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>Marjorie, uninterested in letters, which, she -had observed, frequently made people cry, -attacked with renewed zeal the problem of -housing the knights’ horses, while Marian -opened the long envelope and drew out half a -dozen blue onion-skin letter-sheets and settled -herself to read. She read first with pleasurable -surprise and then with bewilderment. Poetry, -she had heard somewhere, should be read out -of doors, and clearly these verses were of that -order; and quite as unmistakably this, of all -the nooks and corners in the world, was the -proper spot in which to make the acquaintance -of these particular verses. Indeed, it -seemed possible, by a lifting of the eyes, to -verify the impressions they recorded,—the -blue arch, the gnarled boughs of the beeches, -the overhanging sycamores, the distant daisy-starred -pastures running down to meet the -clear water. Such items as these were readily -intelligible; but she found dancing through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> -all the verses a figure that under various endearing -names was the <i>dea ex machina</i> of -every scene; and this seemed irreconcilable -with the backgrounds afforded by the immediate -landscape. Pomona had, it appeared, at -some time inspected the apple harvest in this -neighborhood:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">The dew flashed from her sandals gold</div> -<div class="verse">As down the orchard aisles she sped;—</div> -</div></div> - -<p>or this same delightful divinity became Diana, -her arrows cast aside, smashing a tennis ball, -or once again paddling a canoe through wind-ruffled -water into the flames of a dying September -sun. Or, the bright doors of dawn swinging -wide, down the steps tripped this same incredible -young person taunting the waiting hours -for their delay. Was it possible that her own -early morning dives from Mrs. Waring’s dock -could have suggested this!</p> - -<p>Marian read hurriedly; then settled herself -for the more deliberate perusal that these pictorial<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> -stanzas demanded. It was with a feeling -of unreality that she envisaged every point the -slight, graceful verses described. Where was -there another orchard that stole down to a -lake’s edge; or where could Atalanta ever have -indulged herself at tennis to the applause of -rapping woodpeckers if not in the court by the -casino on the other side of the lake? The Poet—that -is, the Poet All the People Loved—was -not greatly given to the invoking of gods -and goddesses; and this was not his stroke—unless -he were playing some practical joke, -which, to be sure, was quite possible. But she -felt herself in contact with someone very different -from <i>the</i> Poet; with quite another poet who -sped Pomona down orchard aisles catching at -the weighted boughs for the joy of hearing the -thump of falling apples, and turning with a -laugh to glance at the shower of ruddy fruit. -A lively young person, this Pomona; a spirited -and agile being, half-real, half-mythical. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -series of quatrains, under the caption “In -September,” described the many-named goddess -as the unknown poet had observed her in -her canoe at night:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I watched afar her steady blade</div> -<div class="verse">Flash in the path the moon had made,</div> -<div class="indent">And saw the stars on silvery ripples</div> -<div class="verse">Shine clear and dance and faint and fade.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then through the windless night I heard</div> -<div class="verse">Her song float toward me, dim and blurred;</div> -<div class="indent">’Twas like a call to vanished summers</div> -<div class="verse">From a lost, summer-seeking bird.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>There were many canoes on Waupegan; -without turning her head she counted a dozen -flashing paddles. And there were many girls -who played capital tennis, or who were quite -capable of sprinting gracefully down the aisles -of fruitful orchards. She had remained at the -lake late the previous year, and had perhaps -shaken apple boughs when in flight through -orchards; and she had played tennis diligently -and had paddled her canoe on many September<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -nights through the moon’s path and over quivering -submerged stars; and yet it was inconceivable -that her performances had attracted -the attention of any one capable of transferring -them to rhyme. It would be pleasant, though, -to be the subject of verses like these! Once, -during her college days, she had moved a young -gentleman to song, but the amatory verses she -had evoked from his lyre had been pitiful stuff -that had offended her critical sense. These -blue sheets bore a very different message—delicate -and fanciful, with a nice restraint -under their buoyancy.</p> - -<p>While the Poet had said that the author of -the verses would arrive shortly, she had taken -this as an expression of the make-believe in -which he constantly indulged in his writings; -but one of the canoes she had been idly observing -now bore unmistakably toward the -cove.</p> - -<p>Marjorie called for assistance and Marian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -thrust the blue sheets into her belt and busied -herself with perplexing architectural problems. -Marjorie’s attention was distracted a moment -later by the approaching canoe.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Marian!” she chirruped, pointing -with a sand-encrusted finger, “more foolish -mans coming with glad tidings. Ums should -come by horses, not by ums canoe.”</p> - -<p>“We mustn’t be too particular how ums -come, Marjorie,” replied Marian glancing up -with feigned carelessness. “It’s the knights’ -privilege to come as they will. Many a maiden -sits waiting just as we are and no knight ever -comes.”</p> - -<p>“When ums comes they might knock down -our house—maybe?” She tacked on the query -with so quaint a turn that Marian laughed.</p> - -<p>“We mustn’t grow realistic! We must pretend -it’s play, and keep pretending that they -will be kind and considerate gentlemen.”</p> - -<p>Her own efforts to pretend that they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -building a stable for the steeds of Arthur’s -knights did not conceal her curiosity as to a -young man who had driven his craft very close -inshore, and now, after a moment’s scrutiny -of the cove, chose a spot for landing and sent -the canoe with a whish up the sandy beach half -out of the water.</p> - -<p>He jumped out and begged their pardon as -Marjorie planted herself defensively before the -castle.</p> - -<p>“Ums can go ’way! Ums didn’t come widing -on ums horse like my story book.”</p> - -<p>“I apologize! Not being Neptune I couldn’t -ride my horse through the water. And besides -I’m merely obeying orders. I was told to -appear here at ten o’clock, sharp, by a gentleman -I paddled over from the village and left on -Mrs. Waring’s dock an hour ago. He gave me -every assurance that I should be received hospitably, -but if I’m intruding I shall proceed -farther upon the wine-dark sea.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_110.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">THE APPROACHING CANOE</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>“Is ums name Fwedwick?” asked Marjorie.</p> - -<p>Fulton controlled with difficulty an impulse -to laugh at the child’s curious twist of his name, -but admitted gravely that such, indeed, was -the case.</p> - -<p>“Then ums can stay,” said Marjorie in a -tone of resignation, and returned to her building.</p> - -<p>Marian, who, during his colloquy with Marjorie, -had risen and was brushing the sand -from her skirt, now spoke for the first time.</p> - -<p>“It’s hardly possible you’re looking for me—I’m -Miss Agnew.”</p> - -<p>He bowed profoundly.</p> - -<p>“A distinguished man of letters assured me -that I should find him here,” the young man -explained as he drew on a blue serge coat he -had thrown out of the canoe; “but unless he -is hiding in the bushes he has played me false. -Such being the case I can’t do less than offer to -withdraw if my presence is annoying.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>The faint mockery of these sentences was -relieved by the mischievous twinkle in his -eyes. They were very dark eyes, and his hair -was intensely black and brushed back from his -forehead smoothly. His face was dark even -to swarthiness and his cheek bones were high -and a trifle prominent.</p> - -<p>He was dressed for the open: white ducks, -canvas shoes, and a flannel shirt with soft collar -and a scarlet tie.</p> - -<p>In spite of his offer to withdraw if his presence -proved ungrateful to the established tenants -of the cove, it occurred to Marian that -he was not, apparently, expecting to be rebuffed. -Marjorie, satisfied that the stranger in -no way menaced her peace, was addressing -herself with new energy to the refashioning of -the stable walls along lines recommended by -Marian.</p> - -<p>“The ways of the Poet are inscrutable,” -observed Fulton; “he told me your name and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -spoke in the highest terms of your kindness -of heart and tolerance of stupidity.”</p> - -<p>“He was more sparing of facts in warning me -of your approach. He said your name would -be Frederick, as though the birds would supply -the rest of it.”</p> - -<p>“Very likely that’s the way of the illustrious—to -assume that we are all as famous as themselves; -highly flattering, but calculated to deceive. -As the birds don’t know me, I will say -that my surname is Fulton. A poor and an ill-favored -thing, but mine own.”</p> - -<p>“It quite suffices,” replied Marian in his -own key. “We have built a chteau,” she explained, -“and the chtelaine is even now gazing -sadly upon the waters hoping that her true -knight will appear. We have mixed metaphor -and history most unforgivably—a French -chteau, set here on an American lake in readiness -for the Knights of the Round Table.”</p> - -<p>“We mustn’t quibble over details in such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -matters; it’s the spirit of the thing that counts. -I can see that Marjorie isn’t troubled by -anachronisms.”</p> - -<p>The blue sheets containing, presumably, -this young man’s verses, were still in her belt, -and their presence there did not add to her comfort. -Of course he might not be the real author -of those tributes to the lake’s divinities. His -appearance did not strongly support the suspicion. -The young man who had sent her -flowers accompanied by verses on various occasions -was an anmic young person who would -never have entrusted himself to so tricksy a -bark as a canoe. Frederick Fulton was of a -more heroic mould; she thought it quite likely -that he could shoulder his canoe and march off -with it if it pleased him to do so. He looked -capable of doing many things besides scribbling -verses. His manner, as she analyzed it, left -nothing to be desired. While he was enjoying -this encounter to the full, as his ready smile<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -assured her, he did not presume upon her tolerance, -but seemed satisfied to let her prescribe -the terms of their acquaintance. This -was a lark of some kind, and whether he had -connived at the meeting, or whether he was as -much in the dark as she as to the Poet’s purpose -in bringing them together, remained a -mystery.</p> - -<p>She found a seat on a log near the engrossed -Marjorie, and Fulton settled himself comfortably -on the sand.</p> - -<p>“This has been a day of strange meetings,” -he began. “I really had no intention of coming -to Waupegan; and I was astonished to find our -friend the Poet on the hotel veranda this morning. -He had told me to come;—it was rather -odd—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he told you to come!”</p> - -<p>“In town, two days ago he suggested it. I -wonder if he’s in the habit of doing that sort -of thing.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>“It would hardly be polite for me to criticize -him now that he has introduced us. I fear we -shall have to make the best of it!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of it in that way!”</p> - -<p>They regarded each other with searching -inquiry and then laughed. Her possession of -the verses had already advertised itself to him; -she saw his eyes rest upon them carelessly for -an instant and then he disregarded them; and -this pleased her. If he were their author—if, -possibly, he had written them of her—she approved -of his good breeding in ignoring them.</p> - -<p>“I know this part of the world better than -almost any other,” he went on, clasping his -hands over his knees. “I was born only ten -miles from here on a farm; and I fished here -a lot when I was a boy.”</p> - -<p>“But, of course, you’ve escaped from the -farm into the larger world or the Poet wouldn’t -know you.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you see, I’m a newspaper reporter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -down at the capital and reporters know everybody.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the Poet doesn’t know everybody; -though everybody knows him. Perhaps we’d -better pass that. Tell me some more about -your early adventures on the lake.”</p> - -<p>“You have heard all that’s worth telling. We -farm boys used to come over and fish before the -city men filched all the bass and left only sunfish -and suckers. Then I grew up and went to -the State Agricultural School—to fit me for a -literary career!—and I didn’t get here again -until last fall when my paper gave me a vacation -and I spent a fortnight at the farm and -used to ride over here on my bicycle every -morning to watch the summer resorters and -read books.”</p> - -<p>“It’s strange I never saw you,” said Marian, -“for I was here last fall. My own memories of -the pioneers go back almost to the Indians. -My father used to own that red-roofed cottage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -you see across the lake; and I’ve tumbled into -the water from every point in sight.”</p> - -<p>“September and June are the best months -here, I think. It was all much nicer, though, -before the place became so popular.”</p> - -<p>“Hardly a gracious remark, seeing that Marjorie -and I are here, and all these cottagers are -friends of ours!”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t the slightest objection to you -and Marjorie. You fit into the landscape delightfully—give -it tone and color; but I was -thinking of the noisy people at the inns down -by the village. They seem rather unnecessary. -The Poet and I agreed about that this morning -while we were looking for a quiet place for an -after-breakfast smoke.”</p> - -<p>“It must be quite fine to know him—really -know him,” she said musingly.</p> - -<p>“Yes; but before you grow too envious of my -acquaintance I’ll have to confess that I’ve -known him less than a week.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>“A great deal can happen in a week,” she -remarked absently.</p> - -<p>“A great deal has!” he returned quickly.</p> - -<p>This seemed to be rather leading; but a cry -for help from Marjorie provided a diversion.</p> - -<p>Fulton jumped up and ran to the perplexed -builder’s aid, neatly repaired a broken wall, -and when he had received the child’s grave -thanks reseated himself at Marian’s feet. The -blue onion-skin paper had disappeared from -her belt; he caught her in the act of crumpling -the sheets into her sleeve.</p> - -<p>With their disappearance she felt her courage -returning. His confessions as to the farm, the -university, the newspaper—created an outline -which she meant to encourage him to fill in. -Journalism, like war and the labors of those -who go down to the sea in ships, suggests -romance; and Marian had never known a -reporter before.</p> - -<p>“I should think it would be great fun working<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -on a newspaper, and knowing things before -they happen.”</p> - -<p>“And things that never happen!”</p> - -<p>She was quick to seize upon this.</p> - -<p>“The imagination must enter into all writing—even -facts, history. Bryant was a newspaper -man, and he wrote poetry, but I heard in -school that he was a very good editor, too.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not an editor and nobody has called -me a poet; but the suggestion pleases me,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“If our own Poet offered you a leaf of his -laurel, that would help establish your claims,—set -you up in business, so to speak.”</p> - -<p>“I should hasten to return it before it withered! -My little experiments in rhyme are not -of the wreath-winning kind.”</p> - -<p>“Then you do write verses!”</p> - -<p>“Yards!” he confessed shamelessly.</p> - -<p>She was taken aback by this bold admission. -His tone and manner implied that he set no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -great store by his performances, and this -piqued her. It seemed like a commentary on -her critical judgment which had found them -good. Fulton now became impersonal and -philosophical.</p> - -<p>“It’s a great thing to have done what our -Poet has done—give to the purely local a -touch that makes it universal. That’s what -art does when it has heart behind it, and there’s -the value of provincial literature. Hundreds of -men had seen just what he saw,—the same -variety of types and individuals against this -Western landscape,—but it was left for him -to set them forth with just the right stroke. -And he has done other things, too, besides the -<i>genre</i> studies that make him our own particular -Burns; he has sung of days like this when -hope rises high, and sung of them beautifully; -and he has preached countless little sermons -of cheer and contentment and aspiration. And -he’s the first poet who ever really understood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -children—wrote not merely of them but to -them. He’s the poet of a thousand scrapbooks! -I came up on a late train last night and got to -talking to a stranger who told me he was on his -way to visit his old home; pulled one of the -Poet’s songs of June out of his pocket and asked -me to read it; said he’d cut it out of a newspaper -that had come to him wrapped round a -pair of shoes in some forsaken village in Texas, -and that it had made him homesick for a sight -of the farm where he was born. The old fellow -grew tearful about it, and almost wrung a sob -out of me. He was carrying that clipping -pinned to his railway ticket—in a way it was -his ticket home.”</p> - -<p>“Of course our Poet has the power to move -people like that,” murmured Marian. “It’s -genius, a gift of the gods.”</p> - -<p>“He’s been able to do it without ever cheapening -himself; there’s never any suggestion of -that mawkishness we hear in vaudeville songs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -that implore us to write home to mother to-night! -He takes the simplest theme and makes -literature of it.”</p> - -<p>Marian was thinking of her talk with the Poet -at Mrs. Waring’s garden-party. Strange to -say, it seemed more difficult to express her disdain -of romance and poetry to this young man -than it had been to the Poet. And yet he evidently -accepted unquestioningly the Poet’s -philosophy of life, which she had dismissed -contemptuously, and in which, she assured -herself, she did not believe to-day any more -than she did a week ago. The incident of a pilgrim -from Texas with a poem attached to his -railway ticket had its touch of sentiment and -pathos, but it did not weigh heavily against -the testimony of experience which had proved -in her own observation that life is perplexing -and difficult, and that poetry and romance are -only a lure and mesh to delude and betray the -trustful.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>“Poets have a good deal to fight against -these days,” she said, wishing to state her dissent -as kindly as possible. “The Bible is full of -poetry, but it has lost its hold on the people; -it’s like an outworn sun that no longer lights -and warms the world. I wish it weren’t so; -but unfortunately we’re all pretty helpless -when it comes to the iron hoofs of the Time-Spirit.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” he exclaimed, sitting erect, “we -mustn’t make the mistake of thinking the -Time-Spirit a new invention. We’re lucky to -live in the twentieth century when it goes on -rubber heels;—when people are living poetry -more and talking about it less. Why, the spirit -of the Bible has just gone to work! I was writing -an account of a new summer camp for children -the day before I came up—one of those -Sunday supplement pieces around a lot of pictures; -and it occurred to me as I watched -youngsters, who had never seen green grass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -before, having the time of their lives, that such -philanthropies didn’t exist in the good old days -when people dusted their Bibles oftener than -they do now. There’s a difference between the -Bible as a fetish and as a working plan for daily -use. Preaching isn’t left to the men who stand -up in pulpits in black coats on Sundays; there’s -preaching in all the magazines and newspapers -all the time. For example, my paper raises -money every summer to send children into -the country; and then starts another fund -to buy them Christmas presents. The apostles -themselves didn’t do much better than -that!”</p> - -<p>“Of course there are many agencies and a -great deal of generosity,” replied Marian colorlessly. -The young men she knew were not in the -habit of speaking of the Bible or of religion in -this fashion. Religion had never made any -strong appeal to her and she had dabbled in -philanthropy fitfully without enthusiasm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -Fulton’s direct speech made some response -necessary and she tried to reply with an equally -frank confidence.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I’m a sort of heathen; I don’t -know what a pantheist is, but I think I must -be one.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you can be a pantheist without being a -heathen! There’s a natural religion that we all -subscribe to, whether we’re conscious of it or -not. There’s no use bothering about definitions -or quarreling with anybody’s church or creed. -We’re getting beyond that; it’s the thing we -make of ourselves that counts; and when it -comes to the matter of worship, I suppose -every one who looks up at a blue sky like that, -and knows it to be good, is performing a sort -of ritual and saying a prayer.”</p> - -<p>There was nothing in the breezy, exultant -verses she had thrust into her sleeve to prepare -her for such statements as these. While he -spoke simply and half-smilingly, as though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -to minimize the seriousness of his statements, -his utterances had an undeniable ring of sincerity. -He was provokingly at ease—this dark -young gentleman who had been cast by the -waters upon this tranquil beach. He was not -at all like young men who called upon her and -made themselves agreeable by talking of the -theater or country club dances or the best -places to spend vacations. She could not recall -that any one had ever spoken to her before of -man’s aspirations in the terms employed by -this newspaper reporter.</p> - -<p>Marjorie, having prepared for the stabling -of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, -announced her intention of contributing a -wing to the chteau. This called for a conference -in which they all participated. Then, -when the addition had been planned in all -soberness and the child had resumed her labors, -Marian and Fred stared at the lake until the -silence became oppressive. Marian spoke first,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> -tossing the ball of conversation into a new -direction.</p> - -<p>“You have confessed to yards of verses,” -she began, gathering up a handful of sand -which she let slip through her fingers lingeringly, -catching the grains in her palm. “I’ve -seen—about a yard of them.”</p> - -<p>Clearly flirtation was not one of his accomplishments. -His “Oh, I’ve scattered them -round rather freely,” ignored a chance to declare -gracefully that she had been the inspiration -of those lyrics, written in a perfectly legible -hand on onion-skin letter-sheets, that were -concealed in her sleeve. His indifference to the -opening she had made for him piqued her. -She was quite dashed by the calm tone in which -he added, with no hint of sidling or simpering:—</p> - -<p>“I’ve written reams of poems about you.” -(He might as well have said that he had scraped -the ice off her sidewalk or carried coal into her -cellar, for all the thrill she derived from his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -admission.) “I hope you won’t be displeased; -but when I was ranging the lake last September -we seemed to find the same haunts and to -be interested in the same sort of thing, and -it kept me busy dodging you, I can tell you! -I exhausted the Classical Dictionary finding -names for you; and it wasn’t any trouble at -all to make verses about you. I was really -astonished to find how necessary you were to -the completion of my pen-and-ink sketches of -all this,”—a wave of the arm placed the lake -shores in evidence,—“I liked you best in -action; when the spirit moved you to run or -drive your canoe over the water. You do all the -outdoor things as though you had never done -anything else; it’s a joy to watch you! I was -sitting on a fence one day over there in Mrs. -Waring’s orchard and you ran by,—so near -that I could hear the swish of your skirts,—and -you made a high jump for a bough and -shook down the apples and ran off laughing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -like a boy afraid of being caught. I pulled out -my notebook and scribbled seven stanzas on -that little incident.”</p> - -<p>Any admiration that was conveyed by these -frankly uttered sentences was of the most impersonal -sort conceivable. She was not used to -being treated in this fashion. Even his manner -of asking her pardon for his temerariousness in -apostrophizing her in his verses had lacked, in -her critical appraisement of it, the humility a -self-respecting young woman had a right to -demand of a young poet who observes her -without warrant, is pleased to admire her athletic -prowess, her ways and her manners, and -puts her into his verses as coolly as he might -pick a flower from the wayside and wear it -in his coat.</p> - -<p>“Then you used me merely to give human interest -to your poems; any girl running through -Mrs. Waring’s orchard and snatching at the -apples would have done just as well?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>“Oh, I shouldn’t say that,” he replied, unabashed; -“but even the poorest worm of a -scribbler has to have an ideal and you supplied -mine. You were like a model who strolls along -just when it occurs to the painter that his landscape -needs a figure to set it off. You don’t -mind, I hope?”</p> - -<p>This made it necessary for her to assure him -in as few words as possible that she didn’t in -the least object to his view of the matter; and -she added, not without a trace of irony, that -she was always glad to be of use; that if she -could further the cause of art in any way she -was ready to do it.</p> - -<p>“Please don’t; that hurt a little! By the -way, the Poet told me I ought to know you. -He recommended you in the noblest terms. I -see now what was in his mind; he thought -I needed your gentle chastening.”</p> - -<p>“It’s more likely he thought it well for you -to see your ideal shattered! It’s too bad, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -the sake of your ambitions, that I didn’t remain -just an unknown girl in an orchard—who -suggested Pomona inspecting her crops -and then vanished forever.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I had to know you; it was inevitable,” -he replied with irritating resignation. “You -see I’ve written about you in prose, too; you’ve -been immensely provocative and stimulating. -My best prose, as well as my only decent jingles, -has had you for a subject. I laid myself -out to describe you at the tennis tournament -last fall. Next to watching you run through -an orchard trippingly, like one of Swinburne’s -long lines, I like you best when you show your -snappy stroke with the racket and make a -champion look well to her knitting.”</p> - -<p>She turned crimson at this, remembering -very well the “Chronicle’s” report of the tennis -match, which she had cut out and still treasured -in her portfolio. Clearly, her obligations to this -impudent young man were increasing rapidly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>Marjorie, seized with an ambition to add -a new tower to the chteau, opportunely demanded -their assistance. The architectural -integrity of the chteau was in jeopardy and -the proposed changes called for much debate -by the elders. This consumed considerable -time, and after the new tower was finished by -their joint labors they set Marjorie to work -constructing a moat which Fulton declared to -be essential.</p> - -<p>He got on famously with Marjorie; and this -scored heavily in his favor with Marian. His -way with the child was informed with the -nicest tact and understanding; he entered into -the spirit of the chteau-building with just the -earnestness that her young imagination demanded. -He promised to take her canoeing to -a place where he thought there might be fairies, -though he would not go the length of saying -that he had seen them, to be sure, for when people -saw fairies they must never tell any one;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -it wouldn’t be kind to the fairies, who got into -the most dreadful predicaments when human -folk talked about them. Marjorie listened -big-eyed, while he held her sandy little fingers. -Yes; there was something pleasing in this -young man, who described tennis matches for -the sporting page of a newspaper or wrote -verses or spoke of religion or fairies all as part -of the day’s work.</p> - -<p>“The Poet will think I’ve fallen into the -lake,” he remarked presently. “The ride to -Mrs. Waring’s dock was a great concession on -his part and he expressed misgivings as to allowing -me to paddle him back to the inn. He’s -waiting at this moment on Mrs. Waring’s -veranda, hoping that I won’t show up with the -canoe so he can take passage on the steamer -and reduce the hazards of the journey. The -height of the sun proclaims the luncheon hour, -and Marjorie must be hungry. Won’t you -honor my humble argosy!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>Marian could think of no good reason for declining -this invitation, particularly after Marjorie -had chirruped an immediate and grateful -acceptance. Moreover, Mr. Fulton had -made himself so agreeable and had contributed -so many elements to the morning’s pleasure, -that it was not in her heart to be rude to -him.</p> - -<p>They embarked after a promise had been -exacted by Marjorie that “ums” should all -meet again on the morrow, to perfect the moat -and build a drawbridge.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad to have an excuse for staying,” -Fulton declared, “and I hope I’m not the man -to go off and leave a noble shotum without the -finishing touches. We shall meet frequently, -maid Marjorie. In fact”—he lifted the paddle -and let it drip with a pleasant tinkle into the -calm water, while he half-turned toward -Marian—“I don’t believe I’ll ever go back -to ‘the heat and dust and noise of trades.’ As<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> -old Walt says, in effect, the earth, that is sufficient; -so why not stay close to it?”</p> - -<p>“Ums splashed water on me!” protested -Marjorie.</p> - -<p>“A thousand pardons, my young realist!”</p> - -<p>“The Poet and Elizabeth are waving to us -from the landing,” remarked Marian. “Perhaps -you’d better save the rest of the peroration -until to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“No unkinder word was ever spoken!” cried -Fulton cheerfully, and swept the light craft -forward with long, splashless strokes.</p> - - - -<h3>VI</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">“It’s</span> beautifully kind of you to want to -help; but you see how impossible it is!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like that word,” replied the Poet -patiently. “Most things are possible that we -really want to do.”</p> - -<p>For two hours that morning Mrs. Redfield -and he had talked of her troubles, first with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -reluctance, a wariness on both sides that -yielded gradually to the warmth of his kindness. -However, on the whole, the Poet found -her easier to talk to than her husband had been. -She understood, as Redfield had not, that his -appearance in the matter was not merely the -assertion of a right inhering in an old friendship, -but that it was dictated by something larger,—a -resentment of an apostasy touching -intimately his own good faith as a public -teacher. This attitude had not only its poignancy -for her, but it broadened the horizon -against which she had been contemplating the -broken and distorted structure that had been -her life.</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” she said bravely, “that we -oughtn’t to ask so much! We ought to be prepared -for calamity; then we shouldn’t break -under it when the blow falls. When I saw other -people in just such troubles I used to think, -‘There’s something that will never come to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -me’: I suppose Miles is right in saying that I -have no ambition, that I had become merely a -drag on him. And I can see his side of it; there -wasn’t much ahead of him but standing behind -a bank counter to the end of his days. -The novels are full of the conflicts between the -man who wants to rise and the woman without -wings. It’s my misfortune to be one of the -wingless ones.”</p> - -<p>She was less bitter than he expected; and he -took courage from this fact. He had hoped to -avoid any minute dissection of the situation; -but she had given him a pretty full account of -the whole affair, and he was both dismayed and -relieved to find how trivial the details of the -dissension proved. She had wept—beyond -doubt there had been tears—and Miles on his -side had exhausted persuasion before her obstinacy -kindled his wrath. The crux had come -with his demand that she should do her part -toward cultivating acquaintances that he believed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> -to be essential to the success of his new -undertaking. She had never known such people, -she assured the Poet, feeling that he knew -she never had and would sympathize with her -position. Miles had no right to ask her to -countenance them, and all that.</p> - -<p>The Poet preferred to be amused by this. -The obnoxious persons were strangers to him; -he had merely heard of them; he admitted -that he would never deliberately have chosen -them for intimate companionship. And yet it -was not so egregious a thing to sit at the same -table for an hour with a man and woman one -wouldn’t care to meet daily.</p> - -<p>“If there weren’t such people as the Farnams -in the world we’d never know how to -appreciate our own kind of folks,” remarked -the Poet. “And that fellow can’t be so bad. I -heard only recently of an instance of his generosity—he -made a very handsome subscription -to the new children’s hospital. Men of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -stamp frequently grow emotional when they’re -touched on the right chord.”</p> - -<p>“But you wouldn’t have Miles—the Miles -you used to know—become like that, or get -down on his knees to such people in the hope -of getting some of their money!”</p> - -<p>The Poet chuckled.</p> - -<p>“If Miles can pry that particular man loose -from any of his money I’d say it proved that -Miles was right and you were wrong! Farnam -doesn’t carry his philanthropy into his business -affairs. He’s quite capable of eating your -lobster to-night and to-morrow morning exacting -the last ounce of flesh from the man who -paid for it. It’s possible that Miles will pay -dearly for his daring; I understand that this -new business is beset with pitfalls.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I want him to succeed! He’s free now -to do as he likes and I hope he will prosper. -At any rate, Marjorie and I are not dragging -him down!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>Angry tears came with this; the Poet looked -away to the green-fringed shores. When she -was calm again he thought it wise to drop the -matter for the present. At least it was best to -withdraw to safe ground, from which it might, -however, be possible to approach the citadel -obliquely.</p> - -<p>“Marian,” he remarked, “is a charming -girl.”</p> - -<p>She seconded his praise of her sister ardently, -saying that Marian had been splendid -throughout her troubles.</p> - -<p>“She sees everything so clearly; I don’t -know what I should have done without her.”</p> - -<p>“She sees things your way, then,” he ventured -quietly. “I’m a little afraid we always -prefer counselors who tell us we’re doing -the right thing.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, she reasons things out wonderfully. -I hope she will profit by my troubles! Fortunately -we’re unlike; she’s much more practical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -than I am. She has a wider outlook; I think her -college training shows there.”</p> - -<p>“We must see to it that she doesn’t make -mistakes,” said the Poet, his thoughts reverting -to his efforts to place some new ideals where -Marian might contemplate them without suspecting -that he was responsible for putting -them in her way. The humorous aspects of his -intervention—and particularly his employment -of the unconscious Fulton as a missionary—caused -him to smile—a smile which Mrs. -Redfield detected but failed to understand.</p> - -<p>“I can never look on marriage again as I -used to,” she ventured. “Most of the good -things of life have been spoiled for me.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t agree to that: you are less than -thirty, which isn’t the age at which we can -afford to haul down the flag. If I’d subsided -at thirty,—had concluded that the world -would never listen to my little tin horn,—I -should have missed most of the joy of life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -And Marian at twenty-two mustn’t be allowed -to say that the world at best is a dreary -place. She mustn’t be allowed to form foolish -opinions of life and destiny and call to -the stage-hands to drop the curtain the first -time some actor misses his cue. And do you -know,” he continued with the humor glinting -through his glasses, “that girl had the bad -manners to tell me to my face only a few days -ago that there was no substance to all our poetizing—that -the romance had been trampled -out of life! To think of that—at twenty-two -<i>or</i> thirty!”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Redfield, a little defiantly, -“you must remember that <i>I’ve</i> tried poetry -and romance.”</p> - -<p>It was clear from her tone that she thought -this scored heavily on her side, and offset any -blame that might attach to her in his mind. -She was surprised by the quickness with which -he retorted.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>“Ah, but have you!”</p> - -<p>This was rather discouraging when she had -been at such pains to tell him the truth; when -she had bared her soul to him. She felt that it -was unchivalrous for him to question her fairness -when she had been so frank.</p> - -<p>“You can hardly say,” he went on, “that -you made much of a trial of romance when you -dropped it at the first sign of trouble. Please -don’t misunderstand me. That letter you -wrote me during your honeymoon from this -very house was in a sense the declaration of a -faith. You meant to live by it always; and if no -troubles had ever come it would have been perfectly -satisfactory—no doubts, no questions! -You were like a mariner who doesn’t question -his charts when the sea is calm; but who begins -to doubt them when he hears the breakers -roaring on hidden reefs. Ideals are no good if -we haven’t a tolerably strong faith in them. -I’m going to tell you something that may surprise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> -you. You and Miles have been an ideal of -mine. Not only was your house with its pretty -garden and the hollyhocks a refuge, but it was -one of my chief inspirations. A good many -of the best things I’ve written came out of -that little establishment. I was astonished the -other day, in looking over my work of the past -half-dozen years, to find how much of you and -Miles there is in it. And now I feel that I ought -to modify those things—stick in footnotes to -say that the ideal home—the ideal of happiness -I had derived from you—was all a fraud. -Just think how that would look: an asterisk -tacked to the end of every stanza, leading the -eye down to an admission that my statements -were not true, only poetry, romance, a flimsy -invention which no one need be deceived -by!”</p> - -<p>“I hope,” she said despairingly, “that I -haven’t lost everything! I’ve got to hold on -to something for Marjorie’s sake!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>“But Miles,” he persisted, “what about -him!”</p> - -<p>“That isn’t kind or fair,” she replied, at the -point of tears again. “If I’ve lost my ideals he’s -responsible! He’s thrown away all of his own!”</p> - -<p>“No, not quite! If he had he wouldn’t have -been angry at me when I went to him to discuss -these matters!”</p> - -<p>“So you’ve talked to him! Then, of course, -you came to me prejudiced in his favor! I don’t -call that being fair. And if he asked you to talk -to me—”</p> - -<p>Her eyes flashed indignantly.</p> - -<p>“It’s rather funny that both of you should -be so afraid of that. Nothing is further from -the truth!”</p> - -<p>“I know you mean to be kind, and I know it -wasn’t easy for you to come to me. But you -can see that matters have gone too far—after -the heartache and the gossip—”</p> - -<p>“The heartache is deplorable, and the gossip<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -isn’t agreeable,” he assented readily. “We -mustn’t let the chatter of the neighbors worry -us. Think how a reconciliation would dull the -knives of the expectant cynics and hearten the -good people—and they are the majority, after -all—who want to see the gospel of happiness -and love rule this good old world. As for things -having gone too far, nothing’s been done, no -irrevocable step taken—”</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand, then,—” and there -was a note of triumph in this,—“I’ve brought -a suit; it will be determined in October.”</p> - -<p>“October,” replied the Poet, with his provoking -irrelevance, “is a month of delight, -‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.’ The -warmth of summer still hovering; the last -flowers challenging the frost to do its worst; -plans for the indoor life of winter—the fire, -cozy talks that aren’t possible anywhere but -at the hearthside; the friendly lamp and the -neglected book calling us back. I don’t think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> -you and Miles are going to have a very -happy winter of it under different roofs. I’m -sure I’ll miss the thought of you, running upstairs -on tiptoe when you thought you heard -Marjorie. Miles was always reading Kipling -aloud and we’d forget ourselves and laugh till -you’d hush us and run away in a panic. You -know,” he continued, “your cottage wasn’t -only a place for you to live in; it was my house -of dreams—a house of realities that were -dreams come true. I’ve sat by the table many -a time when you didn’t know I was there—an -intruder stealing in, a cheerful sort of ghost, -sensible of an unspoken welcome. Odd, isn’t -it, about the spirit of place? Not a great many -places really take hold of most of us; but they -have a way of haunting us; or maybe it’s the -other way round and we haunt <i>them</i>, and without -knowing how we get into them. We explore -strange frontiers into undiscovered countries; -we cross from our own existences into other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -people’s lives,—lose identity, feel, see as other -people do,—and then lift our heads, rub our -eyes, and become our old selves again—but -not quite. We are likely to be wiser and more -just and tolerant. And it’s discouraging,” he -went on, “to go to your house of dreams and -find it plastered with ‘for rent’ and ‘for sale’ -signs—or worse yet, to let yourself in with -your old key to find only ghosts there! That’s -what I’ve been doing. Your bungalow is empty—doubly -empty—for the last tenant didn’t -stay long; the ghosts were probably too much -for him! But I’m there—in spirit, you might -say. If the owner knew how much I loaf -there, in a disembodied sort of fashion, he’d -begin to charge me rent! But it’s mighty lonesome—nobody -around to dig out old songs -and play the airs for me, as you used to, while -I limped along with Miles’s old banjo.”</p> - -<p>He spoke with a certain air of injury, as -though after all he were the chief sufferer from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -the passing of the old familiar faces from his -house of dreams. He complained as a guest -might who suddenly finds that his hosts have -taken their departure without warning, leaving -him sitting at their fireside all unconscious -of their flight.</p> - -<p>Elizabeth was surprised to find that his interposition -in this fashion impressed her more -than the counsels of other friends who, supporting -her cause loyally, urged her to maintain -her “stand” and recommended sharp reprisals. -She had not recovered from her amazement that -this shyest and most unobtrusive of men should -have come to her in any guise; and when he -spoke of his house of dreams—<i>her</i> house with -its old-fashioned garden that contained the -flowers he scattered oftenest through his poems—she -was half-persuaded that he was really a -sad, wistful visitor of this house of dreams—<i>her</i> -house—that symbolized for him contentment -and peace.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>His way of stating the case touched her -deeply, and seeing this he rose and walked -to the veranda rail and scanned the limpid -water.</p> - -<p>“That looks like the boy I sent to do my -fishing for me,” he remarked. “He’s bringing -Marian and Marjorie home. A pretty capable -boy, that! What do you think of a youngster -who pops up out of nowhere and chucks -bunches of verses into mail-boxes on crowded -corners where any one with any sort of ear, -passing along, would hear them singing inside! -Let’s go down and meet them.”</p> - -<p>On their way to the dock the Poet continued -to talk of the young man in the canoe as though -he were a great personage. His extravagant -praise of Frederick Fulton justified any one in -believing that either Shelley or Keats had -stolen away from Paradise and was engaged -just now in paddling a canoe upon Lake Waupegan. -The Poet had risen from the long interview<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -with apparent satisfaction and was now -his more familiar amusing self.</p> - -<p>“How on earth did Marian get acquainted -with this young man?” asked Mrs. Redfield in -perplexity, as Fulton skillfully maneuvered -the canoe inshore.</p> - -<p>“Why assume that I know anything about -it? Marian doubtless knows scores of people -that I never heard of; she’s not an old friend -like you. I dare say he saw her wandering -alone on the shore and at once landed and -handed her a poem as though it were the advertisement -of a ventriloquist billed for one night -at Waupegan Town Hall! Very likely, being a -girl of discriminating literary taste, she liked -his verses and bade him welcome. And what -could be more natural than that he should -offer to bring her home! The longer I live the -more I wonder that people meet who were always -destined to meet. We think we’re yielding -to chance when we’re really doing things<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -we’ve been rehearsing in our subconsciousness -for a thousand years!”</p> - -<p>When the party landed he parleyed with -Marjorie to make it necessary for Marian to -introduce Fulton to Elizabeth. He avoided -Marian’s eyes, and warily eluded the combined -efforts of the sisters to detain him. The obvious -result of his artfulness, so far as Marian and -Fulton were concerned, was eminently satisfactory. -The most delightful comradeship -seemed to have been established between the -young people. The Poet was highly pleased -with his morning’s work, but having dared so -much he was anxious to retire while the spell of -mystification was still upon them. Luncheon -was offered; Mrs. Waring would soon be home -and would be inconsolable if she found they had -come in her absence.</p> - -<p>“We are very busy—fishing,” said the Poet -as he entrusted himself with exaggerated apprehensions -to the canoe. “When you have a boy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -fishing for you you have to watch him. He’ll -hide half the fish if you’re not careful.”</p> - -<p>“You absurd man!” cried Marian, with an -accession of boldness, as Fulton swung the -canoe round with sophisticated strokes.</p> - -<p>“Ims a cwazy man,” piped Marjorie; “but -ims nice!”</p> - - -<h3>VII</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Poet was amusing himself the next -afternoon with a book of Scotch ballads when -Fulton found him, with his back against a big -beech, apparently established for all time. The -young man didn’t know that the Poet was -rather expecting him—not anxiously or nervously, -in the way of people unconsoled by a -sound philosophy; but the Poet had nevertheless -found in the ballads some hint that possibly -Frederick Fulton would appear.</p> - -<p>Fulton carried a tennis racket and an old -geography with the leaves torn out which -served him as a portfolio. These encumbrances<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -seemed in nowise related to each other, a fact -which called for a gibe.</p> - -<p>“I telephoned down to the office last night -and arranged to take my vacation now,” Fulton -explained. “In two weeks I can do some -new poems to relieve the prose of my story -and round it out. The lake’s my scene, you -know; I planned it all last September—and -a lot of things will occur to me here that I’d -never get hold of in town.”</p> - -<p>“There’s something in that,” the Poet -agreed; “and by putting aside the pen for the -racket occasionally you can observe Marian in -her golden sandals at short range. And then,” -he deliberated, “if she doesn’t prove to be -quite up to the mark; if you find that she -isn’t as enchanting as you imagined when you -admired her at a distance, you can substitute -another girl. There are always plenty of girls.”</p> - -<p>Fulton met the Poet’s eyes squarely and -grinned.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>“So far my only trouble is my own general -incompetence. The scenery and the girl are -all right. By the way, you got me into a nice -box showing her my verses! I suffered, I can -tell you, when I followed your advice and paddled -up in my little canoe and found her with -those things!”</p> - -<p>The Poet discounted his indignation heavily, -as Fulton clearly meant that he should.</p> - -<p>“Formal introductions bore me, and in your -case I thought we’d do something a little different. -From the fact that you’re going off now -with your scribble-book and racket to find her -I judge that my way of bringing you to each -other’s attention has been highly successful. -Pray don’t let me detain you!” he ended with -faint irony.</p> - -<p>“I wanted to tell you,” said Fulton, “that -I’ve decided not to accept Redfield’s offer; -I’ve just written to him.”</p> - -<p>The Poet expressed no surprise. He merely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -nodded and began searching for a knot in the -cord attached to his eye-glasses.</p> - -<p>“We can usually trust June with our confidences -and rely on her judgments,” he remarked -pensively. “January is first-rate, too; -February and March are tricky and unreliable. -April, on the other hand, is much safer than she -gets credit for being. But it was lucky that we -thought of June as an arbiter in your case. If -we would all get out under a June sky like this -with our troubles we’d be a good deal happier. -It was a bad day for the human race when it -moved indoors.”</p> - -<p>The Poet, absorbed in the passage of a launch -across the lake, had not applauded Fulton’s -determination not to ally himself with Redfield, -as the young man had expected. Fulton -felt that the subject required something more.</p> - -<p>“I mean to stick to the newspaper and use -every minute I have outside for study and writing,” -he persisted earnestly. “I’ve decided<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -to keep trying for five years, whether I ever -make a killing or not.”</p> - -<p>“That’s good,” said the Poet heartily. “I’m -glad you’ve concluded to do that. Your determination -carries you halfway to the goal; and -I’m glad you see it that way. I didn’t want to -influence you about Redfield; but I wanted you -to take time to think.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m sure I should always have regretted -it, if I’d gone with him. And now that -I’ve met Mrs. Redfield, I’m fully convinced -that I’m making no mistake. It doesn’t seem -possible—”</p> - -<p>He checked himself, and waited for a sign -from the Poet before concluding. The Poet -drew out and replaced in the ballads the slim -ivory paper-cutter he used as a bookmark.</p> - -<p>“No, it doesn’t seem possible,” he replied -quietly. “It was just as well for you to see her -before making up your mind about going in -with Redfield.” (His own part in making it possible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -for Fulton to meet Mrs. Redfield at this -juncture was not, he satisfied his conscience, a -matter for confession!) “Of course their affairs -will straighten out—not because you or I -may want them to, but because they really -need each other; or if they don’t know it now -they will. I’m inclined to think Marian will -help a little. Even you and I may be inconspicuous -figures in the drama—just walking on and -off, saying a word here and there! None of us -lives all to himself. All of us who write must -keep that in mind;—our responsibility. When -I was a schoolboy I found a misspelled word in -a book I was reading and I kept misspelling -that word for twenty years. We must be careful -what we put into print; we never can tell who’s -going to be influenced by what we write. Don’t -let anybody fool you into thinking that the -virile book has to be a nasty one. There’s too -much of that sort of thing. They talk about -warning the innocent; but there’s not much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -sense in handing a child the hot end of a poker -just to make it dread the fire. There are writers -who seem to find a great joy in making mankind -out as bad as possible, and that doesn’t -help particularly, does it? It doesn’t help you -or me any to find that some man we have -known and admired has landed with a bump -at the bottom of the toboggan. But,” he -ended, “when we hear the bump it’s our job -to get the arnica bottle and see what we can -do for him. By the way, I’m leaving this -afternoon.”</p> - -<p>“Not going—not to-day!” cried Fulton -with unfeigned surprise and disappointment.</p> - -<p>“As I never had the slightest intention of -coming, it’s time I was moving along. And -besides, I’ve accomplished all the objects of -my visit. If I remained any longer I might -make a muddle of them. I’m a believer in -the inevitable hour and the inevitable word. -‘Skip’ was the first word that popped into my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -head when I woke up this morning. At first I -thought Providence was kindly indicating the -passing of a prancing buccaneer who began -pounding carpets under my window at 5 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span>; -but that was too good to be true. I decided that -it was in the stars that I should be the skipper. -Unless the innkeeper is an exalted liar my -train leaves at four, and I shall be occupied -with balladry until the hour arrives. We must -cultivate repose and guard against fretfulness. -There’s no use in trying to hasten the inevitable -hour by moving the dial closer to the sun. -If you’re not too busy you might bring Marjorie -and Marian over to see me off. It would -be a pleasant attention; and besides, I should -be much less likely to miss the train.”</p> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Redfield,</span> Marian, and Marjorie were -back in town by the first of July. The sisters -had taken a small house on a convenient side<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -street and were facing their to-morrows confidently. -Mrs. Redfield was to open a kindergarten -in October and Marian was to teach -Latin in a private school. Fulton still clung -to the manuscript of his romance for the revision -it constantly invited. Since returning to -town he had seen the Poet frequently, and had -kept that gentleman informed of the movements -and plans of Mrs. Redfield and Marian.</p> - -<p>The Poet wandered into the “Chronicle” -office one humid afternoon and found the -reporter writing an interview with a visiting -statesman. On days when every one else complained -bitterly of the heat, the Poet was -apparently the coolest person in town.</p> - -<p>“I hope you have enough raisins in your -pudding to spare a few,” he remarked. And -then, as Fulton groped for his meaning, he drew -an envelope from his pocket. “I took the liberty -of purloining a few of those things you -gave me a month ago before I passed them on to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -Marian and here’s the ‘Manhattan Magazine’ -kindly inclosing a check for fifty dollars for -four of them. I suggested to the editor that -they ought to be kept together and printed on -one page. If you don’t like the arrangement, -you can send back the check. I’d suggest, -though, that you exchange it for gold and carry -the coins in your pocket for a day or two. The -thrill of the first real money you get for poetry -comes only once. Of course, if you’re not satisfied -and want to send it back—”</p> - -<p>He feigned to ignore the surprise and delight -with which the young man stared at the slip -of paper in his hand while he tried to grasp this -astonishing news.</p> - -<p>“Send it back!” he blurted, breaking in upon -the Poet’s further comments on the joy of a -first acceptance. “Send it back! Why, they’ve -sent me back dozens of better pieces! And if it -hadn’t been for you—Why,” he cried, with -mounting elation, “this is the grandest thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -that ever happened to me! If I wasn’t afraid -of getting arrested I’d yell!”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” continued the Poet calmly, “I -had to tell the magazine people that you made -your sketches from life—and that they might -get into a libel suit by printing them. I suppose -you’re hardly in a position to ask Miss Agnew’s -leave to print! You haven’t been seeing much -of her, of course!”</p> - -<p>An imaginary speck of mud on his umbrella -engaged the Poet’s attention at the moment so -that he missed the color that deepened in Fulton’s -face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve seen a good deal of Miss Agnew,” -he confessed, “both at the lake and since I’ve -come home. We do some tennis together every -afternoon I can get off. I suppose there might -be some question as to using the poems without -asking her about it. Very likely no one -would ever guess that she inspired them—and -yet I have a guilty feeling—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>“You know, of course; and she, being, we -will say, a person of average intelligence, -knows, too, perfectly well. There you have it—a -very delicate question! And the fact that -she doesn’t care for such foolishness as poetry -and romance makes a difference. You’ve got -to consider that.”</p> - -<p>His insinuations had been of the mildest, but -his keen scrutiny marked the flash of resentment -in Fulton’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Well, she was very nice about my putting -her into the story. It did rather stagger her at -first—to know that I had been worshiping -from afar, and grinding rhymes about her for -a year without ever knowing her.”</p> - -<p>“The enchantment wasn’t all a matter of -distance, I hope,” the Poet persisted. “I wasn’t -quite sure about her. She struck me as being -a little bitter; seemed to think life a string of -wrong numbers and the girl at the exchange -stupid and cross. I should be sorry if you got<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -any such notions from her; it couldn’t fail -to make your ideal totter on its pedestal. It -would be rough to find that your Pomona, in -shaking the boughs in the orchard, was looking -for an apple with a worm-mark in its damask -cheek. It would argue for an unhappy nature. -We must insist that our goddesses have a -cheerful outlook; no grumbling when it rains -on the picnic!”</p> - -<p>“Well,” Fulton admitted, “she did seem a -little disdainful and rather generally skeptical -about things at first; but I met that by rather -overemphasizing the general good that’s lying -around everywhere, most of which I got from -your books. Her father had lost his money, -and her sister’s troubles couldn’t fail to spoil -some of her illusions; but she’s going into her -school-teaching with the right spirit. She’s -been reading the manuscript of my story and -has made some bully suggestions. I’ve rewritten -one of the chapters and improved it vastly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -because she pointed out a place where I’d -changed the key a little—I must have been -tired when I wrote it. I’d rather got off the -romantic note I started with and there were -a dozen dead, pallid pages right in the middle -of the thing.”</p> - -<p>“She was afraid the romantic element flagged -there?” asked the Poet carelessly.</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose that’s about what it came -to. My heroine and the hero had a tiff; and I -was giving the girl the best of it and making -<i>him</i> out unreasonable; and she said she thought -that wasn’t fair; that the trouble was all the -girl’s fault. She thought the girl shouldn’t -have been so peevish over a small matter when -the young orchardist had shown himself chivalrous -and generous. It seemed to be Miss -Agnew’s idea that when you go in for romance -you ought to carry through with it.”</p> - -<p>The Poet’s attention seemed to wander, and -he suppressed a smile with difficulty. He then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -began searching his pockets for something, -and not finding it, remarked:—</p> - -<p>“People who never change their minds aren’t -interesting; they really are not.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m glad enough to change mine,” -replied Fulton, not knowing what was in the -Poet’s mind; “and I hope I’ll never get to a -place where I can’t take criticism in the right -spirit.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of you,” remarked -the Poet.</p> - -<p>He rose and moved quickly toward the door, -as though to escape from Fulton’s renewed -thanks for his kind offices in disposing of the -verses.</p> - -<p>“Don’t work yourself to death,” he warned -Fulton in the hall. “I’m glad Marian’s influence -is so beneficent. When your proof comes, -hold it a day or two: there’s always the chance -of bettering a thing.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> - -<h3>IX</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">As</span> September waned, Fulton heard disquieting -news touching Redfield. It was whispered -in business circles that the broker had, the previous -year, sold stock in a local industrial venture -that had already come to grief. Redfield’s -friends were saying that he had been misled by -the enthusiasm of the men who had promoted -the company, but this was not accepted at face -value by some of his business rivals. Fortunately -the amount was not large—a mitigating -circumstance for which he was not responsible; -he would have sold more, it was said, -if investors had proved less wary. The story -was well calculated to injure if it didn’t at -once destroy Redfield’s chances of success -as a dealer in securities.</p> - -<p>Fulton was a good deal disturbed by these -reports, which it became his duty to sift for the -“Chronicle.” Fulton liked Redfield; Redfield -was a likable person, a good fellow. The effect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -upon his future of this misfortune, attributable -to his new-born zeal for money-making, was not -to be passed lightly. There was nothing for the -papers to print, as the complaining purchasers -had been made whole and were anxious to -avoid publicity. Fulton had watched matters -carefully with a view to protecting Redfield -if it became necessary, and he was confident -that the sanguine promoters were the real culprits, -though it was pretty clear that any scruples -the broker might have had had gone down -before the promise of a generous commission.</p> - -<p>When quite satisfied that Redfield was safe -so far as prosecution was concerned, Fulton -spoke of Redfield’s difficulties to the Poet on an -evening when he called ostensibly to report the -completion of his romance. The Poet listened -attentively, but the reporter accepted his mild -expressions of regret as indicating indifference -to Redfield’s fate. The young man’s remark -that if it hadn’t been for the Poet he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -have shared Redfield’s collapse elicited no comment. -The Poet, imaginably preoccupied with -less disagreeable speculations, turned at once -to Fulton’s manuscript. After the final draft -had been discussed and publishers had been -considered, the young man left in the cheerful -mood he always carried away from his talks -with the Poet.</p> - -<p>But the Poet spent a restless evening. He -listlessly turned over many books without finding -any to arrest his interest. He was troubled, -deeply troubled, by what Fulton had told him -of Redfield. And he was wandering whether -there might not be some way of turning his old -friend’s humiliation to good account. A man -of Redfield’s character and training would feel -disgrace keenly; and coming at a time when he -believed himself well launched toward success, -the shock to his pride would be all the greater.</p> - -<p>Nothing in the Poet’s creed was more -brightly rubricated than his oft-repeated declarations<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -that the unfortunate, the erring, -the humbled, are entitled to mercy and kindness. -The Redfields’ plight had roused him -to a defense of his theory of life; but Fulton’s -story had added a new integer that greatly increased -the difficulty of solving this problem. -Seemingly Fate was using these old friends to -provide illustrations for many of the dicta that -were the foundation of his teachings. Inspiration -did not visit the quiet street that night. -The Poet pondered old poems rather than -new ones. “Life is a game the soul can play,” -he found in Sill; but the chessmen, he reflected, -are sometimes bafflingly obstinate and unreasonable.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow is All-Children’s Day,” remarked -the Poet a few days later when, seemingly -by chance, he met Fulton in the street; -and when the young man asked for light the -Poet went on to explain. “When Marjorie was -born her father and I set apart her birthday to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -be All-Children’s Day—a crystallization of -all children’s birthdays, from the beginning of -time, and we meant to celebrate it to the end -of our days. It just occurs to me that you and -I might make it an excuse for calling on Mrs. -Redfield and Marian and Marjorie to-morrow -afternoon, the same being Sunday. Very likely -you have another engagement—” he ended, -with provoking implications that caused Fulton, -who was already pledged to visit Marjorie -and inferentially Marian and Mrs. Redfield -on this very Sunday afternoon, to stammer in -the most incriminating fashion.</p> - -<p>“Then if you haven’t anything better to -do we can call together,” said the Poet.</p> - -<p>It would have been clear to less observant -eyes than the Poet’s that the reporter was on -excellent terms with the household, and even -if the elders had tried to mask the cordiality of -their welcome, Marjorie’s delight in Fulton was -too manifest for concealment. She transparently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -disclosed the existence of much unfinished -business between herself and the young man -that pointed irrefutably to many previous and -recent interviews.</p> - -<p>“Inside is no good for houses,” Marjorie was -saying, as the Poet accommodated himself -to the friendly atmosphere; “nobody builds -houses inside of houses.”</p> - -<p>This suggestion of the open was promptly -supported by Fulton; and in the most natural -manner imaginable Marian was pressed into -service to assist in transferring building-materials -to the few square yards of lawn at the side -of the house. September was putting forth all -her pomp and the air was of summer warmth. -Marjorie’s merry treble floated in with the -laughter of Marian and Fulton. They were -engaged with utmost seriousness in endeavoring -to reproduce with blocks the elaborate chteau -of sand, sticks, and stones that had been -their rallying-point on the shores of Waupegan.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>The Poet, left alone with Mrs. Redfield, -noted the presence in the tiny parlor of some -of the lares and penates that had furnished -forth the suburban bungalow and that had -survived the transfer to the flat and the subsequent -disaster. They seemed curiously wistful -in these new surroundings. As though aware -that this was in his mind, Mrs. Redfield began -speaking of matters as far removed from her -own affairs as possible. The Poet understood, -and, when the topics she suggested gave opportunity, -played upon them whimsically. The -trio in the yard were evidently having the best -of times; and their happiness stirred various -undercurrents of thought in the Poet’s mind. -He was not quite sure of his ground. It was -one thing to urge charity, mercy, and tolerance -in cloistral security; to put one’s self forward -as the protagonist of any of these virtues was -quite another.</p> - -<p>The Poet rose, picked up a magazine from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -the center table, scanned the table of contents, -and then said, very quietly,—</p> - -<p>“Miles is in trouble.”</p> - -<p>He watched her keenly for the effect of this, -and then proceeded quickly:—</p> - -<p>“It’s fortunate that the jar came so soon; -a few years later and it mightn’t have been -possible for him to recover; but I think there’s -hope for him.”</p> - -<p>“What Miles does or what he becomes is -of no interest to me,” she answered sharply. -“He didn’t feel that there was any disgrace to -him in casting Marjorie and me aside; his -pride’s not likely to suffer from anything else -that may happen to him.”</p> - -<p>“He’s down and out; there’s no possibility -of his going on with the brokerage business; -he’s got to make a new start. It’s to be said -for him that he has made good the losses of -the people who charged him with unfair dealing. -I’m disposed to think he was carried away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -by his enthusiasm; he was trying to get on -too fast.”</p> - -<p>In spite of her flash of anger at the mention -of her husband’s name, it was clear that her -curiosity had been aroused. Nor was the Poet -dismayed by a light in her dark eyes which he -interpreted as expressing a sense of triumph -and vindication.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he’s satisfied now,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I fancy his state of mind isn’t enviable,” -the Poet replied evenly. “Life, when you come -to think of it, is a good deal like writing a sonnet. -You start off bravely with your rhyme words -scrawled at the top of the page. Four lines -may come easily enough; but the words you -have counted on to carry you through lead -into all manner of complications. You are -betrayed into saying the reverse of the thing -you started out to say. You begin with spring -and after you’ve got the birds to singing, the -powers of mischief turn the seasons upside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -down, and before you know it the autumn -leaves are falling; it’s extremely discouraging! -If we could only stick to the text—”</p> - -<p>His gesture transferred the illustration from -the field of literary composition to the ampler -domain of life.</p> - -<p>She smiled at his feigned helplessness to pursue -his argument further.</p> - -<p>“But when the rhyme words won’t carry -sense, and you have to throw the whole thing -overboard—” she ventured.</p> - -<p>“No, oh, no! That’s the joy of rhyming—its -endless fascination! The discreet and economical -poet never throws away even a single -line; there’s always a chance that it may be -of use.” He was feeling his way back to his -illustration of life from the embarrassments -of sonneteering, and smiled as his whimsical -fancy caught at a clue. “If you don’t forget -the text,—if you’re quite sure you have an -idea,—or an ideal!—then it’s profitable to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -keep fussing away at it. If a bad line offend -you, pluck it out; or maybe a line gets into the -wrong place and has to be moved around until -it fits. It’s all a good deal like the work Marjorie’s -doing outside—fitting blocks together -that have to go in a certain way or the whole -structure will tumble. It’s the height of cowardice -to give up and persuade yourself that you’ve -exhausted the subject in a quatrain. The good -craftsman will follow the pattern—perfect his -work, make it express the best in himself!”</p> - -<p>And this referred to the estrangement of -Miles Redfield and his wife or not; just as -one might please to take it.</p> - -<p>“Miles has gone away, I suppose,” she remarked -listlessly.</p> - -<p>This made the situation quite concrete again, -and any expression of interest, no matter how -indifferent, would have caused the Poet’s heart -to bound; but his face did not betray him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he will be back shortly, I understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -I rather think he will show himself a man and -pull his sonnet together again! There’s a fine -courage in Miles; unless I’ve mistaken him, he -won’t sit down and cry, even if he has made a -pretty bad blunder. A man hardly ever loses -all his friends; there’s always somebody around -who will hand a tract in at the jail door!”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean,” she exclaimed, “that -Miles has come to that!”</p> - -<p>“Bless me, no!” the Poet cried, with another -heart throb. “The worst is over now; I’m -quite satisfied of that!” he answered with an -ease that conveyed nothing of the pains he -had taken, by ways devious and concealed, to -assure himself that Miles had made complete -restitution.</p> - -<p>“A man of cheaper metal might have taken -chances with the law; I’m confident that Miles -was less the culprit than the victim. He sold -something that wasn’t good, on the strength of -statements he wasn’t responsible for. I believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -that to be honestly true, and I got it through -men who have no interest in him, who might -be expected to chortle over his misfortune.”</p> - -<p>“In business matters,” she replied, with an -emphasis that was eloquent of reservations as -to other fields, “Miles was always perfectly -honorable. I don’t believe anybody would -question that.”</p> - -<p>It hadn’t entered into the Poet’s most -sanguine speculations that she would defend -Miles, or speak even remotely in praise of -him. Wisdom dictated an immediate change -of topic. He walked to the open window and -established communication with the builders -outside, who had reproduced the Waupegan -chteau with added splendors and were anxious -to have it admired.</p> - -<h3>X</h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Indirection</span> as a method and means to ends -has its disadvantages; but it is not to be scorned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> -utterly. A week following Marjorie’s birthday -children idling on their way home from school -in Marston grew silent and conferred in whispers -as a gentleman whose name and fame had -been interwoven in their alphabet lounged by. -He turned with a smile to lift his hat to an -urchin bolder than the rest who shouted his -name from a discreet distance.</p> - -<p>Within a few days the signs had vanished -from the Redfield cottage and the weeds had -been cut. As the Poet opened the gate, Fulton -came out of the front door: neither seemed surprised -to see the other. The odor of fresh paint -elicited a sniff of satisfaction from the Poet, a -satisfaction that deepened a moment later as -he entered the studio and noted its neatness -and order.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Waring sent a maid out to do all this, -and lent me the things we needed for the tea-table,” -Fulton explained. “I had hard work -to persuade her this wasn’t one of your jokes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -I had harder work to get Mrs. Redfield to come -and bring Marjorie; but Marian supported the -scheme, and brought Mrs. Redfield round. I -fell back heavily on your argument that Marjorie -ought to have a final picnic before the -turn o’ the year—a last chance to build a shotum -ready for knights to come widing.”</p> - -<p>“Marian is a persuasive person, I imagine,” -the Poet remarked. “By the way, I shall be a -little late arriving. Myers, the artist, lives a -little farther down Audubon Road and I want -to have a look at his summer’s work. Nice -fellow; good workman. Redfield promised to -meet me there; I want to be sure he doesn’t -run away. We don’t want the party spoiled -after all the work we’ve done on it.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“I wonder,” Mrs. Redfield remarked, over -the tea-table, “who has bought the place?”</p> - -<p>“A trust company, I think,” replied Fulton, -glancing through the broad north window of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -the studio with careful dissimulation. “As I -passed the other day I saw that the grounds -had been put in order, and decided that this -would be just the place for a picnic.”</p> - -<p>“This little house would be nice for my -playhouse; and we could use that big window -to watch ums knights come widing.”</p> - -<p>“That chimney used to roar the way you -read about,” remarked Marian. “I think -every house ought to have a detached place -like this, for tea and sewing and children to -play in.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Redfield, ill at ease, was attending listlessly -to the talk. Fulton’s explanation had -not wholly explained. She had agreed to the -excursion only after Marjorie had clamorously -insisted upon the outing her devoted cavalier -had proposed. Marjorie’s comments upon the -broad yard, her childish delight in the studio -playhouse, touched chords of memory that -jangled harshly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>Fulton was in high spirits. His romance -had been accepted and a representative of the -publishing house was coming to confer with -him about illustrations.</p> - -<p>“They say it won’t break any best-selling -records, but it will give me a start. The scoundrels -had the cheek to suggest that I cut out -some of my jingles, but I scorned such impiousness -in an expensive telegram.”</p> - -<p>“I should hope so!” cried Marian approvingly. -“The story’s only an excuse for the -poems. Even the noblest prose wouldn’t express -the lake, the orchard, and the fields; if -you cut out your verses, there wouldn’t be -much left but a young gentleman spraying -apple trees and looking off occasionally at the -girls paddling across the lake.”</p> - -<p>“You do my orchardist hero a cruel injustice,” -protested Fulton, “for he saw only one -girl—and a very nice girl she was—or is!”</p> - -<p>“What on earth are you two talking about?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -asked Mrs. Redfield, looking from one to the -other, while thwarting Marjorie in a forbidden -attack upon the cookies. “It seems to me that -you’ve been talking for years about this story, -and I don’t know yet what it’s all about.”</p> - -<p>“Hims witing books like the funny poetry -man, and hims told me if I’m good and nice to -you and Aunt Marian he’ll wite a book all -about me, and my dollies, and how we builded -shotums by the lake and in our yard; and -Marian can’t be in any more books, but just -be sitting on a wock by the lake, having ums -picture painted.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Marjorie; I knew he was a -deceiver and that proves it,” laughed Marian, -avoiding her sister’s eyes. “Let’s all go out and -see the sun go down.”</p> - -<p>Marjorie toddled off along the walk that -bisected what had once been a kitchen-garden.</p> - -<p>The sun was resting his fiery burden on the -dark edge of a wood on the western horizon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> -The front door of the bungalow was ajar and -Mrs. Redfield crossed the piazza and peered in. -The place was clean and freshly papered: a -fire burned m the fireplace—no mere careless -blaze of litter left by workmen, but flaming -logs that crackled cheerily. Her memory distributed -her own belongings; here had been -the table and there the couch and chair; and -she saw restored to the bare walls the pictures -that now cluttered the attic of the home she -had established with Marian, that had once -hung here—each with its special meaning for -the occupants.</p> - -<p>She stood, a girlish figure, with her hands -thrust into the pockets of her sweater, staring -with unseeing eyes at the mocking flames.</p> - -<p>The Poet had spoken of the visits he paid -in fancy to his house of dreams, and she half-wondered -whether she were not herself a disembodied -spirit imprisoned in a house of shadows. -A light, furtive step on the piazza<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> -startled her, and lifting her eyes with the Poet -still in her mind she saw him crossing the room -quickly, like a guest approaching his hostess.</p> - -<p>“It’s pleasant to find the mistress back in -the house of dreams,” he said. “And she brings, -oh, so many things with her!”</p> - -<p>He glanced about the empty room as though -envisaging remembered comforts.</p> - -<p>“I might have known,” she murmured, -“that this was your plan.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied, with a smile that brought -to his face a rare kindliness and sweetness, “it -wasn’t mine; I’m merely an inefficient agent. -It’s all born of things hoped for—”</p> - -<p>He waved his hand to the bare walls, brought -it round and placed something in her palm.</p> - -<p>“There’s the key to my house of dreams. -As you see, it needs people—its own people—Marjorie -and you, for example, to make it home -again. I shall be much happier to know you’re -back....”</p> - - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_188.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">ELIZABETH!</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>He was gone and she gazed after him with a -deepened sense of unreality. A moment later -she heard Marjorie calling to him in the garden.</p> - -<p>She stood staring at the flat bit of metal he -had left in her hand, the key of his house of -dreams; then she laid her arms upon the long -shelf of the mantel and wept. The sound of her -sobbing filled the room. Never before—not -when the anger and shame of her troubles were -fresh upon her—had she been so shaken.</p> - -<p>She was still there, with her head bowed -upon her arms, when a voice spoke her name, -“Elizabeth,” and “Elizabeth,” again, very -softly.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The sun flamed beyond the woodland. The -Poet joined with Marian and Fulton in praising -the banners of purple and gold that were flung -across the west, while Marjorie tugged at his -umbrella.</p> - - -<p>“It’s all good—everything is good! A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -pretty good, cheerful kind of world when you -consider it. I think,” he added with his eyes on -Marian, “that maybe Miles can find time to do -the pictures for Fred’s book. His old place at -the bank won’t be ready until the first of the -year, and that will give him a chance to work -up something pretty fine. I’ll see that publisher -about it when he comes; and—” He withdrew -several steps, and looked absently at the glories -of the dying day before concluding, “it’s just -as well to keep all the good things in the -family.”</p> - -<p>When they hurried to the gate, they saw -him walking in his leisurely fashion toward the -trolley terminus, swinging his umbrella. The -golden light enfolded him and the scarlet -maples bent down in benediction.</p> - - -<p class="center">THE END</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - -<p class="center"><span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press</span><br /> - -CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS<br /> - -U . S . A</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poet, by Meredith Nicholson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POET *** - -***** This file should be named 62821-h.htm or 62821-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/8/2/62821/ - -Produced by D A Alexander, David E. 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