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diff --git a/old/67130-0.txt b/old/67130-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0977001..0000000 --- a/old/67130-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9402 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Woman Ventures, by David Graham -Phillips - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Woman Ventures - -Author: David Graham Phillips - -Illustrator: William James Hurlbut - -Release Date: January 8, 2022 [eBook #67130] - -Language: English - -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 - University of California libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN VENTURES *** - - -[Illustration: EMILY.] - - - - - A WOMAN - VENTURES - - _A NOVEL_ - - BY - DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS - - AUTHOR OF - THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF - JOSHUA CRAIG, THE HUSBAND’S STORY, ETC. - - WITH FRONTISPIECE BY - WILLIAM JAMES HURLBUT - - [Illustration] - - GROSSET & DUNLAP - PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1902, - BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. THE SHIPWRECK 1 - - II. THE DESERT ISLAND 8 - - III. SAIL--HO! 16 - - IV. A BLACK FLAG 23 - - V. THE PENITENT PIRATE 31 - - VI. A CHANGED CRUSOE 39 - - VII. BACK TO THE MAINLAND 45 - - VIII. AMONG A STRANGE PEOPLE 57 - - IX. AN ORCHID HUNTER 67 - - X. FURTHER EXPLORATION 79 - - XI. SEEN FROM A BARRICADED WINDOW 93 - - XII. A RISE AND A FALL 101 - - XIII. A COMPROMISE WITH CONVENTIONALITY 112 - - XIV. “EVERYTHING AWAITS MADAME” 120 - - XV. A FLICKERING FIRE 126 - - XVI. EMBERS 138 - - XVII. ASHES 152 - - XVIII. “THE REAL TRAGEDY OF LIFE” 167 - - XIX. EMILY REFUSES CONSOLATION 176 - - XX. BACHELOR GIRLS 185 - - XXI. A “MARRIED MAN” 199 - - XXII. A PRECIPICE 213 - - XXIII. A “BETTER SELF” 225 - - XXIV. TO THE TEST 238 - - XXV. MR. GAMMELL PRESUMES 248 - - XXVI. THE TRUTH ABOUT A ROMANCE 257 - - XXVII. “IN MANY MOODS” 269 - - XXVIII. A FORCED ADVANCE 278 - - XXIX. A MAN AND A “PAST” 288 - - XXX. TWO AND A TRIUMPH 299 - - XXXI. WHERE PAIN IS PLEASURE 308 - - XXXII. THE HIGHWAY OF HAPPINESS 313 - - XXXIII. LIGHT 324 - - - - -A Woman Ventures. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE SHIPWRECK. - - -WENTWORTH Bromfield was mourned by his widow and daughter with a depth -that would have amazed him. - -For twenty-one years he had been an assistant secretary in the -Department of State at Washington--a rather conspicuous position, with -a salary of four thousand a year. Influential relatives representing -Massachusetts in the House or in the Senate, and often in both, had -enabled him to persist through changes of administration and of party -control, and to prevail against the “pull” of many an unplaced patriot. -Perhaps he might have been a person of consequence had he exercised his -talents in some less insidiously lazy occupation. He had begun well at -the law; but in return for valuable local services to the party, he got -the offer of this political office, and, in what he came to regard as a -fatal moment, he accepted it. His wife--he had just married--said that -he was “going in for a diplomatic career.” He faintly hoped so himself, -but the warnings of his common sense were soon verified. “Diplomatic -career” proved to be a sonorous name for a decent burial of energy and -prospects. - -He had drawn his salary year after year. He had gone languidly through -his brief daily routine at the Department. He had been mildly fluttered -at each Presidential election, and again after each inauguration. He -had indulged in futile impulses to self-resurrection, in severe attacks -of despondency. Then, at thirty-seven, he had grasped the truth--that -he would remain an assistant secretary to the end of his days. -Thenceforth aspirations and depressions had ceased, and his life had -set to a cynical sourness. He read, he sneered, he ate, and slept. - -The Bromfields had a small additional income--Mrs. Bromfield’s twelve -hundred a year from her father’s estate. This was most important, as it -represented a margin above comfort and necessity, a margin for luxury -and for temptation to extravagance. Mr. Bromfield was fond of good -dinners and good wines, and he could not enjoy them at the expense of -his friends without an occasional return. Mrs. Bromfield had been an -invalid after the birth of Emily, long enough to form the habit of -invalidism. After Emily passed the period when dress is not a serious -item, they went ever more deeply into debt. - -While Mrs. Bromfield’s craze for doctors and drugs was in one view as -much an extravagance as Mr. Bromfield’s club, in another view it was a -valuable economy. It made entertaining impossible; it enabled Emily -to go everywhere without the necessity for return hospitalities, and -to “keep up appearances” generally. Many of their friends gave Mrs. -Bromfield undeserved credit for shrewdness and calculation in her -hypochondria. - -Emily had admirers, and, in her first season, one fairly good chance to -marry. The matchmakers who were interested in her--“for her mother’s -sake,” they said, but in fact from the matchmaking mania,--were -exasperated by her refusal. They remonstrated with her mother in vain. - -“I know, I know,” sighed Mrs. Bromfield. “But what can I do? Emily -is so headstrong and I am in such feeble health. I am forbidden the -agitation of a discussion. I’ve told Emily that a girl without money, -and with nothing but family, must be careful. But she won’t listen to -me.” - -Mrs. Ainslie, the most genuinely friendly of all the women who insured -their own welcome by chaperoning a clever, pretty, popular girl, -pressed the matter upon Emily with what seemed to her an impertinence -to be resented. - -“Don’t be offended, child,” said Mrs. Ainslie, replying to Emily’s -haughty coldness. “You ought to thank me. I only hope you will never -regret it. A girl without a dot can’t afford to trifle. A second season -is dangerous, especially here in Washington, where they bring the -babies out of the nursery to marry them off.” - -“Why, you yourself used to call Bob Fulton one of nature’s poor jokes,” -Emily retorted. “You overlooked these wonderful good qualities in him -until he began to annoy me.” - -“Sarcasm does not change the facts.” Mrs. Ainslie was irritated in -her even-tempered, indifferent fashion. “You think you’ll wait and -look about you. But let me tell you, my dear, precious few girls, even -the most eligible of them, have more than one really good chance to -marry. Oh, I know what they say. But they exaggerate flirtations into -proposals. This business--yes, _business_--of marrying isn’t so serious -a matter with the men as it is with us. And we can’t hunt; we must -sit and wait. In this day the stupidest men are crafty enough to see -through the subtlest kind of stalking.” - -Emily had no reply. She could think of no arguments except those of the -heart. And she felt that it would be ridiculous to bring them into the -battering and bruising of this discussion. - -It was in May that she refused her “good chance.” In June her father -fell sick. In mid-July they buried him and drove back from the cemetery -to face ruin. - -Ruin, in domestic finance, has meanings that range from the borderland -of comedy to the blackness beyond tragedy. - -The tenement family, thrust into the street and stripped of their goods -for non-payment of rent, find in ruin an old acquaintance. They take -a certain pleasure in the noise and confusion which their uproarious -bewailing and beratings create throughout the neighbourhood. They enjoy -the passers-by pausing to pity them, a ragged and squalid group, -homeless on the curb. They have been ruined many times, will be ruined -many times. They are sustained by the knowledge that there are other -tenements, other “easy-payment” merchants. A few hours, a day or two -at most, and they are completely reëstablished and are busy making -new friends among their new neighbours, exchanging reminiscences of -misfortune and rumours of ideal “steady jobs.” - -The rich family suddenly ruined has greater shock and sorrow. But -usually there are breaks in the fall. A son or a daughter has married -well; the head of the family gets business opportunities through rich -friends; there is wreckage enough to build up a certain comfort, to -make the descent into poverty gradual, almost gentle. - -But to such people as the Bromfields the word _ruin_ meant--ruin. They -had not had enough to lose to make their catastrophe seem important to -others; indeed, the fact that a little was saved made their friends -feel like congratulating them. But the ruin was none the less thorough. -They were shorn of all their best belongings--all the luxury that -was through habit necessity. They must give up the comfortable house -in Connecticut Avenue, where they had lived for twenty years. They -must leave their associations, their friends. They must go to a New -England factory village. And there they would have a tiny income, -to be increased only by the exertions of two women, one a helpless -hypochondriac, both ignorant of anything for which any one would give -pay. And this cataclysm was wrought within a week. - -“Fate will surely strike the finishing blow,” thought Emily, as she -wandered drearily through the dismantling house. “We shall certainly -lose the little we have left.” And this spectre haunted her wakeful -nights for weeks. - -Mr. Bromfield was not a “family man.” He had left his wife and home -first to the neglect of servants, and afterward to the care of his -daughter. As Emily grew older and able to judge his life-failure, -his vanity, his selfishness--the weaknesses of which he was keenly -conscious, he saw or fancied he saw in her clear eyes a look that -irritated him against himself, against her, and against his home. He -was there so rarely that the women never took him into account. Yet -instead of bearing his death with that resigned fortitude which usually -characterises the practical, self-absorbed human race in its dealings -with the inevitable, they mourned him day and night. - -After one of his visits of business and consolation, General Ainslie -returned home with tears in his eyes. - -“It is wonderful, wonderful!” he said in his “sentimental” voice--a -tone which his wife understood and prepared to combat. She liked his -sentimental side, but she had only too good reason to deplore its -influence upon his judgment. - -“What now?” she inquired. - -“I’ve been to see Wentworth’s widow and daughter. It was most touching, -Abigail. He always neglected them, yet they mourn him in a way that a -better man might envy.” - -“Mourn him? Why, he was never at home. They hardly knew him.” - -“Yet I have never seen such grief.” - -“Grief? Of course. But not for him. They don’t miss him; they miss his -salary--his four thousand a year. And that’s the kind of grief you -can’t soothe. The real house of mourning is the house that’s lost its -breadwinner.” - -General Ainslie looked uncomfortable. - -“Do you remember that Chinese funeral we saw at Pekin, George?” his -wife continued. “Do you remember the widows in covered cages dragging -along behind the corpse--and the big fellow with the prod walking -behind each cage? And whenever the widows stopped howling, don’t you -remember how those prods were worked until the response from inside was -satisfactory?” - -“Yes, but--really, I must say, Abbie----” - -“Well, George--poverty is the prod. No wonder they mourn Wentworth.” - -General Ainslie looked foolish. “I guess I won’t confess,” he said to -himself, “that it was this afternoon I told the Bromfields they had -only five hundred a year and the house in Stoughton. It would encourage -her in her cynicism.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE DESERT ISLAND. - - -THREE months later--August, September, and October, the months of -Stoughton’s glory--gave Emily Bromfield a minute acquaintance with all -that lay within her new horizon. She was as familiar with Stoughton as -Crusoe with his island--and was in a Crusoe-like state of depression. -She thought she had found the lowest despond of which human nature -is capable on the day she saw the top of the Washington monument -disappear, saw the last of the city of her enjoyments and her hopes. -But now she dropped to a still lower depth--that depth in which the -heart becomes a source of physical discomfort, the appetite fails, the -brain sinks into a stupor and the health begins to decline. - -“Don’t be so blue, Emmy,” Mrs. Ainslie had said at the station as they -were leaving Washington. “Nothing is as bad as it seems in advance. -Even Stoughton will have its consolations--though I must confess I -can’t think what they could be at this distance.” - -But the proverb was wrong and Stoughton as a reality was worse than -Stoughton as a foreboding. - -At first Emily was occupied in arranging their new home--creeper-clad, -broad of veranda and viewing a long sloping lawn where the sun and -the moon traced the shadows of century-old trees. She began to think -that Stoughton was not so bad after all. The “best people” had called -and had made a good impression. Her mother had for the moment lifted -herself out of peevish and tearful grief, and had ceased giving double -weight to her daughter’s oppressive thoughts by speaking them. But -illusion and delusion departed with the departing sense of novelty. - -Nowhere does nature do a kindlier summer work than in Stoughton. In -winter the trees and gardens and lawns, worse than naked with their -rustling or crumbling reminders of past glory, expose the prim rows of -prim houses and the stiff and dull life that dozes behind their walls. -In winter no one could be deceived as to what living in Stoughton -meant--living in it in the sense of being forced there from a city, -forced to remain permanently. - -But in summer, nature charitably lends Stoughton a corner of the -gorgeous garment with which she adorns its country. The sun dries the -muddy streets and walks, and the town slumbers in comfort under huge -trees, whose leaves quiver with what seems to be the gentle joy of a -quiet life. The boughs and the creepers conspire to transform hideous -little houses into crystallised songs of comfort and content. The -lawns lie soft and green and restful. The gardens dance in the homely -beauty of lilac and hollyhock and wild rose. Those who then come from -the city to Stoughton sigh at the contrast of this poetry with the -harsh prose of city life. They wonder at the sombre faces of the old -inhabitants, at the dumb and stolid expression of youth, at the fierce -discontent which smoulders in the eyes of a few. - -But if they stay they do not wonder long. For the town in the bare -winter is the real town the year round. The town of summer, tricked out -in nature’s borrowed finery, is no more changed than was the jackdaw by -his stolen peacock plumes. The smile, the gaiety, is on the surface. -The prim, solemn old heart of Stoughton is as unmoved as when the frost -is biting it. - -In the first days of November Emily Bromfield, walking through the -wretched streets under bare black boughs and a gray sky, had the full -bitterness of her castaway life forced upon her. She felt as if she -were suffocating. - -She had been used to the gayest and freest society in America. Here, to -talk as she had been used to talking and to hearing others talk, would -have produced scandal or stupefaction. To act as she and her friends -acted in Washington, would have set the preachers to preaching against -her. There was no one with whom she could get into touch. She had -instantly seen that the young men were not worth her while. The young -women, she felt, would meet her advances only in the hope of getting -the materials for envious gossip about her. - -“It will be years,” she said to herself, “before I shall be able to -narrow and slacken myself to fit this place. And why should I? Of what -use would life be?” - -She soon felt how deeply Stoughton disapproved of her, chiefly, as she -thought, because she did not conceal her resentment against its prying -and peeping inquiry and its narrow judgments. She was convinced that -but for her bicycle and her books she would go mad. Her ever-present -idea, conscious or sub-conscious, was, “How get away from Stoughton?” A -hundred times a day she repeated to herself, or aloud in the loneliness -of her room, “How? how? how?” sometimes in a frenzy; again, stupidly, -as if “how” were a word of a complex and difficult meaning which she -could not grasp. - -But there was never any answer. - -She had formerly wished at times that she were a man. Now, she wished -it hourly. That seemed the only solution of the problem of her -life--that, or marriage. And she felt she might as hopefully wish the -one as the other. - -Year by year, with a patience as slow and persevering as that of a -colony of coral insects, Stoughton developed a small number of youth -of both sexes. Year by year the railroads robbed her of her best young -men, leaving behind only such as were stupid or sluggard. Year by -year the young women found themselves a twelvemonth nearer the fate -of the leaves which the frost fails to cut off and disintegrate. For -a few there was the alternative of marrying the blighted young men--a -desperate adventure in the exchange of single for double or multiple -burdens. - -Some of the young women rushed about New England, visiting its towns, -and finding each town a reproduction of Stoughton. Some went to the -cities a visiting, and returned home dazed and baffled. A few bettered -themselves in their quest; but more only increased their discontent, -or, marrying, regretted the ills they had fled. Those who married away -from home about balanced those who were deprived of opportunities to -marry, by the girl visitors from other towns, who caught with their new -faces and new man-catching tricks the Stoughton eligible-ineligibles. - -At twenty a Stoughton girl began to be anxious. At twenty-five, the -sickening doubt shot its anguish into her soul. At thirty came despair; -and rarely, indeed, did despair leave. It was fluttered sometimes, or -pretended to be; but, after a few feeble flappings, it roosted again. -In Stoughton “society” the old maids outnumbered the married women. - -Clearly, there was no chance to marry. Emily might have overcome the -timidity of such young men as there were, and might have married almost -any one of them. But her end would have been more remote than ever. It -was not marriage in itself that she sought, but release from Stoughton. -And none of these young men was able to make a living away from -Stoughton, even should she marry him and succeed in getting him away. - -She revolved the idea of visiting her friends in Washington. But there -poverty barred the way. She had never had so very many clothes. Now, -she could afford only the simplest and cheapest. She looked over what -she had brought with her from Washington. Each bit of finery reminded -her of pleasures, keen when she enjoyed them, cruelly keen in memory. -The gowns were of a kind that would have made Stoughton open its sleepy -eyes, but they would not do for Washington again. - -The people she knew there were self-absorbed, inclined to snobbishness, -to patronising contemptuously those of their own set who were overtaken -by misfortunes and could not keep the pace. They tolerated these -reminders of the less luxurious and less fortunate phases of life, -but--well, toleration was not a virtue which Emily Bromfield cared to -have exercised toward herself. She could hear Mrs. Ainslie or Mrs. -Chesterton or Mrs. Connors-Smith whispering: “Yes--the poor dear--it’s -so sad. I really had to take pity on her. No--not a penny--I even had -to send her the railway fares. But I felt it was a duty people in our -position owe.” - -And so her prison had no door. - -Emily kept her thoughts to herself. Her mother was almost as content as -she had been in Washington. Did she not still have her diseases? Were -there not doctors and drug-shops? Was there not a circulating library, -mostly light literature of her favourite innocuous kind? And did not -the old women who called listen far more patiently than her Washington -friends to tedious recitals of symptoms and of the plots and scenes of -novels? - -Emily could keep to her room or ride about the country on her bicycle. -She at least had the freedom of her prison, and was not disturbed in -her companionship with solitude. With the bad weather, she hid in her -room more and more. She would sit there hours on hours in the same -position, staring out of the window, thinking the same thoughts over -and over again, and finding fresh springs of unhappiness in them each -time. - -Occasionally she gave way to storms of grief. - -The day she looked over her dresses under the stimulus of the idea -of visiting Washington was one of her worst days. As she stood with -her finery about her and a half-hope in her heart, she recalled her -Washington life--her school days, her first season, her flirtations, -the confident, arrogant way in which she had looked forward on life. -Then came the thought that all was over, that she could not go to -Washington, that she must stay in Stoughton--on and on and on---- - -She grew hot and cold by turns, sank to the floor, buried her face in -the heap of cloth and lace and silk. If the good people of Stoughton -had peeped at her they would have thought her possessed of an evil -spirit. She gnashed her teeth and tore at the garments, her slight -frame shaking with sobs of impotent rage and despair. - -When she came to herself and went downstairs, pale and calm and cold, -her mother was talking with a woman who had come in to gossip. She took -up a book and was gone. - -“Your daughter is not looking well,” said Mrs. Alcott, sourly resentful -of Emily’s courteous frigidity. - -“Poor child!” said Mrs. Bromfield, “she takes her father’s death _so_ -to heart.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -SAIL--HO! - - -WINTER’S swoop upon Stoughton that year was early and savage. In her -desperate loneliness and boredom Emily began occasionally to indulge in -the main distraction of Stoughton--church. On a Sunday late in March -she went for the first time since Christmas. Her mother had succumbed -to the drugs and had been really ill, so ill that Emily did not dare -let herself admit the dread of desolation which menaced. But, the -crisis past, Mrs. Bromfield had rapidly returned to her normal state. -The peril of death cowed or dignified her into silence. When she again -took up her complainings, her daughter was reassured. - -As she walked the half mile to the little church, Emily was in better -spirits than at any time since she had come to Stoughton. The reaction -from her fears had given her natural spirits of youth their first -chance to assert themselves. She found herself hopeful for no reason, -cheerful not because of benefits received or expected, but because of -calamities averted. “I might be so much worse off,” she was thinking. -“There is mother, and there is the income. I feel almost rich--and a -little ungrateful. I’m in quite a church-going mood.” - -The walk through the cold air did her good, and as she went up the -aisle her usually pale face was delicately flushed and she was carrying -her slender but very womanly figure with that erectness and elasticity -which made its charm in the days when people were in the habit of -discussing her prospects as based upon her title to beauty. Her black -dress and small black hat brought out the finest effects of her -red-brown hair and violet eyes and rosy white skin. She was, above all, -most distinguished looking--in strong contrast to the stupid faces and -ill-carried forms in “Sunday best.” - -Her coming caused a stir--that rustling and creaking of garments -feminine and starched, which in the small town church always arouses -the dozers for something uncommon. She faintly smiled a greeting to -Mrs. Cockburn as she entered the pew where that old lady was sitting. -She had just raised her head from the appearance of prayer, when Mrs. -Cockburn whispered: - -“Have you seen young Mr. Wayland?” - -Emily could not remember that she had heard of him. But Mrs. Cockburn’s -agitation demanded a show of interest, so she whispered: - -“No--where is he?” - -She would have said, “Who is he?” but that would have called for a long -explanation. And, as Mrs. Cockburn had a wide space between her upper -front teeth, every time she whispered the letter =s= the congregation -rustled and the minister was disconcerted. - -“There,” whispered Mrs. Cockburn. “Straight across--don’t look now, for -he’s looking at us--straight across to the other side two pews forward.” - -When they rose for the hymn, Emily glanced and straightway saw the -cause of Mrs. Cockburn’s excitement. He was a commonplace-looking young -man with a heavy moustache. His hair was parted in the middle and -brushed back carefully and smoothly. He was dressed like a city man, as -distinguished from the Stoughton man who, little as he owed to nature, -owed even less to art as exploited by the Stoughton tailors. - -Young Mr. Wayland would not have attracted Emily’s attention in a city -because he was in no way remarkable. But in Stoughton he seemed to her -somewhat as an angel might seem to a Peri wandering in outer darkness. -When she discovered him looking at her a few moments later, and looking -with polite but interested directness, she felt herself colouring. -She also felt pleased--and hopeful in that fantastic way in which the -desperate dream of desperate chances. - -After the service she stood talking to Mrs. Cockburn, affecting an -unprecedented interest in a woman whom she liked as little--if as -much--as any in Stoughton. Her back was toward the aisle but she felt -her “sail-ho,” coming. - -“He’s on his way to us,” said Mrs. Cockburn hoarsely--she had been -paying no attention to what Emily had been saying to her, or to her -own answers. She now pushed eagerly past Emily to greet the young man -at the door of the pew. - -“Why, I’m so glad to see you again, Mr. Wayland,” she said with a -cordiality that verged on hysteria. “It has been a long time. I’m -afraid you’ve forgotten an old woman like me.” - -“No, indeed, Mrs. Cockburn,” replied Wayland, who had just provided -himself with her name. “It’s been only four years, and you’ve not -changed.” - -Mrs. Cockburn saw his eyes turn toward Emily and introduced him. Emily -was not blushing now, or apparently interested. She seemed to be simply -waiting for her path to be cleared. - -“I felt certain it was you,” began young Wayland, a little embarrassed. -He made a gesture as if to unbutton his long coat and take something -from his inside pocket, then seemed to change his mind. “I’ve a note of -introduction to you, that is to your mother--Mrs. Ainslie, you know. -But I heard that your mother was ill. And I hesitated about coming.” - -“Mother is much better.” Emily was friendly, but not effusive. “I am -sure she--both of us--will be glad to see a friend of Mrs. Ainslie.” - -She smiled, shook hands with him, gave him a fascinating little -nod, submitted to a kiss on the cheek from Mrs. Cockburn and went -swiftly and gracefully down the aisle. Wayland looked after her with -admiration. He had been in Stoughton three weeks and was profoundly -bored. - -Mrs. Cockburn was also looking after her, but disapprovingly. “A nice -young woman in some ways,” she said. “But she carries her head too high -for the plain people here.” - -“She’s had a good deal of trouble, I’ve heard,” Wayland answered, not -committing himself. - -The next morning Mrs. Bromfield got a letter from Mrs. Ainslie. It was -of unusual length for Mrs. Ainslie, who was a bird-of-passage that -rarely paused long enough for extended communication. - -“I never could get used to that big, angular handwriting,” said Mrs. -Bromfield to her daughter. “Won’t you read it to me, please?” - -Emily began at “My Dear Frances” and read steadily through, finding in -the postscript four sentences which should have begun the letter of so -worldly-wise a woman: “Don’t on any account let Emily see this. You -know how she acted about Bob Fulton. She ought to have learned better -by this time, but I don’t trust her. Be careful what you say to her.” - -Mrs. Ainslie was urging the opportunity offered by the sojourn of young -Wayland in Stoughton. “Emily will have a clear field,” she wrote. -“He’s got money in his own right--millions when his father dies--and -he’s a good deal of a fool--dissipated, I hear, but in a prudent, -business-like way. It’s Emily’s chance for a resurrection.” - -Mrs. Bromfield was made speechless by the postscript. Emily sat silent, -looking at the letter on the table before her. - -“Don’t be prejudiced against him, dear,” pleaded her mother. - -“I imagine it doesn’t matter in the least what I think of him,” Emily -replied. She rose and left the room, sending back from the doorway a -short, queer laugh that made her mother feel how shut out she was from -what was going on in her daughter’s mind. - -If she could have seen into that small, ethereal-looking head she -would have been astounded at the thoughts boiling there. Emily had -been bred in an atmosphere of mercenary or, rather, “practical” -ideas. But she was also a woman of sound and independent mind, in the -habit of thinking for herself, and with strong mental and physical -self-respect. She would have hesitated to marry unwisely for love. -But she had been far from that state of self-degradation in which a -young woman deliberately and consciously closes her heart, locks the -door and flings the key away. Now however, the deepest instinct of -the human animal--the instinct of self-preservation--was aroused in -her. It seemed to her that an imperative command had issued from that -instinct--a command at any cost to flee the living death of Stoughton. - - * * * * * - -That same afternoon Mrs. Bromfield learned--without having to ask a -question--all that Stoughton knew about the Waylands: They were the -pride of the town and also its chief irritation. It gloried in them -because it believed that the report of their millions was as clamourous -throughout the nation as in its own ears. It was exasperated against -them, because it believed that they ought to live in Stoughton and be -content with a life which it thought, or thought it thought, desirable -above life in any other place whatsoever. - -So as long as Mrs. Wayland lived, the family had spent at least half of -each year there; and Stoughton, satisfied on that point, disliked them -for other reasons, first of all for being richer than any one else. -When Mrs. Wayland died, leaving an almost grown daughter and a son just -going into trousers, General Wayland had put the girl in school at -Dobbs Ferry-on-the-Hudson, the boy in Groton, had closed the house and -made New York his residence. The girl died two years after the death of -her mother. The boy went from Groton to Harvard, from Harvard to his -father’s business--the Cotton Cloth Trust. The Wayland homestead, the -most considerable in Stoughton with its two wings built to the original -square house, with its conservatories and its stables, was opened for -but a few weeks each winter. And then it was opened only in part--to -receive the General on his annual business visit to the factories of -the Stoughton Cotton Mills Company, the largest group in the “combine.” -Sometimes he brought Edgar. But Edgar gave the young women of Stoughton -no opportunities to ensnare him. He kept to his work and departed at -the earliest possible moment. This year he had come alone, as his -father had now put him in charge of their Stoughton interests. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -A BLACK FLAG. - - -UNTIL Wayland saw Emily at church he had no intention to seize the -opportunity which Mrs. Ainslie’s disinterested kindliness had made -for him. Ever since he left the restraint of the “prep.” school for -Harvard, with a liberal allowance and absolute freedom, women had been -an important factor in his life; and they were still second only to -money-making. But not such women as Emily Bromfield. - -In theory he had the severest ideas of woman. Practically, his -conception of woman’s sphere was not companionship or love or the -family, not either mental or sentimental, but frankly physical. And -something in that element in Emily’s personality--perhaps the warmth -of her beauty of form in contrast to the coldness of her beauty of -face--made it impossible for this indulgent and self-indulgent young -man to refrain from seeking her out. He was close with his money -in every way except where his personal comfort or amusement was -concerned. There he was generous to prodigality. And when he learned -how poor the Bromfields were and how fiercely discontented Emily -was in her Stoughton prison-cell, he decided that the only factor in -the calculation was whether or not on better acquaintance his first -up-flaring would persist. - -In one respect Washington society is unequalled. Nowhere else is a -girl able so quickly and at so early an age to get so complete an -equipment of worldly knowledge. Emily’s three years under the tutelage -of cynical Mrs. Ainslie had made her nearly as capable to see through -men as are acute married women. Following the Washington custom of her -day, she had gone about with men almost as freely as do the girls of a -Western town. And the men whom she had thus intimately known were not -innocent, idealising, deferential Western youths, but men of broad and -unscrupulous worldliness. Many of them were young diplomats, far from -home, without any sense of responsibility in respect of the women of -the country in which they were sojourners of a day. They played the -game of “man and woman” adroitly and boldly. - -Emily understood Wayland only so far as the clean can from theoretical -experience understand the unclean. Thus far she quickly penetrated into -his intentions toward her and his ideas of her. He was the reverse of -complex. He had not found it necessary to employ in these affairs the -craft he was beginning to display in business, to the delight of his -father. His crude and candid method of conquest had been successful -hitherto. Failure in this instance seemed unlikely. And there were no -male relatives who might bring him to an uncomfortable accounting. - -Two weeks after he met Emily--weeks in which he had seen her several -times--he went to her house for dinner. She had been advancing -gradually, in strict accordance with her plan of campaign. Wayland -had unwittingly disarmed himself and doubly armed her by giving undue -weight to her appearance of extreme youth and golden inexperience, and -by overestimating his own and his money’s fascinations. He had not a -suspicion that there was design or even elaborate preparation in the -vision which embarrassed and fired him as he entered the Bromfields’ -parlour. She was in a simple black dinner gown, which displayed her -arms and her rosy white shoulders. And she had a small head and a way -of doing her hair that brought out the charm of every curve of her -delicate face. Instead of looking cold this evening, she put into her -look and smile a seeming of--well, more than mere liking, he thought. - -It happened to be one of Mrs. Bromfield’s good days, so she rambled on, -covering Wayland’s silence. Occasionally--not too often--Emily lifted -her glance from her plate and gave the young man the full benefit of -her deep, dark, violet eyes. When Mrs. Bromfield spoke apologisingly of -the absence of wine, he was surprised to note that he had not missed it. - -But after dinner, when he was alone in the sitting-room with Emily, -he regretted that he had had nothing to drink. He could explain his -timidity, his inability to get near the subject uppermost in his mind -only on the ground that he had had no stimulus to his courage and -his tongue. All that day he had been planning what he would say; yet -as he went home in his automobile, upon careful review of all that -had been said and done, he found that he had made no progress. The -conversation had been general and not for an instant personal to her. -The only personalities had been his own rather full account of himself, -past, present and future--a rambling recital, the joint result of his -nervousness and her encouragement. - -“At least she understands that I don’t intend to marry,” he thought, -remembering one part of the conversation. - -“There’s nothing in marriage for me,” he had said, after a clumsy -paving of the way. - -“Of course not,” she had assented. “I never could understand how a -young man, situated as you are, could be foolish enough to chain -himself.” - -And then, as he remembered with some satisfaction, she added the only -remark she had made which threw any light upon her own feelings and -ideas: “It would be as foolish for you to marry, as it would be for me -to refuse a chance to get out of this dreadful place.” - -As he reflected on this he had no suspicion of subtlety. It did not -occur to him that she hardly deserved credit for frankly confessing -what could not be successfully denied or concealed, or that she might -have confessed in order to put him off his guard, to make him think her -guilelessly straightforward. - -A second and a third call, a drive and several long walks; still he had -done nothing to further his scheme. He put off his return to New York, -seeing her every day, each time in a fresh aspect of beauty, in a new -mood of fascination. One night, a month after he met her at church, he -found her alone on the wide piazza. She was in an evening dress, white, -clinging close to her, following her every movement. He soon reached -his limit of endurance. - -“You are maddening,” he said abruptly, stretching out his arms to -seize her. He thrust her wraps violently away from her throat and -one shoulder. He was crushing her against his chest, was kissing her -savagely. - -She wrenched herself away from him, panting with anger, with repulsion. -But he thought it was a return of his ardour, and she did not undeceive -him. “You mustn’t!” she said. “You know that it is impossible. You must -go. Good-night!” - -She left him and he, after waiting uncertainly a few moments, went -slowly down the drive, in a rage, but a rage in which anger and longing -were curiously mingled. When he called the next day, she was “not at -home.” When he called again she could not come down, she must stay -beside her mother, who had had another attack, so the servant explained -in a stammering, unconvincing manner. He wrote that he wished to see -her to say good-bye as he was leaving the next day. Then he called -and she came into the parlour--“just for an instant.” She was wearing -a loose gown, open at the throat, with sleeves falling away from -her arms. Her small feet were thrust into a pair of high-heeled red -slippers and her stockings had openwork over the ankles. She seemed so -worried about her mother that it was impossible for him to re-open the -one subject and resume progress, as he had hoped to do. But it was not -impossible for him to think. And Emily, anxiously watching him from -behind her secure entrenchments, noted that he was thinking as she -wished and hoped. His looks, his voice encouraged her to play her game, -her only possible game, courageously to the last card. - -“If he doesn’t come back,” she thought, “at least I’ve done my best. -And I think he _will_ come.” - -She sent him away regretfully, but immediately, standing two steps up -the stairway in a final effective pose. He set his teeth together and -took the train for New York. There he outdid all his previous impulses -of extravagant generosity with himself, but he could not drive her from -his mind. Those who formerly amused him, now seemed vulgar, silly, and -stale. They made her live the more vividly in his imagination. Business -gave him no relief. At his office his mind wandered to her, and the -memory of that stolen kiss made his nerves quiver and hot flushes -course over and through him. At the end of three weeks, he returned to -Stoughton. “I’ve let myself go crazy,” he thought, “I’ll see her again -and convince myself that I’m a fool.” - -As he neared her house, his mind became more at ease. When he rang the -bell he was laughing at himself for having got into such a frenzy over -“nothing but a woman like the rest of ’em.” But as soon as he saw her, -he was drunk again. - -“I love you,” he stammered. “I can’t do without you. Will you--will you -marry me, Emily?” - -There was no triumph either in her face or in her mind. She was hearing -the hammer smash in the thick walls of her prison, but she shrank from -the sound. As she looked at his commonplace, heavy-featured face; as -she listened to his monotonous voice, with its hint of tyranny and -temper; as she felt his greedy eyes and hot, trembling fingers;--a -revulsion swept over her and left her sick with disgust--disgust for -her despicable self, loathing for him and for his feeling for her--his -“love.” - -“How can I?” she thought, turning away to hide her expression from him. -“How can I? And yet, how can I refuse?” - -“I must have until--until this evening,” she said in a low voice and -with an effort. “I--I thought you had gone--for good and all--and I -tried to put you out of my thoughts.” - -She was standing near him and he crushed her in his arms. “You must, -you must,” he exclaimed. “I must have you.” - -She let him kiss her once, then pushed him away, hiding her face in no -mere pretence of modesty and maidenly repulsion. “This evening,” she -said, almost flying from him. - -She paused at the door of her mother’s sitting-room. From it came -the odor of drugs, and in it were all the evidences of the tedious -companionship of her poverty-stricken prison life--the invalid chair -with its upholstery tattering; the worn carpet; the wall paper stained, -and in one corner giving way because of a leak which they had no -money to repair; the table with its litter of bottles, of drug-boxes, -of patent-medicine advertisements and trashy novels; in the bed the -hypochondriac herself, old, yellow, fat in an unhealthy way, with her -empty, childish, peevish face. - -Emily did not enter, but went on to her own room--bare, cheerless, -proofs of poverty and impending rags and patches threatening to -obtrude. She looked out through the trees at the glimpses of the -town--every beat of the pulse of her youth was a sullen and hateful -protest against it. Beyond were the tall chimneys of the mills, -with the black clouds from them smutching the sky--there lived the -work-people, the boredom of the town driving them to brutal dissipation. - -“I must! I must!” she said, between her set teeth, then sank down in -the window seat and buried her face in her arms. - -That evening she accepted him, and the next morning her mother -announced the engagement to the first caller. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE PENITENT PIRATE. - - -WAYLAND had the commercial instinct too strongly developed not to fear -that he was paying an exorbitant price for a fancy which would probably -be as passing as it was powerful. Whenever Emily was not before his -eyes he was pushing the bill angrily aside. But in the stubbornness of -self-indulgence he refused to permit himself to see that he was making -a fool of himself. If she had not gauged him accurately, or, rather, -if she had not mentally and visibly shrunk even from the contact with -him necessary to shaking hands, he might quickly have come to his -cool-blooded senses. But their engagement made no change in their -relations. Her mother’s illness helped her to avoid seeing him for -more than a few minutes at a time. Her affectation of an extreme of -prudery--with inclination and policy reinforcing each the other--made -her continue to keep herself as elusive, as tantalising to him as she -had been at that dinner when he “fell head over heels in love--” so he -described it to her. And he thoroughly approved of her primness. For, -to him there were only two classes of women--good women, those who knew -nothing; bad women, those who knew and, knowing, must of necessity feel -and act as coarsely as himself. The most of the time which he believed -she was devoting to her mother, she was passing in her room in arguing -the two questions: “How can I give him up? How can I marry him?” - -Her acute intelligence did not permit her to deceive herself. She knew -with just what kind of man she was dealing, knew she would continue to -loathe him after she had married him, knew her reason for marrying him -was as base, if not baser, than his reason for marrying her. “He is at -least a purchaser,” she said to herself contemptuously, “while I am -merely the thing purchased.” And her conduct was condemned by her whole -nature except the one potent instinct of feminine laziness. “If only I -had been taught to work,” she thought “or taught not to look down upon -work! Yet how could it be so low as this?” - -She felt that she might not thus degrade herself if she had some -one to consult, some one to encourage her to recover and retain her -self-respect. But who was there? She laughed at the idea of consulting -her mother--that never strong mind, now enfeebled to imbecility by -drugs and novels. And even if she had had a capable mother, what -would have been her advice? Would it not have been to be “sensible” -and “practical” and not fling away a brilliant “chance”--wealth and -distinction for herself, proper surroundings and education for the -children that were sure to come? And would not that advice be sound? - -Only arguments of “sentimentality,” of super-sensitiveness, appeared -in opposition to the urgings of conventional everyday practice. And -was not Stoughton worse than Wayland? Could it possibly be more -provocative of all that was base in her to live with Stoughton than to -live with Wayland? Wayland would be one of a great many elements in her -environment after the few first weeks of marriage. If she accepted the -alternative, it would be her whole environment, in all probability for -the rest of her life. - -A month after the announcement of the engagement, her mother sank into -a stupor and, toward the end of the fifth day, died. Just as her father -had been missed and mourned more than many a father who deserved and -received love, so now her mother, never deserving nor trying to deserve -love, was missed and mourned as are few mothers who have sacrificed -everything to their children. This fretful, self-absorbed invalid was -all that Emily had in the world. - -Wayland was startled when Emily threw herself into his arms and -clinging close to him sobbed and wept on his shoulder. Sorrow often -quickens into sympathy the meanest natures. The bereaved are amazed to -find the world so strangely gentle for the time. And Wayland for the -moment was lifted above himself. There were tenderness, affection in -his voice and in the clasp of his arms about her. - -“I have no one, no one,” she moaned. “Oh, my good mother, my dear -little mother! Ah, God, what shall I do?” - -“We will bear it together, dear,” he whispered. “My dear, my beautiful -girl.” And for the first time he genuinely respected a woman, felt the -promptings of the honest instincts of manliness. - -His change had a profound effect upon the young girl in her mood of -loneliness and dependence. She reproached herself for having thought so -ill of him, for having underrated his character. With quick generosity -she was at the opposite extreme; she treated him with a friendliness -which enabled him to see her as she really was--in all respects except -the one where desperation was driving her to action abhorrent to her -normal self. - -As her sweetness and high-minded intelligence unfolded before his -surprised eyes, he began to think of her as a human being instead of -thinking only of the effect of her beauty upon his senses. He grew to -like her, to regard her as an ideal woman for a wife. But--he did not -want a wife. And as the new feeling developed, the old feeling died -away. - -Emily had gained a friend. But she had lost a lover. - -Two weeks after her mother’s funeral, Wayland kissed her good-night as -calmly as if he had been her brother. At the gate he paused and looked -back at the house, already dark except in one second-story room, where -Emily’s aunt was waiting up for her. “I am not worthy of her,” he said -to himself. “I am not fit to marry her. I should be miserable trying to -live up to such a woman. I must get out of it.” - -But how? He pretended to himself that he was hesitating because of his -regard for her and her need for him. In fact his hesitation arose from -doubt about the way to escape from this most uncongenial atmosphere -without betraying to her what a dishonourable creature he was. And -the more he studied the difficulty, the more formidable it seemed. -This however only increased his eagerness to escape, his alarm at the -prospect of being tied for life to moral and mental superiority. - -He hoped she would give him an excuse. But as she now liked him, she -was the better able to conceal the fact that she did not love him; and -had he been far less unskilled in reading feminine character, he would -still have been deceived. Emily was deceiving herself--almost. - -As soon as he felt that he could leave with decency, he told her he -must go to New York. She had been noting that he no longer spoke of -their marriage, no longer urged that it be hastened. But it occurred to -her that he might be restrained by the fear of distressing her when her -mother had been dead so short a time; and this seemed a satisfactory -explanation. Three days after he reached New York he sent this -letter--the result of an effort that half-filled the scrap-basket in a -quiet corner of the writing-room of his club: - - I have been thinking over our engagement and I am convinced that when - you know my mind, you will wish it to come to an end. I am not worthy - of you. You are mistaken in me. I could not make you happy. You - are too far above me in every way. It would be spoiling your whole - life to marry you under such false pretences. Looking back over our - acquaintance, I am ashamed of the motives which led me to make this - engagement. Forgive me for being so abrupt, but I think the truth is - best. - -“Pretty raw,” he thought, as he read it over. “But it’s the truth and -the truth _is_ best in this case. I can’t afford to trifle. And--what -can she do?” - -When Emily finished reading the letter, she was crushed. Her pride, her -vanity, her future--all stabbed in the vitals. Just when she thought -herself most secure, she was overthrown and trampled. She could see -Stoughton gloating over her--who would have thought that Stoughton -could ever reach and touch _her_? She could see herself pinioned there, -or in some similar Castle Despair, for life. - -To be outwitted by such a man--and how? She could not explain it. Her -experience of ways masculine had not been intimate enough to give her -a clue to the subtle cause of Wayland’s changed attitude. She paced -her room in fury, denouncing him as a cur, a traitor, a despicable -creature, too vile and low for adequate portrayal in any known medium -of expression. She went over scheme after scheme for holding him to -his promise, for bringing him back--some of them schemes which made -her blush when she recalled them in after years. She wrote a score of -letters--long, short; bitter, pleading; some appealing to his honour, -some filled with hypocritical expressions of love and veiling a vague -threat which she hoped might terrify him, though she knew it was -meaningless. But she tore them up. And after tossing much and sleeping -a little she sent this answer: - - DEAR EDGAR: - - Certainly, if you feel that way. But you mustn’t let any nervousness - about the past interfere with our friendship. That has become very - dear to me. The only ill luck I wish you is that you’ll have to come - to Stoughton soon. I won’t ask you to write to me, because I know - you’re not fond of writing letters--and nothing happens here that any - one would care to hear about. My aunt is staying with me for a few - months at least. Until I see you, - - EMILY. - -“It’s of no use to make a row,” she thought. “If anything can bring -him back, certainly it is not tears or reproaches or threats. And how -appeal to the honour of a man who has no honour?” - -Her mind was clear enough, but her feelings were in a ferment. She -knew that it was in some way her fault that she had lost him. “And I -deserved to lose him,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t excuse him or -help me.” - -He answered promptly: - - MY DEAR FRIEND: - - How like you your letter was. If I did not know so well how unworthy - of you I am, how I would plead for the honour of having such a woman - as my wife. I wish I could look forward to seeing you soon--but - I’m going abroad on Saturday and I shan’t return for some time. As - soon as I do, I’ll let you know. It is good of you to offer me your - friendship. I am proud to accept it. If you ever need a friend, you - will find him in - - Yours faithfully, - - EDGAR WAYLAND. - -The expression of Emily’s face was anything but good, it was the -reverse of “lady-like,” as she read this death-warrant of her last -hope. “The coward!” she exclaimed, and, as her eyes fell on the -satirical formality, “Yours faithfully,” she uttered an ugly laugh -which would have given a severe shock to Wayland’s new ideas of her. - -“Fooled--jilted--left for dead,” she thought, despair closing in, thick -and black. And she crawled into bed, to lie sleepless and tearless, her -eyes burning. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -A CHANGED CRUSOE. - - -IN the third night Emily had ten hours of the sleep of exhausted youth. -She awoke in the mood of the brilliant July morning which was sending -sunshine and song and the odour of honeysuckles through the rifts in -the lattices of her shutters. She was restored to her normal self. She -was able to examine her affairs calmly in the light of her keen and -courageous mind. - -Ever since she had been old enough to be of active use, she had had -the training of responsibility--responsibility not only for herself, -but also for her mother and the household. She had had the duties of -both woman and man forced upon her and so had developed capacity and -self-reliance. She had read and experienced and thought perhaps beyond -the average for girls of her age and breeding. Undoubtedly she had read -and thought more than most girls who are, or fancy they are, physically -attractive. Her father’s caustic contempt for shallow culture, for -ignorance thinly disguised by good manners, had been his one strong -influence on her. - -“All my own fault,” she was saying to herself now, as she lay propped -on her elbow among her pillows. “It was a base plan, unworthy of me. I -ought to be glad that the punishment was not worse. The only creditable -thing about it is that I played the game so badly that I lost.” And -then she smiled, wondering how much of her new virtue was real and how -much was mere making the best of a disastrous defeat. - -Why had she lost? What was the false move? She could not answer, but -she felt that it was through ignorance of some trick which a worse -woman would have known. - -“Never again, never again,” she thought, “will I take that road. What -I get I must get by direct means. Either I’m not crafty enough or not -mean enough to win in the other way.” - -She was singing as she went downstairs to join her aunt. The old woman, -her father’s sister who had never married, was knitting in the shady -corner of the front porch, screened from the sun by a great overhanging -tree, and from the drive and the road beyond, by the curtain of -honeysuckles and climbing roses. As Emily came into view, she dropped -the knitting and looked at her with disapproval upon her thin old face. - -“But why, auntie?” said the girl, answering the look. “I feel like -singing. I feel so young and well and--hopeful. You don’t wish me to -play the hypocrite and look glum and sad? Besides, the battle must -begin soon, and good spirits may be half of it.” - -Her aunt sighed and looked at her with the unoffending pity of -sympathy. “Perhaps you’re right, Emmy,” she said. “God knows, life is -cruel enough without our fighting to prolong its miseries. And it does -seem as if you’d had more than your share of them thus far.” She was -admiring her beautiful niece and thinking how ill that fragile fineness -seemed fitted for the struggle which there seemed no way of averting. -“You’re almost twenty-one,” she said aloud. “You ought to have had a -good husband and everything you wanted by this time.” - -Emily winced at this unconscious stab into the unhealed wound. “Isn’t -there anything in life for a woman on her own account?” she asked -impatiently. “Is her only hope through some man? Isn’t it possible for -her to make her own happiness, work out her own salvation? Must she -wait until a man condescends to ask her to marry him?” - -“I’d like to say no,” replied her aunt, “but I can’t. As the world is -made now, a woman’s happiness comes through home and children. And -that means a husband. Even if her idea of happiness were not home and -children, still she’s got to have a husband.” - -“But why? Why do you say ‘as the world is made now?’ Aren’t there -thousands, tens of thousands of women who make their own lives, working -in all sorts of ways--from teaching school to practising medicine or -law or writing or acting?” - -“Yes--but they’re still only women. They may lie about it. But with a -few exceptions, abnormal women, who are hardly women at all, they’re -simply filling a gap in their lives--perhaps trying to find husbands -in unusual ways. Everybody must have an object, to be in the least -happy. And children is the object the world has fixed for us women. -Whether we’re conscious of it or not, we pursue it. And if we’re -thwarted in it, we’re--well, we’re not happy.” - -The old woman was staring out sadly into space. The cheerfulness had -faded from the girl’s face. But presently she shook her head defiantly -and broke the silence. - -“I refuse to believe it,” she said with energy. “Oh, I don’t deny that -I _feel_ just as you describe. And why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t we -all? Aren’t we brought up that way? Are we ever taught anything else? -It’s the way women have been trained from the beginning. But--that -doesn’t make it so.” - -“No, it doesn’t,” replied her aunt. “And probably it isn’t so. But -don’t make the mistake, child, of thinking that the world is run on -a basis of what’s so. It isn’t. It’s run on a basis of think-so and -believe-so and hope-so.” - -Emily stood up beside her aunt and looked out absently through the -leaves. “I don’t care what any one says or what every one says,” she -said. “I don’t say that I don’t want love and home and all that. I -do want it. But I think I want it as a man wants it. I want it as -my very own, not as the property of some man which he graciously or -grudgingly permits me to share. And I purpose to try to make my own -life. If I marry, it will be as a man marries--when I’m pleased and not -before. No, don’t look frightened, auntie. I’m not going to do anything -shocking. I understand that the game must be played according to the -rules, or one is likely to be excluded.” - -“Well, you’ve got to make your living--at least for the present,” -replied her aunt. “And it doesn’t matter much what your theory is. The -question is, what can you do; and if you can do something, how are you -to get the chance to do it. I can’t advise you. I’m only a useless old -maid--waiting in a corner for death, already forgotten.” - -Emily put on an expression of amused disbelief that was more flattering -than true, and full of vague but potent consolation. “I don’t think I -need advice,” she said, “so much as I need courage. And there you can -help me, auntie dear--can, and will.” - -“I?” The old woman was pleased and touched. “What can I say or do? I -can only tell you what you already know--though I must say I didn’t -when I was your age--can only tell you that there’s nothing to be -afraid of in all this wide world except false pride.” - -She looked thoughtfully at her knitting, then anxiously at the -resolute face of her niece. “In our country,” she went on, “it’s been -certain from the start, it seems to me, that what you’ve been saying -would be the gospel of the women as well as of the men. But it takes -women a long time to get over false pride. You are going to be a -working-woman. If only you can see that all honest work is honourable! -If only you can remember that your life must be made by yourself, that -to look timidly at others and dread what they will say about you is -cowardly and contemptible! How I wish I had your chance! How I wish I’d -had the courage to take my own chance!” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -BACK TO THE MAINLAND. - - -WITHIN a month old Miss Bromfield was again with her sister at -Stockbridge; the house in Stoughton was sold; there were twenty-two -hundred dollars to Emily’s credit in the Stoughton National Bank--her -whole capital except a hundred and fifty dollars which she had with -her; and she herself was standing at the exit from the Grand Central -Station in New York City, facing with a sinking heart and frightened -eyes the row of squalid cabs and clamourous cabmen. One of these took -her to the boarding-house in East Thirty-first Street near Madison -Avenue where her friend, Theresa Duncan, lived. - -“Of course there’s a chance,” Theresa had written. “Come straight on -here. Something is sure to turn up. And there’s nothing like being on -the spot.” - -Of the women of her acquaintance who made their own living, Theresa -alone was in an independent position--with her time her own, and with -no suggestion of domestic service in her employment. They had been -friends at school and had kept up the friendship by correspondence. -Before Mr. Bromfield died, Theresa’s father had been swept under by -a Wall Street tidal wave and, when it receded, had been found on the -shore with empty pockets and a bullet in his brain. Emily wrote to her -at once, but the answer did not come until six months had passed. Then -Theresa announced that she was established in a small but sufficient -commission business. “I shop for busy New York women and have a growing -out-of-town trade,” she wrote. “And I am almost happy. It is fine to be -free.” - -At the boarding-house Emily looked twice at the number to assure -herself that she was not mistaken. She had expected nothing so imposing -as this mansion-like exterior. When a man-servant opened the door and -she saw high ceilings and heavy mouldings, she inquired for Miss Duncan -in the tone of one who is sure there is a mistake. But before the man -answered, her illusion vanished. He was a slattern creature in a greasy -evening coat, a day waistcoat, a stained red satin tie, its flaming -colour fighting for precedence with a huge blue glass scarf pin. And -Emily now saw that the splendours of what had been a fine house in New -York’s modest days were overlaid with cheap trappings and with grime -and stain and other evidences of slovenly housekeeping. - -The air was saturated with an odour of inferior food, cooking in poor -butter and worse lard. It was one of the Houses of the Seem-to-be. The -carpets seemed to be Turkish or Persian, but were made in Newark and -made cheaply. The furniture seemed to be French, but was Fourteenth -street. The paper seemed to be brocade, but was from the masses of poor -stuff tossed upon the counters of second-class department stores for -the fumblings of noisome bargain-day crowds. The paintings seemed to be -pictures, but were such daubs as the Nassau street dealers auction off -to swindle-seeking clerks at the lunch hour. In a corner of the “salon” -stood what seemed to be a cabinet for bric-a-brac but was a dilapidated -folding bed. - -“Dare I sit?” thought Emily. “What seems to be a chair may really be -some hollow sham that will collapse at the touch.” - -“A vile hole, isn’t it?” was one of Theresa’s first remarks, after an -enthusiastic greeting and a competent apology for not meeting her at -the station. “We may be able to take a flat together. I would have done -it long ago, if I’d not been alone.” - -“Yes,” said Emily, “and I may persuade Aunt Ann to come and live with -us as chaperon.” - -“Oh, that will be so nice,” replied Theresa in a doubtful, reluctant -tone, with a quizzical look in her handsome brown eyes. “If there is a -prime necessity for a working-woman, it is a chaperon.” - -“You’re laughing at me,” said Emily, flushing but good-humoured. “I -meant simply that my aunt could look after the flat while we’re away. -You don’t know her. She’d never bother us. She understands how to mind -her own business.” - -“Well, the flat and the chaperon are still in the future. The first -question is, what are you going into? You used to write such good -essays at school and your letters are clever. Why not newspaper work?” - -“But what could I do?” - -“Get a trial as a reporter.” - -Before Emily’s mind came a vision of a ball she had attended in -Washington less than two years before--the lofty entrance, the -fashionable guests incrowding from their carriages; at one side, a -dingy group, two seedy-looking men and a homely, dowdy woman, taking -notes of names and costumes. She shuddered. - -Theresa noted the shudder, and laid her hand on Emily’s arm. “You must -drop that, my dear--you must, must, must.” - -Emily coloured. “I will, will, will,” she said with a guilty laugh. -“But, Theresa, you understand, don’t you?” - -“Oh, yes, I remember. But I’ve left all that behind--at least I’ve -tried to. You’ve got to be just like a man when he makes the start. -As Mr. Marlowe was saying the other night, it’s no worse than being a -bank messenger and presenting notes to men who can’t pay; or being a -lawyer’s clerk and handing people dreadful papers that they throw in -your face. No matter where you start there are hard knocks. And----” - -“I know it, I expect it, and I’m not sorry that it is so. It’s part of -the price of learning to live. I’m not complaining.” - -“I hope you’ll be able to say that a year from now. I confess I did, -and do, complain. I can’t get over my resentment at the injustice of -it. Why doesn’t everybody see that we’re all in the same boat and that -snubbing and sneering only make it harder all round?” - -Emily had expected to find the Theresa of school days developed -along the lines that were promising. Instead, she found the Theresa -of school days changed chiefly by deterioration. She was undeniably -attractive--a handsome, magnetic, shrewd young woman full of animal -spirits. But her dress was just beyond the line of good taste, and on -inspection revealed tawdriness and lapses; her manners were a little -too pronounced in their freedom; her speech barely escaped license. -Her effort to show hostility to conventions was impudent rather than -courageous. Worst of all, she had lost that finish of refinement which -makes merits shine and dims even serious defects. She had cultivated a -shallow cynicism--of the concert hall and the “society” play. It took -all the brightness of her eyes, all the brilliance of her teeth, all -her physical charm to overcome the impression of this gloze of reckless -smartness. - -In her room were many copies of a weekly journal of gossip and scandal, -filled with items about people whom it called “the Four Hundred” and -“the Mighty Few” and of whom it spoke with familiarity, yet with the -deference of pretended disdain. Emily noticed that Theresa and her -acquaintances in the boarding-house talked much of these persons, in -a way which made it clear that they did not know them and regarded the -fact as greatly to their own discredit. - -The one subject which Theresa would not discuss was her shopping -business. Emily was eager to hear about it, and, as far as politeness -permitted, encouraged her to talk of it, but Theresa always sheered -off. Nor did she seem to be under the necessity of giving it close or -regular attention. - -“It looks after itself,” she said, with an uneasy laugh. “Let’s talk of -your affairs. We’re going to dine Thursday night with Frank Demorest -and a man we think can help you--a man named Marlowe. He writes for the -_Democrat_. He goes everywhere getting news of politics and wars. I -see his name signed every once in a while. He’s clever, much cleverer -to talk with than he is as a writer. Usually writers are such stupid -talkers. Frank says they save all their good wares to sell.” - -On Thursday at half-past seven the two men came. Demorest was tall and -thin, with a languid air which Emily knew at once was carefully studied -from the best models in fiction and in the class that poses. One could -see at a glance that he was spending his life in doing deliberately -useless things. His way of speaking to admiring Theresa was after -the pattern of well-bred insolence. Marlowe was not so tall, but his -personality seemed to her as vivid and sincere as Demorest’s seemed -colourless and false. He had the self-possession of one who is well -acquainted with the human race. His eyes were gray-green, keen, rather -small and too restless--Emily did not like them. He spoke swiftly yet -distinctly. Demorest seemed a man of the world, Marlowe a citizen of -the world. - -They got into Demorest’s open automobile, Marlowe and Emily in the back -seat, and set out for Clairmont. For the first time in nearly two years -Emily was experiencing a sensation akin to happiness. The city looked -vast and splendid and friendly. Wherever her eyes turned there were -good-humoured faces--the faces of well-dressed, healthy women and men -who were out under that soft, glowing summer sky in a determined search -for pleasure. She saw that Marlowe was smiling as he looked at her. - -“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked, as the automobile slowed down -in a press of cabs and carriages. - -“Not _at_ you, but _with_ you,” he replied. - -“But why?” - -“Because I’m as glad to be here as you are. And you are very glad -indeed, and are showing it so delightfully.” He looked frank but polite -admiration of her sweet, delicate face--she liked his expression as -much as she had disliked the way in which Demorest had examined her -face and figure and dress. - -She sighed. “But it won’t last long,” she said, pensively rather than -sadly. She was thinking of to-morrow and the days thereafter--the days -in which she would be facing a very different aspect of the city. - -“But it will last--if you resolve that it shall,” he said. “Why make up -your mind to the worst? Why not the best? Just keep your eyes on the -present until it frowns. Then the future will be bright by contrast, -and you can look at it.” - -“This city makes me feel painfully small and weak.” Emily hid her -earnestness in a light tone and smile. “And I’m not able to take myself -so very seriously.” - -“You should be glad of that. It seems to me absurd for one to take -himself seriously. It interferes with one’s work. But one ought always -to take his work seriously, I think, and sacrifice everything to it. Do -you remember what Cæsar said to the pilot?” - -“No--what was it?” - -“The pilot said, ‘It’s too stormy to cross the Adriatic to-night. You -will be drowned.’ And Cæsar answered: ‘It is not important whether -I live or die. But it _is_ important that, if I’m alive to-morrow -morning, I shall be on the other shore. Let us start!’ I read that -story many years ago--almost as many as you’ve lived. It has stood me -in good stead several times.” - -At the next slowing down, Marlowe went on: - -“You’re certain to win. All that one needs to do is to keep calm -and not try to hurry destiny. He’s sure to come into his own.” He -hesitated, then added. “And I think your ‘own’ is going to be worth -while.” - -They swung into the Riverside Drive--the sun was making the crest of -the wooded Palisades look as if a forest fire were raging there; the -Hudson, broad and smooth and still, was slowly darkening; the breeze -mingled the freshness of the water and the fragrance of the trees. And -Emily felt a burden, like an oppressively heavy garment, falling from -her. - -“What are you thinking?” asked Marlowe. - -“Of Stoughton--and this,” she replied. - -“Was Stoughton very bad, as bad as those towns usually are to impatient -young persons who wish to live before they die?” - -“Worse than you can imagine--a nightmare. It seems to me that -hereafter, whenever I feel low in my mind, I’ll say ‘Well, at least -this is not Stoughton,’ and be cheerful again.” - -They were at Clairmont, and as Emily saw the inn and its broad porches -and the tables where women and men in parties and in couples were -enjoying themselves, as she drank in the lively, happy scene of the -summer and the city and the open air, she felt like one who is taking -his first outing after an illness that thrust him down to death’s door. -They went round the porch and out into the gravelled open, to a table -that had been reserved for them under the big tree at the edge of the -bluff. - -There was enough light from the electric lamps of the inn and pavilions -to make the table clearly visible, but not enough to blot out the -river and the Palisades. It was not an especially good dinner and was -slowly served, so Frank complained. But Emily found everything perfect, -and astonished Theresa and delighted the men with her flow of high -spirits. Theresa drank more, and Emily less, than her share of the -champagne. As Emily had nothing in her mind which the frankness of wine -could unpleasantly reveal, the contrast between her and Theresa became -strongly, perhaps unjustly, marked with the progress of the “party,” as -Theresa called it; for Theresa, who affected and fairly well carried -off a man-to-man frankness of speech, began to make remarks at which -Demorest laughed loudly, Marlowe politely, and which Emily pretended -not to hear. Demorest drank far too much and presently showed it by -outdoing Theresa. Marlowe saw that Emily was annoyed, and insisted that -he could stay no longer. This forced the return home. - -As they were entering the automobile, Demorest made a politely -insolent observation to Theresa on “her prim friend from New England,” -which Emily could not help overhearing. She flushed; Marlowe frowned -contemptuously at Demorest’s back. - -“Don’t think about him,” said he to Emily, when they were under way. -“He’s too insignificant for such a triumph as spoiling your evening.” - -Emily laughed gaily. “Oh, it is a compliment to be called prim by -some men,” she said, “though I’d not like to be thought prim by those -capable of judging.” - -“Only low-minded or ignorant people are prim,” replied Marlowe. - -“There’s one thing worse,” said Emily. - -“And what is that?” - -“Why, the mask off a mind that is usually masked by primness. I like -deception when it protects me from the sight of offensive things.” - -At the boarding-house Marlowe got out. “Frank and I are going to -supper,” said Theresa to Emily. “You’re coming?” - -“Thanks, no,” answered Emily. “I’m tired to-night.” - -Marlowe accompanied her up the steps and asked her to wait until he had -returned from giving the key to Theresa. When he rejoined her, he said: - -“If you’ll come to my office to-morrow at two, I think I can get you a -chance to show what you can or can’t do.” - -Emily’s eyes shone and her voice was a little uncertain as she said, -after a silence: - -“If you ever had to make a start and suddenly got help from some one, -as I’m getting it from you, you’ll know how I feel.” - -“I’m really not doing you a favour. If you get on, I shall have done -the paper a service. If you don’t, I’ll simply have delayed you on your -way to the work that’s surely waiting for you somewhere.” - -“I shall insist upon being grateful,” said Emily, as she gave him her -hand. She was pleased that he held it a little longer and a little -more tightly than was necessary. - -“I don’t like his eyes,” she thought, “but I do like the way he can -look out of them. They must belie him.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -AMONG A STRANGE PEOPLE. - - -AS the office boy, after inquiry, showed Emily into Marlowe’s office on -the third floor of the _Democrat_ building, he was putting on his coat -to receive her. - -“Good morning,” he said, in a business tone. “You’ll forgive me. I’m -in a rush to get away to Saratoga this evening--for the Republican -convention. Let’s go to the City Editor at once, if you please.” - -They went down a long hall to a door marked “News Room--Morning -Edition.” Marlowe held open the door and she found herself in a large -room filled with desks, at many of which were men in their shirt -sleeves writing. They crossed to a door marked, “City Editor.” Marlowe -knocked. - -“Come in,” an irritated voice responded, “if you must. But don’t stay -long.” - -“What a bear,” said Marlowe cheerfully, not lowering his voice. “It’s a -lady, Bobbie. So you must sheathe your claws.” - -“Bobbie”--or Mr. Stilson--rose, an apology in his strong-featured, -melancholy face. - -“Pardon me, Miss Bromfield,” he said, when he had got her name. -“They’ve been knocking at that door all day long, and coming in and -driving me half mad with their nonsense.” - -“Excuse me,” said Marlowe, “I must get away. This is the young woman -I talked to you about. Don’t mind his manner, Miss Bromfield. He’s -a ‘soft one’ in reality, and puts on the burrs to shield himself. -Good-bye, good luck.” And he was gone, Emily noted vaguely that his -manner toward “Bobbie” was a curious mixture of affection, admiration, -and audacity--“like the little dog with the big one,” she thought. - -Emily seated herself in a chair with newspapers in it but less -occupied in that way than any other horizontal part of the little -office. Stilson was apparently examining her with disapproval. But as -she looked directly into his eyes, she saw that Marlowe had told the -truth. They were beautiful with an expression of manly gentleness. And -she detected the same quality in his voice, beneath a surface tone of -abruptness. - -“I can’t give you a salary,” he said. “We start our beginners on space. -We pay seven and a half a column. You’ll make little at first. I hope -Marlowe warned you against this business.” - -“No,” replied Emily, doing her best to make her manner and voice -pleasing. “On the contrary, he was enthusiastic.” - -“He ought to be ashamed of himself. However, I suppose you’ve got to -make a living. And if a woman must work, or thinks she must, she can’t -discover the superiority of matrimony at its worst more quickly in any -other business.” - -Stilson pressed an electric button and said to the boy who came: “Tell -Mr. Coleman I wish to speak to him.” - -A fat young man, not well shaved, his shirt sleeves rolled up and -exposing a pair of muscular, hairy arms to the elbows and above, -appeared in the doorway with a “Yes, sir,” spoken apologetically. - -“Miss Bromfield, Mr. Coleman. Here is the man who makes the -assignments. He’ll give you something to do. Let her have the desk in -the second row next to the window, Coleman,” Stilson nodded, opened a -newspaper and gave it absorbed attention. - -Emily was irritated because he had not risen or spoken the commonplaces -of courtesy; but she told herself that such details of manners could -not be kept up in the rush of business. She followed Coleman dejectedly -to the table-desk assigned her. He called a poorly preserved young -woman of perhaps twenty-five, sitting a few rows away, and introduced -her as “Miss Farwell, one of the society reporters.” Emily looked at -her with the same covert but searching curiosity with which she was -examining Emily. - -“You are new?” Miss Farwell asked. - -“Very new and very frightened.” - -“It is terrible for us women, isn’t it?” Miss Farwell’s plaintive smile -uncovered irregular teeth heavily picked out with gold. “But you’ll -find it not so unpleasant here after you catch on. They try to make it -as easy as they can for women.” - -Emily’s thoughts were painful as she studied her fellow-journalist, -“Why do women get themselves up in such rubbish?” she said to herself -as she noted Miss Farwell’s slovenly imitation of an imported model. -“And why don’t they make themselves clean and neat? and why do they let -themselves get fat and pasty?” Miss Farwell’s hair was in strings and -thin behind the ears. Her hands were not well looked after. Her face -had a shine that was glossiest on her nose and chin. Her dress, with -its many loose ends of ruffle and puff, was far from fresh. She looked -a discouraged young woman of the educated class. And her querulous -voice, a slight stoop in her shoulders, and soft, projecting, pathetic -eyes combined to give her the air of one who feels that she is out of -her station, but strives to bear meekly a doom of being down-trodden -and put upon. “If ever she marries,” thought Emily, “she will be humbly -grateful at first, and afterwards a nagger.” - -In the hope of seeing a less depressing object, Emily sent her glance -straying about the room. The men had suspended work and were watching -her with interest and frank pleasure. “No wonder,” she thought, as she -remembered her own neatness, the freshness and simplicity of her blue -linen gown--she had been able to get it at a fashionable shop for fifty -dollars because it was a model and the selling season was ended. In -the far corner sat another woman. Miss Farwell, noting on whom Emily’s -glance paused, said: “That is Miss Gresham. She’s a Vassar girl who -came on the paper last year. She’s a favorite with Mr. Stilson, so she -gets on.” - -Miss Gresham looked up from her writing and Miss Farwell beckoned. -Emily’s spirits rose as Miss Gresham came. “This,” she thought, “is -nearer my ideal of an intelligent, self-respecting working woman,” Miss -Gresham was dressed simply but fitly--a properly made shirt-waist, -white and clean and completed at the neck with a French collar; a short -plain black skirt that revealed presentable feet in presentable boots. -She shook hands in a friendly business-like way, and Emily thought; -“She would be pretty if her hair were not so severely brushed back. As -it is, she is handsome--and _so_ clean.” - -“I was just going out to lunch. Won’t you come with me?” asked Miss -Gresham. - -“I don’t know what I’m permitted to do.” Emily looked toward Mr. -Coleman’s desk. He was watching her and now called her. As she -approached, his grin became faintly flirtatious. - -“Here is a little assignment for you,” he said graciously, extending -one of his unpleasant looking arms with a cutting from the _Evening -Journal_ held in the large, plump hand. As he spoke the door of Mr. -Stilson’s office immediately behind him opened, and Mr. Stilson -appeared. - -“What are you doing there?” he demanded. - -Coleman jumped guiltily. “I was just going to start Miss Bromfield.” -His voice was a sort of wheedling whine, like that of a man persuading -a fractious horse on which he is mounted and of which he is afraid. - -“Let me see.” Stilson took the cutting. “Won’t do. Send her with Miss -Gresham.” And he turned away without looking at Emily or seeming -conscious of her presence. But she sent a grateful glance after him. -“How much more sensible,” she thought, “than turning me out to wander -helplessly about alone.” - -Miss Gresham’s assignment was a national convention of women’s -clubs--“A tame affair,” said she, “unless the delegates get into a -wrangle. If men squabble and lose their tempers and make fools of -themselves, it’s taken as a matter of course. But if women do the very -same thing in the very same circumstances, it’s regarded as proof of -their folly and lack of capacity.” - -“I suppose the men delight in seeing the women writhe under criticism,” -said Emily. - -“Well, it isn’t easy to endure criticism,” replied Miss Gresham. “But -it must be borne, and it does one good, whether it’s just or unjust. It -teaches one to realise that this world is not a hothouse.” - -“I wish it were--sometimes,” confessed Emily. The near approach of “the -struggle for existence” made her faint-hearted. - -Miss Gresham could not resist a smile as she looked at Emily, in face, -in dress, in manner, the “hothouse” woman. “It could be for you, if -you wished it.” - -“But I don’t,” said Emily, with sudden energy and a change of -expression that brought out the strong lines of her mouth and chin. And -Miss Gresham began to suspect that there were phases to her character -other than sweetness and a fondness for the things immemorially -feminine. “I purpose to learn to like the open air,” she said, and -looked it. - -Miss Gresham nodded approvingly. “The open air is best, in the end. It -develops every plant according to its nature. The hothouses stunt the -best plants, and disguise lots of rank weeds.” - -As they were coming away from the convention, Miss Gresham said: -“Instead of handing in your story to the City Desk, keep it, and we’ll -go over it together this evening, after I’m through.” - -“Thank you--it’s so good of you to take the trouble. Yes, I’ll try.” -Emily hesitated and grew red. - -“What is it?” asked Miss Gresham, encouragingly. - -“I was thinking about--this evening. I never thought of it before--do -you write at night? And how do you get home?” - -“Certainly I write at night. And I go home as other business people do. -I take the car as far as it will take me, then I walk.” - -“I shall be frightened--horribly frightened.” - -“For a few evenings, but you’ll soon be used to it. You don’t know -what a relief it will be to feel free to go about alone. Of course, -they’re careful at the office what kind of night-assignments they give -women. But I make it a point not to let them think of my sex any more -than is absolutely necessary. It’s a poor game to play in the end--to -shirk on the plea of sex. I think most of the unpleasant experiences -working-women have are due to that folly--dragging their sex into their -business.” - -Emily felt and looked dismal as she sat at her desk, struggling to put -on paper her idea of what the newspaper would want of what she had seen -and heard. She wasted so many sheets of paper in trying to begin that -she was ashamed to look at the heap they made on the floor beside her. -Also, she felt that every one was watching her and secretly laughing at -her. After three hours of wretchedness she had produced seven loosely -written pages--“enough to fill columns,” she thought, but in reality -a scant half-column. “I begin to understand why Miss Farwell looks so -mussy,” she said to herself, miserably eyeing her stained hands and -wilted dress, and thinking of her hair, fiercely bent upon hanging out -and down. She was so nervous that if she had been alone she would have -cried. - -“It is impossible,” she thought. “I can never do it. I’m of no account. -What a weak, foolish creature I am.” - -She looked round, with an idea of escaping, to hide herself and never -return. But Miss Gresham was between her and the door. Besides, had she -not burned her bridges behind her? She simply must, must, must make the -fight. - -She remembered Marlowe’s story of Cæsar and the pilot--“I can’t more -than fail and die,” she groaned, “and if I am to live, I must work.” -Then she laughed at herself for taking herself so seriously. She -thought of Marlowe--“What would he say if he could see me now?” She -went through her list of acquaintances, picturing to herself how each -would look and what each would say at sight of her sitting there--a -working-girl, begrimed by toil. She thought of Wayland--the contrast -between her present position and what it would have been had she -married him. Then she recalled the night he seized her and kissed -her--her sensation of loathing, how she had taken a bath afterward -and had gone to bed in the dark with her neck where he had kissed her -smarting like a poisoned sore. - -“You take the Madison Avenue car?” Miss Gresham interrupted, startling -her so that she leaped in her chair. “We’ll go together and read what -you’ve written.” - -Miss Gresham went through it without changing expression. At the end -she nodded reassuringly. “It’s a fairly good essay. Of course you -couldn’t be expected to know the newspaper style.” - -And she went on to point out the crudities--how it might have been -begun, where there might have been a few lines of description, -why certain paragraphs were too stilted, “too much like magazine -literature.” She gave Emily a long slip of paper on which was about -a newspaper column of print. “Here’s a proof of my story. I wrote it -before dinner and it was set up early. Of course, it’s not a model. -But after you leave me you can read it over, and perhaps it may give -you some points. Then you might try--not to-night, but to-morrow -morning--to write your story again. That’s the easiest and quickest way -to catch on.” - -At Emily’s corner Miss Gresham said, “I’ll take you home this once,” -and left the car with her. As they went through the silent, empty -street, their footsteps lightly echoing from house wall to house wall, -Emily forgot her article and her other worriments in the foreboding of -these midnight journeys alone. “It seems to me that I simply can’t,” -she thought. “And yet I simply must--and of course I will. If only I -had been doing it for a month, or even a week, instead of having to -look forward to the first time.” - -Miss Gresham took her to her door, then strode away down the street--an -erect, resolute figure, business-like from head to heels. Emily looked -after her with rising courage, “What a brave, fine girl she is,” she -thought, “how intelligent, how capable. She is the kind of woman I have -dreamt about.” - -And she went in with a lightening heart. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -AN ORCHID HUNTER. - - -THE first night that Emily ventured home alone a man spoke to her -before she had got twenty feet from the car tracks. She had thought -that if this should happen she would faint. But when he said, “It’s a -pleasant evening,” she put her head down and walked steadily on and -told herself she was not in the least frightened. It was not until she -was inside her door that her legs trembled and her heart beat fast. She -sank down on the stairs in the dark and had a nervous chill. And it was -a very unhappy, discouraged, self-distrustful girl that presently crept -shakily up to bed. - -On the second night-journey she thought she heard some one close and -stealthy behind her. She broke into a run, arriving at the door out of -breath and ashamed of herself. “You might have been arrested,” said -Miss Gresham when Emily confessed to her. “If a policeman had seen you, -he’d have thought you were flying from the scene of your crime.” - -A few nights afterwards a policeman did stop her. “You’ve got to keep -out of this street,” he began roughly. “I’ve noticed you several times -now.” - -Instead of being humiliated or frightened, Emily became angry. “I’m a -newspaper woman--on the _Democrat_,” she said haughtily, and just then -he got a full view of her face and of the look in her eyes. - -He took off his helmet. “Beg pardon, miss,” he said humbly, and with -sincerity of regret. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t see you distinctly. I’ve -got a sister that does night work. I ought to a knowed better.” - -Emily made no reply, but went on. She was never afraid again, and after -a month wondered how it had been possible for her to be afraid, and -pitied women who were as timid and helpless as she had been. Whenever -the policeman passed her he touched his hat. She soon noticed that it -was not always the same policeman and understood that the first one had -warned the entire force at the station house. Often when there were -many loungers in the street the policeman turned and followed her at a -respectful distance until she was home; and one rainy night he asked -her to wait in the shelter of a deep doorway at the corner while he -went across to a saloon and borrowed an umbrella. He gave it to her and -dropped behind, coming up to get it at her door. - -Thus what threatened to be her greatest trial proved no trial at all. - -On the last day of her first week, Mr. Stilson sent for her and gave -her an order on the cashier for twelve dollars. “Are they treating you -well?” he asked, his eyes kind and encouraging. - -“Yes, _you_ are treating me well.” - -Stilson coloured. - -“And I honestly don’t think I’ve earned so much money,” she went on. - -“I’m not in the habit of swindling the owners of the _Democrat_,” he -interrupted curtly. - -Emily turned away, humiliated and hurt. “He is insulting,” she said to -herself with flashing eyes and quivering lips. “Oh, if I did not have -to endure it, I’d say things he’d not forget.” - -She was sitting at her desk, still fuming, when he came out of his -office and looked round. As he walked toward her, she saw that he was -limping painfully. “Pardon me, Miss Bromfield,” he said. “I’m suffering -the tortures of hell from this infernal rheumatism.” And he was gone -without looking at her or giving her a chance to reply. - -“So, it’s only rheumatism,” she thought, mollified as to the rudeness, -but disappointed as to the office romance of the City Editor’s “secret -sorrow.” She did not tell Miss Gresham of the apology, but could not -refrain from saying: “I have heard that Mr. Stilson is rude because he -is rheumatic.” - -“That may have something to do with it. I remember when he got it. -He was a writer then, and went down to the Oil River floods. The -correspondents had to sleep on the wet ground, and endure all sorts -of hardships. He was in a hospital in Pittsburg for two months. But -there’s something else besides rheumatism in his case. Long before -that, I saw----” - -Miss Gresham stopped short, seemed irritated against herself, and -changed the subject abruptly. - -Emily timidly joined the crowd at the cashier’s window and, when her -turn came, was much disconcerted by the sharp, suspicious look which -the man within cast at her. She signed and handed in her order. He -searched through the long rows of envelopes in the pay drawer--searched -in vain. Another suspicious look at her and he began again. “I’m not to -get it after all” she thought with a sick, sinking feeling--how often -afterward she remembered those anxious moments and laughed at herself. -The cashier’s man searched on and presently drew out an envelope. Again -that sharp look and he handed her the money. She could not restrain a -deep sigh of relief. - -She went home in triumph to Theresa and displayed the ten dollar bill -and the two ones as if they were the proofs of a miracle. “It’s a -thrilling sensation,” she said, “to find that I can really do something -for which somebody will pay.” She remembered Stilson’s rudeness. “It -was not so bad after all,” she thought. “He convinced me that I had -really earned the money. If he’d been polite I should have feared he -was giving it to me out of good-nature.” - -“Oh, you’re getting on all right,” said Theresa. “I saw Marlowe last -night at Delmonico’s. Frank and I were dining there, and he stopped to -speak to us. I asked him about you, and--shall I tell you just what he -said?” - -“I want to know the worst.” - -“Well, he said--of course, I asked about you the first thing--and -he said that he and your City Editor had been dining at the Lotos -Club--Mr. Stilson, isn’t it? And Mr. Stilson said: ‘If she wasn’t so -good-looking, there might be a chance of her becoming a real person.’ -Marlowe says that’s a high compliment for Mr. Stilson, because he is -mad on the subject of idle, useless women and men. And, Mr. Stilson -went on to say that you had judgment and weren’t vain, and that you had -as much patience and persistence as Miss--I forget her name----” - -“Was it Gresham?” asked Emily. - -“No--that wasn’t the name. Was it Tarheel or Farheel or -Farville--no--it was----” - -“Oh.” Emily looked disappointed and foolish. She had seen Miss Farwell -an hour before--patient and persevering indeed, but frowzier and more -“put upon” than ever. - -“Yes--Miss Farwell. Who is she?” - -“One of the women down at the office,” Emily said, and hurried on with: -“What else did Marlowe say?” - -“That’s all, except that he wanted us four to dine together soon. When -can you go--on a Sunday?” - -“No, Monday--that’s my free day. I took it because it is also Miss -Gresham’s day off. She’s the only friend I’ve made downtown thus far.” - -Marlowe came to Emily’s desk one morning in her third week on the -_Democrat_. “What did you have in the paper to-day?” he asked, after -he had explained that he was just returned from Washington and Chicago. - -“A few paragraphs,” she replied, drawing a space slip from a drawer and -displaying three small items pasted one under the other. - -“Not startling, are they?” was Marlowe’s comment. “I’ve asked Miss -Duncan to bring you to dine with Demorest and me--the postponed dinner. -But I’d rather dine with you alone. I don’t think Demorest shines in -your society; then, too, we can talk shop. I’ve a great deal to say to -you, and I think I can be of some use. We could dine in the open air up -at the Casino--don’t you like dining in the open air?” - -Emily had been brought up under the chaperon system. While she had no -intention of clinging to it, she hesitated now that the occasion for -beginning the break had come. Also, she remembered what Marlowe had -said to her at her door. She wished that she were going unchaperoned -with some other man first. - -“There’s a prejudice against the Casino among some conventional -people,” he said. “But that does not apply to us.” - -“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that,” and she accepted. - -She asked Miss Gresham about him a few hours afterward. - -“You’ve met Mr. Marlowe?” she said, in a cordial tone. “Don’t you -think him clever? You may hear some gossip about him--and women. He’s -good-looking, and--and much like all men in one respect. He’s the sort -of man that is suspected of affairs, but whose name is never coupled -with any particular woman’s. That’s a good sign, don’t you think? It -shows that the gossip isn’t started or encouraged by him.” - -“Is it--proper for me to go to dinner with him alone?” - -“Why not? Of course, if they see you, they may talk about you. But what -does that matter? It would be different if you were waiting with folded -hands for some man to come along and undertake to support you for life. -Then gossip might damage your principal asset. But now your principal -asset isn’t reputation for conventionality, but brains. And you don’t -have to ask favours of anybody.” - -Marlowe and Emily had a table at the end of the walk parallel with the -entrance-drive. The main subject of conversation was Emily--what she -had done, what she could do, and how she could do it. “All that I’m -saying is general,” he said. “I’ll help you to apply it, if I may. -There’s no reason why you should not be doing well--making at least -forty dollars a week--within six months. We’ll get up some Sunday -specials together to help you on faster. The main point is a new way of -looking at whatever you’re writing about. Your good taste will always -save you from being flat or silly, even when you’re not brilliant.” - -While Marlowe talked, Emily observed, as accurately as it is possible -for a young person to observe when the person under observation -is good-looking, young, of the opposite sex, and when both are, -consciously and unconsciously, doing their utmost to think well each of -the other. He had a low, agreeable voice, and an unusually attractive -mouth. His mind was quick, his manner simple and direct. Although he -was clearly younger than thirty-five, his hair was sprinkled with gray -at the temples, and there were wrinkles in his forehead and at the -corners of his eyes. He made many gestures, and she liked to watch his -hands--the hands of an athlete, but well-shaped. - -“I ride and swim almost every day,” he said incidentally to some -discussion about the sedentary life. And she knew why he looked in -perfect health. Emily admired him, liked him, with the quick confidence -of youth trusted him, before they had been talking two hours. And it -pleased her to see admiration of her in his eyes, and to feel that he -was physically and mentally glad to be near her. - -As they were drinking champagne (slightly modified by apollinaris), the -acquaintance progressed swiftly. It would have been all but impossible -for her to resist the contagion of his open-mindedness, had she been -so inclined. But she herself had rapidly changed in her month in New -York. She felt that she was able to meet a man on his own ground now, -and that she understood men far better, and she seemed to herself to -be seeing life in a wholly new aspect--its aspect to the self-reliant -and free. She helped him to hasten through those ante-rooms to close -acquaintance, where, as he put it, “stupid people waste most of their -time and all their chances for happiness.” - -He had a way of complimenting her which was peculiarly insidious. He -was talking earnestly about her work, his mind apparently absorbed. -Abruptly he interrupted himself with, “Don’t mind my talking so much. -It’s happiness. One is not often happy. And I feel to-night”--this -with raillery in his voice--“like an orchid hunter who has been -dragging himself through jungles for days and is at last rewarded with -the sight of a new and wonderful specimen--high up in a difficult -tree, but still, perhaps, accessible.” And then he went on to discuss -orchids with her and told a story of an acquaintance, a half-mad orchid -hunter--all with no further reference to her personality. - -It was not until they were strolling through the Park toward -Fifty-ninth street that the subject which is sure to appear sooner or -later in such circumstances and conjunctions started from cover and -fluttered into the open. - -He glanced at the moon. “It would be impossible to improve upon that -nice old lady up there as a chaperon, wouldn’t it?” - -“I’m not sure that I’d give my daughter into her charge,” said Emily. - -“Why do you say that?” - -“Oh, I think it all depends upon the woman.” - -“Any woman who couldn’t be trusted with the moon as a chaperon, either -wouldn’t be safe with any chaperon or wouldn’t be worth saving from the -consequences of her own folly.” - -“Possibly. But--I confess I wouldn’t trust even myself implicitly to -that old lady up there, as you call her.” - -“But you are doing so this evening.” - -“Mercy, no. I’ve two other guardians--myself and you.” - -“Thank you for including me. I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.” - -“Then I’ll try to arrange it so that I sha’n’t have to call you in to -help me.” - -“Would you think me very absurd if I told you, in the presence of your -chaperon, that”--His look made her’s waver for an instant--“I must have -my orchid?” - -“Not absurd,” replied Emily. “But abrupt and----” - -“And--what?” - -“And”--She laughed. “And interesting.” - -“There’s only a short time to live,” he answered, “and I’m no longer -so young as I once was. But I don’t wish to hurry you. I don’t expect -any answer now--it would be highly improper, even if your answer were -ready.” He looked at her with a very agreeable audacity. “And I’m not -sure that it isn’t ready. But I can wait. I simply spoke my own mind, -as soon as I saw that it would not be disagreeable to you to hear it.” - -“How did you know that?” - -“Instinct, pure instinct. No sensitive man ever failed to know whether -a woman found him tolerable or intolerable.” - -“Don’t think,” said Emily, seriously but not truthfully, “that I’m -taking your remark as a tribute to myself. I understand that you are -striving to do what is expected of a man on such a night as this.” - -“Does one have to tear his hair, and foam at the mouth, in order to -convince you?” asked Marlowe, his eyes laughing, yet earnest too. - -“Yes,” said Emily calmly. “Begin--please.” - -“No--I’ve said enough, for the evening.” He was walking close to her, -and there was no raillery in either his tone or his eyes. “It’s so new -and wonderful a sensation to me, that as yet, just the pleasure of it -is all that I ask.” - -“But you don’t fit in with my plans--not at all,” she said, in a -way that must have been encouraging since it was not in the least -discouraging. “I’m a working-woman, and must not bother with--with -orchid hunters.” - -“Your plans? Oh!” He laughed, “Let me help you revise them.” He saw -her face change. “Or rather,” he quickly corrected, “let me help you -realise them.” - -They were to join Theresa and Frank at the New York roof-garden. Just -before they entered the street doors, he said: “I think there are only -two things in the world worth living for--work and love. And I think -neither is perfect without the other. Perhaps--who knows?--” - -Her answering look was not directed toward him, but it was none the -less an answer. It made him feel that they were both happy in the -anticipation of greater happiness imminent. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -FURTHER EXPLORATION. - - -WHEN Emily came into the sitting-room the next morning at ten she -found that Theresa had ordered breakfast for both sent there, and was -waiting. She was in a dressing-gown, her hair twisted in a careless -knot, her eyes tired and clouded. The air was tainted with the sweet, -stale, heavy perfume which was an inseparable part of her personality. -“I wish Theresa wouldn’t use that scent,” thought Emily--her first -thought always when she came near Theresa or into any place where -Theresa had recently been. - -“How well you have slept,” began Theresa, looking with good-natured -envy at Emily’s fresh face and fresh French shirt-waist. - -“Not very,” replied Emily. “I was awake until nearly daylight.” - -“Did you hear me come in?” - -“I heard you moving about your room just as I was going to sleep.” -Emily knew Theresa’s mode of life. But she avoided seeming to know, and -ignored Theresa’s frequent attempts to open the subject of herself and -Frank. She thought she had gone far enough when she made it clear that -she was not sitting in judgment upon her. - -“I’m blue--desperately blue,” continued Theresa. “I don’t know which -way to turn.” There was a long pause, then with a flush she looked at -Emily and dropped her uneasy eyes. “How----” - -“I think it most unwise,” interrupted Emily, “to confide one’s private -affairs to any other, and I know it’s most impertinent for any other to -peer into them.” - -“You’re right--but I’ve got to talk it over with some one.” - -“I hope you won’t tell me more than is absolutely necessary, Theresa.” - -“Well--I’m ‘up against it’--to use the kind of language that fits -such a vulgar muddle. And I’ve neglected my business until there’s -nothing left of it.” A long pause, then in a strained voice: “I’ve been -planning all along to marry Frank Demorest and--I find not only that he -wouldn’t marry me if he could, but couldn’t if he would. He’s going to -marry money. He’s got to. He told me frankly last night. He’s down to -less than ten thousand a year, about a third of what it costs him to -live. And he’s living up his principal.” - -“This is the saddest tale of privation and poverty I ever heard,” said -Emily. Then more seriously: “You’re not in love with him?” - -“Well--he’s good-looking; he knows the world; he has the right sort -of manners, and goes with the right sort of people, and he comes of a -splendid old family.” - -“His father kept a drygoods shop, didn’t he?” - -“Yes--but that was when Frank was a young man. And it was a big -shop--wholesale, you know--not retail. He never worked in it or -anywhere else. You could tell that he’d never worked, but had always -been a gentleman, and only looked after the property.” - -“I understand,” Emily nodded with great solemnity. “We’ll concede that -he’s a gentleman. What next?” - -“Well, I wanted to marry him. It would have been satisfactory in every -way. I’d have got back my position in society that we had to give up -when father lost everything and--and died--and mother wanted to drag me -off to live in Blue Mountain. Just think of it--Blue Mountain, Vermont!” - -“I am thinking of it--or, rather, of Stoughton,” said Emily, with a -shiver. - -“And I simply wouldn’t go. I went to work instead.--But--well--I’m too -lazy to work. I couldn’t--and I can’t. I can talk about it and pretend -about it--but I can’t _do_ it. And now I’ve got to choose between work -and Blue Mountain once more.” - -“But you had that choice before, and you didn’t go to Blue Mountain. -Why are you so cut up now?” - -“I’ve been skating on thin ice these last four years. And I’ve begun to -think about the future.” - -“How could I advise you? I can only say that you do well to think -seriously about what you’re to do--if you won’t work.” - -“I can’t, I simply can’t, work. It’s so common, so--Oh, I don’t see it -as you do, as I was trying to make believe I saw it when I first talked -to you. I feel degraded because I am not as we used to be. I want a big -house and lots of servants and social position. You don’t know how low -I feel in a street car. You don’t know how wretched I am when I am in -the Waldorf or Sherry’s or driving in the Park in a hired hansom, or -when I see the carriages in the evening with the women on their way to -swell dinners or balls. You don’t know how I despise myself, how I have -despised myself for the last four years. No wonder Frank wouldn’t marry -me. He’d have been a fool to.” The tears were rolling down Theresa’s -face. - -It was impossible for Emily not to sympathize with a grief so genuine. -“Poor girl,” she thought, “she can no more help being a snob than she -can help being a brunette.” And she said aloud in a gentle voice: “What -have you thought of doing?” - -“I’ve got to marry,” answered Theresa. “And marry quick. And marry -money.” - -A queer look came into Emily’s face at this restatement of her own -attempted solution of the Stoughton problem. Theresa misunderstood the -look. “You are so unsympathetic,” she said, lighting a cigarette. - -Emily was putting on her hat. “No--not unsympathetic,” she replied. -“Anything but that. Only--you are healthy and strong and capable, -Theresa. Why should you sell yourself?” - -“Oh, I know--you imagine you think it fine and dignified to work for -one’s living. But in the bottom of your heart you know better. You know -it is not refined and womanly--that it means that a woman has been -beaten, has been unable to get a man to support her as a lady should be -supported.” - -Emily faced her and, as she put on her gloves, said in a simple, -good-tempered way: “I admit that I’m conventional enough at times and -discouraged enough at times to feel that it would be a temptation if -some man--not too disagreeable--were to offer to take care of me for -life. But I’m trying to outgrow it, trying to come up to a new ideal of -self-respect. And I believe, Theresa, that the new ideal is better for -us. Anyhow in the circumstances, it’s certainly wiser and--and safer.” - -“What are you going to do about Marlowe?” Theresa thrust at her with -deliberate suddenness and some malice. - -Emily kept the colour out of her face, but her eyes betrayed to Theresa -that the thrust had reached. “Well, what about Marlowe?” She decided to -drop evasion and was at once free from embarrassment. - -“He’ll not marry you. He isn’t a marrying man.” - -“And why should he marry me? And why should I marry him? I have no wish -to be tied. It was necessity that forced me to be free; but I know more -certainly every day that it isn’t necessity that will keep me free. -You see, Theresa. I don’t hate work, as you do. I feel that every one -has to work anyhow, and I prefer to work for myself and be paid for it, -rather than to be some man’s housekeeper and get my wages as if they -were charity.” - -“If I married, you may be sure I’d be no man’s housekeeper,” said -Theresa, with a toss of the head. - -“I was making the position as dignified as possible. Suppose you found -after marriage that you didn’t care for your husband; or suppose you -deliberately married for money. I should say that mere housekeeper -would be enviable in comparison.” - -“There’s a good deal of pretence about that, isn’t there, honestly?” -Theresa was laughing disagreeably. “It’s a thoroughly womanish remark. -But it’s a remark to make to a man, not when two women who understand -woman-nature are talking quietly, with no man to overhear.” - -“Certainly I’ve known a great many women, nice women, who seemed to be -living quite comfortably and contentedly with husbands they did not -in the least like. And I am no better, no more sensitive than other -women. Still--I feel as I say. Let’s call it a masculine quality in -me. I doubt if there are many husbands who live with wives they don’t -like--like a little for the time, at any rate.” - -“I’ve often thought of that. It’s the most satisfactory thing about -being a woman and having a man in love with one. One knows, as a man -never can know about a woman, that he means at least part of it. But -you ought to be at your beloved office. You don’t think I’m so horribly -horrid, do you?” - -Emily stood behind Theresa and put her arms around her shoulders. -“You’ve a right to feel about yourself and do with yourself as you -please,” she said. “And in the ways that are important to me, you are -the most generous, helpful girl in the world.” - -“Well, I don’t believe I’m mean. But what is a woman to do in such a -hard world?” - -“Go to the office,” said Emily. She patted Theresa’s cheek -encouragingly. “Put off being blue, dear, until the last minute. Then -perhaps you won’t need to be blue or won’t have time. Good-bye!” - -What _was_ she going to do about Marlowe? She began to think of it as -she left the house, and she was still debating it as she entered the -_Democrat_ building and saw him waiting for the elevator. - -“Just whom I wish to see,” he began. “No, not for that -reason--altogether,” he went on audaciously answering her thought, as -if she had spoken it or looked it, when she had done neither. “This -is business. I’m going to Pittsburg to get specials on the strike. -Canfield’s sending you along.” - -“Why?” Resentment was rising in her. How could he, how dare he, -advertise her to the Managing Editor thus falsely?--“Why should he send -me?” - -“Because I asked him. He opposed it, but I finally persuaded him. I -wanted you for my own sake. Incidentally I saw that it was a chance -for you. I laid it on rather strong about your talents, and so you’ve -simply got to give a good account of yourself.” - -“I cannot go,” she said coldly. “It’s impossible.” - -They went into the elevator. “Come up to the Managing Editor’s office -with me,” he said. He motioned her into a seat in Canfield’s anteroom -and sat beside her. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Let us never be -afraid to tell each other the exact truth.” - -“How could I go out there alone with you? The whole office, everybody -we meet there, would be talking about us.” - -“I see,” he said with raillery. “You thought I had sacrificed your -reputation in my eagerness to get you within easy reach of my wiles? -Well, perhaps I might have done it in some circumstances. But in this -case that happens not to have been my idea. I remembered what you have -for the moment forgotten--that you are on the staff of the _Democrat_. -I got you the assignment to do part of this strike. My private reasons -for doing so are not in the matter at all. You may rest assured that, -if I had not thought you’d send good despatches and make yourself -stronger on the paper and justify my insistence, I should not have -interfered.” - -She sat silent, ashamed of the exhibition of vanity and suspicion into -which she had been hurried. “I beg your pardon,” she said at last. - -“I love you,” he answered in a low voice. “And those three little words -mean more to me--than I thought they could mean. Let us go in to see -Canfield.” - -“I don’t in the least trust Marlowe’s judgment about you, now that I’ve -seen you,” said Mr. Canfield--polite, pale, thin of face, with a sharp -nose; his dark circled eyes betrayed how restlessly and sleeplessly his -mind prowled through the world in the daily search for the newest news. -“But my own judgment is gone too. So if you please, go to Furnaceville -for us.” He dropped his drawing-room tone and poured out a flood of -instructions--“Send us what you see--what you really see. If you see -misery, send it. If not, for heaven’s sake, don’t ‘fake’ it. Put -humour in your stuff--all the humour you possibly can--‘fake’ that, if -necessary. But it won’t be necessary, if you have real eyes. Go to the -workmen’s houses. Look all through them--parlours, bedrooms, kitchen. -Look at the grocer’s bills and butcher’s. Tell what their clothes cost. -Describe their children. Talk to their children. Make us see just what -kind of people these are that are making such a stir. You’ve a great -opportunity. Don’t miss it. And don’t, don’t, don’t, do ‘fine writing.’ -No ‘literature’--just life--men, women, children. Here’s an order for a -hundred dollars. If you run short, Marlowe will telegraph you more.” - -“Then we don’t go together after all?” she said to Marlowe, as they -left Canfield’s office. - -“I’m sorry you’re to be disappointed,” he replied, mockingly. “I -stay in Pittsburg for the present. You go out to the mills--out to -Furnaceville first.” - -“Where the militia are?” - -“Yes--they’re expecting trouble there next week. I’ll probably be on in -a day or so. But I must see several people in Pittsburg first. You’ll -have the artist with you, though. Try to keep him sober. But if he -_will_ get drunk, turn him adrift. He’ll only hamper you.” - -Emily was in a fever as she cashed the order and went uptown to pack -a small trunk and catch the six o’clock train. Going on an important -mission thus early in her career as a working-woman would have been -exciting enough, however quiet the occasion. But going among militia -and rioters, going unchaperoned with two men, going the wildest part -of the excursion with one man and he an artist of unsteady habits who -would need watching--she could not grasp it. However, an hour after -they were settled in the Pullman, she had forgotten everything except -the work she was to do--or fail to do. Indeed, it had already begun. -Marlowe brought with him a big bundle of newspapers, and a boy from the -_Democrat’s_ Philadelphia office came to the station there, and gave -him another and bigger bundle. - -“I’m reading up,” said Marlowe, “and it won’t do you any harm to do the -same. Then, when we arrive, we’ll know all that’s been going on, and -we’ll be able to step right into it without delay.” - -The artist went to the smoking compartment. She and Marlowe attacked -the papers. Both read until dinner, and again after dinner until the -berths were made. When they talked it was of the strike. Marlowe -neither by word nor by look indicated that he was conscious of any -but a purely professional bond between them. And she soon felt as he -acted--occasionally hoping that _he_ did not altogether feel as he -acted, but was restraining himself through fine instinct. - -When they separated at Pittsburg, and she and the artist were on the -way in the chill morning to the train for Furnaceville, she remembered -that he had not shown the slightest anxiety about the peril into which -she was going--and going by his arrangement. But she was soon deep in -the Pittsburg morning papers, her mind absorbed in the battle between -brain-workers and brawn-workers of which she was to be a witness. She -was impatient to arrive, impatient to carry out the suggestions which -her imagination had evolved from what she had been reading. To her the -strike, with its anxieties and perils for thousands, meant only her own -opportunity, as she noted with some self-reproach. - -“I hope they’ll get licked,” said the artist. - -“Who?” asked Emily, looking at him more carefully than she had thus -far, and remembering that he had not been introduced to her and that -she did not know his name. - -“The workingmen, of course,” he replied. “I know them. My father was -one of ’em. I came from this neighbourhood.” - -“I should think your sympathies would be with them.” Emily was -coldly polite. She did not like the young man’s look of coarse -dissipation--dull eyes, clouded skin, and unhealthy lips and teeth. - -“That shows you don’t know them. They are the most unreasonable lot, -and if they had the chance they’d be brutal tyrants. They have no -respect for brains.” - -“But they might be right in this case. I don’t say that they are. It’s -so difficult to judge what is right and what wrong.” - -“You may be sure they’re wrong. My father was always wrong. Why, if -he and his friends had been able to carry out all they used to talk, -the whole world would be a dead level of savages. They used to call -everybody who didn’t do manual labour a ‘parasite on the toiling -masses.’ As if the toiling masses would have any toiling to do to -enable them to earn bread and comfortable homes for themselves if it -were not for the brain-workers.” - -“Oh, it seems to me that we’re all toilers together, each in his own -way. Perhaps it’s because I’m too stupid to understand it, but I don’t -think much of theories about these things.” - -The train stopped, the brakeman shouted, “Furnaceville!” Emily and the -artist descended to the station platform, there to be eyed searchingly -by a crowd of roughly dressed men with scowling faces. When the train -had moved on without discharging the load of non-union workers they -were expecting, their faces relaxed and they became a cheerful crowd -of Americans. They watched the “lady from the city,” with respectful, -fascinated side-glances. Those nearest her looked aimlessly but -earnestly about, as if hoping to see or to imagine some way of being -of service to her. Through the crowd pushed a young man, whom Emily at -once knew was of the newspaper profession. - -“Is this Miss Bromfield?” he asked. - -“Yes,” replied Emily, “from the New York _Democrat_.” - -“My name is Holyoke. I’m the Pittsburg correspondent of the _Democrat_. -Mr. Marlowe telegraphed me to meet you and see that you did not get -into any danger, and also to engage rooms for you.” - -Emily beamed upon Mr. Holyoke. Marlowe _had_ thought of her--had been -anxious about her. And instead of saying so, he had acted. “Thank you -so much,” she said. “This gentleman is from the _Democrat_ also.” - -“My name is Camp,” said the artist, making a gesture toward the -unwieldy bundle of drawing sheets wrapped flat which he carried under -his arm. - -“I have arranged for you at the Palace Hotel,” continued Holyoke. -“Don’t build your hopes too high on that name. I took back-rooms on the -second floor because the hotel is just across an open space from the -entrance to the mills.” - -Emily thought a moment on this location and its reason, then grew -slightly paler. Holyoke looked at her with the deep sympathy which a -young man must always feel for the emotions of a young and good-looking -woman. “If there is any trouble, it’ll be over quickly once it begins,” -he said, “and you can easily keep out of the way.” - -They climbed a dreary, rough street, lined with monotonous if -comfortable cottages. It was a depressing town, as harsh as the iron by -which all of its inhabitants lived. “People ought to be well paid to -live in such a place as this,” said Emily. - -“I don’t see how they stand it,” Holyoke replied. “But the local paper -has an editorial against the militia this morning, and it speaks of the -town as ‘our lovely little city, embowered among the mountains, the -home of beauty and refinement.’” - -The Palace was a three-story country-town hotel, with the usual group -of smoking and chewing loungers impeding the entrance. Emily asked -Holyoke to meet her in the small parlour next to the office in half an -hour. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -SEEN FROM A BARRICADED WINDOW. - - -SHE was in the parlour when Holyoke returned. The loungers and her -fellow-guests had been wandering through the room to inspect her--“the -lady writer from New York.” She herself was absorbed in the view of the -mills rising above a stockade fence not five hundred feet away, across -a flagged public square. There were three entrances, and up and down in -front of each marched a soldier with a musket at shoulder-arms. In each -entrance Emily saw queer-looking little guns on wheels. Their tubes and -mountings flashed in the sunlight. - -“What kind of cannon are those?” she asked. - -“They’re machine-guns,” explained Holyoke. “You put in a belt full of -cartridges, aim the muzzle at the height of a man’s middle or calves as -the case may be. Then you turn the crank and the muzzle waggles to and -fro across the line of the mob and begins to sputter out bullets--about -fifteen hundred a minute. And down go the rioters like wheat before a -scythe. They’re beauties--those guns.” - -Emily looked from Holyoke to the guns, but she could not conceive his -picture. It seemed impossible that this scene of peace, of languor, -could be shifted to a scene of such terror as some of the elements in -it ought to suggest. How could these men think of killing each other? -Why should that soldier from the other end of the State leave his home -to come and threaten to shoot his fellow citizen whom he did not know, -whose town he had not seen until yesterday, and in whose grievance, -real or fancied, he had no interest or part? She felt that this was -the sentimental, unreasoning, narrow view to take. But now that she -was face to face with the possibility of bloodshed, broad principles -grew vague, unreal; and the actualities before her eyes and filling her -horizon seemed all-important. - -She and Holyoke wandered about the town, he helping her quickly to -gather the materials for her first “special,” her impression of the -town and its people and their feelings and of the stockaded mills with -the soldiers and guns--her supplement to the strictly news account -Holyoke would send. Camp accompanied them, making sketches. He went -back to the hotel in advance of them to draw several large pictures -to be sent by the night mail that they might reach New York in time -for the paper of the next day but one. Toward four o’clock Emily shut -herself in her room, and began her first article. - -An hour of toil passed and she had not yet made a beginning. She was -wrought to a high pitch of nervous terror. “Suppose I should fail -utterly? Can it be possible that I shall be unable to write anything -at all?” The floor was strewn with sheets of paper, a sentence, a few -sentences--failed beginnings--written on each. Her hands were grimed -with lead dust from sharpened and resharpened pencils. There was a -streak of black on her left cheek. Her hair was coming down--as it -seemed to her, the forewarning of complete mental collapse. She rose -and paced the floor in what was very nearly an agony of despair. - -There was a knock and she opened the door to take in a telegram. It was -from the Managing Editor: - - If there should be trouble to-night, please help Holyoke all you can. - Do not be afraid of duplicating his stuff. - - _The Democrat._ - -This put her in a panic. She began to sob hysterically. “What possessed -Marlowe to drag me into this scrape? And they expect me to do a man’s -work! Oh, how could I have been such a fool as to undertake this? I -can’t do it! I shall be disgraced!” - -She washed her face and hands and put her hair in order. She was so -desperate that her sense of humour was not aroused by the sight of her -absurdly tragic expression. She sat at the table and began again. She -had just written: - - “The shining muzzles of six machine-guns and the spotless new - uniforms of the three soldiers that march up and down on guard at the - mill stockade are the most conspicuous----” - -when there was a knock and her door was flung open. She started up, her -eyes wide with alarm, her cheeks blanched, her lips apart, her throat -ready to release a scream. It was only Holyoke. - -“Beg pardon,” he gasped out. “No time for ceremony. The company is -bringing a gang of ‘scabs’ through the mountains on foot. The strikers -are on to it. There’ll be a fight sure. Don’t stir out of your room, no -matter what you hear. If the hotel’s in any danger, I’ll let you know. -Camp’ll be looking out for you too--and the other newspaper boys. As -soon as it’s over, I’ll come. Sit tight--remember!” - -He rushed away. Emily looked at her chaos of failures. Of what use to -go on now--now, when real events were impending? From her window she -could see several backyards. In one, three children were making mud -pies and a woman was hanging out the wash--blue overalls, red flannel, -and cheap muslin underclothes, polkadot cotton slips and dresses in -many sizes, yarn stockings and socks, white and gray. - -Crack! - -The woman paused with one leg of a pair of overalls unpinned. The -children straightened up, feeling for each other with mud-bedaubed -hands. Emily felt as if her ears were about to burst with the strain of -the silence. - -Crack! Crack! Crack! An answering volley of oaths. A scream of derision -and rage from a mob. - -The children fled into the house. The woman gathered in a great armful -of clothes from the line as if a rain storm had suddenly come. She ran, -entangled in her burden, her thick legs in drab stockings interfering -one with the other. Emily jumped to her feet. - -“I cannot stay here,” she exclaimed. “I must _see_!” - -She flew down the hall to the front of the house. There was a parlour -and Camp’s paper and drawing materials were scattered about. He was -barricading a window with the bedding from a room to the rear. He -glanced at her. “Go back!” he said in a loud, harsh voice. “This is no -place for a woman.” - -“But it’s just the place for a reporter,” she replied. “I’ll help you.” - -They arranged the mattresses so that, sheltered by them and the thick -brick wall, they could peer out of the window from either side. - -The square was empty. The gates in the stockade were closed. In each -of the barricaded upper windows of the mill appeared the glittering -barrels of several rifles at different heights. - -“See that long, low building away off there to the left?” said Camp. -“The ‘scabs’ and their militia guard are behind it. The strikers are in -the houses along this side of the street.” - -Crack! A bullet crashed into the mirror hanging on the rear wall of -their parlour. It had cut a clean hole through the window pane without -shivering it and had penetrated the mattresses as if they had been a -single thickness of paper. - -“Now will you go back to your room?” angrily shouted Camp, although he -was not three feet from her. - -“Why are they firing at the hotel?” was Emily’s reply. - -“Bad aim--that’s all. The strikers aren’t here. That must have been -an answer to a bullet from next door. The soldiers shoot whenever a -striker shows himself to aim.” - -Crack! There was a howl of derision in reply. “That’s the way they let -the soldiers know it was a close shot but a miss,” said Camp. - -A man ran from behind a building to the right and in front of the -stockade, and started across the open toward where the strikers were -entrenched. He was a big, rough-looking fellow. As he came, Emily could -see his face--dark, scowling, set. - -Crack! - -The man ran more swiftly. There was a howl of delight from the -strikers. But, a few more leaps and he stumbled, flung up his hands, -pitched forward, fell, squirmed over so that he lay face upward. -His legs and arms were drawing convulsively up against his body and -shooting out to their full length again. His face was twisting and grew -shiny with sweat and froth. A stream of blood oozed from under him and -crawled in a thin, dark rivulet across the flagging to a crack, then -went no further. He turned his face, a wild appeal for help in it, -toward the house whence he had come. - -At once from behind that shelter ran a second man, younger than the -first. He had a revolver in his right hand. Emily could plainly see his -clinched jaws, his features distorted with fury. His lips were drawn -back from his teeth like an angry bulldog’s. - -“He’s a madman!” shrieked Camp. “He can do nothing!” - -“He’s a hero,” panted Emily. - -Crack! - -He stopped short. Emily saw his face change in expression--from fury to -wonder, from wonder to fear, from fear to a ghastly, green-white pallor -of pain and hate. He tossed his arms high above his head. The revolver -flew from his hand. Then, within a few feet of the still-twitching -body of the other, he crashed down. The blood spurted from his mouth, -drenching his face. He worked himself over and around, half rose, wiped -his face with his sleeve, fell back. Emily saw that he was looking -toward the shelter, his features calm--a look of love and longing, a -look of farewell for some one concealed there. - -And now a third figure ran from the shelter into that zone of death--a -boyish figure, lithe and swift. As it came nearer she saw that it was a -youth, a mere lad, smooth faced, with delicate features. He too carried -a revolver, but the look in his face was love and anguish. - -Crack! - -The boy flung the revolver from him and ran on. One arm was swinging -limp. Now he was at the side of the second man. He was just kneeling, -just stretching out his hand toward the dear dead-- - -Crack! - -He fell forward, his arm convulsively circling the head of his beloved. -As he fell, his hat slipped away and a mass of brown hair uncoiled and -showered down, hiding both their faces. - -“Oh!” Emily drew back, sick and trembling. She glanced at Camp. He -looked like a maniac. His eyes bulged, bloodshot. His nostrils stood -out stiff. His long yellow teeth were grinding and snapping. - -“God damn them!” he shrieked. “God damn the hell-hounds of the -capitalists! Murderers! Murderers! killing honest workingmen and women!” - -And as Emily crouched there, too weak to lift herself, yet longing to -see those corpse-strewn, bloodstained stones--the stage of that triple -tragedy of courage, self-sacrifice, love and death--Camp raved on, -poured out curses upon capitalists and militia. Camp!--who that very -morning had been trying to impress Emily with his superiority to his -origin, his contempt of these “mere machines for the use of men of -brains.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -A RISE AND A FALL. - - -WHEN Emily looked again two of the strikers, one waving a white rag at -the end of a pole, were advancing toward the limp bodies in the centre -of the square. They made three trips. Neither shots nor shouts broke -the silence. Soon the only evidences of the tragedy were the pools and -streaks of blood on the flagging. - -Camp was once more at his drawing, rapidly outlining a big sketch of -the scene they had witnessed. “Good stuff, wasn’t it?” he said, looking -up with an apologetic grin and flush. “It couldn’t have been better if -it had been fixed for a theatre.” - -“It’ll make a good story,” replied Emily, struggling with some success -to assume the calmly professional air and tone. “I’m going to my room. -If I hear any more shots, I’ll come again. When Mr. Holyoke returns, -please tell him I’d like to see him.” - -She had rushed through that hall an hour before, a panic-stricken girl. -She returned a woman, confident of herself. She had seen; she had felt; -she had lived. She sat at her table, and, with little hesitation, -wrote. When she had been at work an hour and a half, Holyoke -interrupted her. - -“Oh, I see you’re busy,” he began. - -“I wanted to say,” said Emily, “that I shall send a little about the -trouble a while ago--quite independently of the news, you know. So, -just write as if I were not here at all.” - -“All right. They’ll want every line we can both send.” Holyoke looked -at her with friendly anxiety. “You look tired,” he said, “as if you’d -been under a strain. It must have been an awful experience for you, -sitting here. Don’t bother to write anything. I’ll sign both our names -to my despatch.” - -“Thank you, but I couldn’t let you do that. What were the names of -those people who were killed out in the square?” - -“They were a puddler named Jack Farron, and his son Tom, and Tom’s -wife. Tom got married only last week. She insisted on going out with -him. They had been scouting, and had news that the militia were moving -to take the strikers from the rear and rout them out of their position. -You heard about the shooting?” - -“No--I saw it,” said Emily. “Mr. Camp and I watched from the parlour -window. Is there going to be more trouble?” - -“Not for a good many hours. The ‘scabs’ retreated, and won’t come back -until they’re sure the way is clear.” - -Emily took up her pencil and looked at her paper. “I’ll call again -later,” said Holyoke, as he departed. “You can file your despatch -downstairs. The Postal telegraph office is in the hotel.” - -She wrote about four thousand words, and went over her “copy” carefully -three times. It did not please her, but she felt that she had told the -facts, and that she had avoided “slopping over”--the great offence -against which every newspaper man and woman who had given her advice -had warned her. She filed the despatch at nine o’clock. - -“We can put it on the wire at once,” said the telegraph manager. “We’ll -get a loop straight into the _Democrat_ office. We knew you people -would be flocking here, and so we provided against a crush. We’ve got -plenty of wires and operators.” - -Emily ate little of the dinner that had been saved for her, and at each -sudden crash from the kitchen where noisy servants were washing dishes, -her nerves leaped and the blood beat heavily against her temples. She -went back to the little reception room and stood at the window, looking -out into the square. In the bright moonlight she saw the soldiers -marching up and down before the entrance to the stockade. The open -space between it and her was empty, and the soft light flooded round -the great dark stains which marked the site of the tragedy. - -“Why aren’t you in bed?” It was Marlowe’s voice, and it so startled -her that she gave a low cry and clasped her clinched hands against her -breast. She had been thinking of him. The death of those lovers, its -reminder of the uncertainty of life and of the necessity of seizing -happiness before it should escape forever, had brought him, or, rather, -love with him as the medium, vividly into her mind. - -“You frightened me--I’m seeing ghosts to-night,” she said. “How did you -reach here when there is no train?” - -“Several of us hired a special and came down--just an engine and -tender. We fancied there might be more trouble. But it’s all over. -The Union knows it can’t fight the whole State, and the Company is -very apologetic for the killing of those people, especially the woman. -Still, her death may have saved a long and bloody strike. That must -have been an awful scene this afternoon.” He was talking absently. His -eyes, his thoughts were upon her, slender, pale, yet golden. - -Emily briefly described what she had seen. - -“It’s a pity you didn’t telegraph an account of it. Your picture of -it would have been better than Holyoke’s, even if you didn’t see the -shooting.” - -“But I _did_ see it!” - -Marlowe’s look became dazed. “What?” he said. “How? Where were you?” - -“Upstairs--in the parlour. I was so fascinated that I forgot to be -afraid. And a bullet came through the window.” - -He made a gesture as if to catch her in his arms. Instead he took her -hands and kissed them passionately. - -“I never dreamed you would be actually in danger,” he said pleadingly. -“I was heedless--I--heedless of you--you who are everything to me. -Forgive me, dear.” - -She leaned against the casement, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the sky, -the moonlight making her face ethereal. - -“Was I too abrupt?” he asked. “Have I offended in saying it again at -this time?” His exaggerated, nervous anxiety struck him as absurd, for -him, but he admitted that his unprecedented fear of what a woman might -think of him was real. - -“No,” she answered. “But--I must go. I’m very tired. And I’m beginning -to feel queer and weak.” She put out her hand. “Good-night,” she said, -her eyes down and her voice very low. - -When she was in her room she half-staggered to the bed. “I’ll rest -a moment before I undress,” she thought, and lay down. She did not -awaken until broad daylight. She looked at her watch. “Ten minutes to -twelve--almost noon!” she exclaimed. She had been asleep twelve hours. -As she took a bath and dressed again, she was in high spirits. “It’s -good to be alive,” she said to herself, “to be alive, to be young, to -be free, to be loved, and to--to like it.” - -Was she in love with Marlowe? She thought so--or, at least, she was -about to be. But she did not linger upon that. The luxury of being -loved in a way that made her intensely happy was enough. She liked to -think of his arms clasping her. She liked him to touch her. She liked -to remember that look of exalted passion in his eyes, and to know that -it was glowing there for her. - -The late afternoon brought news that the strike had been settled by a -compromise. Within an hour the New York special correspondents were -on the way home. At Philadelphia the next morning Emily came into -the restaurant car. “This way, Miss Bromfield,” said the steward, -with a low bow. She wondered how he knew her. She noticed that the -answering smiles she got as she spoke to the newspaper men she had met -at Furnaceville were broader than the occasion seemed to warrant. She -glanced at herself in the mirror to see whether omission or commission -in dressing was the cause. Then she took the seat Marlowe had reserved -for her, opposite himself. - -“There were three of us in the dressing-room making it as disagreeable -for each other as possible after the usual feminine fashion,” she -began, and her glance fell upon the first page of the _Democrat_ of the -day before, which Marlowe was holding up. She gasped and stared. “Why!” -she exclaimed, the red flaring up in her face, “where did they get it? -It’s disgraceful!” - -“It” was a large reproduction of a pen and ink sketch of herself. Under -“it” in big type was the line, “Emily Bromfield, the _Democrat’s_ -Correspondent at the Strike.” Beside “it” under a “scare-head” was the -main story of the strike, and the last line of the heading read, “By -Emily Bromfield.” Then followed her account of what she had seen from -the parlour window. What with astonishment, pleasure, and mortification -over this sudden brazen blare of publicity for herself and her work, -she was on the verge of a nervous outburst. - -“Be careful,” said Marlowe. “They’re all looking at you. What I want to -know is where did they get that sketch of you in a dreamy, thoughtful -attitude at a desk covered with papers. It looks like an idyll of a -woman journalist. All the out-of-town papers will be sure to copy that. -But where did our people get it?” - -Just then Camp came through on his way to the smoking car. “Who drew -this, Camp?” asked Marlowe, stopping him. - -Camp looked embarrassed and grinned. “I made it one day in the office,” -he said to Emily. “They must have fished it out of my desk in the art -room.” - -Emily did not wish to hurt his feelings, so she concealed her -irritation. Marlowe said: “A splendid piece of work! Lucky they knew -about it and got it out.” - -“Thanks,” said Camp, looking appealingly at Emily. “You’re not -offended?” he asked. - -“It gave me a turn,” Emily replied evasively. Camp took her smile for -approval, thanked her and went on. - -“You don’t altogether like your fame?” said Marlowe with a teasing -expression. “But you’ll soon get used to it, and then you’ll be cross -if you look in the papers and don’t find your name or a picture of -yourself. That’s the way ‘newspaper notoriety’ affects everybody. They -first loathe, then endure, then pursue.” - -“Don’t mock at me, please. It’s good in a business way, isn’t it? -And I’m sure the picture is not bad--in fact, it makes me look -very--intellectual. And as they printed my despatch, that can’t have -been so horribly bad. Altogether I’m beginning to be reconciled and -shall presently be delighted.” - -“You can get copies of the paper ready for mailing in the business -office--a reduction on large quantities,” said Marlowe. “And you won’t -need to unwrap them to mark where your friends must look.” - -Emily was glancing at her story with pretended indifference. “It makes -more than I thought,” she said carelessly, giving him the paper. - -“Vanity! vanity! You know you are dying to read every word of it. I’ll -wager you’ll go through it a dozen times once you are alone. We always -do--at first.” - -“Well, why not? It’s a harmless vanity and it ought to be called honest -pride. And--I owe it to you--all to you. And I’m glad it is to _you_ -that I owe it.” - -At the office she was the centre of interest--for a few hours. “Isn’t -she a perfect picture?” said Miss Farwell to Miss Gresham, as they -watched her receiving congratulations. “And she doesn’t exaggerate -herself. She probably knows that it was her looks and her dresses that -got her the assignment and that make them think she’s wonderful. She -really didn’t write it so very well. You could tell all the way through -that it was a beginner, couldn’t you?” - -“Of course it wasn’t a work of genius,” admitted Miss Gresham. “But it -was very good indeed.” - -“A story like that simply tells itself.” Miss Farwell used envy’s most -judicial tone. “It couldn’t be spoiled.” - -Miss Gresham and Emily went uptown together. “I’ve read my special -several times,” said Emily, “and I don’t feel so set up over it as I -did at first. I suspect they would have rewritten it if it had not got -into the office late.” - -“You did wonderfully well,” Miss Gresham assured her. “And you’ve put -yourself in a position where your work will be noted and, if it’s good, -recognised. The hardest thing in the world is to get disentangled from -the crowd so that those above are able to see one.” - -The routine of petty assignments into which she sank again was -wearisome and distasteful. She had expected a better kind of work. -Instead, she got the same work as before. As Coleman was giving her one -of these trifles, he looked cautiously round to make sure that no one -was within hearing distance, then said in a low voice: “Don’t blame me -for giving you poor assignments. I have orders from Mr. Stilson--strict -orders.” - -Emily did not like Coleman’s treachery to his superior, but her -stronger feeling was anger against Stilson. “Why does he dislike me?” -she thought. “What a mean creature he is. It must be some queer sort -of jealous envy.” She laughed at herself for this vanity. But she had -more faith in it than she thought, and it was with the latent idea of -getting it a prop that she repeated to Miss Gresham what Coleman had -said. “Why do you think Mr. Stilson told him that?” she asked. - -“I don’t know, I can’t imagine,” replied Miss Gresham. She reflected -a moment and then turned her head so that Emily could not see her -eyes. She thought she had guessed the reason. “Stilson is trying to -save her from the consequences of her vanity,” she said to herself, -“I had better not tell her, as it would do no good and might make her -dislike me.” And watching Emily more closely, she soon discovered -that premature triumph had been a little too much for her good sense. -Emily was entertaining an opinion of herself far higher than the facts -warranted. “Stilson is doing her a service,” Miss Gresham thought, as -Emily complained from time to time of trifling assignments. “He’ll -restore her point of view presently.” - -After a month of this Stilson called her into his office. He stood at -the window, tall and stern--he was taller than Marlowe and dark; and -while Marlowe’s expression was one of good-humoured, rather cynical -carelessness, his was grave and haughty. - -Without looking at her he began: “Miss Bromfield, we’ve been giving you -a very important kind of work--the small items. They are the test of -a newspaper’s standard of perfection. I’m afraid you don’t appreciate -their importance.” - -“I’m doing the best I can,” said Emily coldly. - -He frowned, but she watched him narrowly, and saw that he was -suffering acute embarrassment. “It isn’t easy for me to speak to you,” -he went on. “But--it’s necessary. At first you did well. Now--you’re -_not_ doing well.” - -There was a long, a painful silence. Then he suddenly looked at -her. And in spite of herself, his expression melted resentment and -obstinacy. “You can do well again,” he said. “Please try.” - -The tone of the “Please try” made her feel his fairness and -friendliness as she had not felt it before. “Thank you,” she said -impulsively. “I _will_ try.” She paused at the door and turned. -“Thank you,” she said again, earnestly. He was bending over his -desk and seemed to be giving his attention to his papers. But Emily -understood him well enough now to know that he was trying to hide his -embarrassment. When she was almost hidden from him by the closing door, -she heard him begin to speak. “I beg your pardon,” she said, showing -her head round the edge of the door, “What did you say?” - -“No matter,” he replied, and she thought she saw, rather than heard, -something very like a sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -A COMPROMISE WITH CONVENTIONALITY. - - -MARLOWE was as responsible for Emily’s self-exaggeration as was Emily -herself. He had been enveloping her in an atmosphere of adulation, -through which she could see clearly and sensibly neither him nor -herself nor her affairs. - -When she first appeared he was deeply entangled elsewhere. But at once -with the adroitness of experience, he extricated himself and boldly -advanced into the new and unprecedently attractive net which fate was -spreading for him. He was of those men who do not go far on the journey -without a woman, or long with the same woman. He abhorred monotony -both in work and in love; a typical impressionist, he soon found one -subject, whether for his mind or for his heart, exhausted and wearisome. - -Emily in her loneliness and youth, yearning for love and companionship, -was so frankly attracted that he at first thought her as easy a -conquest as had been the women who dwelt in the many and brief chapters -of the annals of his conquering career. But he, and she also, to -her great surprise, discovered that, while she had cast aside most -conventionality in practice and all conventionality in theory there -remained an immovable remnant. And this, fast anchored in unreasoning -inherited instinct, stubbornly resisted their joint attack. In former -instances of somewhat similar discoveries, he had winged swiftly, and -gracefully, away; now, to his astonishment, he found that his wings -were snared. Without intention on his part, without effort on her part, -he was fairly caught. Nor was he struggling against the toils. - -They had been together many times since the return from Furnaceville. -And usually it was just he and she, dining in the open air, or taking -long drives or walks, or sailing the river or the bay. But their -perplexed state of mind had kept them from all but subtle reference to -the one subject of which both were thinking more and more intently and -intensely. One night they were driving in a hansom after a dinner on -the Savoy balcony--he suddenly bent and kissed the long sleeve of her -thin summer dress at the wrist. “You light a flame that goes dancing -through my veins,” he said. “I wish I could find new words to put it -in. But I’ve only the old ones, Emily--I love you and I want your -love--I want you. This is an unconditional surrender and I’m begging -you to receive it. You won’t say no, will you, Emily?” - -Her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks pale. But she succeeded in -controlling her voice so that she could put a little mockery into her -tone when she said: “What--you! You, who are notoriously opposed to -unconditional surrender. I never expected to live to see the day when -you would praise treason and proclaim yourself a traitor.” - -“I love you,” he said--“that’s all the answer I can make.” - -“And only a few days ago some one was repeating to me a remark of -yours--let me see, how did you put it? Oh, yes--‘love is a bird that -does not sing well in a cage.’” - -“I said it--and I meant it,” he replied. “And I love you--that’s all. I -still believe what I said, but--please, Emily, dear--bring the cage!” - -The mockery in her face gave place to a serious look. “I wonder,” she -said, “does love sing at all in a cage? I’ve never known an instance, -though I’ve read and heard of them. But they’re almost all a long way -off, or a long time ago, or among old-fashioned people.” - -“But I’m old-fashioned, I find--and won’t you be, dear? And I think we -might teach our wild bird to sing in a cage, don’t you?” - -Emily made no answer but continued to watch the dark trees, that closed -in on either side of the shining drive. - -“Since I’ve known you, Emily, I’ve found a new side to my nature--one I -did not suspect the existence of. Perhaps it didn’t exist until I knew -you.” - -“It has been so with me,” she said. She had been surprised and even -disquieted by the upbursting of springs of tenderness and gentleness -and longing since she had known Marlowe. - -“Do you care--a little, dear?” he asked. - -She nodded. “But what were you going to say?” - -“I’ve always disliked the idea of marriage,” he went on. “There’s -something in me--not peculiar to me, I imagine, but in most men as -well--that revolts at the idea of a bond of any kind. A man falls in -love with a woman or a woman with a man. And heretofore I’ve always -said to myself, how can they know that love will last?” - -“They can’t know it,” replied Emily. “And when they pledge themselves -to keep on loving and honouring, they must know, if they are capable of -thinking, that they’ve promised something they had no right to promise. -I hate to be bound. I love to be free. Nothing, nothing, could induce -me to give up my freedom.” - -Marlowe had expected that she would gladly put aside her idea of -freedom the moment he announced that he was willing to sacrifice his -own. Her earnestness disconcerted, alarmed him. “Emily!” he said in -a low, intense tone, putting his hand upon hers. “Tell me”-- She -had turned her head and they were now looking each into the other’s -eyes--“do you--can’t you--care for me?” He wondered at the appeal in -his voice, at the anxiety with which he waited for her answer. “I -cannot live without you, Emily.” - -“But if I were tied to you,” she said, “if I felt compelled, if I felt -that you were being compelled, to keep on with me--well, I’m not sure -that I could continue to care or to believe that you cared.” - -“Then”--he interrupted. - -“But,” she went on, “I’m not great enough or wise enough, or perhaps -I was too long trained to conventionality, or am too recently and -incompletely freed,--to----” - -“It isn’t necessary,” he began, as she hesitated and cast about for a -phrase. “Perhaps--in some circumstances--I’d have hoped that it would -be so. But with you--it’s different. I can’t explain myself even to -myself. All I know is that my theories have gone down the wind and -that--I want you. I want you on the world’s terms--for better or for -worse, for ever and a day. Dear, can’t you care enough for me to take -the risk?” - -He put his arm round her and kissed her. She said in a faint voice, -hardly more than a murmur, “I think so--yes.” - -“Will you marry me, Emily?” he asked eagerly, and then he smiled with -a little self-mockery. “I’ve always loathed that word ‘marry’--and all -other words that mean finality. I’ve always wished to be free to change -my mind and my course at any moment. And now----” - -She pushed him from her, but left her hand on his shoulder. “Yes, dear, -but it isn’t a finality with us. We go through a ceremony because--say, -because it is convenient. But if we--either of us--cease to love, each -must feel free to go. If I ever found out that you had kissed me -once, merely because you thought it was expected of you, I’d despise -myself--and you. If I promise to marry you, dear, you must promise to -leave me free.” - -“Since I could not hold you--the real you--an instant longer than you -wished--I promise.” He caught her in his arms and kissed her again and -again. “But you’ll never call on me to redeem my promise, will you, -dear?” - -“That’s why I ask you to make it. If we’re both free, we may not ever -care to test it,” she answered. The words came from her mind, but with -them came a tone and a look from the heart that were an answer to his. - -“We--you talk the new wisdom,” he said, “but--” and he kissed her once -more “feel the old wisdom, or folly--which is it? No matter--I love -you.” - -“The road is very bright here and carriages are coming,” she answered, -sitting up and releasing herself from him. And then they both laughed -at their sensitiveness to conventions. - -Marlowe was all for flinging their theories overboard in the mass and -accepting the routine as it is marked out for the married. But Emily -refused. She could not entertain the idea of becoming a dependent -upon him, absorbed in his personality. “I wish to continue to love -him,” she said to herself. “And also I’d be very foolish to bind him, -though he wishes to be bound. The chances are, he’d grow weary long -before I did. A man’s life is fuller than a woman’s, even than a -working-woman’s. And he has more temptations to wander.” - -“We will marry,” she said to him, “but we will not ‘settle down’.” - -“I should hope _not_,” he answered, with energy, as before his eyes -rose a vision of himself yawning in carpet-slippers with a perambulator -in the front hall. - -“We will compromise with conventionality,” she went on. “We will marry, -but we won’t tell anybody. And I’ll take an apartment with Joan Gresham -and will go on with my work. And-- Dearest, I don’t wish to become an -old story to you--at least not so long as we’re young. I don’t want -you as my husband. I want you to be my lover. And I want to be always, -every time we meet, new and interesting to you.” - -“But--why, I’d be little more than a stranger.” - -“Do you think so?” She put her arms about his neck and looked him full -in the eyes. “You know it wouldn’t be so.” - -He thought a moment. “I see what you mean,” he said. “I suppose it -is familiarity that drives love out of marriage. Whatever you wish, -Strange Lady--anything, everything. We can easily try your plan.” - -“And if it fails, we can ‘settle down’ just like other people, where, -if we ‘settled down’ first and failed at that, we’d have nothing left -to try.” - -“You are so--so different from any other woman that ever was,” he -said. “No wonder I love you in the way that a man loves only once.” - -“And I’m determined that you shall keep on loving me.” - -“I can see that you are getting ready to lead me a wild life.” There -was foreboding as well as jest in his tone. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -“EVERYTHING AWAITS MADAME.” - - -FRANK wished to see Theresa well provided for--he was most amiable -and generous where serving a friend cost him nothing and agreeably -filled a few of his many vacant hours. He cast shrewdly about among the -susceptible and eligible widowers and bachelors of his club and fixed -upon Edgar Wayland’s father. The old General and “cotton baron” was -growing lonelier and lonelier. He was too rich to afford the luxury -of friendship. He suspected and shunned sycophants. He dreaded being -married for his money, yet longed for a home with some one therein who -would make him comfortable, would listen patiently to his reminiscences -and moralisings. He had led an anything but exemplary life, but having -reached the age and condition where his kinds of self-indulgence are -either highly dangerous or impossible, he wished to become a bulwark of -the church and the social order. - -“He needs me even more than I need him,” said Theresa, when she -disclosed her scheme to Emily, “and that’s saying a good deal. He -thinks I’ve been living in Blue Mountain, thinks I’m simple and -guileless--and I am, in comparison with him. I’ll make a new and better -man of him. If he got the sort of woman he thinks he wants, he’d be -miserable. As it is, he’ll be happy.” - -Theresa offered to introduce the General to Emily, but she refused, -much to Theresa’s relief. “It’s just as well,” she said, with the -candour that was the chief charm of her character. “You’re entirely too -fascinating with your violet eyes and your wonderful complexion, my -dear. But after he’s safe, you must visit us.” - -When the time came for Theresa to go to Blue Mountain for her marriage, -she begged Emily to go with her. “I didn’t know how fond I was of you,” -she said, “until now that we’re separating. And when I look at you, -and forget for the moment what a sensible, self-reliant girl you are, -it seems to me that you can’t possibly get along without me to protect -you.” - -But Emily could not go to the wedding. She was moving into an apartment -in Irving Place which she and Joan had taken. Also she was marrying. - -The wedding was set for a Thursday, but Marlowe found that he must -leave town on Wednesday night to go with the President on a short -“swing round the circle.” So on Wednesday afternoon he and Emily went -to a notary in One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street and were married by -certificate. - -“Certainly the modern improvements do go far toward making marriage -painless,” said Marlowe as they left with the certificates. “I haven’t -felt it at all. Have you?” And he stopped at a letter box to mail the -duplicate for the Board of Health. As he balanced it on the movable -shelf, he looked at her with a queer expression in his eyes. “You -can still draw back,” he said. “If we tear up the papers, we’re not -married. If I mail this one we are.” - -She made a movement toward the balancing letter and he hastily let it -drop into the box. “Too late,” he said, in a mock tragic tone. “We are -married--tied--bound!” - -“And now let us forget it,” was Emily’s reply. “No one knows it except -us; and we need never think of it.” - -They were silent on the journey downtown, and her slight depression -seemed to infect him deeply. Two hours after the ceremony he was dining -alone in the Washington express, and she and Joan were having their -first dinner in their first “home.” - -Two weeks later--in the last week of September--she took the four -o’clock boat for Atlantic Highlands and the train there for Seabright. -At the edge of the platform of the deserted station she found the -yellow trap with stripes of red on the body and shafts--the trap he had -described in his letter. - -“For Germain’s?” she asked the driver, after she had looked round -carefully, as if she were not going to meet her husband. - -“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “They’re expecting you.” - -Her trunk and bag were put on the seat with the driver and they were -soon in the Rumson road, gorgeous with autumn finery. There were -the odours of the sea and the woods, and the air was tranquil yet -exhilarating. The trim waggon, the brilliant trees arching overhead, -the attractive houses and lawns on either side--it seemed to her that -she was in a dream. They turned down a lane to the right. It led -through a thick grove of maples, its foliage a tremulous curtain of -scarlet and brown lit by the declining sun. Another turn and they were -at the side entrance to an old-fashioned brick house with creepers -screening verandas and balconies. There were tables on the verandas, -and tables out in the garden under the trees. She could hear only the -birds and the faint sigh of the distant surf. - -Rapid footsteps, and a small, fat, smooth man appeared and bowed -profoundly. “Monsieur has not arrived yet,” he said. “Madame Marlowe, -is it not?” - -She blushed and answered nervously, “Yes--that is--yes.” It was the -first time she had heard her legal name, or even had definitely -recognised its existence. - -“Monsieur telegraphed for madame”--He had a way of saying madame which -suggested that it was a politeness rather than an actuality--“to order -dinner, and that he will presently come to arrive by the Little Silver -station from which he will drive. He missed his train unhappily. But -madame need not derange herself. Monsieur comes to arrive now.” - -Emily seated herself on the veranda at its farthest table from the -entrance. “How guilty and queer and--happy I feel,” she thought. - -Monsieur Germain brought the dinner card. “I’m sure we can trust to you -for the dinner,” she said. - -“Bien, madame. It will be a pleasure. And will madame have a refreshing -drink while she passes the time?” - -“Yes--a little--perhaps--a little brandy?” she said tentatively. - -“Excellent.” And Germain himself brought a “pony” of brandy, a tall -empty glass and a bottle of soda. He opened the soda and went away. -She drank the brandy from the little glass, and then some of the soda. -Almost instantly she felt her timidity flying before a warm courage -that spread through her veins and sparkled in her eyes. “It is even -more beautiful here than I imagined it would be,” she thought, as -she looked round. “And I’m glad I got here first and had a chance to -get--the brandy.” - -When her husband came he found her leaning against a pillar of the -veranda looking out into space, an attitude that was characteristic of -her. She greeted him with a blush, with downcast eyes, with mischievous -radiance. - -“I just saw my first star,” she said, “and I made a wish.” - -He put his arm round her and his head against hers. “Don’t tell me what -you wished,” he said, “for--I--we--want it to come true. It _must_ -come true. And it will, won’t it?” - -“I’m very, very happy--thus far,” she answered. - -They stood in silence, watching Germain and the waiter set a table -under the trees--the linen, the silver and glass and china, the -candlesticks. And then Germain came to the walk below them and beamed -up at them. - -“Everything awaits madame,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -A FLICKERING FIRE. - - -THEY made several journeys to Monsieur Germain that fall, as he did -not close his inn and return to Philadelphia until the second week in -December. He had the instinctive French passion for the romantically -unconventional; and, while he was a severely proper person in his own -domestic relations, the mystery of the quiet visits of this handsome -young couple delighted him. He made them very comfortable indeed, and -his big smooth face shone like a sun upon their happiness. - -As Marlowe had always been most irregular in his appearances at the -office, Emily’s absences did not connect her with him in the minds of -their acquaintances. Even Joan suspected nothing. She saw that Marlowe -was devoted to her beautiful friend and she believed that Emily loved -him, but she had seen love go too often to be much affected by its -coming. - -After three months of this prolonged and peculiar honeymoon, Marlowe -showed the first faint signs of impatience. It was a new part to him, -this of being the eluded instead of the eluder, the uncertain, not the -creator of uncertainty. And it was a part that baffled his love and -irritated his vanity. He thought much upon ways and means of converting -his Spartan marriage into one in which his authority, his headship -would be recognized, and at last hit upon a plan of action which he -ventured to hope might bring her to terms. He stayed away from her -for two weeks, then went to Chicago for a month, writing her only an -occasional brief note. - -Before he left for Chicago, Emily was exceeding sick at heart. She -kept up appearances at the office, but at home went about with a long -and sad face. “They’ve quarrelled,” thought Joan, “and she’s taking it -hard.” Emily was tempted to do many foolish things--for example, she -wrote a dozen notes at least, each more or less ingeniously disguising -its real purpose. But she sent none of them. “If he doesn’t care,” she -reflected, “it would be humiliating myself to no purpose. And if he -does care, he has a good reason which he’ll tell when he can.” - -Then came his almost curt note announcing his departure for Chicago. -She was angry--“he’s treating his wife as he wouldn’t treat a girl he’d -been merely attentive to.” But, worse than angry, she was wounded, in -the mortal spot in her love for him--her unquestioning confidence in -him. - -This might be called her introduction to the real Marlowe, the -beginning of her acquaintance with the man she had married after a look -at the outside of him and a distorted glimpse of such parts of the -inside man as are shown by one bent upon making the most favourable -impression. - -When he had been in Chicago three weeks, came a long letter from -him--“Forgive me. I was not content as we were living. I want -you--all of you, all of the time. I want you as my very own. And I -thought to win you to my way of thinking. But you seem to be stronger -than I.” And so on through many pages, filled with passionate -outpourings--extravagant compliments, alternations of pride and -humility, all the eloquence of a lover with an emotional nature and a -gift for writing. It was to her an irresistible appeal, so intensely -did she long for him. But there drifted through her mind, to find -lodgment in an obscure corner, the thought: “Why is he dissatisfied -with a happiness that satisfies me? Why do I feel none of this desire -to abandon my independence and submerge myself?” At the moment her -answer was, that if she were to do as he wished he would remain free, -while she would become his dependent. Afterward that answer did not -satisfy her. - -He came back, and their life went on as before until---- - -She overheard two men at the office talking of an adventure he had -had while he was in Chicago. She did not hear all, and she got no -details, but there was enough to let her see that he had not lived up -to their compact. “Now I understand his letter,” she said. “It was -the result of remorse.” And with a confused mingling of jealousy and -indignation, she reviewed his actions toward her immediately after -his return. She now saw that they were planned deliberately to make -it impossible for her to think him capable of such a lapse. She could -follow the processes of his mind as it worked out the scheme, gauging -her credulity and his own adroitness. When she had done, she had found -him guilty of actions that concerned their most sacred relations, and -that were tainted with the basest essence of hypocrisy. - -“I shouldn’t care what he had done,” she said to herself bitterly, “if -he had been honest with me--honestly silent or honestly outspoken. I -cannot, shall not, ever trust him again. And such needless deception! -He acted as if I were the ordinary silly woman who won’t make -allowances and can’t generously forgive. I love him, but----” - -“I love him, but--” that is always the beginning of a change which at -least points in the direction of the end. At first she was for having -it out with him. But she decided that he would only think her vulgarly -jealous; and so, with unconscious inconsistency, she resolved to -violate her own fundamental principle of absolute frankness. - -A few weeks and these wounds to her love, inflicted by him and -aggravated by herself, seemed to have healed. They were again together -almost every day and were apparently like lovers in the first ecstasy -of engagement. But while he was completely under her spell, her -attitude toward him was slightly critical. She admired his looks, his -physical strength, his brilliant quickness of mind, as much as ever. At -the same time she began to see and to measure his weaknesses. - -She was often, in the very course of laughter or admiration at his -cleverness, brought to a sudden halt by the discovery that he was not -telling the truth. Like many men of rapid and epigrammatic speech, he -would sacrifice anything, from a fact of history to the reputation of -a friend, for the sake of scoring a momentary triumph. And whenever -she caught him in one of these carelessly uttered falsehoods she was -reminded of his falsehood to her--that rankling, cankerous double -falsehood of unfaithfulness and deceit. - -Another hastener of the mortal process of de-idealisation was the -discovery that his sparkle was hiding a shallowness which was so -lacking in depth that it offended even her, a woman--and women are not -easily offended by pretence in men. His mind was indeed quick, but -quick only to see and seize upon that which had been discovered and -shown to him by some one else. And so forgetful or so used to borrowing -without any sort of credit was he, that he would even exhibit to Emily -as original with himself the ideas which she had expressed to him -only a few days before. He had a genius for putting everything in the -show-window; but he could not conceal from her penetrating, and now -critical and suspicious eyes, the empty-shelved shop behind, with him, -full of vanity and eagerness to attract any wayfarer, and peering out -to note what effect he was producing. She discovered that one of the -main sources of his education was Stilson--that it was to an amazing, -a ridiculous, a pitiful extent Stilson’s views and ideas and knowledge -and sardonic wit which he bore away and diluted and served up as his -own. Comparison is the life and also the death of love. As soon as she -began to compare him with Stilson and to admit that he was the lesser, -she began to neglect love, to leave it to the alternating excessive -heat and cold of passion. - -But all these causes of a curious decline were subordinate to one great -cause--she discovered that he was a coward, that he was afraid of her. -The quality which she admired in a man above every other was courage. -She had thought Marlowe had it. And he was physically brave; but, when -she knew him well and had got used to that cheapest form of courage -which dazzles the mob and deceives the unthinking, she saw a coward -lurking beneath. He wrote things he did not believe; he shirked issues -both in his profession and in his private life; he lied habitually, not -because people intruded upon his affairs and so compelled and excused -misrepresentation, but because he was afraid to face the consequences -of truth. - -In February she was saying sadly to herself: “If he’d been brave, he -would have made me come to him, could have made me do as he wished. -Instead----” She was not proud, yet neither was she ashamed, of the -conspicuous tyranny she had established over him. - -“It seems to me,” she said to Joan at breakfast one morning, to draw -her out, “that the only way to be married, is for each to live his own -life. Then at least there can be none of that degrading familiarity and -monotony.” - -Joan shook her head in vigorous dissent. - -“Why not?” asked Emily. - -“Because it is certain to end in failure--absolutely certain.” - -Emily looked uncomfortable, “I don’t see why,” she said, somewhat -irritably. “Don’t you think people can get too much of each other?” - -“Certainly--and in marriage they always do; but if it’s to be a -marriage, if there’s to be anything permanent about it, they must live -together, see each other constantly, become completely united in the -same current of life; all their interests must be in common, and they -must have a common destiny and must never forget it.” - -“But that isn’t love,” objected Emily. - -“No, it isn’t love--love of the kind we’re all crazy about nowadays. -But it is married love--and that’s the kind we’re talking about. If I -were married I shouldn’t let my husband out of my sight for a minute, -except when it was necessary. I’d see to it that we became one. If he -were the stronger, he’d be the one. If I were the stronger, I’d be the -one--but I’d try to be generous.” - -Emily laughed at this picture of tyranny, so directly opposed to her -own ideas and to her own tyranny over her husband. She mocked Joan for -entertaining such “barbaric notions.” But later in the day, she caught -herself saying, with a sigh she’d have liked to believe was not regret, -“It’s too late now.” - -There were days when she liked him, hours when she wrought herself -into an exaltation which was a feeble but deceptive imitation of his -adoration of her--and how he did adore her then, how he did strain -to clasp her more tightly, believing her still his, and not heeding -instinctive, subtle warnings that she was slipping from him. But in -contrast to these days of liking and hours of loving were her longer -periods of indifference and, occasionally, of weariness. - -Early in the summer, there was a revival of her interest--a six weeks’ -separation from him; an attack of the “blues,” of loneliness; a sudden -appreciation of the strength and comfort of the habit which a husband -had become with her. - -On a Friday evening in June he was coming to dine, and Miss Gresham -was dining out. He arrived twenty minutes late. “I’ve been making my -arrangements to sail to-morrow,” he explained. “You can come on the -Wednesday or Saturday steamer--if you can arrange to leave on such -short notice.” - -She looked surprised--she was no longer astonished at the newspaper -world’s rapid shifts. - -“They’re sending me to reorganise the foreign service. They also wish -to send a woman to Paris, and didn’t know whom to ask. I suggested -you, and reminded them that you speak French. They soon consented. My -headquarters will be London, but I’ll be free to go where I wish. Will -you come? Won’t you come?” - -Evidently he was assuming that she would; but she said, “I’ll have to -think it over.” - -He looked at her nervously. “Why, I may be away several years,” he -said. “And over there----” - -“You forget--I’m tied up with Joan. We have a lease. But that might be -arranged. Do you know what salary they’ll give me?” - -“Sixty a week--and your travelling expenses.” - -“Yes,” said Emily, after a moment’s silent casting up of figures. -“Yes--the lease can be taken care of. Then, there is my work--what are -the advantages?” - -“Experience--a change of scene--a chance to do more individual work--and -last, and, of course, least in your eyes, lady-with-a-career-to-make, -the inestimable advantages of----” - -The servant was out of the room. He went behind her chair, and bent -over and kissed her. “We shall be happy as never before, dear--happy -though we have been, haven’t we? Think what we can do together--how -free we shall be, how many beautiful places we can visit.” - -She was looking at him tenderly and dreamily when he was sitting -opposite her again. “Yes, we shall be happy,” she said, and to herself -she added, “again.” - -The next morning, at about the hour when Marlowe’s boat was dropping -down the bay, Joan went into Emily’s room and awakened her. “I can’t -wait any longer,” she said. “Did you know you were going abroad?” - -“Yes,” said Emily, sleepily rubbing her eyes, “Marlowe was dining here -last night, and he told me.” - -“It’s very evident that Stilson likes and appreciates you,” continued -Joan. “He selected you.” - -Emily smiled faintly--she was remembering what Marlowe had said. - -“I happened to be in Stilson’s office,” continued Joan, “when he was -deciding. It seems the London man suddenly resigned and something had -to be done at once. You know Stilson is acting Managing Editor. He -asked me if you spoke French. He said: ‘I’m just sending for Marlowe to -come down, as I wish him to go to London for us; and if Miss Bromfield -can speak French, I’ll send her to Paris.’ I told him that you spoke -it almost like a native. ‘That settles it,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell her -to-morrow--but I don’t mind if you tell her first. You live together, -don’t you?’ And you were asleep when I came last night, and I’m _so_ -disappointed that I’m not the first to tell you.” - -Emily had sunk back into her pillow and was concealing her face from -Joan. “I wish they’d sent you,” she said presently, in a strained voice. - -“Oh, I couldn’t have gone. The fact is I’ve written a play and had it -accepted. It’s to be produced at the Lyceum in six weeks.” - -“But why didn’t you tell me?” Emily could not uncover her face, could -not put interest in her tone--she could think only of Marlowe, of -his petty, futile, vainglorious lie to her. A few hours before--it -seemed but a few minutes--they had been so happy together. She had -fancied that the best was come again. Her nerves were still vibrating -to his caresses. And now--this adder-like reminder of all his lies, -deceptions, hypocrisies. - -“I thought I’d surprise you,” replied Joan. “Besides, it’s not a very -good play. And when you’re in Paris, you might watch the papers for the -notices of the first night of ‘Love the Liar, by Harriette Stone’--that -will be my play and I.” - -“Love the Liar,” Emily repeated, and then Joan saw her shoulders -shaking. - -“Laughing at me? I don’t wonder; it’s very sentimental--but then, you -know, I have a streak of sentiment in me.” - -When Joan left her, Emily brushed the tears from her eyes and slowly -rose. “I ought to be used to him by this time,” she said. “But--oh, why -did he spoil it! Why does he _always_ spoil it!” - -At the office, she was apparently bright again, certainly was looking -very lovely and a little mischievous as she went in to see Stilson. -“I’d thank you, if I dared,” she said, “but I know that you’d cut -me short with some remark about my thanks being an insinuation that -you were cheating the proprietors of the _Democrat_ by showing -favouritism.” She was no longer in the least afraid of him. “Perhaps -you’d like it better if I told you I was angry about it.” - -“And why angry, pray?” There was a twinkle deep down in his sombre -sardonic eyes. - -“Because you’re sending me away to get rid of me.” - -He winced and flushed a deep red. He rose abruptly and bowed. “No -thanks are necessary,” he said, and he was standing at the window with -his back to her. - -“I beg your pardon,” she said to his strong, uncompromising shoulders. -“I did not mean to offend you--you must know that.” - -“_Offend_ me?” He turned his face toward her but did not let her see -his eyes. He put out his hand and just touched hers before drawing it -away. “My manner is unfortunate. But--that is not important. Success to -you, if I don’t see you before you sail.” - -As she left his office she could see his face, his eyes, in profile. -His expression was more than sad--it was devoid of hope. - -“Where have I seen an expression like that before?” she wondered. But -she could not then remember. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -EMBERS. - - -ON the way across the Atlantic her painful thoughts faded; and, -after the mid-ocean period when the worlds on either side of those -infinite waters dwindle into unreality, she found her imagination -looking forward to her new world as a place where there would be a new -beginning in her work and in her love. At Cherbourg Marlowe came out -on the lighter. “How handsome he is,” she was saying to herself, as -she leaned against the rail, watching his eyes search for her. “And -how well he wears his clothes. His head is set upon his shoulders -just right--what a strong, graceful figure he has.” And she again -felt something resembling her initial interest and pride in him, her -mind once more, as at first, interpreting his character through his -appearance, instead of reading into his appearance the man as she knew -him. - -When their eyes met she welcomed and returned the thought he sent her -in his look. - -They were soon together, bubbling over with the joy of living like two -children let out into the sunshine to play after a long imprisonment -with lessons. They had a compartment to themselves down to Paris -and sat very near each to the other, with illustrated papers as the -excuse for prolonging the enormous pleasure of the physical sensation -of nearness. They repeated again and again the commonplaces which all -human beings use as public coaches to carry their inarticulate selves a -visiting each other. - -She went to sleep for a few minutes, leaning against him; and a -breeze teased his nerves into an ecstasy of happiness with a stray of -her fine red-brown hair. “I’ve never been so happy,” she thought as -she awakened, “I could never be happier.” She did not move until it -became impossible for her to refrain from some outward expression of -her emotions. Then she only looked up at him. And his answer showed -that his mood was hers. As they sank back in the little victoria -outside the station, she gave a long look round the busy, fascinating -scene--strange, infectious of gaiety and good-humour. “Paris!” she -said, with a sigh of content in her dream realised. - -“Paris--and Emily,” he replied. - -They went to a small hotel in the Avenue Montaigne--“Modern enough,” he -said, “but very French and not yet discovered by foreigners.” At sunset -they drove to d’Armenonville to dine under the trees and to watch the -most interesting groups in the world--those groups of the civilised -through and through, in dress, in manners, in thought. After two days -he was called back to London. When he returned at the end of two weeks -she had transformed herself. A new gown, a new hat, a new way of -wearing her hair, an adaptation of her graces of form and manner to the -fashion of the moment, and she seemed a Parisienne. - -“You _have_ had your eyes open,” he said, as he noted one detail after -another, finally reaching the face which bloomed so delicately beneath -the sweeping brim of her hat. “And what a gorgeous hat! And put on at -the miraculous angle--how few women know how to put on a hat.” Of his -many tricks in the art at which he excelled--the art of superficially -pleasing women--none was more effective than his intelligent -appreciation of their dress. - -They staid at her pretty little apartment in a maison meublèe -in the Rue des Capucines; in a few days they went down into -Switzerland, and then, after a short pause at Paris, to Trouville. -In all they were together about a month, he neglecting his work in -spite of her remonstrances and her example. For she did her work -conscientiously--and she had never written so well. He tried to stay on -with her at Paris, but she insisted on his going. - -“I believe you wish to be rid of me,” he said, irritation close beneath -the surface of his jesting manner. - -“This morning’s is the third complaining cable you’ve had from the -office,” she answered. - -He looked at her, suspecting an evasion, but he went back to London. -The unpleasant truth was that he had worn out his welcome. She had -never before been with him continuously for so much as a week. Now, in -the crowded and consecutive impressions of these thirty uninterrupted -days, all the qualities which repelled her stood out, stripped of the -shimmer and glamour of novelty. And as she was having more and more -difficulty in deceiving herself and in spreading out the decreasing -area of her liking for him over the increasing gap where her love for -him had been, he, in the ironical perversity of the law of contraries, -became more and more demonstrative and even importunate. Many times -in her effort to escape him and the now ever-impending danger of open -rupture, she was driven to devices which ought not to have deceived -him, perhaps did not really deceive him. - -When he was gone she sat herself down to a “good cry”--an expression of -overwrought nerves rather than of grief. - -But after a few weeks she began to be lonely. The men she met were -of two kinds--those she did not like, all of whom were willing to -be friends with her on her terms; those she did like more or less, -none of whom was willing to be with her on any but his own terms. And -so she found herself often spending the most attractive part of the -day--the evening--dismally shut up at home, alone or with some not very -interesting girl. She had never been so free, yet never had she felt so -bound. With joy all about her, with joy beckoning her from the crowded, -fascinating boulevards, she was a prisoner. She needed Marlowe, and she -sent for him. - -She was puzzled by the change in him. She had only too good reason to -know that he loved her as insistently as ever, but there was a strain -in his manner and speech, as if he were concealing something from her. -She caught him looking at her in a peculiar way--as if he were angry -or resentful or possibly were suspecting her changed and changing -feelings toward him. And he had never been less interesting--she had -never before heard him talk stupidities and lifeless commonplaces or -break long silences with obvious attempts to rouse himself to “make -conversation.” - -She was not sorry when he went--he stayed four days longer than he -had intended; but she was also glad to get a message from him ten -days later, announcing a week-end visit. The telegram reached her -at _dejeuner_ and afterward, in a better mood, she drove to the -Continental Hotel, where she sometimes heard news worth sending. She -sat at a long window in the empty drawing-rooms and watched a light and -lazy snow drift down. - -As it slowly chilled her to a sense of loneliness, of disappointment -in the past, of dread of the future, she became conscious that a man -was pointedly studying her. She looked at him with the calm, close, yet -repelling, stare which experience gives a woman as a secure outlook -upon the world of strange men. This strange man was not ungracefully -sprawled in a deep chair, his top hat in a lap made by the loose -crossing of his extremely long and extremely strong legs. His feet -and hands were proportionate to his magnitude. His hands were white -and the fingers in some way suggested to her a public speaker. He had -big shoulders and a great deal of coat--a vast overcoat over a frock -coat, all made in the loosest English fashion. She had now reached his -head--a large head with an aggressive forehead and chin, the hair dark -brown, thin on top and at the temples, the skin pallid but healthy. His -eyes were bold and keen, and honest. He looked a tremendous man, and -when he rose and advanced toward her she wondered how such bulk could -be managed with so much grace. “An idealist,” she thought, “of the kind -that has the energy to be very useful or very dangerous.” - -“You are alone, mademoiselle,” he said, in French that was fluent but -American, “and I am alone. Let us have an adventure.” - -Emily’s glance started up his form with the proper expression of icy -oblivion. But by the time it reached the lofty place from which his -eyes were looking down at her it was hardly more than an expression -of bewilderment. To give him an icy stare would have seemed as futile -as for the valley to try to look scorn upon the peak. Before Emily -could drop her glance, she had seen in his eyes an irresistible -winning smile, as confiding as a boy’s, respectful, a little nervous, -delightfully human and friendly. - -“I can see what you are,” he continued in French, “and it may be that -you see that I am not untrustworthy. I am lonely and shall be more so -if you fail me. It seemed to me that--pardon me, if I intrude--you -looked lonely also--and sad. Why should we be held from helping each -the other by a convention that sensible people laugh at even when they -must obey it?” - -His voice pleaded his cause as words could not; and there was a -certain compulsion in it also. Emily felt that she wished to yield, -that it would be at once unkind and absurd not to yield, and that she -must yield. The impression of mastering strength was new and, to her -surprise, agreeable. - -“Why not?” she said slowly in French, regarding him with unmistakable -straightforwardness and simplicity. “I am depressed. I am alone. I have -been looking inside too much. Let us see. What do you propose?” - -“We might go to the Louvre. It is near, and perhaps we can think of -something while we are there.” - -They walked to the Louvre, he talking appreciatively of France and the -French people. He showed that he thought her a Frenchwoman and she did -not undeceive him. She could not decide what his occupation was, but -felt that he must be successful, probably famous, in it. “He is not so -tall after all,” she said to herself, “not much above six feet. And he -must be about forty-five.” - -As they went through the long rooms, she found that he knew the -paintings and statuary. “You paint?” she asked. - -“No,” he replied with an impatient shrug. “I only talk--talk, -talk, talk, until I am sick of myself. Again, I am compelled to -listen--listen to the outpourings of vanity and self-excuse and -self-complacence until I loathe my kind. It seems to me that it is only -in France that one finds any great number of people with a true sense -of proportion.” - -“But France is the oldest, you know. It inherited from Greece and Rome -when the rest of Europe was a wilderness.” - -“And we inherited a little from France,” he said. “But, unfortunately, -more from England. I think the strongest desire I have is to see my -country shake off the English influence--the self-righteousness, the -snobbishness. In England if a man of brains compels recognition, they -hasten to give him a title. Their sense of consistency in snobbishness -must not be violated. They put snobbishness into their church service -and create a snob-god who calls some Englishmen to be lords, and others -to be servants.” - -“But there is nothing like that in America?” - -“Not officially, and perhaps not among the mass of the people. But in -New York, in one class with which my--my business compels me to have -much to do, the craze for imitating England is rampant. It is absurd, -how they try to erect snobbishness into a virtue.” - -Emily shrugged her shoulders. “What does it matter?” she said. “Caste -is never made by the man who looks down, but always by the man who -looks up.” - -“But it is evil. It is a sin against God. It----” - -“I do not wish to dispute with you,” interrupted Emily. “But let us not -disturb God in his heaven. We are talking of earth.” - -“You do not believe in God?” He looked at her in astonishment. - -“Do you?” - -“I--I think I do. I assume God. Without Him, life would be--monstrous.” - -“Yet the most of the human race lives without Him. And of those who -profess to believe in Him, no two have the same idea of Him. Your God -is a democrat. The Englishman’s God is an autocrat and a snob.” - -“And your God?” - -Emily’s face grew sad. “Mine? The God that I see behind all the -mischance and stupidity and misery of this world--is--” She shook her -head. “I don’t know,” she ended vaguely. - -“It seems strange that a woman so womanly--looking as you do, should -feel and talk thus.” - -“My mode of life has made me see much, has compelled me to do my -own thinking. Besides, I am a child of this generation. We suspect -everything that has come down to us from the ignorant past. Even so -ardent a believer as you, when asked, ‘Do you believe?’ stammers, ‘I -_think_ I do.’” - -“I am used to one-sided arguments,” said the stranger with a laugh. -“Usually, I lay down the law and others listen in silence.” - -Emily looked at him curiously. Could he be a minister? No, it was -impossible. He was too masculine, too powerful. - -“Oh, I was not arguing,” she answered lightly. “I was only trying to -suggest that you might be more charitable.” - -“I confess,” he said, “that I am always talking to convince myself. -I do not know what is right or what is wrong, but I wish to know. I -doubt, but I wish to believe. I despair, but I wish to hope.” - -She had no answer and they were silent for a few minutes. Then he began: - -“I have an impulse to tell you what I would not tell my oldest and -dearest friend--perhaps because we are two utter strangers whose paths -have crossed in their wanderings through infinity and will never cross -again. Do you mind if I speak of myself?” - -“No.” Emily intensely wished to hear. “But I warn you that our paths -_may_ cross again.” - -“That does not matter. I am obeying an instinct. It is always well to -obey instincts. I think now that the instinct which made me speak to -you in the first place was this instinct to tell you. But it is not a -tragic story or even exciting. I am rather well known in the community -where I live. I am what we call in America a self-made man. I come -from the people--not from ignorance and crime and sensuality, but from -the real people--who think, who aspire, who advance, who work and -take pleasure and pride in their work, the people who have built our -republic which will perish if they decline.” - -He hesitated, then went on with increasing energy: “I am a clergyman. I -went into the ministry because I ardently believed in it, saw in it an -opportunity to be a leader of men in the paths which I hoped it would -help me to follow. I have been a clergyman for twenty-five years. And -I have ceased to believe that which I teach. Louder than I can shout -to my congregation, louder than my conscience can shout to me, a voice -continually gives me the lie.” He threw out his arm with a gesture -that suggested a torrent flinging aside a dam. “I preach the goodness -of God, and I never make a tour among the poor of my parish that I do -not doubt it. I preach the immortality of the soul, and I never look -out upon a congregation and remember what an infinite multitude of -those same commonplace, imperfect types there have been, that I do not -think: ‘It is ridiculous to say that man, the weak, the insignificant, -the deformity, is an immortal being, each individual worth preserving -through eternity.’ I preach the conventional code of morals, and----” - -“You ought not to tell me these things,” said Emily, as he paused. She -felt guilty because she was permitting him to think her a Frenchwoman, -when she was of his own country and city. - -“Well--I have said enough. And how much good it has done me to confess! -You could not possibly have a baser opinion of me than I deserve. -Telling such things is nothing in comparison with living them. I have -lied and lied and lied so long that the joy of telling the truth -intoxicates me. I am like a man crawling up out of years in a slimy -dungeon to the light. Do you suppose it would disturb his enjoyment to -note that spectators were commenting upon his unlovely appearance?” - -“After all, what you tell me is the commonplace of life. Who doesn’t -live lies, cheating himself and others?” - -“But I do not wish the commonplace, the false, the vulgar. There -is something in me that calls for higher things. I demand a _good_ -God. I demand an _immortal_ soul. I demand a _right_ that is clear -and absolute. And I long for real love--ennobling, inspiring. Why -have I all these instincts when I am compelled to live the petty, -swindling, cringing life of a brute dominated by the passion for -self-preservation?” - -Emily thought a moment, then with a twinkle of mockery in her eyes, yet -with seriousness too, quoted: “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it -shall be opened unto you.” - -He smiled as the waters of his own fountain thus unexpectedly struck -him in the face. “But my legs are weary, and my knuckles sore,” he -replied. “Still--what is there to do but to persist? One must persist.” - -“Work and hope,” said Emily, musingly. And she remembered Marlowe’s -“work and love”; love had gone, but hope--she felt a sudden fresh -upspringing of it in her heart. - -When they set out from the hotel she had been in a reckless mood of -despondency. She had lost interest in her work, she had lost faith in -her future--was not the heart-interest the central interest of life, -and what had become of her heart-interest? This stranger to whose -power she had impulsively yielded in the first instance, had a magical -effect upon her. His pessimism was not disturbing, for beneath it lay -a tremendous belief in men and in destiny. It was his energy, his -outgiving of a compelling masculine force, that aroused her to courage -again. She looked at him gratefully and at once began to compare him -with Marlowe. “What a child this man makes him seem,” she thought. -“This is the sort of man who would inspire one. And what inspiration to -do or to be am I getting from my husband?” - -“You are disgusted with me.” The stranger was studying her face. - -“No--I was thinking of some one else,” she replied--“of my own -troubles.” And then she flushed guiltily, as if she had let him into -her confidence--“a traitor’s speech” she thought. Aloud she said: “I -must go. I thank you for the good you have done me. I can’t tell you -how or why, but--” She ended abruptly and presently added, “I mustn’t -say that I hope we shall meet again. You see, I have your awful secret.” - -He laughed--there was boyishness in his laugh, but it was not -boisterous. “You terrify me,” he exclaimed. Then, reflectively, “I have -an instinct that we shall meet again.” - -“Perhaps. Why not? It would be far stranger if we did not than if we -did?” - -He went with her to a cab and, with polite consideration, left her -before she could give her address to the cabman. “I wish he had asked -to see me again,” she thought, looking after his tower-like figure as -he strode away. “But I suspect it was best not. There are some men -whom it is not wise to see too much of, when one is in a certain mood. -And I must do my duty.” She made a wry face--an exaggeration, but the -instinct to make it was genuine. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -ASHES. - - -EMILY’S “adventure” lingered with increasing vagueness for a few days, -then vanished under a sudden pressure of work. When she was once more -at leisure Marlowe came, and she was surprised by the vividness and -persistence with which her stranger returned. She struggled in vain -against the comparisons that were forced upon her. Marlowe seemed to -her a clever “understudy”--“a natural, born, incurable understudy,” -she thought, “and now that I’m experienced enough to be able to -discriminate, how can I help seeing it?” She was weary of the tricks -and the looks of a man whom she now regarded as a trafficker in stolen -bits of other men’s individualities--and his tricks and his looks were -all there was left of him for her. - -“Some people--two I want you to meet, came with me--that is, at the -same time,” he said. “Let’s dine with them at Larue’s to-morrow night.” - -“Why not to-night? I’ve an engagement to-morrow night. You did not warn -me that you were coming.” - -Marlowe looked depressed. “Very well,” he said, “I can arrange it, I -think.” - -“Are they Americans--these friends of yours?” - -There was a strain in his voice as he answered, which did not escape -Emily’s supersensitive ears. “No--English,” he said. “Lord Kilboggan -and Miss Fenton--the actress. You may have heard of her. She has been -making a hit in the play every one over there is talking about and -running to see--‘The Morals of the Marchioness.’” - -“Oh, yes--the play with the title _rôle_ left out.” - -“It _is_ pretty ‘thick’--and Miss Fenton was the marchioness. But -she’s not a bit like that in private life. Even Kilboggan gives her a -certificate of good character.” - -“_Even_ Kilboggan?” - -“He’s such a scoundrel. He blackguards every one. But he’ll amuse you. -He’s witty and good-looking and one of those fascinating financial -mysteries. He has no known source of income, yet he’s always idle, -always well-dressed, and always in funds. He would have been a famous -adventurer if he’d lived a hundred years ago.” - -“But as he lives in this practical age, he comes dangerously near to -being a plain ‘dead beat’--is that it?” Emily said this carelessly -enough, but something in her manner made Marlowe wince. - -“Oh, wait until you see him. We can’t carry our American ideas among -these English. They look upon work as a greater disgrace than having -a mysterious income. Kilboggan is liked by every one, except women -with daughters to marry off and husbands whose vanity is tempered by -misgivings.” - -“And what is your friend doing in Miss Fenton’s train?” - -“Well--at first I didn’t know what to make of it. But afterward I saw -that I was probably mistaken. I suppose she tolerates him because he’s -an earl. It’s in the blood.” - -“And why do _you_ tolerate him?” Emily’s tone was teasing, but it made -Marlowe wince again. - -“I don’t. I went with Denby--the theatrical man over in New -York--several times to see Miss Fenton. He has engaged her for next -season. And Kilboggan was there or joined us at dinner or supper. They -were coming over to Paris at the same time. I thought it might amuse -you to meet them.” - -Marlowe’s look and speech were frank, yet instinctively Emily paused -curiously upon his eager certificate of good character to Miss Fenton -in face of circumstances which a man of his experience would regard -as conclusive. Also she was puzzled by the elaborateness of his -explanation. She wished to see Miss Fenton. - -They met that evening at Larue’s and dined downstairs. Emily instantly -noted that Marlowe’s description of Kilboggan was accurate. “How can -any one be fooled by these frauds?” she thought. “He carries his -character in his face, as they all do. I suppose the reason they get -on is because the first impression wears away.” Then she passed to her -real interest in the party--Miss Fenton. Her first thought was--“How -beautiful!” Her second thought--“How shallow and stupid!” - -Victoria Fenton was tall and thin--obtrusively thin. Her arms and legs -were long, and they and her narrow hips and the great distance from -her chin to the swell of her bosom combined to give her an appearance -of snake-like grace--uncanny, sensuous, morbidly fascinating. Her -features were perfectly regular, her skin like an Amsterdam baby’s, -her eyes deep brown, and her hair heavy ropes of gold. Her eyes seemed -to be brilliant; but when Emily looked again, she saw that they were -dull, and that it was the colouring of her cheeks which made them -seem bright. In the mindless expression of her eyes, in her coarse, -wide mouth and long white teeth, Emily found the real woman. And -she understood why Miss Fenton could say little, and eat and drink -greedily, and still could shine. - -But, before Miss Fenton began to exhibit her appetite, Emily had made -another discovery. As she and Marlowe entered Larue’s, Victoria gave -him a look of greeting which a less sagacious woman than she would -not have misunderstood. It was unmistakably the look of potential -proprietorship. - -Emily glanced swiftly but stealthily at Marlowe by way of the mirror -behind the table. He was wearing the expression of patient and bored -indifference which had become habitual with him since he had been -associating with Englishmen. Their eyes met in the mirror--“He is -trying to see how I took that woman’s look at him,” she thought, -contemptuously. “But he must have known in advance that she would -betray herself and him. He must have brought me here deliberately -to see it or brought her here to see me--or both.” A little further -reflection, and suspicion became certainty, and her eyelids hid a look -of scorn. - -She made herself agreeable to Kilboggan, who proved to be amusing. -As soon as the food and drink came, Victoria neglected Marlowe. He, -after struggling to draw her out and succeeding in getting only dull -or silly commonplaces, became silent and ill-at-ease. He felt that so -far as rousing Emily’s jealousy was concerned, he had failed dismally, -“Victoria is at her worst to-night,” he thought. “She couldn’t make -anybody jealous.” But he had not the acuteness to see that Emily had -penetrated his plan--if he had been thus acute, he would not have tried -such a scheme, desperate though he was. - -All he had accomplished was to bring the two women before his eyes -and mind in the sharpest possible contrast, and so increase his own -infatuation for Emily. The climax of his discomfiture came when -Victoria, sated by what she had eaten and inflamed by what she had -drunk, began to scowl jealously at Emily and Kilboggan. But Marlowe -did not observe this; his whole mind was absorbed in Emily. He was not -disturbed by her politeness to Kilboggan; he hardly noted it. He was -revolving her fascinations, her capriciousness, her unreachableness. “I -have laughed at married men,” he said to himself. “They are revenged. -Of all husbands I am the most ridiculous.” And he began to see the -merits of the system of locking women away in harems. - -He and she drove to her apartment in silence. He sent away the cab and -joined her at the outside door which the concierge had opened. “Good -night.” She spoke distantly, standing in the doorway as if she expected -him to leave. “I’m afraid I can’t see you to-morrow. Theresa and her -General arrived at the Ritz to-night from Egypt, and I’ve engaged to -lunch and drive and dine with them.” - -“I will go up with you,” he said, as if she had not spoken. There -was sullen resolve in his tone, and so busy was he with his internal -commotion that he did not note the danger fire in her eyes. But she -decided that it would not be wise to oppose him there. When they were -in her tiny salon, she seated herself, after a significant glance at -the clock. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantel-shelf. He -could look down at her--if she had been standing also, their eyes would -have been upon a level. - -“How repellent he looks,” she thought, as she watched him expectantly. -“And just when he needs to appear at his best.” - -“Emily,” he began with forced calmness, “the time has come when we must -have a plain talk. It can’t be put off any longer.” - -She was sitting with her arms and her loosely-clasped, still gloved -hands upon the table, staring across it into the fire. “I must not -anger him,” she was saying to herself. “The time has passed when a -plain talk would do any good.” Aloud she said: “I’m tired, George--and -not in a good humour. Can’t you----” - -Her impatience to be rid of him made him desperate. “I must speak, -Emily, I must,” he replied. “For many months--in fact for nearly a year -of our year and four months--I’ve seen that our plan was a failure. -We’re neither bound nor free, neither married nor single. We--I, at -least--am exposed to--all sorts of temptations. I need you--your -sympathy, your companionship--all the time. I see you only often -enough to tantalise me, to keep me in a turmoil that makes happiness -impossible. And,” he looked at her uneasily, appealingly, “each time I -see you, I find or seem to find that you have drifted further away from -me.” - -She did not break the silence--she did not know what to say. To be -frank was to anger him. To evade was impossible. - -“Emily,” he went on, “you know that I love you. I wish you to be happy -and I know that you don’t wish me to be miserable. I ask you to give -up, or at least put aside for the time, these ideas of yours. Let us -announce our marriage and try to work out our lives in the way that the -experience of the world has found best. Let us be happy again--as we -were in the beginning.” - -His voice vibrated with emotion. She sighed and there were tears in -her eyes and her voice was trembling as she answered: “There isn’t -anything I wouldn’t do, George, to bring back the happiness we had. -But--” she shook her head mournfully, “it is gone, dear.” A tear -escaped and rolled down her cheek. “It’s gone.” - -He was deceived by her manner and by his hopes and longings into -believing that he was not appealing in vain; and there came back to him -some of the self-confidence that had so often won for him with women. -“Not if we both wish it, and will it, and try for it, Emily.” - -“It’s gone,” she repeated, “gone. We can’t call it back.” - -“Why do you say that, dear?” - -“Don’t ask me. I can’t be untruthful with you, and telling the truth -would only rouse the worst in us both. You know, George, that I -wouldn’t be hopeless about it, if there were any hope. We’ve drifted -apart. We can go on as we are now--friends. Or we can--can--drift still -further--apart. But we can’t come together again.” - -“Those are very serious words, my dear,” he said, trying to hide his -anger. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” - -“Please, George--let me write it to you, if you must have it. Spare me. -It is so hard to speak honestly. Please!” - -“If you can find the courage to speak, I can find the patience to -listen,” he said with sarcasm. “As we are both intelligent and -sensible, I don’t think you need be alarmed about there being a -‘scene.’ What is the matter, Emily? Let us clear the air.” - -“We’ve changed--that’s all. I’m not regretting what we did. I wouldn’t -give it up for anything. But--we’ve changed.” - -“_I_ have not changed. I’m the same now as then, except that I -appreciate you more than I did at first. Month by month you’ve grown -dearer to me. And----” - -“Well, then, it is I who have changed,” she interrupted, desperately. -“It’s not strange, is it, George? I was, in a way, inexperienced -when we were married, though I didn’t think so. And life looks very -different to me now.” She could not go on without telling him that she -had found him out, without telling him how he had shrivelled and shrunk -until the garb of the ideal in which she had once clothed him was now a -giant’s suit upon a pigmy--pitiful, ridiculous. “How can I help it that -my mind has changed? I thought so and so--I no longer think so and so. -Put yourself in my place, dear--the same thing might have happened to -you about me.” - -Many times the very same ideas had formed in his mind as he had -exhausted his interest in one woman after another. They were familiar -to him--these ideas. And how they mocked him now! It seemed incredible -that he, hitherto always the one who had broken it off, should be in -this humiliating position. - -“It’s all due to that absurd plan of ours,” he said bitterly. “If -we had gone about marriage in a sensible way, we should have grown -together. As it is, you’ve exaggerated trifles into mountains and are -letting them crush our happiness to death.” His tone became an appeal. -“Emily--my dear--my wife--you must not!” - -She did not answer. “If we’d lived together I’d have found him out just -the same--more quickly,” she thought. “And either I’d have degraded -myself through timidity and dependence, or else I’d have left him.” - -“You admit that our plan has been a failure?” he went on. - -She nodded. - -“Then we must take the alternative.” - -She grew pale and looked at him with dread in her eyes--the universal -human dread of finalities. - -“We must try my plan,” he said. “We must try married life in the way -that has succeeded--at least in some fashion--far oftener than it has -failed.” - -“Oh!” She felt relieved, but also she regretted that he had not spoken -as she feared he would speak. She paused to gather courage, turned her -face almost humbly up to him, and said: “I wish I could, George. But -don’t urge me to do that. Let us go on as we are, until--until--Let us -wait. Let us----” - -He threw back his head haughtily. The patience of his vanity was worn -through. “No,” he said. “That would be folly. It must be settled one -way or the other, Emily.” He looked at her, his courage quailing before -the boldness of his words. But he saw that she was white and trembling, -and misunderstood it. He said to himself: “She must be firmly dealt -with. She’s giving in--a woman always does in the last ditch.” - -“No,” he repeated. “The door must be either open or shut. Either I am -your husband, or I go out of your life.” - -“You _can’t_ mean that, George?” She was so agitated that she rose and -came round the table to face him. “Why shouldn’t we wait--and hope? We -still care each for the other, and--it hurts, oh, how it _hurts_--even -to think of you as out of my life.” - -He believed that she was yielding. He put his hand on her arm. -“Dearest, there has been too much indecision already. You must choose -between your theories and our happiness. Which will you take? You must -choose here and now. Shall I go or stay?” - -She went slowly back to her chair and sat down and again stared into -the fire. “To-morrow,” she said at last. “I will decide to-morrow.” - -“No--to-night--now.” He went to her and sat beside her. He put his arm -around her. “I love you--I love you,” he said in a low tone, kissing -her. “You--my dearest--how can you be so cruel? Love is best. Let us be -happy.” - -At the clasp of his arm and the touch of his lips, once so potent to -thrill her, she grew cold all over. - -What he had thought would be the triumphant climax of his appeal made -every nerve in her body cry out in protest against a future spent -with him. She would have pushed him away, if she had not pitied him -and wished not to offend him. “Don’t ask me to decide to-night,” she -pleaded. “Please!” - -“But you have decided, dearest. We shall be happy. We shall----” - -She gradually drew away from him, and to the surface of her expression -rose that iron inflexibility, usually so completely concealed by her -beauty and gentleness and sweetness. “If I must decide--if you force -me to decide, then--George, my heart is aching with the past, aching -with the loneliness that stares horribly from the future. But I cannot, -I cannot do as you ask.” And she burst into tears, sobbing as if her -heart were breaking. “I cannot,” she repeated. “I must not.” - -All the ugliness which years of unbridled indulgence of his vanity had -bred in him was roused by her words. Such insolence from a woman, one -of the sex that had been his willing, yielding instrument to amusement, -and that woman his wife! But he had talked so freely to her of his -alleged beliefs in the equality of the sexes, he had urged and boasted -and professed so earnestly, that he did not dare unmask himself. -Instead, with an effort at self-control that whitened his lips, he -said: “You no doubt have reasons for this--this remarkable attitude. -Might I venture to inquire what they are? I do not fancy the idea of -being condemned unheard.” - -“Unheard? _I_--condemn _you_ unheard! George, do not be unjust to me. -You know--you must know--that there was not a moment when my heart -was not pleading your cause. Do you think I have not suffered as I saw -my love being murdered--my love which I held sacred while you were -outraging and desecrating it.” - -“It is incredible!” he exclaimed. “Emily, who has been lying to you -about me? Who has been poisoning your mind against me?” - -“You--George.” She said it quietly, sadly. “No one else in all this -world could have destroyed you with me.” - -“I do not understand,” he protested. But his eyes shifted rapidly, then -turned away from her full gaze, fixed upon him without resentment or -anger, with only sorrow and a desire to spare him pain. - -“I could remind you of several things--you remember them, do you -not? But they were not the real cause. It was, I think, the little -things--it always is the little things, like drops of water wearing -away the stone. And they wore away the feeling I had for you--carried -it away grain by grain. Forgive me, George--.” The tears were streaming -down her face. “I loved you--you were my life--I have lost you. And -I’m alone--and a woman. No, no--don’t misunderstand my crying--my love -is dead. Sometimes I think I ought to hate you for killing it. But I -don’t.” - -“Thank you,” he said, springing to his feet. His lips were drawn -back in a sneer and he was shaking with anger. He took up his hat -and coat. “I shall not intrude longer.” He bowed with mock respect. -“Good-night--good-_bye_.” - -“George!” She started up. “We must not part, with you in anger against -me.” - -He gave her a furious look and left the apartment. “What a marriage!” -he said to himself. “Bah! She’ll send me a note in the morning.” But -this prophecy was instantly faced with the memory of her expression as -she gave her decision. - -And Emily did not send for him. She tore up in the morning the note she -rose in the night to write. - -The next evening while she and the Waylands were dining at the Ritz, -Victoria Fenton came in with Kilboggan and sat where Emily could study -her at leisure. - -“Isn’t that a beautiful woman?” she said to Theresa. - -“Yes--a gorgeous animal,” Theresa replied, after a critical survey. -“And how she does love food!” - -Emily was grateful. - -“She looks rather common too,” Theresa continued. “What a bad face the -fellow she’s with has.” - -Emily tried to extract comfort out of these confirmations of her -opinion of the couple she was blaming for Marlowe’s forcing the -inevitable issue at a most inopportune time. But her spirits refused to -rise. “It’s of no use to deny it,” she said to herself, with a sick and -sinking heart. “I shall miss him dreadfully. What can take his place?” - -She wished to be alone; the dinner seemed an interminable prospect, was -an hour and a half of counted and lingering minutes. When the coffee -was served she announced a severe headache, insisted on going at once -and alone, would permit escort only to a cab. As she went she seemed -to be passing, deserted and forlorn, through a world of comrades and -lovers--men two and two, women two and two, men and women together in -pairs or in parties. Out in the Champs Elysees, stars and soft, warm -air, and love-inviting shadows among the trees; here and there the -sudden dazzling blaze of the lights of a café chantant, and music; -a multitude of cabs rolling by, laughter or a suggestion of romance -floating in the wake of each. “Hide yourself!” the city and the night -were saying to her, “Hide your heartache! Nobody cares, nobody wishes -to see!” - -And she hastened to hide herself, to lie stunned in the beat of a black -and bitter sea. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -“THE REAL TRAGEDY OF LIFE.” - - -MARLOWE had been held above his normal self, not by Emily, but by -an exalting love for her. Except in occasional momentary moods of -exuberant animalism, he had not been low and coarse. Whatever else -might be said of the love affairs whose tombstones strewed his past, it -could not be said that they were degrading to the parties at interest. -But there was in his mind a wide remove between all the others and -Emily. His love for her was as far above him as her love for him -after she ceased to respect him had been beneath her. And her courage -and independence came to her rescue none too soon. He could not much -longer have persisted in a state so unnatural to his character and -habit. Indeed it was unconsciously the desire to get her where he could -gradually lead her down to his fixed and unchangeable level, that -forced him on to join that disastrous issue. - -As he journeyed toward London the next night, he was industriously -preparing to eject love for her by a vigorous campaign of consolation. -Vanity had never ceased to rule him. It had tolerated love so long as -love seemed to be coöperating with it. It now resumed unchecked sway. - -Before he went to Paris he was much stirred by Victoria’s beauty. He -thought that fear of her becoming a menace to his loyalty had caused -him to appeal to Emily. And naturally he now turned toward Victoria, -and made ready for a deliberately reckless infatuation. He plunged the -very afternoon of his return to London, and he was soon succeeding -beyond the bounds which his judgment had set in the planning. This -triumph over a humiliating defeat was won by many and powerful -allies--resentment against Emily for her wounds to his vanity, craving -for consolation, a vigorous and passionate imagination, the desire to -show his superiority over the fascinating Kilboggan, and, strongest of -all, Victoria’s fame and extraordinary physical charms. If Emily could -have looked into his mind two weeks after he left her, she would have -been much chagrined, and would no doubt have fallen into the error of -fancying that his love had not been genuine and, for him, deep. - -He erected Victoria into an idol, put his good sense out of commission, -fell down and worshipped. He found her a reincarnation of some -wonderful Greek woman who had inspired the sculptors of Pericles. -He wrote her burning letters. When he was with her he gave her no -opportunity to show him whether she was wise or silly, deep or shallow, -intelligent or stupid. When she did speak he heard, not her words, -but only the vibrations of that voice which had made her the success -of the season--the voice that entranced all and soon seemed to him to -strike the chord to which every fibre of his every nerve responded. -He dreamed of those gold braids, unwound and showering about those -strange, lean, maddening shoulders and arms of hers. - -In that mood, experience, insight into the ways and motives of women -went for no more than in any other mood of any other mode of love. He -knew that he was in a delirium, incapable of reason or judgment. But he -had no desire to abate, perhaps destroy, his pleasure by sobering and -steadying himself. - -He convinced himself that Kilboggan was an unsatisfied admirer of -Victoria. When Kilboggan left her to marry the rich wife his mother -had at last found for him, he believed that the “nobleman” had been -driven away by Victoria because she feared her beloved Marlowe -disapproved of him. And when he found that Victoria would never be -his until they should marry, he began to cast about to free himself. -After drafting and discarding many letters, and just when he was in -despair--“It’s impossible even to begin right”--he had what seemed -to him an inspiration. “The telegraph! One does not have to begin or -end a telegram; and it can be abrupt without jar, and terse without -baldness.” He sent away his very first effort: - - EMILY BROMFIELD, - --Boulevard Haussmann, Paris. - - Will you consent to quiet Dakota divorce on ground of - incompatibility. No danger publicity. You will not need leave Paris - or take any trouble whatever. Please telegraph answer to--Dover - Street, Piccadilly. - - MARLOWE. - -He was so bent upon his plan that not until he had handed in the -telegram did the other side of what he was doing come forcibly to him. -With a sudden explosion there were flung to the surface of his mind -from deep down where Emily was uneasily buried, a mass of memories, -longings, hopes, remnants of tenderness and love, regrets, remorse. -He had no definite impulse to recall the telegram but, as he went out -into the thronged and choked Strand, he forgot where he was and let the -crowd bump and thump and drift him into a doorway; and he stood there, -not thinking, but feeling--forlorn, acutely sensitive of the loneliness -and futility of life. - -“I was just going to ask you to join me at luncheon,” said a man at his -side--Blackwell, an old acquaintance. “But if you feel as you look, I -prefer my own thoughts.” - -“I was thinking of a paragraph I read in _Figaro_ this morning,” said -Marlowe. “It went on to say that the real tragedy of life is not the -fall of splendid fortunes, nor the death of those who are beloved, nor -any other of the obvious calamities, but the petty, inglorious endings -of friendships and loves that have seemed eternal.” - -When Marlowe went to his lodgings after luncheon, he found Emily’s -answer: “Certainly, and I know I can trust you completely.” - -He expected a note from her, but none came. He cabled for leave of -absence and in the following week sailed for New York. He “established -a residence” one morning at Petersville, an obscure county seat in -a remote corner of South Dakota, engaged a lawyer for himself and -another for Emily in the afternoon, and in the evening set out for -New York. At the end of three months, spent in New York, he returned -to his “residence”--a bedroom in Petersville. The case was called -the afternoon of his arrival. Emily “put in an appearance” through -her lawyer, and he submitted to the court a letter from her in which -she authorised him to act for her, and declared that she would never -return to her husband. After a trial which lasted a minute and -three-quarters--consumed in reading Emily’s letter and in Marlowe’s -testimony--the divorce was granted. The only publicity was the -never-read record of the Petersville court. - -Marlowe reappeared in London after an absence of three months and three -weeks. When Victoria completed her tour of the provinces, they were -married and went down to the South Coast for the honeymoon. - -The climax of a series of thunderclaps in revelation of Victoria as -an intimate personality came at breakfast the next morning. She was -more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and her voice had its same -searching vibrations. But he could think of neither as he watched her -“tackle”--the only word which seemed to him descriptive--three enormous -mutton chops in rapid succession. He noted each time her long white -teeth closed upon a mouthful of chop and potato; and as she chewed with -now one cheek and now the other distended and with her glorious eyes -bright like a feeding beast’s, he repeated to himself again and again: -“My God, what have I done?”--not tragically, but with a keen sense of -his own absurdity. He turned away from her and stood looking out across -the channel toward France--toward Emily. - -“What shall I do?” he said to himself. “What shall I do?” - -He was compelled to admit that she was not in the least to blame. -She had made no pretences to him. She had simply accepted what he -cast at her feet, what he fell on his knees to beg her to take. She -had not deceived him. Her hair, her teeth--what greedy, gluttonous -teeth!--her long, slender form, her voice, all were precisely as they -had promised. He went over their conversations. He remembered much -that she had said--brief commonplaces, phrases which revealed her, but -which he thought wonderful as they came to his entranced ears upon that -shimmering stream of sound. Not an idea! Not an intelligent thought -except those repeated--with full credit--from the conversation of -others. - -“Fool! Fool!” he said to himself. “I am the most ridiculous of men. If -I tried to speak, I should certainly bray.” - -He turned and looked at her as she sat with her back toward him. Her -hair was caught up loosely, coil on coil of dull gold. It just revealed -the nape of her neck above the lace of her dressing-gown. “Yes, it -is a beautiful neck! She is a beautiful woman.” Yet the thought that -that beauty was his, thrust at him like the red-hot fork of a teasing -devil. “It is what I deserve,” he said. “But that makes it the more -exasperating. What _shall_ I do?” - -“Why are you so quiet, sweetheart?” she said, throwing her napkin on -the table. “Come here and kiss me and say some of those pretty things. -You Americans do have a queer accent. But you know how to make love -cleverly. No wonder you caught poor, foolish me.” - -“My _wife_,” he thought. “Good God, what have I done? It must be a -ghastly dream.” But he crossed the room and sat opposite her without -looking at her. “I’m not very fit this morning,” he said. - -“I thought you weren’t.” Her spell-casting voice was in the proper -stage-tone for sympathy. “I saw that you didn’t eat.” - -“Eat!” He shuddered and closed his eyes to prevent her seeing the -sullen fury which blazed there. He was instantly ashamed of himself. -Only--if she _would_ avoid reminding him of the chops and potato -disappearing behind that gleaming screen of ivory. He was sitting on -a little sofa. She sat beside him and drew his head down upon her -shoulder. She let her long, cool fingers slide slowly back and forth -across his forehead. - -“I _do_ love you.” There was a ring of reality in her tone beneath the -staginess. “We are going to be very, very happy. You are so different -from Englishmen. And I’m afraid you’ll weary of your stupid English -wife. I’m not a bit clever, you know, like the American women.” - -He was unequal to a hypocritical protest in words, so he patted her -reassuringly on the arm. He was less depressed now that she had stopped -eating and was at her best. He rose and with ashamed self-reproach -kissed her hair. “I shall try to make you not repent your bargain,” he -said, with intent to conceal the deeper meaning of his remark. “But I -must send off some telegrams. Then we’ll go for a drive. I need the -air.” - -He liked her still better as she came down in a becoming costume; he -particularly liked the agitation her appearance created in the lounging -rooms. They got through the day well, and after a dinner with two -interesting men--a dinner at which he drank far more than usual--he -felt temporarily reconciled to his fate. - -But at the end of a week, in which he had so managed it that they -were alone as little as possible he had not one illusion left. He did -not love her. She did not attract him. She was tiresome through and -through. Instead of giving life a new meaning and him a new impetus, -she was an added burden, another source of irritation. He admitted to -himself that he had been tricked by his senses, as a boy of twenty -might have been. He felt like a professional detective who has yielded -to a familiar swindling game. - -She had grown swiftly fonder of him, won by his mental superiority, by -his gentleness exaggerated in his anxiety not basely to make her suffer -for his folly. “He’s a real gentleman,” she thought. “His manners are -not pretence. I’ve done much better than I fancied.” And she began -further to try his nerves by a dog-like obedience. She would not put on -a dress without first consulting him. She had no will but his in any -way--except one. She insisted upon ordering her own meals. There she -did not care what he thought. - -Once they were back in London, his chain became invisible and galled -him only in imagination. She had an exacting profession, and so had -he. When they were together, they would talk about her work, and, as -he was interested in it and intelligent about it and she docile and -receptive, he was content. While she was of no direct use to him, he -found that she was of great indirect use. He worked more steadily, more -ambitiously. The ideal woman, which had always been distracting and -time-wasting, ceased to have any part in his life. - -He turned his attention to play-writing and play-carpentry. He -became a connoisseur of food and drink, a dabbler in old furniture -and tapestries. He did not regret the event of his first venture in -marriage and only venture in love. “As it is, it’s a perfect gem,” he -finally came to sum the matter up, “a completed work of art. If I’d had -my way, still it must have ended some time, and not so artistically -or so comfortably.” When he reflected thus, his waist-line was slowly -going. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -EMILY REFUSES CONSOLATION. - - -THE Waylands took a small house at Neuilly for the summer, and Emily -spent a great deal of time there. She found Theresa less lively but -also less jarring than in their boarding-house days. Neither ever spoke -of those days, or of Demorest and Marlowe--Theresa, because she had -no wish to recall that she had been other than the fashionable and -preeminently respectable personage she had rapidly developed into; -Emily, because her heart was still sore, and the place where Marlowe -had been was still an uncomfortable and at times an aching void. - -In midsummer came the third member of the Wayland family--Edgar. -Like his father, he had changed, had developed into a type of the -respectable radically different from anything of which she had thought -him capable. A cleaner mind now looked from his commonplace face, -and he watched with approving interest the pleasing, if monotonous, -spectacle of his father’s domestic solidity. On the very day on which -Emily received her copy of the decree of the Petersville court, he took -her out to dinner. - -She had sat in her little salon with the three documents in the case -before her--the two tangible documents, the marriage certificate and -the decree of divorce; and the intangible but most powerful document, -her memory of Marlowe from first scene to last. When it was time for -her to dress, she went to her bedroom window, tore the two papers into -bits and sent them fluttering away over the housetops on the breeze. -“The incident is closed,” she said, with a queer short laugh that was -also a sob. She had Wayland take her to a little restaurant in the -Rue Marivaux, her and Marlowe’s favourite dining place--a small room, -with tasteful dark furnishings and rose-coloured lights that made it -somewhat brighter than clear twilight. - -As they sat there, with the orchestra sending down from a -plant-screened alcove high in the wall the softest and gentlest -intimations of melody, Emily deliberately gave herself up to the mood -that had been growing all the afternoon. - -Edgar knew her well enough to leave her to her thoughts through the -long wait and into the second course. Then he remonstrated. “You’re not -drinking. You’re not eating. You’re not listening--I’ve asked you a -question twice.” - -“Yes, I was listening,” replied Emily--“listening to a voice I don’t -like to hear, yet wouldn’t silence if I could--the voice of experience.” - -“Well--you look as if you’d had a lot of experience--I was going to -say, you look sadder, but it isn’t that. And--you’re more beautiful -than ever, Emily. You always did have remarkable eyes, and now -they’re--simply wonderful and mysterious.” - -Emily laughed. “Oh, they’re hiding such secrets--such secrets!” - -“Yes, I suppose you have been through a lot. You talk more like a -married woman than a young girl. But of course you don’t know life as a -man knows it. No nice woman can.” - -“Can a nice man?” - -“Oh, there aren’t any nice men. At least you’d hate a nice man. I think -a fellow ought to be experienced, ought to go around and learn what’s -what, and then he ought to settle down. Don’t you?” - -“I’m not sure. I’m afraid a good many of that kind of fellows are no -more attractive than the ‘nice’ men. Still, it’s surprising how little -of you men’s badness gets beyond the surface. You come in and hold up -your dirty hands and faces for us women to wash. And we wash them, and -you are shiny and clean and all ready to be husbands and fathers. I -think I’ve seen signs of late that little Edgar Wayland wishes to have -_his_ hands and face washed.” - -The red wine at this restaurant in the Rue Marivaux is mild and smooth, -but full of sentiment and courage. Edgar had made up for Emily’s -neglect of it, and it enabled him to advance boldly to the settlement -of a matter which he had long had in mind, as Emily would have seen, -had she not been so intent upon her own affairs. - -“Yes--I do want my hands and face washed,” he said nervously, turning -his glass by its stem round and round upon the table. “And I want you -to do it, Emmy.” - -Emily was grateful to him for proposing to her just then. And her -courage was so impaired by her depression that she could not summarily -reject a chance to settle herself for life in the way that is usually -called “well.” “Haven’t I been making a mistake?” she had been saying -to herself all that day--and in vaguer form on many preceding days. “Is -the game worth the struggle? Freedom and independence haven’t brought -me happiness. Wasn’t George right, after all? Why should I expect so -much in a man, expect so much from life?” It seemed to her at the -moment that she had better have stopped thinking, had better have cast -aside her ideals of self-respect and pride, and have sunk with Marlowe. -“And Edgar would let me alone. Why not marry him?” - -She evaded his proposal by teasing him about his flight from her two -years before--“Only two years,” she thought. “How full and swift life -is, if one keeps in midstream.” - -“Don’t talk about that, Emmy, please,” begged Edgar humbly. “I don’t -need any reminder that I once had a chance and threw it away.” - -“But you didn’t have a chance,” replied Emily. - -“No, I suppose not. I suppose you wouldn’t have had me, if it had come -to the point.” - -“I don’t mean that. I’d have had _you_, but you wouldn’t, couldn’t, -have had _me_. The I of those days and the I of to-day aren’t at all -the same person. If I’d married you then, there would have been one -kind of a me. As it is, there is a different kind of a me, as different -as--as the limits of life permit.” - -“What has done it--love?” he asked. - -“Chiefly freedom. Freedom!” Her sensitive face was suddenly all in a -glow. - -“I know I’m not up to you, Emily,” he said. “But----” - -“Let’s not talk about it, Edgar. Why spoil our evening?” - -Theresa came the next afternoon and took her for a drive. “Has Edgar -been proposing to you?” she asked. - -“I think he’s feeling more or less sentimental,” Emily replied, not -liking the intimate question. - -“Now, don’t think I’m meddling. Edgar told me, and has been talking -about you all morning. He wished me to help him.” - -“Well, what do you think?” - -“Marry him, Emily. He’d make a model husband. He’s not very mean about -money, and he’s fond of home and children. I’d like it on my own -account, of course. It would be just the thing in every way.” - -“But then there’s my work, my independence, my freedom.” - -“Do be sensible. You can work as hard as ever you like, even if you are -married. And you’d be freer than now and would have a lots better time, -no matter what your idea of a good time is.” - -“But I don’t love him. I’m not sure that I even like him.” - -“So much the better. Then you’ll be agreeably disappointed. If you -expect nothing or worse, you get the right kind of a surprise; whereas, -when a woman loves a man, she idealises him and is sure to get the -wrong kind of a surprise.” - -“You can’t possibly know how wise what you’ve just said is, Theresa -Dunham,” said Emily. “But there is one thing wiser--and that is, not to -marry, not to risk. I’m able to make my living. My extravagant tastes -are under control. And I’m content--except in ways in which nothing he -can give me could help.” - -Theresa was irritated that Emily’s “queer ideas” were a force in her -life, not a mere mask for disappointment at not having been able to -marry well. And Emily could not discuss the situation with her. Theresa -might admit that it was barely possible for a woman to refuse to marry -except for love. But a woman disputing the necessity of marriage for -any and all women, if they were not to make a disgraceful failure -of life--Emily could see Theresa pooh-poohing the idea that such a -creature really existed among the sane. Further, if Emily explained her -point of view, she would be by implication assailing Theresa for her -marriage. - -“I’m sure,” Theresa went on, “that Edgar’s father would be satisfied. -If he didn’t know you he wouldn’t like it. He has such strict ideas on -the subject of women. He thinks a woman’s mission is to be a wife and -mother. He says nature plainly intended woman to have motherhood as her -mission.” - -“Not any more, I should say, than she intended man to have fatherhood -as his mission.” - -“Well, at any rate, he thinks so, and it gives him something to talk -about. He thinks a woman who is not at least a wife ought to be ashamed -of herself.” - -“But if no man will have her?” - -“Then she ought to sit out of sight, where she will offend as little as -possible.” - -“But if she has to make a living?” - -“Oh, she can do something quiet and respectable, like sewing or -housework.” - -“But why shouldn’t she work at whatever will produce the best living?” - -“She ought to be careful not to be unwomanly.” - -“Womanliness, as you call it, won’t bring in bread or clothes or pay -rent,” said Emily. “And I can’t quite see why it should be womanly to -make a poor living at drudgery and unwomanly to make a good living at -agreeable work.” - -“Oh, well, you know, Emmy, that nature never intended women to work.” - -“I’m sure I don’t know what nature intended. Sometimes I’ve an idea -she’s like a painter who, when they asked him what his canvas was going -to be, said, ‘Oh, as it may happen.’ But whatever nature’s intentions, -women do work. I’m not thinking about an unimportant little class of -women who spend their time in dressing and simpering at one another. -I’m thinking of women--the race of women. They work as the men work. -They bear more than half the burden. They work side by side with the -men--in the shops and offices and schoolrooms, on the farms and in the -homes. They toil as hard and as intelligently and as usefully as the -men; and, if they’re married, they usually make a bare living. The -average husband thinks he’s doing his wife a favour by letting her live -with him. And he is furious if she asks what he’s doing with their -joint earnings.” - -“You put it well,” said Theresa. “You ought to say that to Percival. I -suppose he could answer you.” - -“No doubt I’m boring you,” said Emily. “But it makes me indignant for -women to accept men’s absurd ideas on the subject of themselves--to -think that they’ve got to submit and play the hypocrite in order to fit -men’s silly so-called ideals of them. And the worst of it is----” - -Emily stopped and when she began again, talked of the faces and clothes -in the passing carriages. She had intended to go on to denounce herself -for weakness in being unable to follow reason and altogether shake off -ideas which she regarded as false and foolish and discreditable. “As -if,” she thought “any toil in making my own living could possibly equal -the misery of being tied to a commonplace fellow like Edgar, with my -life one long denial of all that I believe honest and true. I his wife, -the mother of his children, and listening to his narrow prosings day -in and day out--it’s impossible!” - -She straightened herself and drew in a long breath of the bright air of -the Bois. - -“Listen to me, Theresa,” she said. “Suppose you were walking along a -road alone--not an especially pleasant road--a little dusty and, at -times rough--but still on the whole not a bad road. And suppose you -saw a clumsy, heavy manikin, dropped by some showman and lying by the -wayside. Would you say, ‘I am tired. The road is rough. I’ll pick up -this manikin and strap it on my back to make the journey lighter?’” - -“Whatever do you mean?” asked Theresa. - -“Why, I mean that I’m not going to marry--not just yet--I think.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -BACHELOR GIRLS. - - -IN September Emily, convinced that she could not afford to stay away -from her own country longer, got herself transferred to the New York -staff and crossed with the Waylands. In the crowd on the White Star -pier she saw Joan, now a successful playright or “plagiarist” as she -called herself, because the most of her work was translating and -adapting. And presently Joan and she were journeying in a four-wheeler -piled high with trunks, toward the San Remo where Joan was living. - -“Made in Paris,” said Joan, her arm about Emily and her eyes delighting -in Emily’s stylish French travelling costume. “You even speak with a -Paris accent. How you have changed!” - -“But not so much as you. You are not so thin. And you’ve lost that -stern, anxious expression. And you have the air--what is it?--the air -that comes to people when their merits have been publicly admitted.” - -Joan did indeed look a person who is in the habit of being taken into -account. She had always been good-looking, if somewhat severe and -business-like. Now she was handsome. She was not of the type of woman -with whom a man falls ardently in love--she showed too plainly that she -dealt with all the facts of life on a purely intellectual basis. - -“I’ve been expecting news that you were marrying,” said Emily. - -“I?” Joan smiled cynically. “I feel as you do about -marriage--except----” - -She paused and reddened as Emily began to laugh. “No--not that,” she -went on. “I’m not the least in love. But I’ve made up my mind to marry -the first intelligent, endurable, self-supporting man that asks me. I’m -thirty-two years old and--I want children.” - -“Children! You--children?” - -“Yes--I. I’ve changed my mind now that I can afford to think of such -things. I like them for themselves and--they’re the only hope one has -of getting a real object in life. Working for oneself is hollow. I once -thought I’d be happy if I got where I am now--mistress of my time and -sure of an income. But I find that I can’t hope to be contented going -on alone. And that means children.” - -“You don’t know how you surprise me.” Emily looked thoughtful rather -than surprised. “You set me to thinking along a new line. I wonder if I -shall ever feel that way?” - -“Why, of course. Old age without ties in the new generation is a dismal -farce for woman or man. We human beings live looking to the future if -we live at all. And unless we have children, we are certain to be -alone and facing the past in old age. You’ll change your mind, as I -have. Some day you’ll begin to feel the longing for children. It may be -irrational, but it’ll be irresistible.” - -“Well, I think I’ll wait on your experiment. How I love the trolley -cars and the tall buildings--they make one feel what a strong, bold -race we are, don’t they? And I’m simply wild to get to the office.” - -Emily was assigned to the staff of the Sunday supplements--to -read papers and magazines, foreign and domestic, and suggest and -occasionally execute features. She liked the work and it left her -evenings free; but it was sedentary. This she corrected by walking the -three miles from the office to her flat and by swimming at a school in -Forty-fourth street three times a week. - -She gave much time and thought to her appearance because she was proud -of her looks, because they were part of her capital, and because she -knew that only by the greatest care could she keep her youth. Joan’s -interest in personal appearance, so far as she herself was concerned, -ended with seeing to cleanliness and to clothing near enough to the -fashion to make her a well-dressed woman. It did not disturb her that -her hair was slightly thinner than it used to be, or that there were -a few small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. But she was not -contemptuous of Emily’s far-sighted precautions. On the contrary, -she looked upon them as sensible and would have been worried by any -sign of relaxing vigilance. She delighted in Emily’s gowns and in the -multitude of trifles--collarettes, pins of different styles, stockings -of striking and even startling patterns, shoes and boots of many kinds, -ribbons, gloves, etc. etc.--wherewith she made her studied simplicity -of dress perfect. - -“It’s wonderful,” she said, as she watched Emily unpack. “I don’t see -how you ever accumulated so much.” - -“Instinct probably,” replied Emily. “I make it a rule never to buy -anything I don’t need, and never to need anything I don’t have money to -buy.” - -They took a flat in Central Park West, near Sixty-sixth street, and -Joan insisted upon paying two-thirds of the expenses. Emily yielded, -because Joan’s arguments were unanswerable--she did use the flat more, -as she not only worked there and received business callers, but also -did much entertaining; and she could well afford to bear the larger -part of the expense, as her income was about eight thousand a year, -and Emily had only three thousand. Joan wished to draw Emily into -play-writing, but soon gave it up. She had to admit to herself that -Emily was right in thinking she had not the necessary imagination--that -her mind was appreciative rather than constructive. - -“Don’t think I’m so dreadfully depressed over it,” Emily went on. “It -is painful to have limitations as narrow as mine, when one appreciates -as keenly as I do. But we can’t all have genius or great talent. -Besides, the highest pleasures don’t come through great achievement or -great ability.” - -“Indeed, they do not.” - -Emily’s eyes danced, and Joan grew red and smiled foolishly. The -meaning back of it was Professor Reed of Columbia. He had been -calling on Joan of late frequently, and with significant regularity. -He was short and sallow, with a narrow, student’s face, and brown -eyes, that seemed large and dreamy through his glasses, as eyes -behind glasses usually do. He was stiff in manner, because he had had -little acquaintance with women. He was in love with Joan in a solemn, -old-fashioned way. He was so shy and respectful that if Emily had not -been most considerate of other people’s privacy, she would have teased -Joan by asking her when she was going to propose to him that he propose -to her. - -He was rigid in his ideas of what constituted propriety for himself, -but not in the least disposed to insist upon his standards in others. -He felt that in wandering so near to Bohemia as Joan and Emily he -was trenching upon the extreme of permissible self-indulgence. If he -had been able to suspect Joan of “a past,” he would probably have -been secretly delighted. He did not believe that she had, when he got -beyond the surface of her life--the atmosphere of the playhouse and the -newspaper office--and saw how matter-of-fact everything was. But he -still clung to vague imaginings of unconventionality, so alluring to -those who are conventional in thought and action. - -Emily’s one objection to him was that he sometimes tried to be witty or -humorous. Then he became hysterical and not far from silly. But as she -knew him better she forgave this. Had she disliked him she would have -been able to see nothing else. - -“Do you admire strength in a man?” she once asked Joan. - -“Yes--I suppose so. I like him to be--well, a man.” - -“I like a man to be distinctly masculine--strong, mentally and -physically. I don’t like him to domineer, but I like to feel that he -would domineer me if he dared--and could domineer every one except me.” - -“No, I don’t like that. I have my own ideas of what I wish to do. And I -wish the man who is anything to me to be willing to help me to do them.” - -“You want a man-servant, then?” - -“No, indeed. But I don’t want a master.” Joan shut her lips together, -and a stern, pained expression came into her face. Emily saw that -her book of memory had flung open at an unpleasant page. “No,” she -continued in a resolute tone, “I want no master. My centre of gravity -must remain within myself.” - -After that conversation Emily understood why Joan liked her -intelligent, adoring, timid professor. “Joan will make him make her -happy,” she said to herself, amused at, yet admiring, Joan’s practical, -sensible planning. - - * * * * * - -Soon after her return, the Sunday editor called her into his -office--her desk was across the room, immediately opposite his door. - -“We want a series of articles on what is doing in New York for the -poor--especially the foreign poor of the slums. Now, here’s the address -of a man who can tell you about his own work and also what others are -doing--where to send in order to see how it’s done, whom it’s done for, -and so on.” - -Emily took the slip. It read “Dr. Stanhope,--Grand Street.” She set out -at once, left the Bowery car at Grand street and walked east through -its crowded dinginess. She passed the great towering Church of the -Redeemer at the corner of ---- street. The next house was the one she -was seeking. A maid answered the door. A sickly looking curate, his -shovel-hat standing out ludicrously over a pair of thin, projecting -ears, passed her with a “professional” smile that made his tiny, -dimpled chin look its weakest. The maid took her card and presently -returned to conduct her through several handsome rooms, up heavily -carpeted stairs, under an arch, into a connecting house that was -furnished with cold and cheap simplicity. The maid pushed open a door -and Emily entered a large, high-ceilinged library, that looked as if -were the workshop of a toiler of ascetic tastes. At the farther end at -a table-desk sat a man, writing. His back was toward her--a big back, -a long, broad, powerful back. He was seated upon a strong, revolving -office-chair, yet it seemed too small and too feeble for him. - -“Well, my good girl, what can I do for you?” he called over his -shoulder, without ceasing to write. - -Emily started. She recognised the voice, then the head, neck, -shoulders, back. It was the man she had “confessed” in Paris. She -was so astonished that she could make no reply, and hardly noted the -abstracted patronising tone, the supercilious words and the uncourteous -manner. He dropped his pen, laid his great hands on the arms of his -chair and swung himself round. His expression changed so swiftly and -so tragically that Emily forgot her own surprise and with difficulty -restrained her amusement. - -He leaped from his chair and strode toward her--bore down upon her. His -brilliant, dark eyes expressed amazement, doubt of his sanity. There -was a deep flush in his pallid skin just beneath the surface. - -“I have come to ask”--began Emily. - -“Is it you?” he said, eagerly. “Is it _you_?” - -“I beg your pardon.” Emily’s face showed no recognition and she stood -before him, formal and business-like. - -“Don’t you remember me?” He made an impatient gesture, as if to sweep -aside a barrier some one had thrust in front of him. “Did I not meet -you in Paris?” - -“I don’t think--I’m sure--that I have not had the pleasure of meeting -you. The _Democrat_ sent me here to see Doctor Stanhope--” - -Again he made the sweeping gesture with his powerful arm. “I am Doctor -Stanhope,” he said impatiently. Then with earnest directness: “Your -manner is an evasion. It is useless, unlike--unexpected in the sort of -woman you--you look.” - -“You cannot ask me to be bound by your conclusions or wishes when they -do not agree with my own,” said Emily, her tone and look taking the -edge from her words, as she did not wish to offend him. - -“As you will.” He made a gesture of resignation and bowed toward a -chair at the corner of his desk. When they were seated, he said, “I am -at your service, Miss Bromfield.” - -He gave her the information she was seeking, suggested the phases -of poverty and relief of poverty that would be best for description -and illustration. He called in his secretary and dictated notes of -instruction to several men who could help her. He requested them to -“give Miss Bromfield all possible facilities, as an especial favour to -me. I am deeply interested in the articles she is preparing for the -_Democrat_.” - -When the secretary withdrew to write out the letters, he leaned back -in his chair and looked at her appealingly. “Shall we be friends?” he -asked. - -While Emily had been sitting there, so near him, hearing his clear, -resolute voice, noting his fascinating mannerisms of strength, -gentleness and simplicity, she felt again the charm of power and -persuasion that had conquered her when first she saw him. “He makes me -feel that he is important, and at the same time that I am important in -his eyes,” she thought, analysing her vanity as she yielded to it. - -“Friends?” she said aloud with a smile. “That means better -opportunities for petty treachery, and the chance to assassinate in a -crisis. It’s a serious matter--friendship, don’t you think?” - -“Yes,” he replied, humour in his eyes. “And again it may mean an -offensive and defensive alliance against the world.” - -“In dreams,” she answered, “but not in women’s dreams of men or in -men’s dreams of women.” - -Just then a voice called from the hall, “Arthur!”--a shrill, shrewish -voice with a note of habitual ill-temper in it, yet a ladylike voice. - -There was a rustling of skirts and into the room hurried a small, fair -woman, thin, and nervous in face, thin and nervous in body, with a -sudden bulge of breadth and stoutness at the hips. She was in a tailor -gown, expensive and unbecoming. Her hair was light brown, tightly drawn -up, with a small knot at the crown of her head. There was a wide, bald -expanse behind each ear. She had cold-blue, sensual eyes, the iris -looking as if it were a thin button pasted to the ball. Yet she was not -unattractive, making up in fire what she lacked in beauty. - -“As you see, I am engaged,” Stanhope said, tranquilly. - -“Pardon me for interrupting.” There was a covert sting of sarcasm in -her voice. “But I must see you.” - -He rose. “You’ll excuse me a moment?” he said to Emily. - -He followed his wife into the hall and soon returned to his desk. -“Everything begins badly with me,” he resumed abruptly. “Since -I was a boy at school, the butt of the other boys because I was -clumsy and supersensitive, it has been one long fight.” His tone was -matter-of-fact, but something it suggested rather than uttered made -Emily feel as if tears were welling up toward her eyes. “But,” he -continued, “I go straight on. I sometimes stumble, sometimes crawl, but -always straight on.” - -“What a simple, direct man he is,” she thought, “and how strong! In -another that would have seemed a boast. From him it seems the literal -truth.” - -“What are you thinking?” he interrupted. - -“Just then? I was beginning to think how peculiar you are, and -how--how--” her eyes danced--“indiscreet.” - -“Because of what I did and said in Paris? Because of what I am saying -to you now?” He looked at her friendlily. “Oh, no--there you mistake -me. I cannot tell why I feel as I do toward you. But I know that I -must be truthful and honest with you, that you have a right to demand -it of me, as had no one else I ever knew. I must let you know me as I -am.” - -“You seem delightfully sure that I wish to know.” - -“I do not think of that at all. Much as I have thought of you, I have -never thought ‘what does she think of me?’ Probably you dismissed me -from your mind when you turned away from me in Paris. Probably you will -again forget me when you have written your article and passed to other -work. But I cannot resist the instinct that impels me on to look upon -you as the most important human being in the world for me.” - -“I believe that you are honest. I don’t wish to misunderstand your -frankness. I’m too impatient of conventions myself to insist upon them -in others--that is, in those who respect the real barriers that hedge -every human being until he or she chooses to let them down. But”--Emily -hesitated and looked apologetically at this “giant with the heart of a -boy,” as he seemed to her--“you ought not to forget that everything in -your circumstances makes it wrong for you to talk to me thus.” - -“It seems so, doesn’t it?” He looked at her gravely. “It looks as if I -were a scoundrel. Yet I don’t feel in the least as if I were trying to -wrong you in any way. You seem to me far stronger than I. I feel that I -am appealing to you for strength.” - -The secretary entered, laid the letters before him and went away. He -signed them mechanically, folded them and put them in the addressed -envelopes. As she rose he rose also and handed them to her. - -“After I saw you in Paris,” he said, looking down at her as she stood -before him, “I thought it all over. I asked myself whether I had been -deceived by your beauty, or whether it was the peculiar circumstances -of our meeting, of each of us yielding to an impulse; or whether it -was my weariness of all that I am familiar with, my desire for the -unfamiliar, the new, the adventurous. And it may be all of these, but -there is more beyond them all.” - -He paused, then went on in a voice which so thrilled her that she -hardly heard his words: “Yes, a great deal more. I wish something, some -one, some _person_ to believe in. It is vital to me. I doubt everything -and everybody--God, His creatures, myself most of all. And when my -eyes fell upon you in Paris, there was that in your face which made me -believe in you. I said, ‘She is brave, she is honest, she is strong. -She could not be petty or false, or cruel.’ And--I do believe in you. -That is all.” - -“If you knew,” she said, trying to shake off the spell of his voice and -his personality, “you would find me a very ordinary kind of sinner. And -then, you would of course proceed to denounce me as if I were a fraud, -instead of the innocent cause of your deliberate self-deception.” - -“I don’t know what you have done--what particular courses you have -taken at life’s university. But I am not so--so deceived in you that -I do not note and understand the signs of experience, of--yes, of -suffering. I know there must be a cause when at your age a woman can -look a man through and through, when she can talk to him sexlessly, -when she laughs rarely and smiles reluctantly.” - -“I am hardly a tragedy,” interrupted Emily. “Please don’t make me out -one of those comical creatures who go through life fancying themselves -heroines of melodrama.” - -“I don’t. You are supremely natural and sensible. But--I neither know -nor try to guess nor care how you came to be the woman you are. But -I do know that you are one of those to whom all experience is a help -toward becoming wiser and stronger and better.” - -It seemed to her as if, in spite of her struggles, she was being drawn -toward him irresistibly, toward a fate which at once fascinated and -frightened her. “You are dangerously interesting,” she said. “But I am -staying too long.” And with a few words of thanks for his assistance to -her work, she went away. - -In the street she rapidly recovered herself and her point of view. -“A minister!” she thought. “And a married man! And sentimental and -mystical!” But in defiance of self-mockery and self-warnings her mind -persisted in coming back to him, persisted in revolving ideas about him -which her judgment condemned. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -A “MARRIED MAN.” - - -EMILY spent a week in studying “the work” of the Redeemer parish--the -activities of its large staff of “workers” of different grades, -from ministers down through deacons, deaconesses, teachers, nurses, -to unskilled helpers. She attended its schools--day and night; its -lectures; its kindergartens and day nurseries; its clubs for grown -people, for youths and for children. She examined its pawn-shops, its -employment-bureaus, its bath-houses. She was surprised by the many ways -in which it touched intimately the lives of that quarter of a million -people of various races, languages and religions, having nothing in -common except human nature, poverty, and ignorance. She was astonished -at the amount of good accomplished--at the actual, visible results. - -She had no particular interest in religion or belief in the value -of speculations about the matters on which religion dogmatises. Her -father’s casual but effective teachings, the books she had read, the -talk of the men and of many of the women she had associated with, -the results of her own observations and reflections, had strongly -entrenched this disposition in prejudice. Her adventure into the -parish was therefore the more a revelation. And she found also that -while everything was done there in the name of religion, little, almost -nothing, was said about religion. “The work,” except in the church and -the chapels at distinctly religious meetings, was wholly secular. Here -was simply a great plant for enlightening and cheering on those who -grope or sit dumb and blind. - -At first she was rather contemptuous of “the workers” and was repelled -by certain cheap affectations of speech, thought and manner, common -to them all. They were, the most of them, it seemed to her, poorly -equipped in brains and narrow in their views of life. But when she -got beneath the surface, she disregarded externals in her admiration -for their unconscious self-sacrifice, their keen pleasure in helping -others--and such “others!”--their limitless patience with dirt, -stupidity, shiftlessness, and mendacity. She was profoundly moved by -the spectacle of these homely labourers, sowing and reaping unweariedly -the arid sands of the slums for no other reward than an occasional -blade of sickly grass. - -She was standing at the window of one of the women’s clubs--the one in -Allen street near Grand. It was late in the afternoon and the crowd -was homeward-bound from labour. To her it was a forbidding-looking -crowd. The blight of ignorance--centuries, innumerable centuries of -ignorance--was upon it. Grossness, dulness, craft, mental and physical -deformity, streamed monotonously by. - -“Depressing, isn’t it?” - -She started and glanced around. Beside her, reading her thoughts in her -face, was Dr. Stanhope. Instead of his baggy, unclerical tweed suit, -he was wearing the uniform of his order. It sat strangely upon him, -like a livery; and, she thought, he hasn’t in the least the look of the -liveried, of one who is part of any sort of organisation. “He looks as -lone, as ‘unorganised,’ as self-sufficient, as a mountain.” - -“Depressing?” she said, shaking her head with an expression of -distaste. “It’s worse--it’s hopeless.” - -“No,--not hopeless. And you ought not to look at it with disgust. It’s -the soil--the rotten loam from which the grain and the fruit and the -flowers spring.” - -“I don’t think so. To me it’s simply a part of the great stagnant, -disease-breeding marsh which receives the sewage of society.” - -“I sha’n’t go on with the analogy. But your theory and mine are in the -end the same. We all sprang from this; and the top is always flowering -and dropping back into it to spring up again.” - -“I see nothing but ignorance that cannot learn. It seems to me nearly -all the effort spent upon it is wasted. If nature were left alone, she -would drain, drain, drain, until at last she might drain it away.” - -“Yours is an unjust view, I think. I won’t say anything,” this with -a faint smile, “about the souls that are worth saving. But if we by -working here open the way for a few, maybe a very few, to rise who -would otherwise not have risen, we have not worked in vain. My chief -interest is the children.” - -“Yes,” she admitted, her face lighting up, “there _is_ hope for the -children. You don’t know how it has affected me to see what you and -your people are doing for them. It’s bound to tell. It _is_ telling.” - -He looked at her as if she were his queen and had bestowed some honour -upon him which he had toiled long to win. “Thank you,” he said. “It -means a great deal to me to have you say that.” - -She gave him a careless glance of derisive incredulity. - -“What do you mean?” he asked. - -“You are amusing,” she replied. “Your expression of gratitude was -overacted. It was--was--grotesque.” - -He drew back as if he had received a blow. “You are cruel,” he said. - -“Because I warn you that you are overestimating my vanity? It seems to -me, that is friendly kindness. I’m helping you on.” - -“I do not know anything about your vanity. But I do know how I feel -toward you--what every word from you means to me.” - -There was wonder and some haughtiness in her steady gaze, as she -said: “I do not understand you at all. Your words are the words of -an extravagant but not very adroit flatterer. Your looks are the -looks of a man without knowledge of the world and without a sense of -proportion.” - -“Why?” - -She thought a moment, then turned toward him with her frank, direct -expression. “I have been going about in your parish for several days -now. And everywhere I have heard of you. Your helpers and those -that are helped all talk of you as if you were a sort of god. You -_are_ their god. They draw their inspiration, their courage, their -motive-power from you. They work, they strive, because they wish to win -your praise.” - -“I have been here fifteen years,” he explained with unaffected modesty, -“and as I am at the head, naturally everything seems to come from me. -In reality I do little.” - -“That is not to my point. I wasn’t trying to compliment you. What -I mean is that I find you are a man of influence and power in this -community. And you must be conscious of this power. And since you -evidently wield it well, you have it by right of merit. Yet you wish me -to believe that you bow down in this humble fashion before a woman of -whom you know nothing.” She laughed. - -“Well?” he said, looking impassively out of the window. - -“It is ridiculous, impossible. And if it were true, it would be -disgraceful--something for you to be ashamed of.” - -He turned his head slowly until his eyes met hers. She felt as if she -were being caught up by some mighty force, perilous but intoxicating. -She tried to look away but could not. - -“What a voice you have!” he said. “It makes me think of an evening long -ago in England. I was walking alone in the moonlight through one of -those beautiful hedged roads when suddenly I heard a nightingale. It -foretold your voice--you.” - -She turned her eyes away and looked upon the darkening street. The -sense of his nearness thrilled through her in waves that made her giddy. - -“Now, do you understand?” he asked. - -“Yes,” she answered in a low voice, “I understand--and, for the first -time in my life, I’m afraid.” - -“Then you know why I, too, am afraid?” - -“You must not speak of it again.” - -They stood there silently for a moment or two, then she said: “I must -be going.” And she was saying to herself in a panic, “I am mad. Where -is my honour--my self-respect? Where is my common sense?” - -“I will go with you to the car,” he said. “I feel that I ought to be -ashamed. And it frightens me that I am not. Perhaps I am ashamed, but -proud of it.” - -“Good-night.” She held out her hand. “Good-bye. I am used to going -about alone. I prefer it. Good-bye.” - - * * * * * - -Those were days of restless waiting, of advance and retreat, of strong -resolves suddenly and weakly crumbling into shifting mists. She said to -herself many times each day, “I shall not, I cannot see him again.” She -assured herself that she had herself under proper control. But there -was a voice that called mockingly from a subcellar of her mind: “I am a -prisoner, but I am _here_.” - -One morning at breakfast, after what she thought a very adroit “leading -up,” she ventured to say to Joan: “What do you think of a woman who -falls in love with a married man?” - -Joan kept her expression steady. To herself she said: “I thought so. It -isn’t in a woman’s nature to be thoroughly interested in life unless -there is some one man.” Aloud she said: “Why, I think she ought to -bestir herself to fall out again.” - -“But suppose that she didn’t wish to.” - -“Then I think she is--imbecile.” - -“You are so uncompromising, Joan,” protested Emily. - -“Well, I don’t think much of women who intrigue, or of men either. It’s -a sneaky, lying, muddy business.” - -“But suppose you accidentally fell in love with a married man?” - -“I can’t suppose it. I don’t believe people fall in love accidentally. -They’re simply in love with love, and they have morbid, unhealthy -tastes. Besides, married men are drearily unromantic. They always look -so--so married.” - -“Well, then, what do you think of a married man who falls in love with -a girl?” - -“Very poorly, indeed. And if he tells her of it, he ought to be -pilloried.” - -“You are becoming--conventional.” - -“Not at all. But to fall in love honestly a man and a woman must both -be free. If either has ties, each is bound from the other by them. And -if it’s the man that is tied, there’s simply no excuse for him if he -doesn’t heed the first sign of danger.” - -“But it might be a terrible temptation to both of them. Love is -very--very compelling, isn’t it?” - -“There’s a great deal of nonsense talked about love, as you must know -by this time. Of course, love is alluring, and when indulged in by -sensible people, not to excess, it’s stimulating, like alcohol in -moderation. But because cocaine could make me temporarily happier than -anything else in the world, does that make it sensible for me to form -the cocaine habit?” - -Joan paused, then added with emphasis: “And there is a great deal -that is called love that is no more love than the wolf was Little Red -Ridinghood’s grandmother.” - -Emily felt that Joan was talking obvious common sense and that she -herself agreed with her entirely--so far as her reason was concerned. -“But,” she thought, “the trouble is that reason doesn’t rule.” A -few days later she went to dinner at Theresa’s. As she entered the -dining-room the first person upon whom her eyes fell was a tall, -slender girl, fair, handsome through health and high color, and with -Stanhope’s peculiarly courageous yet gentle dark eyes-- “It must be his -sister.” She asked Theresa. - -“It’s Evelyn Stanhope,” she replied, “the daughter of our clergyman. -He’s a tremendously handsome man. All the woman are crazy about him.” -Theresa looked at her peculiarly. - -“What is it?” asked Emily, instantly taking fright, though she did not -show it. - -“I thought perhaps you’d heard.” - -“Heard what?” - -“All about Miss Stanhope and--and Edgar.” - -“You don’t mean that Edgar has recovered from _me_? How unflattering!” -Emily’s smile was delightfully natural--and relieved. - -“He’s got love and marriage on the brain, and he’s broken-hearted, you -know. And in those cases if it can’t be _the_ woman it’s bound to be -_a_ woman.” - -Emily was in the mood to be completely resigned to giving up to another -that which she did not want herself. She studied Miss Stanhope without -prejudice against her and found her sweet but as yet colourless, a -proper young person for Edgar to marry, one toward whom she could -not possibly have felt the usual dog-in-the-manger jealousy. After -dinner she sat near her and encouraged her in the bird-like chatter -of the school girl. She was listened to with patience and tolerance; -because she was young and fresh and delighted with everything including -herself, amusingly, not offensively. She fell in love with Emily and -timidly asked if she might come to see her. - -“That would be delightful,” said Emily with enthusiasm, falling through -infection into a mode of speech and thought long outgrown. “I’m -sure we shall be great friends. Theresa will bring you on Saturday -afternoon. That is my free day. You see, I’m a working-woman. I work -every day except Saturday.” - -“Sundays too?” asked Evelyn. - -“Oh, yes, I prefer”--she stopped short. “Sunday is a busy day with us,” -she said instead. - -“Isn’t that dreadful?” - -“Yes--it is distressing.” Without intention Emily put enough irony into -her voice to make Evelyn look at her sharply. “It keeps me from church.” - -“Well, sometimes I think I’d like to be kept from church.” Evelyn said -this in a consolatory tone. “I’m a clergyman’s daughter and I have to -go often--to set a good example.” She laughed. “Mamma is so nervous -that she can only go occasionally and my brother Sam is a perfect -heathen. But I often copy papa’s sermons. He says he likes my large -round hand as a change from the typewriting. Then I like to listen and -see how many changes he makes. You’d be surprised how much better it -all sounds when it’s spoken--really quite new.” - -Papa! Papa’s Sermons! And a Sam, probably as big as this great girl! - -“Is your brother younger or older than you?” - -“A year older. He’s at college now--or at least, he’s supposed to be. -It’s surprising how little he has to stay there. He’s very gay--a -little too wild, perhaps.” - -She was proud of Sam’s wildness, full as proud as she was of her -father’s sermons. She rattled cheerfully on until it was time for her -to go and, as Emily and she were putting on their wraps at the same -time, she kissed her impulsively, blushing a little, saying “You’re so -beautiful. You don’t mind, do you?” - -“Mind?” Emily laughed and kissed her. Evelyn wondered why there were -tears in the eyes of this fascinating woman with the musical voice and -the expression like a goddess of liberty’s. - - * * * * * - -The next morning Dr. Stanhope, at breakfast and gloomy, brightened as -his daughter came in and sat opposite him. - -“I had such a glorious time at the Waylands’!” she said. “The dinner -was lovely.” - -“Did Edgar take you in?” - -“Oh, no.” She blushed. “He wasn’t there. He’s in Stoughton, you know. -But I met the most beautiful woman. She seemed so young, and yet she -had such a wise, experienced look. And she was so unconscious how -beautiful she was. You never saw such a sweet, pretty mouth! And her -teeth were like--like----” - -“Pearls,” suggested her father. “They’re always spoken of as -pearls--when they’re spoken of at all.” - -“No--because pearls are blue-white, whereas hers were _white_-white.” - -“But who was this lady with the teeth?” - -“I didn’t have a chance to ask--only her name. She said she was a -working-woman. She’s a Miss Bromfield.” - -Stanhope dropped his knife and fork and looked at his daughter with an -expression of horror. - -“Why, what is it, father? Is there something wrong about her? It can’t -be. And I--I arranged to call on her!” - -“No--no,” he said hastily. “I was startled by a coincidence. She’s a -nice woman, nice in every way. But--did she ask you to call?” - -“No--I asked her. But she was very friendly, and when I kissed her -in the dressing-room she kissed me, and--she had such a queer, sad -expression. I thought perhaps she had a sister like me who had died.” - -“Perhaps she had.” Stanhope looked pensively at his daughter. To -himself he said: “Yes, probably a twin sister--the herself of a few -years ago.” - -“And I’m going to see her next Saturday,” continued his daughter. “I’m -sure Mrs. Wayland will take me.” - -“To see whom?” said Mrs. Stanhope, coming into the room. - -Stanhope rose and drew out a chair for her. “We were talking of a -Miss Bromfield whom Evelyn met at the Waylands’ last night. You may -remember--she came here one afternoon for the _Democrat_--about the -church’s work.” - -“I remember; she looked at me quite insolently, exactly as if I were an -intruding servant. What was she doing at Wayland’s? I’m surprised at -them. But why is Evelyn talking of going to see her? I’m astonished at -you, Evelyn.” - -Evelyn and her father looked steadily at the table. Finally Evelyn -spoke: “Oh, but you are quite mistaken, mother dear. She was a lady, -really she was.” - -“Impossible,” said Mrs. Stanhope. “She is a working-girl. No doubt -she’s a poor relation of the Waylands.” - -Stanhope rose, walked to the window, and stood staring into the -gardens. The veins in his forehead were swollen. And he seemed less the -minister than ever, and more the incarnation of some vast, inchoate -force, just now a force of dark fury. Gradually he whipped his temper -down until he was standing over it, pale but in control. - -“I wish to speak to your mother, Evelyn,” he said in an even voice. - -Evelyn left the room, closing the door behind her. Stanhope resumed his -seat at the table. His wife looked at him, then into her plate, her -lips nervous. - -“Only this,” he said. “You will let Evelyn go to see Miss Bromfield.” -His voice was polite, gentle. “And I must again beg of you not to -express before our children those--those ideas of disrespect for labour -and respect for idleness which, as you know, are more offensive to me -than any others of the falsehoods which it is my life work to fight.” - -She was trembling with anger and fear. Yet in her sullen eyes there -was cringing adoration. One sees the same look in the eyes of a dog -that is being beaten by its master, as it shows its teeth yet dares not -utter a whine of its rage and pain lest it offend further. - -“You know we never do agree about social distinctions, Arthur,” she -said, in a soothing tone. - -“I know we agreed long ago not to discuss the matter,” he replied, -kindly but wearily. “And I know that we agreed that our children were -not to hear a suggestion that their father was teaching false views.” - -“We can’t all be as broad as you are, Arthur.” - -“If I were to speak what is on the tip of my tongue,” he said -good-humouredly, “we should re-open the sealed subject. I must go. They -are waiting for me.” - -That afternoon Mrs. Stanhope wrote asking Theresa to go with Evelyn -to Miss Bromfield’s. And on Saturday Evelyn went, taking her mother’s -card. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -A PRECIPICE. - - -A WEEK after Evelyn’s call, the hall boy brought Edgar Wayland’s card -to Emily. She was alone in the apartment, Joan having gone to the -theatre with “her professor.” She hesitated, looked an apology to her -writing spread upon the table, then told the boy to show him up. He -was dressed with unusual care even for him, and his face expressed the -intensity of tragic determination of which the human countenance is -capable only at or before twenty-eight. - -“I’ve never seen your apartment.” His glance was inspecting the room -and the partly visible two rooms opening out of it. “It is so like you. -How few people have any taste in getting together furniture and--and -stuff.” - -“When one has little to spend, one is more careful and thoughtful -perhaps.” - -“That’s the reason tenement flats are so tasteful.” Edgar’s face -relaxed at his own humour, then with a self-rebuking frown resumed its -former mournful inflexibility. “But I did not come here to talk about -furniture. I came to talk about you and me. Emmy, was it final? Are you -sure you won’t--won’t have me?” - -Emily looked at him with indignant contempt, forgetting that Theresa -had not said he was actually engaged to Evelyn. “I had begun to think -you incapable of such--such baseness--now.” - -“Baseness? Don’t, please. It isn’t as bad as all that--only -persistence. I simply can’t give you up, it seems to me. And--I had to -try one last time--because--the fact is, I’m about to ask another girl -to marry me.” - -Emily showed her surprise, then remembered and looked relieved. “Why--I -thought you had asked her. I must warn you that I know her, and far too -good she is for you.” - -“You know her?” - -“Yes--so let’s talk no more about it. I’ll forget what you said.” - -“Well, what of it?” Edgar rose and faced her. “You are thinking it -dishonourable of me to come to you this way. But you wrong me. If she -never saw me again, she’d forget me in a year--or less. So I tell -you straight out that I’m marrying her because I can’t get you. I’m -desperate and lonesome and I want to have a home to go to.” - -“You couldn’t possibly do better than marry Evelyn. I know her, Edgar. -And I know, as only a woman can know another woman, how genuine she is.” - -“But”--Edgar’s eyes had a look of pain that touched her. “I want you, -Emmy. I always shall. A man wants the best. And you’re the best--in -looks, in brains, in every way. You’d have everything and I’d never -bother you. And you can stop this grind and be like other women--that -is--I mean--you know--I don’t mean anything against your work--only it -is unnatural for a woman like you to have to work for a living.” - -Emily felt that she need not and must not take him seriously. She -laughed at his embarrassment. - -“You don’t understand--and I can’t make you understand. It isn’t that I -love work. I like to sit in the sunshine and be waited upon as well as -any one. But----” - -“And you _could_ sit in the sunshine--or in the shade, Emmy.” - -“But--let me finish please. Whatever one gets that’s worth while in -this life one has to pay for. The price of freedom--to a woman just -the same as a man--is work, hard work. And if it’s natural for a woman -to be a helpless for-sale, then it’s the naturalness of so much else -that’s nature. And what are we here for except to improve upon nature?” - -“Well, I don’t know much about these theories. I hate them--they stand -between you and me. And I want you so, Emmy! You’ll be free. You know -father and I both will do everything--anything for you and----” - -Emily’s cheeks flushed and there was impatience and scorn in her eyes -and in the curve of her lips. - -“You mean well, Edgar, but you must not talk to me in that way. It -makes me feel as if you thought I could be bought--as if you were -bidding for me.” - -“I don’t care what you call it,” he said sullenly. “I’d rather have you -as just a friend, but always near me than--there isn’t any comparison.” - -“And I shall always be your friend, Edgar. You will get over this. -Honestly now, isn’t it more than half, nearly all, your hatred of being -baffled? If I were throwing myself at you, as I once was, you’d fly -from me. Six months after you’ve married Evelyn, you’ll be thankful you -did it. You’d not like a woman so full of caprices and surprises as I -am. But I will not argue it.” - -“I wonder if you’ll ever fall in love?” he said wistfully. - -“I don’t know, I’m sure. Probably I expect too much in a man. Again, I -might care only for a man who was out of reach.” - -“You’re too romantic, Emily, for this life. You forget that you’re more -or less human after all, and have to deal with human beings.” - -“I wish I could forget that I’m human.” Emily sighed. Edgar looked at -her suspiciously. “No,” she went on. “I’m not happy either, Edgar. Oh, -it takes so much courage to stand up for one’s principles, one’s ideas.” - -“But why do it? Why not accept what everybody says is so, and go along -comfortably?” - -“Why not? I often ask myself. But--well, I can’t.” - -“Emmy, do you think it’s right for me to marry Evelyn, feeling as I do?” - -“Do _you_?” She answered this difficult question in morals by turning -it on him, because she wished to escape the dilemma. How could she -decide for another? Why should she judge what was right for Edgar, what -best for Evelyn? - -“Well--not unless I told her. Not too much, you know. But enough to----” - -“You mustn’t talk to me about Evelyn,” Emily interrupted. “It’s not -fair to her. You compel me to seem to play the traitor to her. I must -not know anything about your and her affairs.” - -There was a moment’s silence, then she went on: “She is my friend, -and, I hope, always shall be. It would pain me terribly if she should -suspect; and it would be an unnecessary pain to her. A man ought never -to tell a woman, or a woman a man, anything, no matter how true it is, -if it’s going to rankle on and on, long after it’s ceased to be true. -And your feeling for me isn’t important even now. If you marry her, -resolve to make her happy. And if you never create any clouds, there’ll -never be any for her--and soon won’t be any for you.” - -He left her after a few minutes, and his last look--all around the -room, then at her--was so genuinely unhappy that it saddened her -for the evening. “Fate is preparing a revenge upon me,” she thought -dejectedly. “I can feel it coming. Why can’t I, why won’t I, put Arthur -out of my mind?” And then she scoffed at herself unconvincingly for -calling Stanhope, Arthur, for permitting herself to be swept off her -feet by the middle-aged husband of a middle-aged wife, the father of -grown children. “How Evelyn would shrink from me if she knew--and -yet----” - -What kind of honour, justice, is it, she thought, that binds him -to his wife, that holds us apart? With one brief life--with only a -little part of that for intense enjoyment--and to sacrifice happiness, -heaven, for a mere notion. “What does God care about us wretched little -worms?” she said to herself. “Everywhere the law of the survival of the -fittest--the best law after all, in spite of its cruelty. And _I_ am -the fittest for him. He belongs to me. He is mine. Why not?--Why can’t -I convince myself?” - - * * * * * - -Evelyn asked Emily to go with her to the opera the following Saturday -afternoon. They met in the Broadway lobby of the Metropolitan, and -Emily at once saw that Evelyn was “engaged.” She was radiant with -triumph and modest importance. “You’re the first one I’ve told outside -the family. I haven’t even written to Catherine Folsom--she’s to be my -maid of honour, you know. We promised each other at school.” - -“He will make you happy, I’m sure.” Emily was amused at Evelyn’s -child-like excitement, yet there were tears near her eyes too. “What an -infant she is,” she was thinking, “and how unjust it is, how dangerous -that she should have to get her experience of man after she has -pledged herself not to profit by it.” - -“Oh, I’m sure I shall be,” said Evelyn. “We’ll have everything to make -us happy. And I shall be free. I do _hate_ being watched all the time -and having to do just what mamma says.” - -“Yes, you will be very free,” agreed Emily, commenting to herself: -“What do these birds bred in captivity ever know about freedom? She has -no idea that she’s only being transferred to a larger cage where she’ll -find a companion whom she may or may not like. But--they’re often -happy, these caged birds. And I wonder if we wild birds ever are?” - -Evelyn was prattling on. “He asked me in such a nice way and didn’t -frighten me. I’d been afraid he’d seize me--or--or something, when the -time came. And he had such a sad, solemn look. He’s so experienced! He -hinted something about the past, but I hurried him away from that. Sam -says men all have knowledge of the world, if they’re any good. But I’m -sure Edgar has always been a nice man.” - -“Don’t bother about the past,” said Emily. “The future will be quite -enough to occupy you if you look after it properly.” - -The opera was La Bohème and Evelyn, busy with her great event, gave -that lady and her sorrows little attention. “It’s dreadfully unreal, -isn’t it?” she chattered. “Of course a man never could really care for -a woman who had so little self-respect as that, could he? I’m sure -a real man, like Edgar, would never act in that way with a woman who -wasn’t married to him, could he?” - -“I’m sure he’d despise all such women from the bottom of his heart,” -said Emily, looking amusedly at the “canary, discoursing from its -cage-world of the great world outside which it probably will never see.” - -“I’ve had a lot of experience with that side of life,” continued the -“canary.” - -“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Emily in mock horror. “Do they lead -double lives in the nursery nowadays?” - -“Mamma kept us close, you know. We live in such a dreadful -neighbourhood--down in Grand Street. I was usually at grandfather’s up -at Tarrytown when I wasn’t in school. But I had to come home sometimes. -And I used to peep into the streets from the windows, and then I’d see -the most _awful_ women going by. It made me really sick. It must be -dreadful for a woman ever to forget herself.” - -“Dreadful,” assented Emily, resisting with no difficulty the feeble -temptation to try to broaden this narrow young mind. “It would take -years,” she thought, “to educate her. And then she probably wouldn’t -really understand, would only be tempted to lower herself.” - -The distinction between license and broad-mindedness was abysmal, Emily -felt; but she also admitted--with reluctance--that the abyss was so -narrow that one might inadvertently step across it, if she were not an -Emily Bromfield, and, even then, very, very watchful. - -She was turning into the Park at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth -Street a few evenings later, on her way home from the office, when -Stanhope, driving rapidly downtown, saw her, stopped his cab, got -out and dismissed it. She had been revolving a plan for resuming her -self-respect and her peace of mind, how she would talk with him when -she saw him, would compel him to aid her in--then she saw him coming; -and her face, coloured high by the sharp wind, flushed a hotter -crimson; and her resolve fled. - -“May I walk through the Park with you?” he said abruptly; and without -waiting for her to assent, he set out with her in the direction in -which she had been going. In a huge, dark overcoat, that came to within -a few inches of the ground, he looked more tremendous than ever. And -as Emily walked beside him, the blood surged deliriously through her -veins. “This is the man of all men,” she thought. “And he loves me, -loves _me_. And I was thinking that I must give him up. As if I could -or would!” - -“A man might have all the wealth in the world, and all the power, and -all the adulation,” his voice acted upon her nerves like the low notes -of a violin, “and if he were a man--if he were a real human being--and -did not have love----” He paused and looked at her. “Without it life is -lonelier than the grave.” - -Emily was silent. She could see the grave, could hear the earth -rattling down upon the coffin. Was he not stating the truth--a truth to -shrink from? - -He said: “I was born on a farm out West--the son of a man who was -ruined in the East and went West to hide himself and to fancy he was -trying to rebuild. He was sad and silent. And in that sad silence I -grew up with books and nature for my companions. I longed to be a -leader of men. I admired the great moral teachers of the past. I _felt_ -rather than understood religion--God, a world of woe, man working -for his salvation through helping others to work out theirs. I cared -nothing for theology--only for religion. I could feel--I never could -reason; I cannot learn to reason. It isn’t important how I worked my -way upward. It isn’t important how long the way or how painful. I went -straight on, caring for nothing except the widest chances to help the -march upward. You know what the parish downtown is--what the work is, -how it has been built. But----” He paused, and when he spoke it was -with an effort. “One by one I have lost my inspirations. And when I saw -you there in Paris I saw as in a flash--it was like a miracle--what was -the cause, why I was beaten in the very hour of victory.” - -Emily had ceased to fight against the emotions which surged higher and -higher under the invocation of his presence and his voice. - -“A man of my temperament may not work alone,” he went on. “He must -have some one--a woman--beside him. And they together must keep the -faith--the faith in the here and the now, the faith in mankind and in -the journey upward through the darkness, the fog, the cold, up the -precipices, with many a fall and many a fright, but always upward and -onward.” - -He drew a long breath, and, looking down at her, saw her looking up at -him, her eyes reflecting the glow of his enthusiasm. - -“Yes,” she said, “by myself I am nothing. But with another I could do -much, for I, too, love the journey upward.” - -He stopped and caught both her hands in his. “I need you--need you,” he -said. They were standing at the turn of the path near the Mall, facing -the broad, snow-draped lawns. “And I feel that you need me. I am no -longer alone. Life has a meaning, a purpose.” - -“A purpose?” She drew her hands away and suddenly felt the cold and the -sharp wind, and saw the tangled lines of the bare boughs, black and -forbidding against the sunset sky. “What purpose? You forget.” - -“No, I remember!” He spoke defiantly. “I have been permitting that -which is dead to cling to me and shut out sunlight and air and growth. -But I shall permit it no longer. I _dare_ not.” - -“No, _we_ dare not,” she said, dreamily. “You are right. The ghosts -that wave us back are waving us not from, but to destruction. But--even -if it were not so, I’m afraid I’d say, ‘Evil, be thou my good’.” - -“It is true--true of me also.” - -At the entrance to her house they parted, their eyes bright with -visions of the future. As she went up in the elevator, her head began -to ache as if she were coming from the delirium of an opium dream. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -A “BETTER SELF.” - - -EMILY went directly to her room. “Tell Miss Gresham not to wait,” she -said to the maid, “and please save only a very little for me.” She -slept two hours and awoke free from the headache, but low-spirited. -Joan came into the dining-room to keep her company while she tried to -eat, then they sat in the library-drawing-room before the fire. For the -first time in years Emily felt that she needed advice, or, at least, -needed to state her case aloud in hope of seeing it more clearly. - -“You are not well this evening,” Joan said presently. “Shall I read to -you?” - -“No, let us talk. Or, rather, please encourage me to talk about myself. -I want to tell you something, and I don’t know how to begin.” - -“Don’t begin. I’m sure you’ll regret it. Whenever I feel the -confidential mood coming, I always put it off till to-morrow.” - -“Yes--but--there are times----” - -“Do you wish me to approve something you’ve decided to do, or to -dissuade you from doing something you would not do anyhow? It’s always -one or the other.” - -“I’m not sure which it is.” - -Joan lit a cigarette and stretched herself among the cushions of the -divan. “Well, what is it? Money?” - -“No.” - -“Then it’s not serious. Money troubles and poor health are about the -only serious calamities.” - -“No--it’s--Joan, I’ve been making an idiot of myself. I’ve lost my head -over a married man.” The words came with a rush. - -“But you practically confessed all that the other day. And I told you -then what I thought. Either get rid of him straight off, or steady your -head and let him hang about until you are sick of him.” - -“But--you don’t understand. Of course you couldn’t. No one ever did -understand another’s case.” - -“I don’t think it’s that, my dear. When one is in love, he or she -thinks it’s a peculiar case. And the stronger his or her imagination, -the more peculiar seems the case. But when it’s submitted to an -outsider, then it is looked at in the clear air, not in the fog of -self-delusion. And how it does shrink!” - -“I want him and he wants me,” said Emily doggedly. “It may be -commonplace and ridiculous, but it’s the fact.” - -“Do you think it would last long enough to enable him to get a divorce? -If so, he can do that. There’s nothing easier nowadays than divorce. -And what a dreadful blow to intrigue that has been! It doesn’t leave -either party a leg to stand on. Just say to him: ‘Yes, I love you. -You say you love me. Go and get a divorce and then perhaps I’ll marry -you. But if not, you’ll at least be free from daily contact with the -wife you say or intimate that you loathe.’ It’s perfectly simple. The -chances are you’ll never see him again, and you can have a laugh at -yourself, and can congratulate yourself on a narrow escape.” - -“Good advice, but it doesn’t fit the case.” - -“Oh, you don’t wish to marry him?” - -“I never thought of it. But I’d rather not discuss the sentiment-side, -please. Just the practical side.” - -“But there isn’t any practical side. Why doesn’t he get a divorce?” - -“Because he’s too conspicuous. There’d be an outcry against him. I -don’t believe he could get the divorce.” - -Emily was gazing miserably into the fire. Joan looked at her pityingly. -“Oh,” she said gently, dropping the tone of banter. “Yes--that might -be.” - -“And it seems to me that I can’t give him up.” - -“But why do you debate it? Why not follow where your instinct leads?” - -“That’s just it--where _does_ my instinct lead? If--the--the -circumstances--I can’t explain them to you--were different with him -about--about his family, I’d probably reason that I was not robbing any -one and would try to--to be happy. But----” - -She halted altogether and, when she continued, her voice was low and -she was looking at her friend, pleadingly yet proudly: “You may be -right. We may be deceiving ourselves. But I do not think so, Joan. I -believe--and you do too, don’t you?--that there can be high thoughts in -common between a man and a woman. I’m sure they can care in such a way -that passion becomes like the fire, fusing two metals into one stronger -and better than either by itself. And I think--I feel--yes, it seems to -me I _know_, that it is so with us. Oh, Joan, he and I need each the -other.” - -Joan threw away her cigarette and rested her head upon her arms, so -that her face was concealed from Emily. She murmured something. - -“What do you say, Joan?” - -“Nothing--only--I see the same old, the eternal illusion. And what a -fascinating tenacious illusion it is, Emmy dear. We no sooner banish it -in one form than it reappears in another.” - -“But--tell me, Joan--what shall I do?” - -“I, advise you? No, my dear. I cannot. I’d have to know you better than -you know yourself to give you advice. You have grown into a certain -sort of woman, with certain ideas of what you may and what you may not -do. In this crisis you’ll follow the path into which your whole past -compels you. And while I don’t know you well enough to give you advice, -I do know you well enough to feel sure that you’ll do what is just and -honourable. If that means renunciation, you will renounce him. If it -means defiance, you will defy. If it means a compromise, why--I don’t -think you’ll make it, Emily, unless you can carry your secret and -still feel that the look of no human being could make you flinch.” - -“Will I?” Emily’s voice was dreary and doubtful. “But, when one is -starving, he doesn’t look at the Ten Commandments before seizing the -bread that offers.” - -“Not at the Ten Commandments--no. But at the one--‘Thou shalt not kill -thy self-respect.’ And don’t forget, dear, that if you aren’t valuable -to the world _without_ love, you’ll be worth very little to it _with_ -love.” - -“Joan’s Professor” came, and Emily went away to bed. - - * * * * * - -On her “lazy day” she went into the Park and seated herself under an -elm high among the rocks. Several squirrels were playing about her and -a fat robin was hopping round and round in a wide circle, pretending -to be interested only in the food supply but really watching her. The -path leading to her retreat turned abruptly just before reaching it, -then turned again for the descent. She did not hear a footstep but, -looking up as she was shifting her glance from one page of her novel -to the next, she saw a child before her--a tall child with slim legs -and arms, and a body that looked thin but strong under a white dress. -She had a pink ribbon at her throat. Her hair was almost golden and -waved defiantly around and away from a large pink bow. Her eyes were -large and gray and solemn. But at each corner of her small mouth there -was a fun-loving line which betrayed possibilities of mischief and -appreciation of mischief. This suggestion was confirmed by her tilted -nose. - -Emily smiled at this vision criss-crossed with patches of sun and -shadow. But the vision did not smile in return. - -“Good morning, Princess Pink-and-white,” said Emily. “Did you come down -out of the sky?” - -“No,” answered the child, drawing a little nearer. “And my name is -not--not that, but Mary. Do you live here?” - -“Yes--this is my home,” answered Emily. “I’m the big sister of the -squirrels and a cousin to the robins.” - -The child looked at her carefully, then at the squirrels and then at -the robin. “You are not truthful,” she said, her large eyes gazing -straight into Emily’s. “My uncle says that it is dishon’able not to -tell the truth.” - -“Even in fun, while you are trying to make friends with Mary, Princess -Pink-and-white?” Emily said this with the appearance of anxiety. - -“It’s bad not to always tell the truth to young people.” She came still -nearer and stood straight and serious, her hands behind her. “My uncle -says they ought to hear and say only what is true.” - -“Well then--what does he tell you about fairies?” - -“He doesn’t tell me about them. Mamma says there are fairies, but he -says he has never seen any. He says when I am older I can find out for -myself.” - -“And what do the other children say?” - -“I don’t know. There aren’t any other children. There’s just uncle and -mamma and nurse. And when mamma is ill, I go to stay with nurse. And I -only go out with uncle or mamma.” - -“That is very nice,” said Emily, taking one of the small, slender hands -and kissing it. But in reality she thought it was the reverse of nice, -and very lonely and sad. - -“I was going away across the ocean where there are lots of children -waiting to play with me. But mamma--she hadn’t been sick for a long, -long time--most two years, I think--and then she was sick again and I’m -not to go. But I’m not sorry.” - -“Why?” - -“I’m a great comfort to uncle, and he wasn’t going along. And I’m glad -to stay with him. He says I’m a great comfort to him. I sing to him -when he is feeling bad. Would you like for me to sing to you? You look -as if you felt bad.” - -Emily did feel like tears. It was not what the child said, but her -air of aloneness, of ignorance of the pleasures of childhood and its -companionships. She seemed never to have been a child and at the same -time to be far too much a child for her years--apparently the result of -an attempt by grown persons to bring her up in a dignified way without -destroying the innocence of infancy. - -“Yes, I should like to hear you sing,” said Emily. - -The child sat, folded her hands in her lap and began to sing in -French--a slow, religious chant, low and with an intonation of -ironic humour. As Emily heard the words, she looked at “Princess -Pink-and-White” in amazement. It was a concert-hall song, such as is -rarely heard outside the cafés chantants of the boulevards--a piece of -subtle mockery with a double meaning. The child sang it through, then -looked at her for approval. - -“It’s in French,” was all Emily could say, and the child with quick -intuition saw that something was wrong. - -“You don’t like it,” she said, offended. - -“You sing beautifully,” replied Emily. She wished to ask her where she -had got the song, but felt that it would be prying. - -“Mamma taught it me the last time she was being taken ill. It was hard -to learn because I do not speak French. I had to go over it three -times. She said I wasn’t to sing it to uncle. But I thought _you_ might -like it.” - -“No, I shouldn’t sing it to uncle, if I were you,” said Emily. - -Just then the child rose and her face lighted up. Emily followed her -glance and saw Stilson at the turn of the path, standing like a statue. -He was looking not at the child, but at her. The child ran toward him -and he put his hand at her neck and drew her close to him. - -“Why, how d’ye do, Mr. Stilson,” said Emily, cordially. “This is the -first time I’ve seen you since I was leaving for Paris. As soon as I -came back I asked for you, but you were on vacation. And I thought you -were still away.” - -Stilson advanced reluctantly, a queer light in his keen, dark-gray -eyes. He shook hands and seated himself. Mary occupied the vacant space -on the bench between him and Emily, spreading out her skirts carefully -so that they should not be mussed. “I am still idling,” said Stilson. -“I hate hotels and I loathe mosquitoes. Besides, I think if I ever got -beyond the walls of this prison I’d run away and never return.” - -“So you too grow tired of your work?” said Emily. “Yet you are -editor-in-chief now, and-- Oh, I should think it would be fascinating.” - -“It would have been a few years ago. But everything comes late. One -has worked so hard for it that one is too exhausted to enjoy it. And -it means work and care--always more and more work and care. But, -pardon me. I’m in one of my depressed moods. And I didn’t expect any -one--you--to surprise me in it.” - -Emily looked at him, her eyes giving, and demanding, sympathy. “I -often wish that life would offer something worth having, not as a free -gift--I shouldn’t ask that, and not at a bargain even, but just at a -fair price.” - -“I’m surprised to find such parsimony in one so young--it’s unnatural.” -Stilson’s expression and tone were good-humoured cynicism. “Why, at -your age, with your wealth--youth is always rich--you ought never to -look at or think of price marks.” - -“But I can’t help it. I come from New England.” - -“Ah! Then it’s stranger still. With the aid of a New England conscience -you ought to cheat life out of the price.” - -“I do try, but--” Emily sighed--“I’m always caught and made pay the -more heavily.” - -Stilson studied her curiously. He was smiling with some mockery as he -said. “You must be cursed with a sense of duty. That sticks to one -closer than his shadow. The shadow leaves with the sunshine. But duty -is there, daylight or dark.” - -“Especially dark,” said Emily. “What a slavery it is! To tramp the -dusty, stony highway close beside gardens that are open and inviting; -and not to be able to enter.” - -His strong, handsome face became almost stern. “I don’t agree with -you. Suppose that you entered the gardens, would they seem good if you -looked back and saw your better self lying dead in the dust?” He seemed -to be talking to himself not to her. - -“But don’t you ever wish to be free?” she asked. - -“I _am_ free--absolutely free,” he said proudly. “One does not become -free by license, by cringing before the stupidest, the most foolish -impulses there are in him. I think he becomes free by refusing to -degrade himself and violate the law of his own nature.” - -“But--What is stupid and what isn’t?” - -“No one could answer that in a general way. All I can say is--” Stilson -seemed to her to be looking her through and through. “Did you ever have -any doubt in any particular case?” - -Emily hesitated, her eyes shifting, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. -“Yes,” she said. - -“Then that very doubt told you what was foolish and what intelligent. -Didn’t it?” - -Stilson was not looking at her now and she studied his face--mature yet -young, haughty yet kind. Strong passions, good and bad, had evidently -contended, were still contending, behind that interesting mask. - -“No,” he went on, “if ever you make up your mind to do wrong,”--His -voice was very gentle and seemed to her to have an undercurrent of -personal appeal in it--“don’t lie to yourself. Just look at the -temptation frankly, and at the price. And, if you will or must, why, -pay and make off with your paste diamonds or gold brick or whatever -little luxury of that kind you’ve gone into Mr. License’s shop to buy. -What is the use of lying to one’s self? We are poor creatures indeed, -it seems to me, if there isn’t at least one person whom we dare face -with the honest truth.” - -Emily had always had a profound respect for Stilson. She knew his -abilities; and, while Marlowe had usually praised his friend with -discreet reservations, she had come to know that Marlowe regarded him -as little, if at all, short of a genius in his power of leading and -directing men. As he talked to her, restating the familiar fundamentals -of practical morals, she felt a strong force at work upon her. Like -Stanhope he impressed her with his great personal power; but wholly -unlike him, Stilson seemed to be using that power to an end which -attracted her without setting the alarm bells of reason and prudence to -ringing. - -“I’m rather surprised to find you so conventional,” said Emily, by way -of resenting the effect he and his “sermon” were having upon her. - -“Conventional?” Stilson lifted his eyebrows and gave her an amused, -satirical look. “Am I? Then the world must have changed suddenly. No, I -wasn’t pleading for any particular code of conduct. Make up your code -to suit yourself. All I venture to insist is that you must live up to -your own code, whatever it is. Be a law unto yourself; but, when you -have been, don’t become a law breaker.” - -“Do you think mamma will be well enough for me to go home to-morrow?” -It was the little girl, weary of being unnoticed and bursting into the -conversation. - -Stilson started as if he had forgotten that she was there. -“Perhaps--yes--dear,” he said and rose at once. “We must be going.” - -“Good-bye,” said Mary. Emily took her hand and kissed it. But the -child, with a quaint mingling of shyness and determination, put up her -face to be kissed, and adjusted her lips to show where she wished the -kiss to be placed. “Good-bye,” she repeated. “I know who you are now. -You are the Violet Lady Uncle Robert puts in the stories he tells me.” - -“Come, Mary,” said Stilson severely. And he lifted his hat, but not his -eyes, and bowed very formally. - -Emily sat staring absently at the point at which they had disappeared. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -TO THE TEST. - - -STANHOPE plodded dully through his routine--listening to reports, -directing his assistants, arranging services in the church and chapels, -dictating letters. A score of annoying details were thrust at him for -discussion and settlement--details with which helpers with a spark of -initiative would never have bothered him. His wife, out of temper, -came to nag him about expenditures. His son wrote from college for an -extra allowance, alleging a necessity which his father at once knew -was mythical. Another letter was from a rich parishioner, taking him -to task for last Sunday’s sermon as “socialistic, anarchistic in its -tendency, and of the sort which makes it increasingly difficult for -conservative men of property to support your church.” At luncheon there -were two women friends of his wife and they sickened him with silly -compliments, shot poisoned arrows at the reputations of their friends, -and talked patronisingly of their “worthy poor.” After luncheon--more -of the morning’s routine, made detestable by the self-complacent vanity -of one of his stupidest curates and by the attempts of the homeliest -deaconess to flirt with him under the mask of seeking “spiritual -counsel.” And finally, when his nerves were unstrung, a demand from a -tedious old woman that he come to her bedside immediately as she was -dying--demands of that kind his sense of duty forbade him to deny. - -“This is the third time within the month,” he said peevishly. “Before, -she was simply hysterical.” And he scowled at Schaffer, the helper to -the delicatessen merchant in the basement of the tenement where the old -woman lived. - -“I think maybe there’s a little something in it this time,” ventured -Schaffer, his tone expressing far less doubt than his words. - -“I’ll follow you in a few minutes,” said Stanhope, adding to himself, -“and I’ll soon be out of all this.” - -He did not know how or when--“after Evelyn is married,” he thought -vaguely--but he felt that he was practically gone. He would leave his -wife all the property; and he and Emily would go away somehow and -somewhere and begin life--not anew, but actually begin. “I shall be -myself at last,” he thought, “speaking the truth, earning my living in -the sweat of my face, instead of in the sweat of my soul.” As he came -out of the house he looked up at the church--the enormous steepled mass -of masonry, tapering heavenward. “Pointing to empty space,” he thought, -“tricking the thoughts of men away from the street and the soil where -their brothers are. Yes, I shall no longer court the rich to get money -for the poor. I shall no longer fling the dust of dead beliefs into the -eyes of the poor to blind them to injustice.” He strode along, chin -up, eyes only for his dreams. He did not note the eager and respectful -bows of the people in the doorways, block after block. He did not note -that between the curtains of the dives, where painted women lay in wait -for a chance to leer and lure, forms shrank back and faces softened as -he passed. - -Into the miserable Orchard street tenement; through the darkness of -the passageway; into a mouldy court, damp and foul even in that winter -weather; up four ill-smelling stairways with wall paper and plastering -impatient for summer that they might begin to sweat and rot and fall -again; in at a low door--the entrance to a filthy, unaired den where -only the human animal of all the animal kingdom could long exist. - -The stove was red-hot and two women in tattered, grease-bedaubed calico -were sitting at it. They were young in years, but their abused and -neglected bodies were already worn out. One held a child with mattered -eyes and sores hideously revealed through its thin hair. The other was -about to bring into the world a being to fight its way up with the rats -and the swarming roaches. - -In the corner was a bed which had begun its career well up in the -social scale and had slowly descended until it was now more than -ready for the kindling-box. Upon it lay a heap of rags swathing the -skeleton of what had once been a woman. Her head was almost bald. Its -few silver-white hairs were tied tightly into a nut-like knot by a -rusty black string. Her skin, pale yellow and speckled with dull red -blotches, was drawn directly over the bones and cartilages of her skull -and face, and was cracked into a network of seams and wrinkles. The -shapeless infoldings of her mouth were sunk deep in the hollow between -nose and chin. Her hands, laid upon the covers at which her fingers -picked feebly, had withered to bones and bunches of cords thrust into -two ill-fitting gloves of worn-out parchment. - -As Stanhope entered, the women at the stove rose, showed their worse -than toothless gums in a momentary smile, then resumed the doleful look -which is humanity’s universal counterfeit for use at death-beds. They -awkwardly withdrew and the old woman opened her eyes--large eyes, faded -and dim but, with the well-shaped ears close against her head, the sole -reminders of the comeliness that had been. - -She turned her eyes toward the broken-backed chair at the head of -her bed. He sat and leaning over put his hand--big and strong and -vital--upon one of her hands. - -“What can I do, Aunt Albertina?” he said. - -“I’m leaving, Doctor Stanhope.” There was a trace of a German accent in -that hardly human croak. - -“Well, Aunt Albertina, you are ready to go or ready to stay. There is -nothing to fear either way.” - -“Look in that box behind you--there. The letters. Yes.” He sat again, -holding in his hand a package of letters, yellow where they were not -black. “Destroy them.” The old woman was looking at them longingly. -Then she closed her eyes and tried to lift her head. “Under the -pillow,” she muttered. “Take it out.” He reached under the slimy pillow -and drew forth a battered embossed-leather case. “Look,” she said. - -He opened it. On the one side was the picture of a man in an -officer’s uniform with decorations across his breast--a handsome man, -haughty-looking, cruel-looking. On the other side was the picture -of a woman--a round, weak, pretty face, a mouth longing for kisses, -sentimental eyes, a great deal of fair hair, graceful, rounded -shoulders. - -“That was I,” croaked the old woman. He looked at that head in the bed, -that face, that neck with the tendons and bones outstanding and making -darker-brown gullies between. - -“Yes--I,” she said, “and not thirty years ago.” - -She closed her eyes and her fingers picked at the covers. “Do you -remember,” she began again--“the day you first saw me?” - -He recalled it. She was wandering along the gutter of Essex Street, -mumbling to herself, stooping now and then to pick up a cigar butt, a -bit of paper, a rag, and slip it into a sack. - -“Yes, Aunt Albertina--I remember.” - -“You stopped and shook hands with me and asked me to come to a meeting, -and gave me a card. I never came. I was too busy--too busy drinking -myself to death.” She paused and muttered, in German, “Ach, Gott, I -thought I would never accomplish it. But at last--” Then she went on in -English, “But I remembered you. I asked about you. They all knew you. -‘The giant’ they call you. You are so strong. They lean on you--all -these people. You do not know them or see them or feel them, but they -lean on you.” - -“But I am weak, Aunt Albertina. I am a giant with a pigmy soul--a -little soul.” - -“Yes, I know what pigmy means.” The wrinkles swirled and crackled in -what was meant to be a smile. “I had a ‘von’ in my name in Germany, and -perhaps something before it--but no matter. Yes, you are weak. So was -he--the man in the picture--and I also. We tempted each other. He left -his post, his wife, all. We came to America. He died. I was outcast. I -danced in a music-hall--what did I care what became of me when he was -gone? Then I sat at the little tables with the men, and learned what a -good friend drink is. And so--down, down, down----” she paused to shut -her eyes and pick at the covers. - -“But,” she went on, “drink always with me as my friend to make -me forget, to make me content wherever I was--the gutter, the -station-house, the dance-hall. If _he_ could have seen me among the -sailors, tossing me round, tearing at my clothes, putting quarters in -my stockings--for drinks afterwards--drinks!” - -There was a squirming among the rags where her old bones were hidden. -Stanhope shuddered and the sweat stood in beads on his white face. -“But that is over, and you’ve repented long ago,” he said hurriedly, -eager to get away. - -“Repent?” The old woman looked at him with jeering smile. “Not I! -Why? With drink one thing’s as good as another, one bed as another, -one man as another. The idealissmus soon passes. Ach, how we used to -talk of our souls--Gunther and I. Souls! Yes, we were made for each -other. But--he died, and life must be lived. Yes, I know what pigmy -means. I had a von in my name over there and something in front. But no -soul--just a body.” - -“What else can I do for you, Aunt Albertina?” He spoke loudly as her -mind was evidently wandering. - -“Be strong. They lean on you. No, I mean I lean on you. The letters -and the pictures--destroy them. Yes, Gunther and I had von in our -names--but no soul--just youth and love----” - -He went to the stove, lifted the lid, and tossed in the letters and -the old case. As he was putting the lid on again he could see the case -shrivelling, and the flame with its black base crawling over sheets -closely written in a clear, beautiful foreign handwriting. - -“They are destroyed, Aunt Albertina. Is that all?” - -“All. No religion--not to-day, I thank you. Yes, you are strong--but no -soul, only a body.” - -He went out and sent the two women. He expanded his lungs to the -tainted air of Orchard Street. It seemed fresh and pure to him. -“Horrible!” he thought, “I shall soon be out of all this----” - -Out of it? He stopped short in the street and looked wildly around. -Out of _it_? Out of what?--out of life? If not, how could he escape -responsibility, and consequences? Consequences! He strode along, the -children toddling or crawling swiftly aside to escape his tread. And as -he strode the word “Consequences!” clanged and banged against the walls -of his brain like the clapper of a mighty bell. - -At the steps of his house a woman and a man tried to halt him. He -brushed them aside, went up the steps two at a time, let himself in, -and shut himself in his study. - -Why had he not seen it before? To shiver with the lightning of lust -the great tree of the church, the shelter and hope of these people; -to tempt fate to vengeance not upon himself, but upon Emily; to cover -his children with shame; to come to her, a wreck, a ruin; to hang a -millstone about her neck and bid her swim!--“And I called this--love!” - - * * * * * - -At eight o’clock that evening Emily sat waiting for him. “Shall I hate -him as soon as I see him? Or shall I love him so that I’ll not care for -shame or sin?” The bell rang and she started up, trembling. The maid -was already at the front door. - -“Nancy!” she called; then stood rigid and cold, holding the portière -with one hand and averting her face. - -“Yes, mum.” - -“If it is any one for me----” - -She hesitated again. She could see herself in the long mirror between -the windows. She drew herself up and sent a smile, half-triumphant, -half-derisive, at her image, “Say I’m not at home,” she ended. - -The door opened, there was a pause, then it closed. Nancy entered, -“Only a note, mum.” She held it out and Emily took it--Stanhope’s -writing. She tore it open and read: - - “I have a presentiment that you, too, have seen the truth. We may - not go the journey together, I have come to my senses. If it was - love that we offered each the other, then we do well to strangle the - monster before it strangles us, and tramples into the mire all that - each of us has done for good thus far. - - I--and you, too--feel like one who dreams that he is about to seize - delight and awakens to find that he was leaping from a window to - destruction. - - This is not renunciation. It is salvation. - - Evelyn tells me she is to see you to-morrow. I am glad that you and - my daughter are friends.” - -She read the note again, and, after a long interval, a third time. Then -she bent slowly and laid it upon the coals. She sat in a low chair, -watched the paper curl into a tremulous ash, which presently drifted up -the chimney. She was not conscious that there was any thought in her -mind. She was conscious only of an enormous physical and mental relief. - -“I must go to bed,” she said aloud. She hardly touched the pillow -before she was sound asleep--the sleep of exhaustion, of content, of -the battle won. After several hours she awakened. “I’m so glad my -‘better self’ told Nancy to say I wasn’t at home,” she thought. “That -makes me know that I was--what was I?” But before she could answer she -was again asleep. - -The next morning Joan at breakfast suddenly lifted her eyes from her -newspaper and her coffee, listened and smiled. Emily was singing at her -bath. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -MR. GAMMELL PRESUMES. - - -MR. WAKEMAN, under whom she had been working comfortably, was now -displaced by a Mr. Gammell, whom she had barely seen and of whom she -had heard alarming tales. He had been made City Editor when Stilson was -promoted. Tireless and far-sighted and insatiable as a news-gatherer, -he drove those under him “as if eating and sleeping had been -abolished,” one of them complained. But he made the _Democrat’s_ local -news the best in New York, and this gradually impressed the public and -raised the circulation. Gammell was a sensationalist--“the yellowest -yet,” the reporters called him--and Stilson despised him. But Stilson -was too capable a journalist not to appreciate his value. He encouraged -him and watched him closely, taking care to keep from print the daily -examples of his reckless “overzeal.” - -As the Sunday edition ought to be the most profitable issue of a big -newspaper, the proprietors decided to transfer Gammell to it, after -cautioning him to remember Stilson’s training and do nothing to destroy -the “character” of the paper. Gammell began with a “shake-up” of his -assistants. Emily, just returned from a midsummer vacation, was -opening her desk, when another woman of the Sunday staff, Miss Venable, -whom she had never seen at the office this early before, began to tell -her the dire news. “He’s good-looking and polite,” she said, “but he -has no respect for feelings and no consideration about the quantity of -work. He treats us as if we were so many machines.” - -“That isn’t strange or startling, is it?” said Emily indifferently. -“He’s like most successful men. I always feared Mr. Wakeman was too -easy-going, too good to last. I’m surprised that there hasn’t been a -change before.” - -“Just wait till you’ve had an experience with him. He told me--he -called me in this morning and said with a polite grin--what a horrid -grin he has!--that he was pained that I did not like my position on the -Sunday staff. And when I protested that I did, he said, ‘It’s good of -you to say so, Miss Venable, but your work tells a truth which you are -too considerate of me to speak.’ And then he went on to show that he -has been sneaking and spying on me about reading novels in office hours -and staying out too long at lunch time. Think of that!” - -“He may be watching you now,” suggested Emily. - -“No--he’s--good gracious, there he is!” and she fled to her desk. - -Emily looked round and saw a notably slender, pale man of middle height -with the stoop of a student and restless, light-brown eyes. He was -walking rapidly, glancing from side to side and nervously swinging his -keys by their chain. He stopped at her desk and smiled--agreeably Emily -thought. - -“Miss Bromfield?” he said. - -“Yes. And you are Mr. Gammell?” - -“I am that brute--that ogre--that Simon Legree,” he replied, with a -satirical smile which barely altered the line of his thin, pale lips -under his small moustache. “Will you come into my office, please--at -your leisure?” Emily thought she had never heard a polite phrase sound -so cynically hollow. - -She rose and followed him. He began at once and talked swiftly, now -cutting up sheets of blank paper with a huge pair of shears, now -snapping the fingers of one hand against the knuckles of the other, now -twitching his eyes, now ruffling and smoothing his hair. He showed that -he had gone through her work for several months past and that he knew -both her strong points and her defects. He gave her a clear conception -first of what he did not want, then of what he did want. - -As they talked she became uncomfortable. She admired his ability, but -she began to dislike his personality. And she soon understood why. He -was showing more and more interest in her personal appearance and less -and less interest in her work. Like all good-looking women, Emily was -too used to the sort of glances he was giving her to feel or pretend -to feel deep resentment. But it made her uneasy to reflect on what -those glances from a man in his position and of his audacity portended. -“I shall have trouble with him,” she was thinking, before they had -been together half an hour. And she became formal and studied in her -courtesy. But this seemed to have not this slightest effect upon him. - -“However,” he said in conclusion, “don’t take what I’ve been saying too -seriously. You may do as you please. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you -do. And if you feel that you have too much work, just tell me and I’ll -turn it over to some one who was made to drudge.” - -He was at her desk several times during the day. The last time he -brought a bundle of German and French illustrated papers and pointed -out to her in one of them a doubtful picture and the still more -doubtful jest printed underneath. He watched her closely. She looked -and read without a change of colour or expression. “I don’t think we -would reprint it,” she said indifferently, turning the page. - -As he walked away she had an internal shudder of repulsion. “How crude -he is!” she thought. “He has evidently been well educated and well -bred. Yet he can’t distinguish among people. He thinks they’re all cut -from the same pattern, each for some special use of his. Yes, I shall -have trouble with him--and that soon.” - -He hung about her desk, passing and repassing, often pausing and -getting as near as possible to her, compelling her pointedly to move. -She soon had his character from his own lips. She was discussing with -him a “human interest” story from a Colorado paper--about love and -self-sacrifice in a lone miner’s hut faraway among the mountains. “That -will catch the crowd,” he said. “We’ll spread it for a page with a big, -strong picture.” - -“Yes, it’s a beautiful story,” said she. “No one could fail to be -touched by it.” - -“It’s easy to make the mob weep,” he answered with a sneer. “What fools -they are! As if there was anything in that sort of slush.” - -Emily was simply listening, was not even looking comment. - -“I don’t suppose that anybody ever unselfishly cared for anybody -else since the world began,” he went on. “It’s always vanity and -self-interest. The difference between the mob and the intelligent few -is that the mob is hypocritical and timid, while intelligent people -frankly reach out for what they want.” - -“Your scheme of life has at least the merit of directness,” said Emily, -turning away to go to her desk. - -On the plea that he wished to discuss work with her he practically -compelled her to dine with him two or three times a week. While his -lips were busy with adroit praises of her ability his eyes were -appealing to her vanity as a woman--and he was not so unskilful at that -mode of attack as he had seemed at first. He exploited her articles in -the Sunday magazine, touching them up himself and--as she could not -but see--greatly improving them. He asked Stilson to raise her salary, -and it was done. - -She did not discourage him. She was passive, maintaining her -business-like manner. But after leaving him she always had a feeling -of depression and self-disapproval. She liked the display of her work, -she liked the sense of professional importance which he gave her, she -did not dislike his flatteries. She tried to force herself to look at -the truth, to see that all he said and did arose from the basest of -motives, unredeemed by a single trace of an adornment of sentiment. -But, though she pretended to herself that she understood him perfectly, -her vanity was insidiously aiding her strong sense of the politic to -draw her on. “What can I do?” she pleaded to herself. “I must earn my -living. I must assume, as long as I possibly can, that everything is -all right.” - -While she was thus drifting, helpless to act and desperately trying -to hope that a crisis was not coming, she met Stilson one morning in -the entrance-hall of the _Democrat_ Building. As always, his sombre -expression lighted and he stopped her. - -“How are you getting on with Gammell?” he asked, in his voice that -exactly suited the resolute set of his jaw and the aggressive forward -thrust of his well-shaped head. - -At Gammell’s name she became embarrassed, almost ashamed. No one knew -better than she what a powerful effect Stilson had upon sensitive -people in making them guiltily self-conscious if there was reason -for it. She could not help dropping her eyes, and her confusion was -not decreased by the fear that he would misconstrue her manner into a -confession worse than the truth. But she was showing less of her mind -than she thought. - -“Oh--splendidly,” she replied. “I like him much better than at first. -He makes us work and that has been well for me.” - -“Um--yes.” He looked relieved. “And I think it excellent work. Good -morning.” - -Emily gazed after his tall strong figure with the expression that -is particularly good to see in eyes that are looking unobserved at -another’s back. “He knows Gammell,” she thought, “and had an idea he -might be annoying me. He wished to give me a chance to show that I -needed aid, if I did. What a strange man--and how much of a man!” - -When she saw Gammell half an hour later, she unconsciously brought -herself up sharply. She was as distant as the circumstances of their -business relations permitted. But Gammell, deceived by her former -tolerance and by his vanity and his hopes, thought she was practising -another form of coquetry upon him. As she retreated, he pursued. The -first time they were alone, he put his arm about her and kissed her. - -Emily had heard that women working in offices with men invariably have -some such experience as this sooner or later. And now, here she was, -face to face with the choice between self-respect and the enmity of -the man who could do her the most harm in the most serious way--her -living. And in fairness she admitted, perhaps more generously than -Gammell deserved, that she was herself in part responsible for his -conduct. - -She straightened up--they were bending over several drawings spread -upon a table--and stiffened herself. She looked at him with a cold and -calm dignity that made him feel as futile and foolish as if he had -found himself embracing a marble statue. Anger he could have combated. -Appeal he would have disregarded. But this frozen tranquillity made -him drop his arm from her waist and begin confusedly to handle the -drawings. Emily’s heart beat wildly, and she strove in vain to control -herself so that she could begin to talk of the work in hand as if his -attempt had not been. His nervousness changed to anger. Instead of -letting the matter drop, he said sneeringly: “Oh, you needn’t pretend. -You understood perfectly all along. You were willing to use me. And -now----” - -“Please don’t!” Emily’s voice was choked. She had an overpowering sense -of degradation. “It is my fault, I admit. I did understand in a way. -But I tried to make myself believe that we were just friends, like two -men.” - -“What trash!” said Gammell contemptuously. “You never believed it -for an instant. You knew that there never was, and never will be, -a friendship between a young man and a young woman unless each is -thoroughly unattractive to the other.” - -He was plucking up courage and Emily saw that he was mentally arranging -a future renewal of his attempt. “I must settle it now, once for all, -at any cost,” she said to herself, with the resoluteness that had never -failed her in crises. Then aloud, to him: “At any rate, we understand -each the other now. You know that I have not the faintest interest in -your plan for mixing sentiment and business.” Her look and tone were -convincing as they cut deep into his vanity. She turned to the drawings -and resumed the discussion of them. In a very few minutes he left her. -“He hates me,” she thought, “and I can’t blame him. I wonder what he’ll -do to revenge himself?” - -But he gave no sign. When they met again and thereafter he treated -her with exaggerated courtesy and no longer annoyed her. “He’s -self-absorbed,” she concluded, “and too cool-headed to waste time and -energy in revenges.” - -But when her articles were no longer displayed, were on the contrary -“cut” or altogether “side-tracked,” she began to think that probably -the pinched-in look of his mouth and nose and at the back of his neck -did not belie him. She felt an ominous, elusive insecurity. She debated -asking Stilson to transfer her to some other department. - -But she hesitated to go to Stilson. For she now knew the whole secret -of his looks and actions, of which she had been thinking curiously ever -since the morning of their chance meeting in the Park. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -THE TRUTH ABOUT A ROMANCE. - - -ONE half of that mystery had been betrayed by little Mary. The other -half she might have known long before had she not held aloof from her -fellow workers, except the few who did not gossip. - - * * * * * - -He was a Virginian. He had been brought up on a farm--an only son, -carefully sheltered, tutored by his father and mother. He had gone -up to Princeton, religious and reverential of the most rigid code -of personal morals. His studies in science and philosophy had taken -away his creed. But he the more firmly anchored himself to his moral -code--not because he was prim or feeble or timid, but because to him -his morality was his self-respect. - -He graduated from Princeton at twenty and became a reporter on _The -World_. He was released to New York--young, hot-blooded, romantic, -daring. He rose rapidly and was not laughed at for his idealism and -his Puritanism, partly because he was able, chiefly because he had -that arrogant temperament which enforces respect from the irresolute, -submissive majority. - -One night, a few weeks before he was twenty-one, he went with Harry -Penrose of the _Herald_ to the opening of the season at the Gold and -Glory. It was then in the beginning of its fame as the best music-hall -in the country if not in the world. As they entered, the orchestra -was playing one of those dashing melodies that seem to make the blood -flow in their rhythm. The stage was thronged with a typical Gold and -Glory chorus--tall, handsome young women with long, slender arms and -legs. They were dancing madly, their eyes sparkling, their hair waving, -the straps slipping from their young shoulders, their slim legs in -heliotrope silk marking the time of the music with sinuous strokes -from the stage to high above their heads and down again. Against this -background of youth and joy and colour two girls were leading the -dance. One of them was round and sensuous; the other thin with the -pleasing angularity of a girl not yet a woman grown. - -Instantly Stilson’s eyes were for her. He felt that he had never even -imagined such grace. The others were smiling gaily, boldly, into the -audience in teasing mock-invitation. Her lips were closed. Her smile -was dreamy, her soul apparently wrapped in the delirium of the dance. -Her whole body was in constant motion. It seemed to Stilson that at -every movement of shoulders or hips, of small round arms or tapering -legs, at every swing of that little head crowned with glittering waves -of golden light, a mysterious, thrilling energy was flung out from -her like an electric current. He who had not cared for women of the -stage watched this girl as a child at its first circus watches the lady -in tights and tarlatan. When the curtain went down, he felt that the -lights were being turned off instead of on. - -“Who is she?” he asked Penrose. - -“Who?” said Penrose, looking at the women near by in the orchestra -chairs. “Which one?” - -“The girl at the end--the right end--on the stage, I mean.” - -“Oh--Marguerite Feronia. Isn’t she a wonder? I don’t see how any one -can compare her with Jennie Jessop, who danced opposite her.” - -“Do you know--Miss Feronia?” asked Stilson. - -“Marguerite? Yes. I’ve seen her a few times in the cork-room. Ever been -there?” - -“No.” Stilson had neither time nor inclination for dissipation. - -“Would you like to go? It’s an odd sort of place.” - -They went downstairs, through the public bar and lounge and into a long -passage. At the end Penrose knocked on a door with a small shutter in -it. Up went the shutter and in its stead there was a fierce face--low -forehead, stubby, close cropped hair, huge, sweeping moustache shading -a bull-dog jaw. The eyes were wicked yet not unkindly. - -“Hello, John. This is a friend of mine from the _World_--Mr. Stilson.” - -“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Penrose.” The shutter replaced the face and the door -opened. They were under the stage, in a room walled and ceilinged -with champagne corks, and broken into many alcoves and compartments. -They sat at a table in one of the alcoves and Penrose ordered a bottle -of champagne. When the waiter brought it he invited “John” to have a -glass. “John” took it standing--“Your health, gents--best regards”--a -gulp, the glass was empty and the moustache had a deep, damp fringe. - -“I have orders not to let nobody in till the end of the performance,” -said “John.” “But you gents of the press is different.” He winked as if -his remark were a witticism. - -“May I see Marguerite for a minute?” - -“She’s got to change,” said “John” doubtfully, “and she comes on about -five minutes after the curtain goes up. But I’ll see.” - -He went through a door at the far end of the “cork-room” and soon -reappeared with Marguerite close behind him. She was in a yellow and -red costume--the skirt not to her knees, the waist barely to the top of -her low corset. She put out a small hand white of itself, and smeared -with rice-powder. Her hair was natural golden and Stilson thought her -as beautiful and as spiritual as she had seemed beyond the footlights. -“Perhaps not quite so young,” he said to himself, “possibly twenty.” -In fact she was almost thirty. Her voice was sweet and childish, her -manner confiding, as became so young-looking a person. - -Stilson was unable to speak. He could only look and long. And he -felt guilty for looking--she was very slightly clad. She and Penrose -talked commonplaces about the opening, Penrose flattering her -effectively--Stilson thought his compliments crude and insulting, felt -that she would resent them if she really understood them. She soon -rose, touched the champagne glass to her lips, nodded and was gone. The -curtain was up--they could hear the music and the scuffling of many -feet on the stage overhead. - -“You don’t want to miss this, Mr. Penrose,” said “John.” “It’s out -o’sight.” - -They took a second glass of the champagne and left the rest for “John.” -When they were a few feet down the passage, Stilson went back to the -door of the “cork-room.” The shutter lifted at his knock and he cast -his friendliest look into the wicked, good-humoured, bull-dog face. “My -name is Stilson,” he said. “You won’t forget me if I should come again -alone?” - -“I never forget a face,” said “John.” “That’s why I keep my job.” - -Stilson’s infatuation increased with each of Marguerite’s appearances. -The longer he looked, the stronger was the spell woven over his senses -by that innocent face, by those magnetic arms and legs. But he would -have knocked down any one who had suggested that it was a sensuous -spell. - -He devoted his account of the performance for the _World_ to -Marguerite, the marvellous young interpreter of the innermost meaning -of music. - -The copy-reader “toned down” some of the superlatives, but left his -picture in the main untouched. And the next day every one in the office -was talking about “Stilson’s story of that girl up at the Gold and -Glory.” It was the best possible advertisement for the hall and for -the girl. Penrose called him on the telephone and laughed at him. “You -_are_ a fox,” he said. “Old Barclay--he’s the manager down there, you -know--called me up a while ago and asked if I knew who wrote the puff -of Feronia in the _World_. I told him it was you. Follow it up, old -man.” - -And Stilson did “follow it up.” That very night, toward the end of the -performance he reappeared at the door of the “cork-room,” nervous but -determined, and with all he had left of last week’s earnings in his -pocket. “John” was most gracious as he admitted him and escorted him -to a seat. The room was hazy with the smoke of cigars and cigarettes. -Many men and several young women sat at the tables. A silver bucket -containing ice and a bottle was a part of each group. There was a great -pounding of feet on the floor overhead, the shriek and crash of the -orchestra, the muffled roar of applause. All the young men were in -evening clothes except Stilson who had come direct from the office. The -young women were dressed for the street. Stilson guessed that they were -“extras” as at that time the full force of the company must be on the -stage. - -The music ceased, the pounding of feet above became irregular instead -of regular, and into the room streamed a dozen of the chorus girls in -tights, with bare necks and arms and painted lips and cheeks. Their -eyes, surrounded by pigment, looked strangely large and lustrous. -“Just one glass, then we must go up and change.” And there was much -“opening of wine” and laughter and holding of hands and one covert -kiss in the shadow of an alcove where “John” could pretend not to see. -Then the chorus girls rushed away to remove part of the powder, paint, -and pigment and to put on street clothing. After a few minutes, during -which Stilson watched the scene with a deepening sense of how out of -place he was in it, the stage-door opened and Marguerite came in, -dressed for the street in a pretty gray summer-silk with a gray hat -to match. As she advanced through the smoke, several men stood, eager -to be recognised. She smiled sweetly at each and hesitated. Stilson, -his courage roused, sprang up and advanced boldly. “Good evening, Miss -Feronia,” he said, his eyes imploring yet commanding. She looked at him -vaguely, then remembered him. - -“You are Mr. Penrose’s friend?” she said, polite but not at all cordial. - -“Yes--my name’s Stilson,” he answered. “I was here last night.” - -“Oh--Mr. Stilson of the _World_?” - -Stilson bowed. She was radiant now. “I wrote you a note to-day,” she -said. “It was _so_ good of you.” - -“Would you sit and let me order something for you?” - -“Certainly. I want to thank you----” - -“Please don’t,” he said, earnestly and with a hot blush. “I’d--I’d -rather you didn’t remember me for that.” - -“Something” in the cork-room meant champagne or a wine equally -expensive--the management forbade frugality under pain of exclusion. -Miss Feronia was thirsty and Stilson thought he had never before seen -any one who knew how to raise a glass and drink. - -“You were good to me in the paper this morning,” she said. “Why?” - -“Because I love you.” - -The smoke, the room, the flaunting reminders of coarseness and -sensuality and merchandising in smiles and sentiment--all faded away -for him. He was worshipping at the shrine of his lady-love. And he -thought her as pure and poetical as the temple of her soul seemed to -his enchanted eyes. She looked at him over the top of her glass, with -cynical, tolerant amusement. The rioting bubbles were rushing upward -through the pale gold liquid to where her lips touched it. As she -studied him, the cynicism slowly gave place to that dreamy expression -which means much or little or nothing at all, according to what lies -behind. To him it was entrancing; it meant mind, and heart, and soul. - -“What a nice, handsome boy you are,” she said, in a voice so gentle -that he was not offended by its hint that her experience was pitying -his child-like inexperience. - -And thus it began. At the end of the week they were married--he would -have it so, and she, purified for the time by the fire of this boy’s -romantic love, thought it natural that the priest should be called in. - -To him it was a dream of romance come true. His strength, direct, -insistent, inescapable, compelled her. It pleased her thus to be -whirled away by an impassioned boy, enveloping her in this tempestuous -yet respectful love wholly new to her. She found it toilsome to live up -to his ideal of her; but, with the aid of his blindness, she achieved -it for two months and deserved the title her former associates gave -her--“Sainte Marguerite.” Then---- - -He came home one morning about two. As he opened the door of their -flat, he heard heavy snoring from their little parlour. He struck a -match and held it high. As the light penetrated and his eyes grew -accustomed, he saw Marguerite--his wife--upon the lounge. Her only -covering was a nightgown and she was half out of it. Her hair was -tumbled and tangled. There were deep lines in her swollen, red face. -Her mouth had fallen open and her expression was gross, animal, -repulsive. She was sleeping a drunken sleep, in a room stuffy with the -fumes of whiskey and of the stale smoke and stale stumps of cigarettes. - -The match burned his fingers before he dropped it. He stumbled through -the darkness to their bedroom, and, falling upon the bed, buried -his face in the pillow and sobbed like a child that has received a -blow struck in brutal injustice. Out of the corners came a hundred -suspicious little circumstances which no longer feared him or hid from -him. They leered and jeered and mocked, shooting poisoned darts into -that crushed and broken-hearted boy. - -He rose and lit the gas. He went to a closet in a back room and took -down a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler. In pyjamas and slippers he -seated himself at the dining-room table. He poured out a brimming glass -of the whiskey and drank it down. A moment later he drank another, -then a third. His head reeled, his blood ran thick and hot through his -veins. He staggered into the parlour and stood over his snoring wife. -He shook her. “Come, wake up!” he shouted. - -She groaned, murmured, tossed, suddenly sat up, catching her hair -together with one hand, her night-dress with the other. “My God!” she -exclaimed, in terror at his wild face, “Don’t kill me! I can’t help -it--my father was that way!” - -“Yes--come on!” he shouted. “You don’t need to sneak away to drink. -We’ll drink together. We’ll go to hell together.” - -And he kept his word. At the end of the year he was dismissed from the -_World_ for drunkenness. She went back to the stage and supported them -both--she was a periodic drunkard, while he kept steadily at it. She -left him, returned to him, loved him, fled from him, divorced him, -after an absence of nearly a year returned to make another effort to -undo the crime she felt she had committed. As she came into the squalid -room in a wretched furnished-room house in East Fifth Street where he -had found a momentary refuge, he glared at her with bleared, bloodshot -eyes and uttered a curse. She had a bundle in her arms. - -“Look,” she said, in a low tone, stooping beside the bed on which he -lay in his rags. - -He was staring stupidly into the face of a baby, copper-coloured, -homely, with puffy cheeks and watery, empty eyes. He fell back upon the -bed and covered his head. - -Soon he started up in a fury. “It ought to have been strangled,” he -said. - -“No! No!” she exclaimed, pressing the bundle tightly against her bosom. - -He rose and went toward her. His expression was reassuring. He looked -long into the child’s face. - -“Where are you living?” he asked at last. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. -I’ll not come until”--He paused, then went on: “The road ought to lead -upward from here.” His glance went round the squalid room with roaches -scuttling along its baseboard. He looked down at his grimed tatters, -his gaping shoes, his dirty hands and black and broken nails. - -“It certainly can’t lead downward,” he muttered. For the first time in -months he felt ashamed. “Leave me alone,” he said. - -That night he wrote his mother for the loan of a hundred dollars--the -first money from home since, at the end of his last long vacation, -he left for New York and a career. In a week he was a civilised man -again. Marlowe got him a place as reporter on the _Democrat_. It was -immediately apparent that the road did indeed lead upward. - -In a month he was restored to his former appearance--except that his -hair was sprinkled with gray at the temples and he had several deep -lines in his young yet sombre face. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -“IN MANY MOODS.” - - -EMILY was lunching alone at the Astor House in the innermost of -the upstairs dining-rooms. She had just ordered when a woman -entered--obviously a woman of the stage, although she was quietly -dressed. She had a striking figure, small but lithe, and her gown was -fitted to its every curve. As she passed Emily’s table, to the left of -the door, the air became odorous of one of those heavy, sweet perfumes -whose basis is musk. Her face was round, almost fat, babyish at first -glance. Her eyes were unnaturally sleepy and had many fine wrinkles at -the corners. She seated herself at the far end of the room, so that she -was facing the door and Emily. - -She called the waiter in a would-be imperious way, but before she had -finished ordering she was laughing and talking with him as if he were -a friend. Emily noted that she spoke between her shut teeth, like a -morphine-eater. As the waiter left, her face lighted with pleasure and -greeting. Emily was amazed as she saw the man toward whom this look -was directed--Stilson. He did not see Emily when he came in, and, as -he seated himself opposite the woman who was awaiting him, could not -see her. Nor could Emily see his face, only his back and now and then -one of his hands. As she eagerly noted every detail of him and of his -companion, she suddenly discovered that there was a pain at her heart -and that she was criticising the woman as if they were bitter enemies. -“I am jealous of her,” she thought, startled as she grasped all that -was implied in jealousy such as she was now feeling. - -When had she come to care especially for Stilson? And why? Above all, -how had she fallen in love without knowing what she was doing? By -what subtle chemistry had sympathy, admiration, trust, been combined -into this new element undoubtedly love, yet wholly unlike any emotion -she had felt before? “Mary must have set me to thinking,” she said to -herself. - -The woman talked volubly, always with her teeth together and her eyes -half-closed. But Emily could see that she was watching Stilson’s face -closely, lovingly. Stilson seemed to be saying nothing and looking -absently out of the window. As Emily studied the woman, she was forced -to confess that she was fascinating and that she had the attractive -remnants of beauty. Her manner toward Stilson made her manner toward -the waiter a few minutes before seem like a real self carefully and -habitually hidden from some one whom she knew would disapprove it. “She -tries to live up to him,” thought Emily. “And how interesting she is -to look at--what a beautiful figure, what graceful gestures--and--I -wonder if I shall look as well at--at her age?” - -She could not eat. “How I wish I hadn’t seen her with him. Now I shall -imagine--everything, while before this I thought of that side of his -life as if it didn’t exist.” She went as quickly as she could, for she -felt like a spy and feared he would turn his head. In the next room, -which was filled, she met Miss Furnival, the “fashion editor” of the -_Democrat’s_ Sunday magazine. Miss Furnival asked if there were any -tables vacant in the next room and hastened on to get the one which -Emily had left. - -An hour later Miss Furnival stopped at her desk. “Didn’t you see -Stilson in that room over at the Astor House?” she said, and Emily knew -that gossip was coming. - -“Was he there?” she asked. - -“Yes--up at the far end of the room--with Marguerite Feronia. She used -to be his wife, you know--and she divorced him when he went to pieces. -And now they live together--at least, in the same house. Some say that -he refused to re-marry her. But Mr. Gammell told me it was the other -way, that she told a friend of his she wasn’t fit to be Stilson’s wife. -She said she’d ruined him once and would never be a drag on him again.” - -“I suppose he’s--tremendously in love with her?” Emily tried in vain to -prevent herself from stooping to this question. - -“I don’t know,” replied Miss Furnival. “Mr. Gammell told me he wasn’t. -He says Stilson is a sentimentalist. It seems there is a child--some -say a boy, some say a girl. She first told Stilson it was his, and then -that it wasn’t. Mr. Gammell says Stilson stays on to protect the child -from her. She’s a terror when she goes on one of her sprees--and she -goes oftener and oftener as she grows older. You can always tell when -she’s on the rampage by the way Stilson acts. He goes about, looking as -if somebody had insulted him and he’d been too big a coward to resent -it.” - -Instead of being saddened by this recital, Emily was in sudden high -spirits and her eyes were dancing. “I ought to be ashamed of myself,” -she thought, “but I can’t help it. I wish to feel that he loathes her.” -Then she said aloud in a satirical tone, to carry off her cheerful -expression: “I had no idea we had such a hero among us. And Mr. -Stilson, of all men! I’m afraid it’s a piece of Park Row imagination. -Probably the truth is--let us say, less romantic.” - -“You don’t know Mr. Gammell,” Miss Furnival sighed. “He’s the last man -on earth to indulge in romance. He thinks Stilson ridiculous. But _I_ -think he’s fine. He’s the best of a few good men I’ve known in New -York who weren’t good only because of not having sense enough to be -otherwise.” - -“Good,” repeated Emily in a tone that expressed strong aversion to the -word. - -“Oh, mercy no! I don’t mean that kind of good,” said Miss Furnival. -“He’s not the kind of good that makes everybody else love and long for -wickedness.” - -After this Emily found herself making trips to the news-department on -extremely thin pretexts, and returning cheerful or depressed according -as she had succeeded or failed in her real object. And she began to -think--to hope--that Stilson came to the Sunday department oftener -than formerly. When he did come--and it certainly was oftener--he -merely bowed to her as he passed her desk. But whenever she looked up -suddenly, she found his gaze upon her and she felt that her vanity was -not dictating her interpretation of it. She had an instinct that if he -knew or suspected her secret or suspected that she was guessing his -secret, she would see him no more. - -As the months passed, there grew up between them a mutual understanding -about which she saw that he was deceiving himself. She came to know -him so well that she read him at sight. Being large and broad, he was -simple, tricking himself when it would have been impossible for him to -have tricked another. And it made her love him the more to see how he -thought he was hiding himself from her and how unconscious he was of -her love for him. - -She had no difficulty in gratifying her longing to hear of him. He -was naturally the most conspicuous figure in the office and often a -subject of conversation. She was delighted by daily evidences of the -power of his personality and by tributes to it. For Park Row liked to -gossip about his eccentricities,--he was called eccentric because -he had the courage of his individuality; or about his sagacity as an -editor, his sardonic wit, his cynicism concealing but never hindering -thoughtfulness for others. Shrinking from prying eyes, he was always -unintentionally provoking curiosity. Hating flattery, he was the idol -and the pattern of a score of the younger men of the profession. His -epigrams were quoted and his walk was copied, his dress, his way -of wearing his hair. Even his stenographer, a girl, unconsciously -and most amusingly imitated his mannerisms. All the indistinct and -inferior personalities about him, in the hope of making themselves -less indistinct and inferior, copied as closely as they could those -characteristics which, to them, seemed the cause of his standing up -and out so vividly. One day Emily was passing through an inside room -of the news-department on her way to the Day Telegraph Editor. Stilson -was at a desk which he sometimes used. He had his back toward her and -was talking into the portable telephone. She glanced at the surface of -his desk. With eyes trained to take in details swiftly, she saw before -she could look away an envelope addressed to Boughton and Wall, the -publishers, a galley proof projecting from it, and on the proof in -large type: “17 In Many Moods.” - -“He has written a book,” she thought, “and that is the title.” And she -was filled with loving curiosity. She speculated about it often in the -next six weeks; then she saw it on a table in Brentano’s. - -“Yes, it’s been selling fairly well--for poetry,” said the clerk. -“There’s really no demand for new poetry. Ninety-one cents. You’ll find -the verses very pretty.” - -Poetry--verses--Stilson a verse-maker! Emily was surprised and somewhat -amused. There was no author’s name on the title-page and it was a small -volume, about twenty poems, the most of them short, each with a mood as -a title--Anger, Parting, Doubt, Jealousy, Courage, Foreboding, Passion, -Hope, Renunciation--at Renunciation she paused and read. - -It was a crowded street-car and she bent low over the book to -hide her face. She had the clue to the book. Indeed she presently -discovered that it was to be found in every poem. Stilson had loved -her long--almost from her first appearance in the office. And in these -verses, breathing generosity and self-sacrifice, and well-aimed for -one heart at least, he had poured out his love for her. It was sad, -intense, sincere, a love that made her proud and happy, yet humble and -melancholy, too. - -As she read she seemed to see him looking at her, she felt his heart -aching. Now he was holding her tight in his arms, raining kisses -on her face and making her blood race like maddest joy through her -veins. Again, he was standing afar off, teaching her the lesson that -the love that can refrain and renounce is the truest love. It was a -revelation of this strange man even to her who had studied him long -and penetratingly. So absorbed was she in reading and re-reading -that when she glanced up the car was at One hundred and fourteenth -street--miles past her house. She walked down to and through the Park -in an abandon of happiness over these love letters so strangely sent, -thus accidentally received. “I must never let him see that I know,” she -thought--“yet how can I help showing it?” - -She met him the very next day--almost ran into him as she left the -elevator at the news-department floor where he was waiting to take it -on its descent. For the first time she betrayed herself, looking at him -with a burning blush and with eyes shining with the emotion she could -not instantly conceal. She passed on swiftly, conscious that he was -gazing after her startled. “I acted like a child,” she said to herself, -“and here I am, trembling all over as if I were seventeen.” And then -she wrought herself up with thinking what he might think of her. “Where -is my courage?” she reassured herself, “What a poor love his would be -if he misunderstood me.” Nevertheless she was afraid that she had shown -too much. “I suppose it’s impossible to be courageous and restrained -when one loves.” - -But when she saw him again--two days later, in the vestibule of the -_Democrat_ Building--it was her turn to be self-possessed and his to -betray himself. He was swinging along with his head down and gloom -in his face. He must have recognised her by her feet--distinctive in -their slenderness and in the sort of boots that covered them. For he -suddenly gave her a flash-like glance which said to her as plainly as -words: “I am in the depths. If I only dared to reach out my hand to -you, dear!” Then he recovered himself, reddened slightly, bowed almost -guiltily and passed on without speaking. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -A FORCED ADVANCE. - - -IT was the talk of the Sunday office that Emily was being “frozen -out.” The women said it was her own fault--her looks had at last -failed to give her a “pull.” The men said it was some underhand scheme -of Gammell’s--what was more likely in the case of an attractive -but thoroughly business-like woman such as Emily and such a man as -Gammell, oriental in his ideas on women and of infinite capacity for -meanness. Both the men and the women reached their conclusions by -ways of prejudice; the men came nearer to the truth, which was that -Gammell was bent upon punishing Emily, and that Emily, discouraged and -suffering under a sense of injustice, was aiding him to justify himself -to his superiors. The mere sight of her irritated him now. Success -had developed his natural instinct to tyranny, and she represented -rebellion intrenched and defiant within his very gates. One day he -found Stilson waiting in his office to look over and revise his Sunday -schedule. He hated Stilson because Stilson was his superior officer, -and each week--in the interest of the reputation of the paper--was -compelled to veto the too audacious, too “yellow” projects of the -sensational Gammell. - -That day at sight of Stilson he with difficulty concealed his hate. He -had just passed one of his enemies--Emily in a new dress and new hat, -in every way a painful reminder of his discomfiture. And now here was -his other enemy lying in wait, as he instinctively felt, to veto an -article in which he took especial pride. - -Stilson was not covert in his aversions. Diplomatic with no one, he -rasped upon Gammell’s highly-strung nerves like a screech in the ear of -a neurotic. The wrangle began quietly enough in an exchange of veiled -sarcasms and angry looks--contemptuous from Stilson, venomous from -Gammell. But the double strain of Emily and Stilson was too strong for -Gammell’s discretion. From stealthy sneers, he passed to open thrusts. -Stilson, as tyrannical as Gammell, if that side of his nature was -roused, grew calm with rage and presently in an arrogant tone ordered -Gammell to “throw away that vicious stuff, and let me hear no more -about it.” - -“It is a pity, my dear sir,” he went on, “that you should waste your -talents. Why roll in the muck? Why can’t you learn not to weary me with -this weekly inspection of insanity?” - -Gammell’s eyes became pale green, his cheeks an unhealthy bluish gray. -He cast about desperately for a weapon with which to strike and strike -home. Emily was in his mind and, while he had not the faintest notion -that Stilson cared for her or she for him, he remembered Stilson’s -emphatic compliments on her work. “Perhaps if I were supplied with -a more capable staff, we might get together articles that would be -intelligent as well as striking. But what can I do, handicapped by such -a staff, by such useless ornamentals as--well, as your Miss Bromfield.” - -“That reminds me.” Stilson recovered his outward self-control at -once. “I notice she has little in the magazine nowadays. Instead of -exhausting yourself on such character-destroying stuff as this,” with a -disdainful gesture toward the rejected article, “you might be arranging -for features such as she used to do and do very well.” - -“She’s not of the slightest use here any longer.” Gammell shrugged his -shoulders and lifted his eyebrows. “She’s of no use to the paper. And -as the present Sunday editor doesn’t happen to fancy her, why, she’s of -no use at all--now.” - -With a movement so swift that Gammell had no time to resist or even to -understand, Stilson whirled him from his chair, and flung him upon the -floor as if he were some insect that had shown sudden venom and must be -crushed under the heel without delay. - -“Don’t kill me!” screamed Gammell, in a frenzy of physical fear, as he -looked up at Stilson’s face ablaze with the homicidal mania. “For God’s -sake, Stilson, don’t murder me!” - -The door opened and several frightened faces appeared there. Stilson, -distracted from his purpose, turned on the intruders. “Close that -door!” he commanded. “Back to your work!” and he thrust the door into -its frame. “Now, get up!” he said to Gammell. “You are one of those -vile creatures that are brought into the world--I don’t know how, -but I’m sure without the interposition of a mother. Get up and brush -yourself. And hereafter see that you keep your foul mind from your lips -and eyes.” - -He stalked away, his footsteps ringing through the silent Sunday room -where all were bending over their work in the effort to obliterate -themselves. Within an hour the story of “the fight” was racing up and -down Park Row and in and out of every newspaper office. But no one -could explain it. And to this day Emily does not know why Gammell gave -her late that afternoon the best assignment she had had in three months. - -In the following week she received a letter from Burnham, general -manager of Trescott, Anderson and Company, the publishers in -Twenty-third Street. It was an invitation to call “at your earliest -convenience in reference to a matter which we hope will interest -you.” She went in the morning on her way downtown. Mr. Burnham was -most polite--a twitching little man, inclined to be silly in his -embarrassment, talking rapidly and catching his breath between -sentences. - -“We are making several changes in the conduct of our magazines,” said -he. “We wish to get some young blood--newspaper blood, in fact, into -them. We wish to make them less--less prosy, more--more up-to-date. -No--not ‘yellow’--by no means--nothing like that. Still, we feel that -we ought to be a little--yes--livelier.” - -“Closer to the news--to current events and subjects?” suggested Emily. - -“Yes,--precisely--you catch my meaning at once.” Mr. Burnham was -looking at her as if she were a genius. He was of those men who are -dazzled when they discover a gleam of intelligence in a beautiful -woman. “Now, we wish to get you to help us with our _World of Women_. -Mrs. Parrott is the editor, as you perhaps know. She’s been with -us--yes--twenty-three years, eighteen years in her present position. -And after making some inquiries, we decided to invite you to join the -staff as assistant to Mrs. Parrott.” - -“I know the magazine,” said Emily, “and I think I see the directions -in which the improvements you suggest could be made. But I’m not -dissatisfied with my present position. Of course--if--well--” She -looked at Mr. Burnham with an ingenuous expression that hid the -business guile beneath--“Of course, I couldn’t refuse an opportunity to -better myself.” - -“We--that is--” Mr. Burnham looked miserable and plucked wildly at his -closely-trimmed gray and black beard. “May I ask what--what financial -arrangement would be agreeable to you?” - -“The offer must come from you, mustn’t it?” said Emily, who had not -been earning her own living without learning first principles. - -“Yes--of course--naturally.” Mr. Burnham held himself rigid in his -chair, as if it required sheer force to restrain him from leaping forth -and away. “Might I ask--what you are--what--what--return for your -services the _Democrat_ makes?” - -“Sixty-five dollars a week,” said Emily. “But my position there is -less exacting than it would be here. I have practically no editorial -responsibility. And editorial responsibility means gray hair.” - -“Yes--certainly--you would expect compensation for gray hair--dear me, -no--I beg your pardon. What _were_ we saying? Yes--we could hardly -afford to pay so much as that--at the start, you know. I should -say sixty would be quite the very best. But your hours would be -shorter--and you would have the utmost freedom about writing articles, -stories, and so forth. And of course you’d be paid extra for what you -wrote which proved acceptable to us. Then too, it’s a higher class of -work--the magazines, you know--gives one character and standing.” - -“Oh--work is work,” said Emily. “And I doubt if a magazine could give -me character. I fear I’d have to continue to rely on myself for that.” - -“Oh--I beg your pardon. I’m very stupid to-day--I didn’t mean----” - -As he hesitated and looked imploringly at her, she said -good-humouredly, “To suggest that my standing and not the standing of -your magazine, was what you were trying to help?” - -They laughed, they became friendly and he had difficulty in keeping -his mind upon business. He presently insisted upon sending for Mrs. -Parrott--a stout, motherly person with several chins that descended -through a white neck-cloth into a vast bosom quivering behind the dam -of a high, old-fashioned corset. Emily noted that she was evidently -of those women who exaggerate their natural sweetness into a pose of -“womanly” sentiment and benevolence. She spoke the precise English of -those who have heard a great deal of the other kind and dread a lapse -into it. She was amusingly a “literary person,” full of the nasty-nice -phrases current among those literary folk who take themselves seriously -as custodians of An Art and A Language. Emily’s manner and dress -impressed her deeply, and she soon brought in--not without labour--the -names of several fashionable New Yorkers with whom she asserted -acquaintance and insinuated intimacy. Emily’s eyes twinkled at this -exhibition of insecurity in one who but the moment before was preening -herself as a high priestess at the highest altar. - -In the hour she spent in the editorial offices of Trescott, Anderson -and Company, Emily was depressed by what seemed to her an atmosphere -of dulness, of staleness, of conventionality, of remoteness from the -life of the day. “They live in a sort of cellar,” she thought. “I don’t -believe I could endure being cut off from fresh air.” After pretending -to herself elaborately to argue the matter, she decided that she would -not make the change. - -But her real reason, as she was finally compelled to admit to herself, -was Stilson. Not to see him, not to feel that he was near, not to be -in daily contact with his life--it was unthinkable. She knew that she -was so unbusiness-like in this respect that, if the _Democrat_ cut her -salary in half, she would still stay on. “I’m only a woman after all,” -she said to herself. “A man wouldn’t do as I’m doing--perhaps.” She did -not in the least care. She was not ashamed of her weakness. She was -even admitting nowadays a liking for the idea that Stilson could and -would rule her. And she was not at all sure that the reason for this -revolutionary liking was the reason she gave herself--that he would not -ask her to do anything until he was sure she was willing to do it. - -Two days after she wrote her refusal, Stilson sent for her. At first -glance she saw that he was a bearer of evil tidings. And in the next -she saw what the evil tidings were--that he had penetrated her secret -and his own self-deception, and was remorseful, aroused, determined to -put himself out of her life. - -“You have refused your offer from Burnham?” He drew down his brows and -set his jaw, as if he expected a struggle. - -“Yes--I prefer to stay here. I have reasons.” She felt reckless. She -was eager for an opportunity to discuss these “reasons.” - -“You must accept.” - -“_I?--Must?_” She flushed and put her face up haughtily. - -“Yes--I ask it. The position will soon be an advancement. And you -cannot stay here.” - -“How do you know about this offer--so much about it?” - -“I got it for you when--when I found that you must go.” - -She looked defiance. She saw an answering look of suffering and appeal. - -“Why?” she said, in a low voice. “Why?” - -“For two reasons,” he replied. “I may tell you only one--Gammell. He -will find a way to injure you. I know it. It would be folly for you to -stay.” - -“And the other reason?” - -He did not answer, but continued to look steadily at her. - -“I--I--understand,” she murmured at last, her look falling before his, -and the colour coming into her face, “I will go.” - -“Thank you.” He bowed with a courtesy that suggested the South in -the days before the war. He walked beside her to the elevator. His -shoulders were drooped as if under a heavy burden. His face was white -and old, and its deep lines were like scars. - -“Down, ten!” he called into the elevator-shaft as the car shot past on -the up-trip. Soon the descending car stopped and the iron door swung -back with a bang. - -The door closed, she saw him gazing at her; and that look through -the bars of the elevator door, haunted her. She had seen it in his -face once before, though not so strongly,--when she said good-bye to -him as she was going away to Paris. But where else had she seen it? -Weeks afterward, when she was talking to Mrs. Parrott of something -very different, there suddenly leaped to the surface of her mind a -memory--the public square in a mountain town, a man dead upon the -stones, another near him, dying and turning his face toward the shelter -whence he had come; and in his face the look of farewell to _the_ woman. - -“What is it, dear? Are you ill this morning?” asked Mrs. Parrott. - -“Not--not very,” answered Emily brokenly, and she vanished into her -office and closed its door. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -A MAN AND A “PAST.” - - -HAD Emily and Stilson been idlers or of those workers who look upon -work as a curse, they would have taken one of two courses. Either -Stilson would have repudiated his obligations and they would have -rushed together to hurry on to what would have been for them a moral -catastrophe, or they would have remained apart to sink separately into -mental and physical ruin. As it was, they worked--steadily, earnestly, -using their daily routine of labour to give them strength for the fight -against depression and despair. - -Stilson, with the tenacity of purpose that made life for him one long -battle, fought hopelessly. To him hope seemed always only the delusive -foreshadow of oncoming disappointment, a lying messenger sent ahead by -fate in cynical mockery of its human prey. And whenever his routine -relaxed its compulsion, he laid himself on the rack and tortured -himself with memories and with dreams. - -Emily was aided by her temperament. She loved life and passionately -believed in it. She was mentally incapable of long accepting an adverse -decree of destiny as final. But at best it was a wintry light that -hope shed--between storms--upon her heart. Her chief source of courage -was her ideal of him--the strong, the brave, the inflexible. “Forgive -me!” she would say, humbling herself before his image in her mind after -her outbursts of protest or her attacks of despondency. “I am not -worthy of you. But oh,--I want you--need you--_so_!” - -Within a short time it was apparent that from the professional -standpoint she had done well in going to the _World of Women_. After -the newspaper, the magazine seemed play. In the _Democrat_ office she -had not been looked upon as extraordinary. Here they regarded her as a -person of amazing talent--for a woman. They marvelled at her energy, -at her quickness, at her flow of plans for articles and illustrations. -And without a hint from her they raised her salary to what she had been -getting, besides accepting proposals she made for several articles to -be written by herself. - -They were especially delighted with her management of “the old -lady”--the only name ever given Mrs. Parrott when she was out of -hearing. She patronised Emily in a motherly way, and Emily submitted -like a dutiful daughter. She accepted Emily’s suggestions as her own. -“My dear,” she said one day, “I’m so glad I’ve got you here to help me -put my ideas through. I’ve been suggesting and suggesting in vain for -years.” And Emily looked grateful and refused to respond to the sly -smile from Mr. Burnham who had overheard. - -Emily did not under-estimate Mrs. Parrott’s usefulness to her. In -thirty years of experience as a writer and an editor, “the old lady” -had accumulated much that was of permanent value, as well as a mass of -antiquated or antiquating trash. Emily belonged to the advance guard -of a generation that had small reverence for the “prim ideals of the -past.” Mrs. Parrott knew the “provincial mind,” the magazine-reading -mind, better than did Emily--or at least was more respectful of its -ideas, more cautious of offending its notions of what it believed or -thought it ought to believe. And often when Emily through ignorance -or intolerance would have “gone too far” for any but a New York -constituency, Mrs. Parrott interposed with a remonstrance or a -suggestion which Emily was acute enough to appreciate. She laughed at -these “hypocrisies” but--she always had circulation in mind. She liked -to startle, but she knew that she must startle in ways that would -attract, not frighten away. - -But conscientious though she was in her work, and careful to have her -evenings occupied, she was still forlorn. Life was purposeless to her. -She was working for self alone, and she who had never cared to excess -for self, now cared nothing at all. In her own eyes her one value was -her value to Stilson. She reproached herself for what seemed to her -a low, a degrading view, traversing all she had theretofore preached -and tried to practice. But she had only to pause to have her heart -aching for him and her thoughts wandering in speculations about him or -memories of him. - -Her friends--Joan, Evelyn, Theresa--wondered at the radical changes in -her, at her abstraction, her nervousness, her outbursts of bitterness. -She shocked Joan and Evelyn, both now married, with mockeries at -marriage, at love, at every sentiment of which they took a serious -view. One day--at Joan’s, after a tirade against the cruelty, -selfishness, and folly of bringing children into the world--she -startled her by snatching up the baby and burying her face in its -voluminous skirts and bursting into a storm of sobs and tears. - -“What is it, Emmy?” asked Joan, taking away the baby as he, recovering -from his amazement, set up a lusty-lunged protest against such conduct -and his enforced participation therein. - -Emily dried her eyes and fell to laughing as hysterically as she had -wept. “Poor baby,” she said. “Let me take him again, Joan.” And she -soon had him quiet, and staring at a large heart-shaped locket which -she slowly swung to and fro just beyond the point, or rather, the cap, -of his little lump of a nose. “I’m in a bad way, Joan,” she went on. “I -can’t tell you. Telling would do no good. But my life is in a wretched -tangle, and I don’t see anything ahead but--but--tangles. And as I -can’t get what I want, I won’t take anything at all.” - -“You are old enough to know better. Your good sense teaches you that if -you did get what you want, you’d probably wish you hadn’t.” - -“That’s the trouble,” said Emily, shaking her head sadly at the baby. -“My good sense in this case teaches me just the reverse. I’ve seen a -man--a real man this time--_my_ man morally, mentally, physically. He’s -a man with a mind, and a heart, and what I call a conscience. He’s been -through--oh, everything. And error and suffering have made him what he -is--a man. He’s a man to look up to, a man to lean upon, a man to--to -care for.” Her expression impressed Joan’s skepticism. “Do you wonder?” -she said. - -“No.” Joan looked away. “But--forget--put him out of your life. You are -trying to--aren’t you?” - -“To forget? No--I can’t even try. It would be useless. Besides, who -wants to forget? And there’s always a _chance_.” - -“At least”--Joan spoke with conviction--“you’re not likely to _do_ -anything--absurd.” - -“That’s true--unfortunately. _I_ couldn’t be trusted. I’m afraid. -But--” Emily’s laugh was short and cynical--“my man can.” - -“He must be a--a sort of prig.” Joan felt suspicious of a masculine -that could stand out against the temptation of such a feminine as her -adored Emily. - -“See! Even you couldn’t be trusted. But no, he’s not a prig--just plain -honourable and decent, in an old-fashioned way that exasperates me--and -thrills me. That’s why I say he’s a man to lean upon and believe in.” - -Emily felt better for having talked with some one about him and went -away almost cheerful. But she was soon down again, and time seemed -only to aggravate her unhappiness. “I must be brave,” she said. “But -why? Why should I go on? He has Mary--I have nothing.” And the great -dread formed in her mind--the dread that he was forgetting her. If -not, why did he not seek her out, at least reassure himself with his -own eyes that she was still alive? And she had to look steadily at her -memory-pictures, at his eyes, and the set of his jaw, to feel at all -hopeful that he was remembering, was living his real life for her. - - * * * * * - -Three weeks after Emily’s departure, on a Thursday night, Stilson -left his assistant in charge and went home at eleven. As he entered -his house--in West Seventy-third street near the river--he saw -strange wraps on the table in the entrance-hall, heard voices in the -drawing-room. He went on upstairs. As he was hurrying into evening -dress he suddenly paused, put on a dressing-gown, and went along the -hall. He gently turned the knob of a door at the end and entered. There -was a dim light, as in the hall, and he could at once make out all the -objects in the room. - -He crossed to the little bed, and stood looking down at Mary--her -yellow hair in a coil on top of her head, one small hand clinched and -thrust between the pillow and her cheek, the other lying white and limp -upon the coverlid. He stood there several minutes without motion. When -he reappeared in the bright light of his dressing-room, his face was -calm, a complete change from its dark and drawn expression of a few -minutes before. - -He was soon dressed, and descended to the drawing-room. Like the hall, -like the whole house, like its mistress, this room was rather gaudy, -but not offensive or tasteless. The most conspicuous objects in its -decoration were two pictures. One was a big photograph of a slim, -ethereal-looking girl--the dancer he had loved and married. She was -dressed to reveal all those charms of youth apparently just emerging -from childhood--a bouquet of budding flowers fresh from the garden in -the early morning. The other was a portrait of her by a distinguished -artist--the face and form of the famous dancer of the day. The face -was older and bolder, with the sleepy sensuousness and sadness that -characterised her now. The neck and arms were bare; and the translucent -and clinging gown, aided by the pose, offered, yet refused, a view of -every line of her figure. - -Marguerite was sitting almost under the portrait; on the same sofa was -Victoria Fenton, looking much as when Stilson first met her--on her -trip to America in the autumn in which Emily returned from Paris. She -still had to the unobservant that charm of “the unawakened”--as if -there were behind her surface-beauty not good-natured animalism, but a -soul awaiting the right conjurer to rouse it to conscious life. - -Marlowe was seated on the arm of a chair, smoking a cigarette. He was -dressed carefully as always, and in the latest English fashion. He had -an air of prosperity and contented indifference. His once keen face -was somewhat fat and, taken with his eyes and mouth, suggested that -his wife’s cardinal weakness had infected him. Stilson was late and -they went at once to supper--Marlowe and Miss Fenton had been invited -for supper because that was the only time convenient for all these -night-workers. - -“You are having a great success?” said Stilson to Victoria. She was -exhibiting at the Lyceum in one of Joan’s plays which had been partly -rewritten by Marlowe. - -“Yes--the Americans are good to me--so generous and friendly,” replied -Victoria. “Of course the play is poor. I couldn’t have done anything -with it if George hadn’t made it over so cleverly.” - -Stilson smiled. Banning, the dramatic critic, had told him that her -part was beyond Miss Fenton, and that only her stage-presence and -magnetic voice saved her from failure. “You players must have a -mournful time of it with these stupid playwrights,” he said with safe -sarcasm. - -“You can’t imagine!” Victoria flung out her long, narrow white hand in -a stage-gesture of despair. “And they are so ungrateful after we have -created their characters for them and have given them reputation and -fortune.” - -Stilson noted that Marlowe was listening with a faint sneer. His -manner towards his wife was a surface-politeness that too carelessly -concealed his estimate of her mental limitations. Stilson’s manner -toward “Miss Feronia”--he called her that more often than he called -her Marguerite--was almost distant courtesy, the manner of one who -tenaciously maintains an impenetrable wall between himself and another -whose relations to him would naturally be of the closest intimacy. And -while Victoria was self-absorbed, obviously never questioning that her -husband was her admirer and devoted lover, Marguerite was nervously -attentive to Stilson’s words and looks, at once delighted and made -ill-at-ease by his presence. - -Her eyes were by turns brilliant and stupidly dull. Either a stream -of words was issuing from between her shut teeth or her lids were -drooped and she seemed to be falling asleep. Marlowe recognised the -morphine-eater and thought he understood why Stilson was gloomy and -white. Victoria ate, Marguerite talked, and the two men listlessly -smoked. At the first opportunity they moved together and Marlowe began -asking about the _Democrat_ and his acquaintances there. - -“And what has become of Miss Bromfield?” he asked, after many other -questions. - -“She’s gone to a magazine,” replied Stilson, his voice straining to be -colourless. But Marlowe did not note the tone and instantly his wife -interrupted: - -“Yes, what has become of Miss Bromfield--didn’t I hear George asking -after her? You know, Mr. Stilson, I took George away from her. Poor -thing, it must have broken her heart to lose him.” And she vented her -empty affected stage-laugh. - -Colour flared in the faces of both the men, and Stilson went to the -open fire and began stirring it savagely. - -“Pray don’t think I encouraged my wife to that idea,” Marlowe said, -apparently to Marguerite. “It’s one of her fixed delusions.” - -Victoria laughed again. “Oh, Kilboggan told me all about you two--in -Paris and down at Monte Carlo. He hears everything. I forgot it until -you spoke her name. ‘Pasts’ don’t interest me.” - -Marlowe flushed angrily and his voice was tense with convincing -indignation as he said, “I beg you, Victoria, not to put Miss Bromfield -in this false light. No one but a--a Kilboggan would have concocted and -spread such a story about such a woman.” - -His tone forbade further discussion, and there was a brief, embarrassed -silence. Then Marguerite went rattling on again. Stilson came back -to the table and lit a cigarette with elaborate and deliberate care. -Marlowe continued to stare to the front, his face expressionless, but -his eyes taking in Stilson’s expression without seeming to do so. -They were talking again presently, but each was constrained toward -the other. Marlowe knew that Stilson was suspecting him, but, beyond -being flattered by the tribute to his former “gallantry,” he did not -especially care--had he not said all that he honourably could say? -Emily, not he, had insisted upon secrecy. - -As for Stilson, his brain seemed to be submerged in a plunge of boiling -blood. Circumstances of Marlowe’s and Emily’s relations rose swiftly -one upon another, all linking into proof. “How can I have been so -blind?” he thought. - -The Marlowes did not linger after supper. Marguerite went to bed and -Stilson shut himself in his own suite. He unlocked and opened a drawer -in the table in his study. He drew from under several bundles of -papers the sketch of Emily which the _Democrat_ had reproduced with -her despatch from the Furnaceville strike. He looked contempt and hate -at the dreamy, strong yet sweet, young face. “So you are Marlowe’s -cast-off?” he said with a sneer. “And I was absurd enough--to believe -in you--in any one.” - -He flung the picture into the fire. Then he sat in the big chair, his -form gradually collapsing and his face taking on that expression of -misery which seemed natural to its deep lines and strong features. - -“And when Mary grows up,” he said aloud, “no doubt she too--” But he -did not clearly finish the thought. He shrank ashamed from the stain -with which he in his unreasoning anguish had smirched that white -innocence. - -After a while he reached into the fireplace and took from the dead -coals in the corner the cinder of the picture. Very carefully he drew -it out and dropped it into an envelope. That he sealed and put away in -the drawer. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -TWO AND A TRIUMPH. - - -BUT Stilson’s image of her was no longer clear and fine; and in certain -lights, or, rather, shadows, it seemed to have a sinister unloveliness. -He assured himself that he felt toward her as before. But--he respected -her with a reservation; he loved her with a doubt; he believed in -her--did he believe in her at all? He was continually regilding his -idol, which persistently refused to retain the gilt. - -After many days and many nights of storms he went to the Park one -morning, and for two hours,--or, until there was no chance of her -coming--he walked up and down near the Seventy-second street entrance. -He returned the second morning and the third. As he was pacing -mechanically, like a sentry, he saw her--her erect, graceful figure, -her red-brown hair that grew so beautifully about her brow and her -ears; then her face, small and delicate, the skin very smooth and -pale--circles under her violet eyes. At sight of him there came a -sudden gleam from those eyes, like, an electric spark, and then a look -of intense anxiety. - -“You are ill?” she said, “Or there is some trouble?” - -“I’ve been very restless of late--sleeping badly,” he replied, -evasively. “And you?” - -They had turned into a side path to a bench where they would not be -disturbed. They looked each at the other, only to look away instantly. -“Oh, I’ve worked too hard and--I fancy I’ve been too much alone.” Emily -spoke carelessly, as of something in the past that no longer matters. - -“Alone,” he repeated. “Alone.” When his eyes met hers, neither could -turn away. And on a sudden impulse he caught her in his arms. “My dear, -my dear love,” he exclaimed. And he held her close against him and -pressed her cheek against his. - -“I thought you would never come,” she murmured. “How I have reproached -you!” - -He only held her the closer for answer. And there was a long pause -before he said: “I can’t let you go. I can’t. Oh, Emily, my Emily--yes, -mine, mine--I’ve loved you so long--you know it, do you not? You’ve -been the light of the world to me--the first light I’ve seen since I -was old enough to know light from darkness. And when you go, the light -goes. And in the dark the doubts come.” - -“Doubts?” she said, drawing away far enough to look at him. “But how -can you doubt? You must _know_.” - -“And I _do_ know when I see you. But when I’m in the dark and breathing -the poison of my own mind--Forgive me. Don’t ask me to explain, but -forgive me. Even if I had the right to be here, the right to say what -I’ve been saying, still I’d be unfit. How you would condemn me, if you -knew.” - -“I don’t wish to know, dear, if you’d rather not tell me,” she said -gently. “And you have a right to be here. And no matter what you have -been or are, I’d not condemn you.” Her voice sank very low. “I’d still -love you.” - -“You’d have had to live my life to know what those last words mean to -me,” he said, “how happy they make me.” - -“But I know better than you think,” she answered. “For my life has not -been sheltered, as are the lives of most women. It has had temptations -and defeats.” - -He turned his eyes quickly away, but not so quickly that she failed -to catch the look of fear in them. “What are you thinking?” she asked -earnestly. “Dear, if there are doubts, may they not come again? I saw -in your eyes just then--what was it?” - -“Do not ask me. I must fight that alone and conquer it.” - -“No--you must tell me,” she said, resolutely. “I feel that I have a -right to know.” - -“It was nothing--a lie that I heard. I’d not shame myself and insult -you by repeating it.” - -He looked at her appealingly, saw that she was trembling. “You know -that I did not believe it?” he said, catching her hand. But she drew -away. - -“Was it about me and--Marlowe?” she asked. - -“But I knew that it was false,” he protested. - -She looked at him unflinchingly. “It was true,” she said. “We -were--everything--each to the other.” - -He sat in a stupor. At last he muttered: “Why didn’t you deceive me? -Doubt was better than--than this.” - -“But why should I? I don’t regret what I did. It has helped to make me -what I am.” - -“Don’t--don’t,” he implored. “I admit that that is true. But--you are -making me suffer--horribly. You forget that I love you.” - -“Love!” There was a strange sparkle in her eyes and she raised her head -haughtily. “Is _that_ what you call _love_?” And she decided that she -would wait before telling him that she had been Marlowe’s wife. - -“No,” he answered, “it is not what I call love. But it is a part of -love--the lesser part, no doubt, but still a part. I love you in all -the ways a man can love a woman. And I love you because you are a -complete woman, capable of inspiring love in every way in which a woman -appeals to a man. And it hurts me--this that you’ve told me.” - -“But you, your life, what you’ve been through--I honour you for it, -love you the more for it. It has made me know how strong you are. I -love you best for the battles you’ve lost.” - -“Yes,” he said. “I know that those who have lived and learned and -profited are higher and stronger than the innocent, the ignorant. But I -wish--” He hesitated, then went on doggedly, “I’d be lying to you if I -did not say that I wish I did not know this.” - -“Then you’d rather I had deceived you--evaded or told a falsehood.” - -“No,” he said with emphasis, and he looked at her steadily and proudly. -“I can’t imagine you telling me a falsehood or making any pretense -whatever. At least I can honestly say that after the first purely -physical impulse of anger, I didn’t for an instant suspect you of any -baseness. And whenever an ugly thought about you has shown itself in my -mind, it has been--choked to death before it had a chance to speak.” - -“I know that,” she said, “I know it, dear.” And she put her hand on his. - -“And--I wouldn’t have you different from what you are. You are a -certain kind of human being--_my_ kind--the kind I admire through and -through--yes, through and through. And--you are the only one of the -kind in all this world, so far as I have seen. I don’t care by what -processes you became what you are. You say you love me for the battles -I’ve lost. Honestly, would you like to hear, even like to have me tell -you, in detail, all that I’ve been through? Aren’t you better satisfied -just to know the results?” - -“Yes,” she admitted, and she remembered how she had hated Marguerite -Feronia that day at the Astor House, how she never saw a lithograph of -her staring from a dead wall or a bill board or a shop window that she -did not have a pang. - -“Then how can you blame me?” he urged. - -“I--I guess--I don’t,” she said with a little smile. - -“But I blame myself,” he went on. “I--yes, I, the immaculate, arraigned -you at the bar for trial and----” - -“Found me guilty and recommended me to the mercy of the court?” - -“No--not quite so bad as that,” he replied. “But don’t think I’m not -conscious of the colossal impudence of the performance--one human being -sitting in judgment on another!” - -“It’s done every minute,” she said cheerfully. “And we make good judges -of each other. All we have to do is to look inside ourselves, and we -don’t need to listen to the evidence before saying ‘Guilty.’ But what -was the verdict at my trial?” - -“It hadn’t gone very far before we changed places--you became the -accuser and I went into the prisoner’s pen. And I could only plead -guilty to the basest form of that base passion, jealousy. I couldn’t -deny that you were noble and good, that it was unthinkable that you -could be guilty of anything low. I was compelled to admit that if you -had been--married--” - -“Was any evidence admitted on that point?” she asked with a sly smile -at the corners of her mouth. - -“No,” he said, then gave her a quick, eager glance. At sight of the -quizzical expression in her eyes, he blushed furiously but did not -look away. - -“You know,” he said, and he put his arm about her shoulders, “that I -love you in the way you wish to be loved. I don’t deny that I’m not -very consistent. My theory is sound, but--I’m only a human man, and I’d -rather my theory were not put to the test in your case.” - -“But it has been put to the test,” she replied, “and it has stood the -test.” And then she told him the whole story. - -He called her brave. “No one but you, only you, would have had the -courage to end it when you did--away off there, alone.” - -“I thought it was brave myself at the time,” she said. “Then afterwards -I noticed that it would have taken more courage to keep on. Any woman -would have freed herself if she had been independent as I was, and with -no conventionalities to violate.” - -Stilson said thoughtfully after a pause: “It did not enter my head that -you had been married. And even now, the fact only makes the whole thing -more vague and unreal.” - -“It took two minutes to be married,” replied Emily, “and less to be -divorced--my lawyer wrote proudly that it was a record-breaking case -for that court, though I believe they’ve done better elsewhere in -Dakota.” - -“What a mockery!” - -“Oh, I don’t think so. The marriage isn’t made by the contract and the -divorce isn’t made by the court. The mere formalities that recognise -the facts may be necessary, but they can’t be too brief.” - -“But it sets a bad example, encourages people to take flippant views of -serious matters.” - -“I wonder,” said Emily doubtingly, “do the divorced people set so bad -an example as those who live together hating each the other, degrading -themselves, and teaching their children to quarrel. And haven’t -flippant people always been flippant, and won’t they always continue to -be?” - -“It may be so, but men and women ought to know what they are about -before they--” Stilson paused and suddenly remembered. “I shan’t finish -that sentence,” he said, with a short laugh. “I don’t know what you -know about me, and I don’t want to. I can’t talk of my affairs where -they concern other people. But I feel that I must----” - -“You need not, dear,” said Emily. “I think I understand how you are -situated. And--I--I--Well, if the time ever comes when things are -different, then--” She dropped her serious tone--“Meanwhile, I’m ‘by -the grace of God, free and independent’ and----” - -“I love you,” he said, the hot tears standing in his eyes as he kissed -her hand. “Ever since the day you came back from the mines, I’ve known -that I loved you. And ever since then, it’s been you, always you. The -first thought in the morning, the last thought at night, and all day -long whenever I looked up--you, shining up there where I never hope to -reach you. Not shining _for_ me, but, thank God, shining _on_ me, my -Emily.” - -“And now--I’ve come down.” She was laughing at him in a loving way. -“I’m no longer your star but--only a woman.” - -“_Only_ a woman!” He drew a long breath and his look made her blood -leap and filled her with a sudden longing both to laugh and to cry. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -WHERE PAIN IS PLEASURE. - - -THAT fall and winter Emily and Stilson met often in the walk winding -through the Park from Seventy-second street to the Plaza. Usually it -was on Wednesday morning--his “lazy day”; always it was “by accident.” -Each time they separated they knew they were soon to meet again. But -the chance character of their meetings--once in a while they did miss -each the other--maintained a moral fiction which seemed to them none -the less vital to real morals because it was absurd. - -What with their work and meetings to look forward to and meetings to -look back upon, time did not linger with them. Often they were happy. -Rarely were they miserable, and then, instead of yielding to despair -and luxuriating in grief and woe, they fought valiantly to recover the -tranquillity which would enable them to enjoy what they might have and -to be mutually helpful. They were not sentimental egotists. They would -have got little sympathy from those who weep in theatres and blister -the pages of tragic fiction. Neither tried to pose before the other or -felt called upon to tickle his own and the other’s vanity with mournful -looks and outbursts. They loved not themselves, but each the other. - -They suffered much in a simple, human way--not the worked-up anguish -of the “strong situation,” but just such lonely heartaches as visit -most lives and make faces sober and smiles infrequent and laughter -reluctant, as early youth is left behind. And they carefully hid their -suffering each from the other with the natural considerateness of -unselfish love. - -Once several weeks passed in which she did not “happen” to meet him. -She grew rapidly melancholy and resentful of the narrowness of the -sources and limits of her happiness. “He is probably ill--very ill,” -she thought, “And how outside of his life I am! I could not go to him, -no matter what was happening.” She called up the _Democrat_ office on -the telephone at an hour when he was never there. The boy who answered -said he was out. “When will he be in?” “I cannot tell you. He has been -away for several days.” “Is he ill?” she ventured. No, he was not -ill--just away on business. - -She read in the _Evening Post_ the next night that Marguerite Feronia -was still confined to the house, suffering with nervous prostration. -“She has been ill frequently during the past year,” said the _Post_ -“and it is reported that it will be long before she returns to the -stage, if ever.” Emily at once understood and reproached herself for -her selfishness. What must Stilson be enduring, shut in with the -cause and centre of his wretchedness--that unfortunate woman through -whom he was expiating, not his crimes but his follies. “How wicked -life is,” she thought bitterly. “How intelligent its malice seems. To -punish folly more severely than crime, and ignorance more savagely than -either--it is infamous!” And as she brooded over his wrecked life and -her aloneness, her courage failed her. “It isn’t worth while to go on,” -she said. “And I ask so little--such a very little!” - -When she met him in the Park again, his face was as despondent as hers. -They went to a bench in one of the by-paths. It was spring, and the -scene was full of the joyous beginnings of grass and leaves and flowers -and nests. - -“Once there was a coward,” he began at last. “A selfish coward he -was. He had tumbled down his life into ruins and was sitting among -them. And another human being came that way. She was brave and strong -and had a true woman’s true soul--generosity, sympathy, a beautiful -uncondescending compassion. And this coward seized her and tried to -chain her among his ruins. He gave nothing--he had nothing to give. -He took everything--youth, beauty, a splendid capacity for love and -happiness.” He paused. “Oh, it was base!” he burst out. “But in the end -he realised and--he has come to his senses.” - -“But she would not go,” said Emily softly. - -“He drove her away,” he persisted. “He saw to it that she went back to -life and hope. And when she saw that he would have her go, she did not -try to prevent him from being true to his better self. She went for his -sake.” - -“But listen to _me_,” she said. “Once there was a woman, young in -years, but compelled to learn a great deal very quickly. And fate gave -her four principal teachers. The first taught her to value freedom and -self-respect--taught it by almost costing her both. The second taught -her that love is more than being in love with love--and that lesson -almost cost her her happiness for life. The third teacher taught her -that love is more than a blind, reckless passion. And then, just when -she could understand it, perhaps just in time to prevent the third -lesson from costing her her all--then came,” she gave him a swift, -vivid glance “her fourth teacher. He taught her love, what it really -is--that it is the heart of a life. The heart of her life.” - -He was not looking at her, but his eyes were shining. - -“Then,” she went on, “one day this man--unselfishly but, oh, so -blindly--told the woman that because fate was niggard, he would no -longer accept what he might have, would no longer let her have what -meant life to her. He said: ‘Go--out into the dark. Be alone again.’” - -She paused and turned toward him. “He thought he was just and kind,” -she said. “And he _was_ brave; but not just or kind. He was blind -and--cruel; yes, very cruel.” - -“It can’t be true,” he said. “No--it is impulse--pity--a sacrifice.” - -She saw that his words were addressed to himself in reproach for -listening to her. “It was unworthy of him,” she went on, “unworthy of -his love for her. How could he imagine that only he knew what love -is--the happiness of its pain, almost happier than the happiness of its -joy? Why should I have sought freedom, independence, if not in order -that I may use my life as I please, use it to win--and keep--the best?” - -“I don’t know what to think,” he said uncertainly. “You’ve made it -impossible for me to do as I intended--at present.” - -Emily’s spirits rose--in those days the present was her whole horizon. -“Don’t be selfish,” she said in a tone of raillery. “Think of me, once -in a while. And _please_ try to think of me as capable of knowing my -own mind. I don’t need to be told what I want.” - -“I beg your pardon,” he said with mock humility. “I shall never be so -impertinent again.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -THE HIGHWAY OF HAPPINESS. - - -EMILY often rebelled. Her common sense was always catching her at -demanding, with the irrational arrogance of human vanity, that the -course of the universe be altered and adjusted to her personal desires. -But these moods came only after she and Stilson had not been together -for a longer time than usual. When she saw him again, saw the look in -his eyes--love great enough to deny itself the delight of expression -and enjoyment--she forgot her complaints in the happiness of loving -such a man, of being loved by him. “It might be so much worse, -unbearably worse,” she thought. “I might lose what I have. And then how -vast it would seem.” - -Stilson always felt the inrush of a dreary tide when they separated. -One day the tide seemed to be sweeping away his courage. Unhappiness -behind him in the home that was no longer made endurable by Mary’s -presence, now that her mother’s condition compelled him to keep her at -the convent; contention, the necessity of saying and doing disagreeable -things, ahead of him at the office--“I have always been a fool,” he -thought, “a sentimental fool. No wonder life lays on the lash.” But he -gathered a bundle of newspapers from the stand at Fifty-ninth Street -and Madison Avenue and, seating himself in the corner of the car, -strapped on his mental harness and began to tug and strain at his daily -task--“like a dumb ox,” he muttered. - -He was outwardly in his worst mood--the very errand boy knew that it -was not a good day to ask favours. A man to whom he had loaned money -came in to pay it and, leaving, said: “God will bless you.” Stilson sat -staring at a newspaper. “God will bless me,” he repeated bitterly. “I -shall have some new misfortune before the day is over.” - -And late that afternoon a boy brought him a note--he recognised the -handwriting of the address as Marguerite’s. “The misfortune,” he -thought, tearing it open. He read: - - This won’t be delivered to you until I’m out at sea. I’m going - abroad. You’ll not see me again. I’m only in the way--a burden to you - and a disgrace to Mary. You’ll find out soon enough how I’ve gone, - without my telling you. Perhaps I’m crazy--I never did have much - self-control. But I’m gone, and gone for good, and you’re left free - with your beloved Mary. - - I know you hate me and I can’t stand feeling it any longer. I - couldn’t be any more miserable, no, nor you either. And we may both - be happier. I never loved anybody but you--I suppose I still love - you, but I must get away where I won’t feel that I’m always being - condemned. - - Don’t think I’m blaming you--I’m not so crazy as that. - - Try to think of me as gently as--no, don’t think of me--forget - me--teach Mary to forget me. I’m crying, Robert, as I write this. But - then I’ve done a lot of that since I realised that not even for your - sake could I shake off the curse my father put on me before I was - born. - - Good-bye, Robert. Good-bye, Mary. I put the ring--the one you gave - me when we were married--in the little box in the top drawer of your - chiffonière where you keep your scarf-pins. I hope I shan’t live - long. If I had been brave, I’d have killed myself long ago. - - Good-bye, - - MARGUERITE. - -One sentence in her letter blazed before his mind--“You’ll find out -soon enough how I’ve gone, without my telling you.” What did she mean? -In her half-crazed condition had she done something that would be -notorious, would be remembered against Mary? He pressed the electric -button. “Ask Mr. Vandewater to come here at once, please,” he said to -the boy. Vandewater, the dramatic news reporter, hurried in. “I’m about -to ask a favour of you, Vandewater,” he said to him, “and I hope you’ll -not speak of it. Do you know any one at the Gold and Glory--well, I -mean?” - -“Mayer, the press agent, and I are pretty close.” - -“Will you call him up and ask him--tell him it’s personal and -private--what he knows about Miss Feronia’s movements lately. Use this -telephone here.” - -At “Miss Feronia,” Vandewater looked conscious and nervous. Like all -the newspaper men, he knew of the “romance” in Stilson’s life, and, -like many of the younger men, he admired and envied him because of the -fascinating mystery of his relations with the famous dancer. - -The Gold and Glory was soon connected with Stilson’s branch-telephone -and he was impatiently listening to Vandewater’s part of the -conversation. Mayer seemed to be saying a great deal, and Vandewater’s -questions indicated that it was an account of some unusual happening. -After ten long minutes, Vandewater hung up the receiver and turned to -Stilson. - -“I--I--it is hard to tell you, Mr. Stilson,” he began with mock -hesitation. - -“No nonsense, please.” Stilson shook his head with angry impatience. “I -must know every fact--_every_ fact--and quickly.” - -“Mayer says she sailed on the _Fürst Bismarck_ to-day--that -she’s--she’s taken a man named Courtleigh, an Englishman--a young -fellow in the chorus. Mayer says she sent a note to the manager, -explaining that she was going abroad for good, and that Courtleigh came -smirking in and told the other part. He says Courtleigh is a cheap -scoundrel, and that her note read as if she were not quite right in her -head.” - -“Yes--and what’s Mayer doing? Is he telling everybody? Is he going to -use it as an advertisement for the house?” - -Vandewater hesitated, then said: “He’s not giving it to the afternoon -papers. He’s writing it up to send out to-night to the morning papers.” - -“Um!” Stilson looked grim, savage. “Go up there, please, and do your -best to have it suppressed.” - -“Yes.” Vandewater was swelling with mystery and importance. “You may -rely on me, Mr. Stilson. And I shall respect your confidence.” - -“I assume that you are a gentleman,” Stilson said sarcastically. He had -taken Vandewater into his confidence because he had no choice, and he -had little hope of his being able to hold his tongue. “Thank you. Good -day.” - -As soon as he was alone he seated himself at the telephone and began -calling up his friends or acquaintances in places of authority on the -newspapers, morning and evening. Of each he made the same request--“If -a story comes in about Marguerite Feronia, will you see that it’s put -as mildly as possible, if you must print it?” And from each he got an -assurance that the story would be “taken care of.” When he rose wearily -after an hour of telephoning, he had done all that could be done to -close the “avenues of publicity.” He locked the door of his office and -flung himself down at his desk, and buried his face in his arms. - -In a series of mournful pictures the progress of Marguerite to -destruction flashed across his mind, one tragedy fading into the next. -Youth, beauty, joyousness, sweetness, sensibility, fading, fading, -fading until at last he saw the wretched, broken, half-insane woman -fling herself headlong from the precipice, with a last despairing -glance backward at all that her curse had stripped from her. - -And the tears tore themselves from his eyes. The evil in her was -blotted out. He could see only the Marguerite who had loved him, had -saved him, who was even now flying because to her diseased mind it -seemed best for her to go. “Poor girl!” he groaned. “Poor child that -you are!” - - * * * * * - -Emily, on her way downtown the next morning in an “L” train, happened -to glance at the newspaper which the man in the next seat was reading. -It was the _Herald_, and she saw a two-column picture of Marguerite. -She read the bold headlines: “Marguerite Feronia, ill. The Gold and -Glory’s great dancer goes abroad, never to return to the stage or the -country.” - -She left the train at the next station, bought a _Herald_ and read: - - Among the passengers on the Fürst Bismarck yesterday was Marguerite - Feronia, who for more years than it would be kind to enumerate has - fascinated the gilded youth that throng the Gold and Glory nightly. - Miss Feronia has been in failing health for more than a year. Again - and again she has been compelled to disappoint her audiences. At last - she realised that she was making a hopeless fight against illness and - suddenly made up her mind to give up. She told no one of her plans - until the last moment. In a letter from the steamship to the manager - of the Gold and Glory she declared that she would never return and - that she did not expect to live long. - -The account was brief out of all proportion to the headlines, and -to the local importance of the subject. Emily went at once to the -newspaper files when she reached her office. In no other paper was -there so much as in the _Herald_. She could find no clue to the mystery. - -“At least he is free,” she thought. “And that is the important point. -At least he is free--_we_ are free.” - -Although she repeated this again and again and tried to rouse herself -to a sense of the joy it should convey, she continued in a state of -groping depression. - -Toward three o’clock came a telegram from Stilson--“Shall you be at -home this evening? Most anxious to see you. Please answer, _Democrat_ -office.” She telegraphed for him to come, and her spirits began to -rise. At last the dawn! At last the day! And her eyes were sparkling -and she was so gay that her associates noted it, and “the old lady” -confided to Mr. Burnham that she “had been wondering how much longer -such a sweet, beautiful girl would have to wait before some man would -have the sense to propose to her.” Nor was she less gay at heart when -Stilson was shown into her little drawing-room, although she kept it -out of her face--Marguerite’s departure might have been sad. - -“I saw it in the _Herald_,” she began. - -“Then I needn’t tell you.” He seemed old and worn and gray--nearer -fifty than thirty-five. “I’ve come to say good-bye.” - -Emily looked at him, stupefied. They sat in silence a long time. At -last he spoke: “I may be gone--who can say how long? Perhaps it will -be best to keep her over there. I don’t know--I don’t know,” he ended -drearily. - -Again there was a long silence. She broke it: “You--are--going--to--to -join her?” She could hardly force the words from her lips. - -He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. What else can I do?” - -Emily sank back in her chair and covered her face. - -“What is it?” he asked. “What did you--why, you didn’t think I would -desert her?” - -“Oh--I--” She put her face down into the bend of her arm. “I -didn’t--think--you’d desert _me_,” she murmured. “I--I didn’t -understand.” She faced him with a swift movement. “How can you go?” -she exclaimed. “When fate clears the way for you--when this woman who -had been hanging like a great weight about your neck suddenly cuts -herself loose--then--Oh, how can you? Am I nothing in your life? Is my -happiness nothing to you? Have you been deceiving yourself about her -and--and me?” She turned away again. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” -she said brokenly. “I don’t mean to reproach you--only--I had--I had -hoped--That’s all.” - -The French clock on the mantel raised its swift little voice until the -room seemed to be resounding with a clamorous reminder of flying time -and flying youth and dying hope. When he spoke, his voice came as if -from a great distance and out of a great silence and calm. - -“It has been eleven years,” he said, “since in folly and ignorance I -threw myself into the depths--how deep you will never know, you can -never imagine. And as I lay there, a thing so vile that all who knew me -shrank from me with loathing--_she_ came. And she not only came, but -she staid. She did her best to lift me. She staid until I drove her -away with curses and--and blows. But she came again--and again. And at -last she brought the--the little girl----” - -He paused to steady his voice. “And I took the hand of the child and -she held its other hand, and together we found the way back--for me. -And now--she has gone out among strangers--enemies--gone with her mind -all awry. She will be robbed, abused, abandoned, she will suffer cold -and hunger, and she will die miserably--if I don’t go to her.” - -He went over and stood beside her. “Look at me!” he commanded, and she -obeyed. “Low as the depth was from which she brought me up, it would be -high as heaven in comparison with the depth I’d lie in, if I did not -go. And I say to you that if you gave me the choice, told me you would -cut me off from you forever if I went--I say to you that still I would -go!” - -As she faced him, her breath came fast and her eyes seemed to widen -until all of her except them was blotted out for him. “I understand,” -she said. “Yes--you would go--nothing could hold you. And--that’s why -I--love you.” - -He gave a long sigh of relief and joy. “I had thought you would say -that, when I knew what I must do. And then--when you protested--I was -afraid. Everything crumbles in my hands. Even my dreams die aborning.” - -“When do you sail?” she asked. “To-morrow?” - -“Yes. I’ve arranged my affairs. I--I look to you to take care of Mary. -There is no one else to do it.” - -“If there were, no one else should do it,” she said, with a gentle -smile. - -He gave her a slip of paper on which were the necessary memoranda. “And -now--I must be off.” He tried to make his tone calm and business-like. -He put out his hand and, when she gave him hers, he held it. For an -instant each saw into the depths of the other’s heart. - -“No matter how long you may be away,” she said in a low voice, -“remember, I shall be--” She did not finish in words. - -He tried to speak, but could not. He turned and was almost at the door -before he stopped and came back to her. He took her in his arms, and -she could feel his heart beating as if it were trying to burst through -his chest. “No matter how long,” she murmured. “And I shall not be -impatient, my love.” - - * * * * * - -She expected a reaction but none came. Instead, she continued to feel -a puzzling tranquillity. She had never loved him so intensely, yet she -was braving serenely this separation full of uncertainties. She tried -to explain it to herself, and finally there came to her a phrase which -she had often heard years ago at church--“the peace that passeth all -understanding.” - -“This must be what they meant by it,” she said to herself. “Our love is -my religion.” - -The next time she was at Joan’s they were not together long before Joan -saw that there had been a marvellous change in her. “What is it?” she -asked. “Has the tangle straightened?” - -“No,” replied Emily. “It is worse, if anything. But I have made a new -discovery, I have found the secret of happiness.” - -“Love?” - -Emily shook her head. “That’s only part of it.” - -“Self-sacrifice?” - -“I shouldn’t call it sacrifice.” Emily’s face was more beautiful than -Joan had ever before seen it. “I think the true name is--self forgotten -for love’s sake.” - -“Yes,” assented Joan, looking with expanding eyes at the baby-boy -playing on the floor at her feet. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -LIGHT. - - -AFTER a long and baffling search up and down through western Europe -he learned that Courtleigh had robbed her and deserted her, and that -she was alone, under the name of Mrs. Brandon, at a tiny house in -Craven street near the Strand. He lifted and dropped its knocker, -and a maid-of-all-work thrust through a crack in the door, her huge -be-frowzled head with its thin hair drawn out at the back over a big -wire-frame. - -“How is Mrs. Brandon?” he said. - -“Not so well, thank you, sir,” replied the maid, looking at him as -suspiciously as her respect for the upper classes permitted. - -“I wish to see the landlady.” - -She instantly appeared, thrusting the maid aside and releasing a rush -of musty air as she opened the door wide. She was fairly trembling with -curiosity. - -“I am Mrs. Brandon’s--next friend,” he said, remembering and using the -phrase which in his reporter days he had often seen on the hospital -entry-cards. “I am the guardian of her child. I’ve come to see what can -be done for her.” - -His determined, commanding tone and manner, and his appearance of -prosperity, convinced Mrs. Clocker. “We’ve done all we could, sir. But -the poor lady is in great straits, sir. She’s been most unfortunate.” - -“Is there a physician?” - -“Doctor Wackle, just up the way, sir.” - -“Send for him at once. May I see her?” - -The maid set off up the street and Stilson climbed a dingy first -flight, a dingier second flight, and came to a low door which sagged -far from its frame at the top. He entered softly--“She’s asleep, sir,” -whispered Mrs. Clocker. - -It was a miserable room where the last serious attempts to fight -decay had been made perhaps half a century before. It now presented -queer contrasts--ragged and tottering furniture strewn with handsome -garments; silk and lace and chiffon and embroidery, the latest Paris -devisings, crumpled and tossed about upon patch and stain and ruin; -several extravagant hats and many handsome toilet-articles of silver -and gold and cut glass spread in a fantastic jumble upon the dirty -coverings of a dressing-table and a stand. Against the pillow--its case -was neither new nor clean--lay the head of Marguerite. Her face was -ugly with wrinkles and hollows, that displayed in every light and shade -a skin shiny with sweat, and bluish yellow. Her hair was a matted mass -from which had rusted the chemicals put on to hide the streaks of gray. -She was in a stupor and was breathing quickly and heavily. - -He had come, filled with pity and even eager to see her. He was ashamed -of the repulsion which swept through him. Her face recalled all that -was horrible in the past, foreboded new and greater horrors. He turned -away and left the room. His millstone was once more suspended from his -neck. - -Dr. Wackle had come--a shabby, young-old man with thin black whiskers -and damp, weak lips. In a manner that was a cringing apology for his -own existence, he explained that Marguerite had pneumonia--that she -was dangerously ill. He had given her up, but the prospect of payment -galvanised hope. “There is a chance, sir,” he said. “And with----” - -“What is the name and address of the best specialist in lung diseases?” -he interrupted. - -“There’s Doctor Farquhar in Half Moon Street, sir. He ’as been called -by the royal family, sir.” - -“Take a cab and bring him at once.” - -While Wackle was away, Stilson arranged Marguerite’s account with the -landlady and had some of his belongings brought from the Carlton and -put into the vacant suite just under Marguerite’s. After two hours Dr. -Farquhar came; at his heels Wackle, humble but triumphant. Stilson -saw at one sharp glance that here was a man who knew his trade--and -regarded it as a trade. - -“What is your consultation fee?” - -Dr. Farquhar’s suspicious face relaxed. “Five guineas,” he said, -looking the picture of an English middle-class trader. - -Stilson gave him the money. He carefully placed the five-pound note -in his pocket-book and the five shillings in his change-purse. “Let -me see the patient,” he said, resuming the manner of the small soul -striving to play the part of “great man.” Stilson led the way to the -sagged, hand-grimed door. Farquhar opened it and entered. “This foul -air is enough to cause death by itself,” he said with a sneering glance -at Wackle. “No--let the window alone!”--this to Wackle in the tone a -brutal master would use to his dog. - -Wackle stood as if petrified and Farquhar went to the head of the bed. -Marguerite opened her eyes and closed them without seeing anything. -He laid his hand upon her forehead, then flung away the covers and -listened at her chest. “Umph!” he grunted and with powerful hands -lifted her by the shoulders. Grasping her still more firmly he shook -her roughly. Again he listened at her chest. “Umph!” he growled. He -looked into her face which was now livid, then shook her savagely and -listened again. He let her drop back against the pillows and tossed -the covers over her. He took up his hat which lay upon a silk-and-lace -dressing gown spread across the foot of the bed. He stalked from the -room. - -“Well?” said Stilson, when they were in the hall. - -The great specialist shrugged his shoulders. “She may last ten -hours--but I doubt it. I can do nothing. Good day, sir.” And he jerked -his head and went away. - -Stilson stood in the little hall--Wackle, the landlady and the -maid-of-all-work a respectful group a few feet away. His glance -wandered helplessly round, and there was something in his expression -that made Wackle feel for his handkerchief and Mrs. Clocker and the -maid burst into tears. Stilson went stolidly back to Marguerite’s room. -He paused at the door, turned and descended. “Can you stay?” he said to -Wackle. “I will pay you.” - -“Gladly, sir. I’ll wait here with Mrs. Clocker.” - -Stilson reascended, entered the room and again stood beside Marguerite. -With gentle hands he arranged her pillow and the covers. Then he seated -himself. An hour--two hours passed--he was not thinking or feeling; -he was simply waiting. A stir in the bed roused him. “Who is there?” -came in Marguerite’s voice, faintly. “Is it some one? or am I left all -alone?” - -“What can I do, Marguerite?” Stilson bent over her. - -She opened her eyes, without surprise, almost without interest. “You?” -she said. “Now they won’t dare neglect me.” - -Her eyelids fell wearily. Without lifting them she went on: “How did -you find me? Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m so tired--too tired to -listen.” - -“Are you in pain?” he asked. - -“No--the cough seems to be gone. I’m not going to get well--am I?” She -asked as if she did not care to hear the answer. - -He sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked her forehead. She -smiled and looked at him gratefully. “I feel so--so safe,” she said. -“It is good to have you here. But--oh, I’m so, so tired. I want to -rest--and rest--and rest.” - -“I’ll sit here.” He took her hand. “You may go to sleep. I’ll not leave -you.” - -“I know you won’t. You always do what you say you’ll do.” She ended -sleepily and her breath came in swift, heavy sighs with a rattling -in the throat. But she soon woke again. “I’m tired,” she said. -“Something--I guess it’s life--seems to be oozing out of my veins. I’m -so tired, but so comfortable. I feel as if I were going to sleep and -nobody, nothing would ever, ever wake me.” - -He thought she was once more asleep, until she said suddenly: “I was -going to write it, but my head whirled so--he stole everything but -some notes I had in my stocking. But I don’t care now. I don’t forgive -him--I just don’t care. What was I saying--yes--about--about Mary. -She’s yours as well as mine, Robert--really, truly, yours. I made you -doubt--because--I don’t know--partly because I thought you’d be better -off without us--then, afterward, I didn’t want you to care any more for -her than you did. You believe me, Robert?” - -He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you.” - -“And you forgive me?” - -“There’s nothing to forgive--nothing.” - -“It doesn’t matter. I only want to rest and stop -thinking--and--and--everything. Will it be long?” - -“Not long,” he said in a choked undertone. - -Presently she coughed and a black fluid oozed hideously from her lips -and seemed to be threatening to strangle her. He called the doctor who -gave her an opiate. - -“Come with me, sir,” said Wackle in a hoarse, sick-room whisper, “Mrs. -Clocker has spread a nice cold lunch for you.” - -Stilson waved him away. Alone again, he swept the finery from the -sofa and stretched himself there. Trivial thoughts raced through his -burning brain--the height and width of the candle flames, the pattern -of the wall paper, the tracery of cracks in the ceiling, the number of -yards of lace and of goods in the dresses heaped on the floor. As his -thoughts flew from trifle to trifle, his head ached fiercely and his -skin felt as if it were baking and cracking. - -Then came a long sigh and a rattling in the throat from the woman in -the bed. He started up. “Marguerite!” he called. He looked down at her. -She sighed again, stretched herself at full length, settled her head -into the pillow. “Marguerite,” he said. And he bent over her. “Are you -there?” he whispered. But he knew that she was not. - -He took the candle from the night stand and held it above his head. The -dim flame made his living face old and sorrow-seamed, while her dead -face looked smooth, almost young. Her expression of rest, of peaceful -dreams, of care forever fled, brought back to him a far scene. He could -hear the crash of the orchestra, the stirring rhythm of a Spanish -dance; he could see the stage of the Gold and Glory as he had first -seen it--the bright background of slender, girlish faces and forms; and -in the foreground, slenderest and most girlish of all, Marguerite--the -embodiment of the motion and music of the dance, the epitome of the -swift-pulsing life of the senses. - -He knelt down beside the bed and took her dead hand. “Good-bye, Rita,” -he sobbed. “Good-bye, good-bye!” - - * * * * * - -Suddenly the day broke and the birds in the eaves began to chirp, to -twitter, to sing. He rose, and with the sombre and clinging shadows of -the past and the present there was mingled a light--faint, evasive, as -yet itself a shadow. But it was light--the forerunner of the dawn of a -new day upon a new land where his heart should sing as in the days of -his youth. - - -THE END. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN VENTURES *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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