WORKS OF ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

 Cardigan A King and a Few Dukes The Maid-at-Arms The Conspirators The Reckoning The Cambric Mask Lorraine The Haunts of Men Maids of Paradise Outsiders Ashes of Empire A Young Man in a Hurry The Red Republic In Search of the Unknown The King in Yellow In the Quarter The Maker of Moons The Mystery of Choice Iole

FOR CHILDREN

 Outdoor-Land River-Land Orchard-Land Forest-Land

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IOLE

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 [Illustration: "The little things, " he continued, delicately perforating the atmosphere as though selecting a diatom. ]

IOLE

By

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

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 D. APPLETON & CO. New York MDCCCCV

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Copyright, 1905, by

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

_Published May, 1905_

TO

GEORGE HORACE LORIMER

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PREFACE

Does anybody remember the opera of _The Inca_, and that heartbreakingepisode where the Court Undertaker, in a morbid desire to increase hisprofessional skill, deliberately accomplishes the destruction of hismiddle-aged relatives in order to inter them for the sake of practise?

If I recollect, his dismal confession runs something like this:

 "It was in a bleak November When I slew them, I remember, As I caught them unawares Drinking tea in rocking-chairs. "

And so he talked them to death, the subject being "What Really is Art?"Afterward he was sorry--

 "The squeak of a door, The creak of the floor, My horrors and fears enhance; And I wake with a scream As I hear in my dream The shrieks of my maiden aunts!"

Now it is a very dreadful thing to suggest that those highly respectablepseudo-spinsters, the Sister Arts, supposedly cozily immune in theirpolygamous chastity (for every suitor for favor is popularly expected tobe wedded to his particular art)--I repeat, it is very dreadful tosuggest that these impeccable old ladies are in danger of being talkedto death. 

But the talkers are talking and Art Nouveau rockers are rocking, and thetrousers of the prophet are patched with stained glass, and it is a dayof dinkiness and of thumbs. 

Let us find comfort in the ancient proverb: "Art talked to death shallrise again. " Let us also recollect that "Dinky is as dinky does"; that"All is not Shaw that Bernards"; that "Better Yeates than Clever"; thatwords are so inexpensive that there is no moral crime in robbing Henryto pay James. 

Firmly believing all this, abjuring all atom-pickers, slab furniture, and woodchuck literature--save only the immortal verse:

 "And there the wooden-chuck doth tread; While from the oak trees' tops The red, red squirrel on thy head The frequent acorn drops. "

Abjuring, as I say, dinkiness in all its forms, we may still hope thatthose cleanly and respectable spinsters, the Sister Arts, will continuethroughout the ages, rocking and drinking tea unterrified by themillion-tongued clamor in the back yard and below stairs, where thumband forefinger continue the question demanded by intellectualexhaustion: "L'arr! Kesker say l'arr?"

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CONTENTS

 PAGE I 1 II 12 III 21 IV 32 V 41 VI 48 VII 52 VIII 62 IX 73 X 85 XI 92 XII 100 XIII 104 XIV 111 XV 119 XVI 133 XVII 138

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FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

 FACING PAGE

 "The little things, " he continued, delicately perforating the atmosphere as though selecting a diatom. _Frontispiece_ From a drawing by J. C. Leyendecker. 

 "Simplicity, " breathed Guilford--"a single blossom against a background of nothing at all" 22 From a drawing by J. C. Leyendecker. 

 He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters, two and two behind him 54 From a drawing by Karl Anderson. 

 Aphrodite's slender fingers, barely resting on the harp-strings, suddenly contracted in a nervous tremor 106 From a drawing by Karl Anderson. 

 _Decorative drawings by Arthur C. Becker. _

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IOLE

I

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"I ain't never knowed no one like him, " continued the station-agentreflectively. "He made us all look like monkeys, but he was good to us. Ever see a ginuine poet, sir?"

"Years ago one was pointed out to me, " replied Briggs. 

"Was yours smooth shaved, with large, fat, white fingers?" inquired thestation-agent. 

"If I remember correctly, he was thin, " said Briggs, sitting down on hissuit-case and gazing apprehensively around at the landscape. There wasnothing to see but low, forbidding mountains, and forests, and arailroad track curving into a tunnel. 

The station-agent shoved his hairy hands into the pockets of hisoveralls, jingled an unseen bunch of keys, and chewed a dry grass stem, ruminating the while in an undertone:

"This poet come here five years ago with all them kids, an' the fustthing he done was to dress up his girls in boys' pants. Then he went an'built a humpy sort o' house out of stones and boulders. Then he went towork an' wrote pieces for the papers about jay-birds an' woodchucks an'goddesses. He claimed the woods was full of goddesses. That was his way, sir. "

The agent contemplated the railroad track, running his eye along theperspective of polished rails:

"Yes, sir; his name was--and is--Clarence Guilford, an' I fust seen itsigned to a piece in the Uticy Star. An' next I knowed, folks began tostop off here inquirin' for Mr. Guilford. 'Is this here where Guilford, the poet, lives?' sez they; an' they come thicker an' thicker in warmweather. There wasn't no wagon to take 'em up to Guilford's, but theydidn't care, an' they called it a lit'r'y shrine, an' they hit the pike, women, children, men--'speshil the women, an' I heard 'em tellin' howGuilford dressed his kids in pants an' how Guilford was a famous newlit'r'y poet, an' they said he was fixin' to lecture in Uticy. "

The agent gnawed off the chewed portion of the grass stem, readjustedit, and fixed his eyes on vacancy. 

"Three year this went on. Mr. Guilford was makin' his pile, I guess. He set up a shop an' hired art bookbinders from York. Then he set upanother shop an' hired some of us 'round here to go an' make them big, slabby art-chairs. All his shops was called "At the sign of" somethin''r other. Bales of vellum arrived for to bind little dinky books; artrocking-chairs was shipped out o' here by the carload. MeanwhileGuilford he done poetry on the side an' run a magazine; an' hearin' theboys was makin' big money up in that crank community, an' that the townwas boomin', I was plum fool enough to drop my job here an' be aart-worker up to Rose-Cross--that's where the shops was; 'bout threemile back of his house into the woods. "

The agent removed his hands from his overalls and folded his armsgrimly. 

"Well?" inquired Briggs, looking up from his perch on the suit-case. 

"Well, sir, " continued the agent, "the hull thing bust. I guess thepublic kinder sickened o' them art-rockers an' dinky books without muchprintin' into them. Guilford he stuck to it noble, but the shops closedone by one. My wages wasn't paid for three months; the boys thatremained got together that autumn an' fixed it up to quit in a bunch. 

"The poet was sad; he come out to the shops an' he says, 'Boys, ' sez he, 'art is long an' life is dam brief. I ain't got the cash, but, ' sez he, 'you can levy onto them art-rockers an' the dinky vellum books in stock, an', ' sez he, 'you can take the hand-presses an' the tools an' bales o'vellum, which is very precious, an' all the wagons an' hosses, an' gosell 'em in that proud world that refuses to receive my message. Thewoodland fellowship is rent, ' sez he, wavin' his plump fingers at uswith the rings sparklin' on 'em. 

"Then the boys looked glum, an' they nudged me an' kinder shoved mefront. So, bein' elected, I sez, 'Friend, ' sez I, 'art is on the bum. Itain't your fault; the boys is sad an' sorrerful, but they ain't neverknocked you to nobody, Mr. Guilford. You was good to us; you done yourdamdest. You made up pieces for the magazines an' papers an' youadvertised how we was all cranks together here at Rose-Cross, a-lovin'Nature an' dicky-birds, an' wanderin' about half nood for art's sake. 

"'Mr. Guilford, ' sez I, 'that gilt brick went. But it has went as far asit can travel an' is now reposin' into the soup. Git wise or eat hay, sir. Art is on the blink. '"

The agent jingled his keys with a melancholy wink at Briggs. 

"So I come back here, an' thankful to hold down this job. An' five mileup the pike is that there noble poet an' his kids a-makin' up pieces forto sell to the papers, an' a sorrerin' over the cold world what refusesto buy his poems--an' a mortgage onto his house an' a threat toforeclose. "

"Indeed, " said Briggs dreamily, for it was his business to attend to theforeclosure of the mortgage on the poet's house. 

"Was you fixin' to go up an' see the place?" inquired the agent. 

"Shall I be obliged to walk?"

"I guess you will if you can't flutter, " replied the agent. "I ain't gotno wagon an' no horse. "

"How far is it?"

"Five mile, sir. "

With a groan Mr. Briggs arose, lifted his suit-case, and, walking to theplatform's edge, cast an agitated glance up the dusty road. 

Then he turned around and examined the single building insight--station, water-tower, post-office and telegraph-office all inone, and incidentally the abode of the station-agent, whose dutiesincluded that of postmaster and operator. 

"I'll write a letter first, " said Briggs. And this is what he wrote:

 ROSE-CROSS P. O. , _June 25, 1904_. 

 DEAR WAYNE: Do you remember that tract of land, adjoining your preserve, which you attempted to buy four years ago? It was held by a crank community, and they refused to sell, and made trouble for your patrols by dumping dye-stuffs and sawdust into the Ashton Creek. 

 Well, the community has broken up, the shops are in ruins, and there is nobody there now except that bankrupt poet, Guilford. I bought the mortgage for you, foreseeing a slump in that sort of art, and I expect to begin foreclosure proceedings and buy in the tract, which, as you will recollect, includes some fine game cover and the Ashton stream, where you wanted to establish a hatchery. This is a God-forsaken spot. I'm on my way to the poet's now. Shall I begin foreclosure proceedings and fire him? Wire me what to do. 

 Yours, BRIGGS. 

Wayne received this letter two days later. Preoccupied as he was infitting out his yacht for commission, he wired briefly, "Fire poet, " anddismissed the matter from his mind. 

The next day, grappling with the problem of Japanese stewards and thedecadence of all sailormen, he received a telegram from Briggs:

"Can't you manage to come up here?"

Irritated, he telegraphed back:

"Impossible. Why don't you arrange to fire poet?" And Briggs replied:"Can't fire poet. There are extenuating circumstances. "

"Did you say exterminating or extenuating?" wired Wayne. "I saidextenuating, " replied Briggs. 

Then the following telegrams were exchanged in order:

 (1)

 What are the extenuating circumstances?

 WAYNE. 

 (2)

 Eight innocent children. Come up at once. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (3)

 Boat in commission. Can't go. Why don't you fix things?

 WAYNE. 

 (4)

 How?

 BRIGGS. 

 (5)

 (Dated NEW LONDON. )

 What on earth is the matter with you? Are you going to fix things and join me at Bar Harbor or are you not?

 WAYNE. 

 (6)

 As I don't know how you want me to fix things, I can not join you. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (7)

 (Dated PORTLAND, MAINE. )

 Stuyvesant Briggs, what the devil is the matter with you? It's absolutely necessary that I have the Ashton stream for a hatchery, and you know it. What sort of a business man are you, anyhow? Of course I don't propose to treat that poet inhumanly. Arrange to bid in the tract, run up the price against your own bidding, and let the poet have a few thousand if he is hard put. Don't worry me any more; I'm busy with a fool crew, and you are spoiling my cruise by not joining me. 

 WAYNE. 

 (8)

 He won't do it. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (9)

 _Who_ won't do _what_?

 WAYNE. 

 (10)

 Poet refuses to discuss the matter. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (11)

 Fire that poet. You've spoiled my cruise with your telegrams. 

 WAYNE. 

 (12)

 (_Marked "Collect. "_)

 Look here, George Wayne, don't drive me to desperation. You ought to come up and face the situation yourself. I can't fire a poet with eight helpless children, can I? And while I'm about it, let me inform you that every time you telegraph me it costs me five dollars for a carrier to bring the despatch over from the station; and every time I telegraph you I am obliged to walk five miles to send it and five miles back again. I'm mad all through, and my shoes are worn out, and I'm tired. Besides, I'm too busy to telegraph. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (13)

 Do you expect me to stop my cruise and travel up to that hole on account of eight extenuating kids?

 WAYNE. 

 (14)

 I do. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (15)

 Are you mad?

 WAYNE. 

 (16)

 Thoroughly. And extremely busy. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (17)

 For the last time, Stuyve Briggs, are you going to bounce one defaulting poet and progeny, arrange to have survey and warnings posted, order timber and troughs for hatchery, engage extra patrol--or are you not?

 WAYNE. 

 (18)

 No. 

 BRIGGS. 

 (19)

 (_Received a day later by Mr. Wayne. _)

 Are you coming?

 BRIGGS. 

 (20)

 I'm coming to punch your head. 

 WAYNE. 

II

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When George Wayne arrived at Rose-Cross station, seaburnt, angry, and inexcellent athletic condition, Briggs locked himself in the waiting-roomand attempted to calm the newcomer from the window. 

"If you're going to pitch into me, George, " he said, "I'm hanged if Icome out, and you can go to Guilford's alone. "

"Come out of there, " said Wayne dangerously. 

"It isn't because I'm afraid of you, " explained Briggs, "but it's merelythat I don't choose to present either you or myself to a lot of prettygirls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses. "

At the words "pretty girls" Wayne's battle-set features relaxed. Hemotioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the emptyplatform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the trainmoved slowly forward. 

"Pretty girls?" he repeated in a softer voice. "Where are they staying?Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous. Where are they staying?"

"At Guilford's. I told you so in my telegrams, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helplesschildren. "

"Well, those girls are the eight children, " retorted Briggs sullenly, emerging from the station. 

"Do you mean to tell me----"

"Yes, I do. They're his children, aren't they--even if they are girls, and pretty. " He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook ituncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. "Eight pretty girls, "he repeated under his breath. "What did you do, Stuyve?"

"What was I to do?" inquired Briggs, nervously worrying his short blondmustache. "When I arrived here I had made up my mind to fire the poetand arrange for the hatchery and patrol. The farther I walked throughthe dust of this accursed road, lugging my suit-case as you are doingnow, the surer I was that I'd get rid of the poet without mercy. But----"

"Well?" inquired Wayne, astonished. 

"But when I'd trudged some five miles up the stifling road I suddenlyemerged into a wonderful mountain meadow. I tell you, George, it lookedfresh and sweet as Heaven after that dusty, parching tramp--a mountainmeadow deep with mint and juicy green grasses, and all cut up by littlerushing streams as cold as ice. There were a lot of girls in pinksunbonnets picking wild strawberries in the middle distance, " he addedthoughtfully. "It was picturesque, wasn't it? Come, now, George, wouldn't that give you pause?--eight girls in pink pajamas----"

"What!!!"

"And sunbonnets--a sort of dress reform of the poet's. "

"Well?" inquired Wayne coldly. 

"And there was the 'house beautiful, ' mercifully screened by woods, "continued Briggs. "He calls it the house beautiful, you know. "

"Why not the beautiful house?" asked Wayne, still more coldly. 

"Oh, he gets everything upside down. Guilford is harmless, you'll see. "He began to whistle Fatinitza softly. There was a silence; then Waynesaid:

"You interrupted your narrative. "

"Where was I?"

"In the foreground with eight pink pajamas in the middle distance. "

"Oh, yes. So there I was, travel-worn, thirsty, weary, uncertain----"

"Cut it, " observed Wayne. 

"And a stranger, " continued Briggs with dignity, "in a strangecountry----"

"Peculiarity of strangers. "

Briggs took no notice. "I drank from the cool springs; I lingered topluck a delicious berry or two, I bathed my hot face,  I----"

"Where, " demanded Wayne, "were the eight pink 'uns?"

"Still in the middle distance. Don't interrupt me, George; I'm slowlydrawing closer to them. "

"Well, get a move on, " retorted Wayne sulkily. 

"I'm quite close to them now, " explained Briggs; "close enough to removemy hat and smile and inquire the way to Guilford's. One superb youngcreature, with creamy skin and very red lips----"

Wayne halted and set down his suit-case. 

"I'm not romancing; you'll see, " said Briggs earnestly. "As I wassaying, this young goddess looked at me in the sweetest way and saidthat Guilford was her father. And, Wayne, do you know what she did?She--er--came straight up to me and took hold of my hand, and led me upthe path toward the high-art house, which is built of cobblestones!Think! Built of cobble----"

"Took you by the hand?" repeated Wayne incredulously. 

"Oh, it was all right, George! I found out all about that sort ofinnocent thing later. "

"Did you?"

"Certainly. These girls have been brought up like so many guilelessspeckled fawns out here in the backwoods. You know all about Guilford, the poet who's dead stuck on Nature and simplicity. Well, that's the manand that's his pose. He hasn't any money, and he won't work. Hisdaughters raise vegetables, and he makes 'em wear bloomers, and hewrites about chippy-birds and the house beautiful, and tells people tobe natural, and wishes that everybody could go around without clothesand pick daisies----"

"Do _they_?" demanded Wayne in an awful voice. "You _said_ they worebloomers. Did you say that to break the news more gently? Did you!"

"Of course they are clothed, " explained his friend querulously; "thoughsometimes they wade about without shoes and stockings and do the nymphbusiness. And, George, it's astonishing how modest that sort of dressis. And it's amazing how much they know. Why, they can talkGreek--_talk_ it, mind you. Every one of them can speak half a dozenlanguages--Guilford is a corker on culture, you know--and they can playharps and pianos and things, and give me thirty at tennis, evenChlorippe, the twelve-year-old----"

"Is that her name?" asked Wayne. 

"Chlorippe? Yes. That bat-headed poet named all his children afterbutterflies. Let's see, " he continued, telling off the names on hisfingers; "there's Chlorippe, twelve; Philodice, thirteen; Dione, fourteen; Aphrodite, fifteen; Cybele, sixteen; Lissa, seventeen; Iole, eighteen, and Vanessa, nineteen. And, Wayne, never have the Elysianfields contained such a bunch of wholesome beauty as that mountainmeadow contains all day long. "

Wayne, trudging along, suit-case firmly gripped, turned a pair ofsuspicious eyes upon his friend. 

"Of course, " observed Briggs candidly, "I simply couldn't foreclose onthe father of such children, could I? Besides, he won't let me discussthe subject. "

"I'll investigate the matter personally, " said Wayne. 

"Nowhere to lay their heads! Think of it, George. And all because aturtle-fed, claret-flushed, idle and rich young man wants their earthlyParadise for a fish-hatchery. Think of it! A pampered, turtle-fed----"

"You've said that before, " snapped Wayne. "If you were half decent you'dhelp me with this suit-case. Whew! It's hot as Yonkers on thiscattle-trail you call a road. How near are we to Guilford's?"

An hour later Briggs said: "By the way, George, what are you going to doabout the matter?"

Wayne, flushed, dusty, perspiring, scowled at him. 

"What matter?"

"The foreclosure. "

"I don't know; how can I know until I see Guilford?"

"But you need the hatchery----"

"I know it. "

"But he won't let you discuss it----"

"If, " said Wayne angrily, "you had spent half the time talking businesswith the poet that you spent picking strawberries with his helplesschildren I should not now be lugging this suit-case up this mountain. Decency requires few observations from _you_ just now. "

"Pooh!" said Briggs. "Wait till you see Iole. "

"Why Iole? Why not Vanessa?"

"Don't--that's all, " retorted Briggs, reddening. 

Wayne plumped his valise down in the dust, mopped his brow, folded hisarms, and regarded Briggs between the eyes. 

"You have the infernal cheek, after getting me up here, to intimate thatyou have taken the pick?"

"I do, " replied Briggs firmly. The two young fellows faced each other. 

"By the way, " observed Briggs casually, "the stock they come from is asgood if not better than ours. This is a straight game. "

"Do you mean to say that you--you are--seriously----"

"Something like it. There! Now you know. "

"For Heaven's sake, Stuyve----"

"Yes, for Heaven's sake and in Heaven's name don't get any wrong ideasinto your vicious head. "

"What?"

"I tell you, " said Briggs, "that I was never closer to falling in lovethan I am to-day. And I've been here just two weeks. "

"Oh, Lord----"

"Amen, " muttered Briggs. "Here, give me your carpet-bag, you brute. We're on the edge of Paradise. "

III

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"Before we discuss my financial difficulties, " said the poet, liftinghis plump white hand and waving it in unctuous waves about the veranda, "let me show you our home, Mr. Wayne. May I?"

"Certainly, " said Wayne politely, following Guilford into the house. 

They entered a hall; there was absolutely nothing in the hall except asmall table on which reposed a single daisy in a glass of water. 

"Simplicity, " breathed Guilford--"a single blossom against a backgroundof nothing at all. You follow me, Mr. Wayne?"

"Not--exactly----"

The poet smiled a large, tender smile, and, with inverted thumb, executed a gesture as though making several spots in the air. 

"The concentration of composition, " he explained; "the elimination ofcomplexity; the isolation of the concrete in the center of the abstract;something in the midst of nothing. It is a very precious thought, Mr. Wayne. "

"Certainly, " muttered Wayne; and they moved on. 

"This, " said the poet, "is what I call my den. "

Wayne, not knowing what to say, sidled around the walls. It was almostbare of furniture; what there was appeared to be of the slab variety. 

"I call my house the house beautiful, " murmured Guilford with his large, sweet smile. "Beauty is simplicity; beauty is unconsciousness; beauty isthe child of elimination. A single fly in an empty room is beautiful tome, Mr. Wayne. "

"They carry germs, " muttered Wayne, but the poet did not hear him andled the way to another enormous room, bare of everything save for eightthick and very beautiful Kazak rugs on the polished floor. 

 [Illustration: "Simplicity, " breathed Guilford--"a single blossom against a background of nothing at all. "]

"My children's bedroom, " he whispered solemnly. 

"You don't mean to say they sleep on those Oriental rugs!" stammeredWayne. 

"They do, " murmured the poet. The tender sweetness of his ample smilewas overpowering--like too much bay rum after shaving. "Sparta, Mr. Wayne, Sparta! And the result? My babes are perfect, physically, spiritually. Elimination wrought the miracle; yonder they sleep, innocent as the Graces, with all the windows open, clothed in moonlightor starlight, as the astronomical conditions may be. At the break ofdawn they are afield, simply clothed, free limbed, unhampered by thetawdry harness of degenerate civilization. And as they wander throughthe verdure, " he added with rapt enthusiasm, "plucking shy blossoms, gathering simples and herbs and vegetables for our bountiful and naturalrepast, they sing as they go, and every tremulous thrill of melody fallslike balm on a father's heart. " The overpowering sweetness of his smiledrugged Wayne. Presently he edged toward the door, and the poetfollowed, a dreamy radiance on his features as though emanating fromsacred inward meditation. 

They sat down on the veranda; Wayne fumbled for his cigar-case, but hisunnerved fingers fell away; he dared not smoke. 

"About--about that business matter, " he ventured feebly; but the poetraised his plump white hand. 

"You are my guest, " he said graciously. "While you are my guest nothingshall intrude to cloud our happiness. "

Perplexed, almost muddled, Wayne strove in vain to find a reason for theelimination of the matter that had interrupted his cruise and broughthim to Rose-Cross, the maddest yachtsman on the Atlantic. Why shouldGuilford forbid the topic as though its discussion were painful toWayne?

"He always gets the wrong end foremost, as Briggs said, " thought theyoung man. "I wonder where the deuce Briggs can be? I'm no match forthis bunch. "

His thoughts halted; he became aware that the poet was speaking in arich, resonant voice, and he listened in an attitude of painfulpoliteness. 

"It's the little things that are most precious, " the poet was saying, and pinched the air with forefinger and thumb and pursed up his lips asthough to whistle some saccharine air. 

"The little things, " he continued, delicately perforating the atmosphereas though selecting a diatom. 

"Big things go, too, " ventured Wayne. 

"No, " said the poet; "no--or rather they _do_ go, in a certain sense, for every little thing is precious, and therefore little things arebig!---big with portent, big in value. Do you follow me, Mr. Wayne?"

Wayne's fascinated eyes were fixed on the poet. The latter picked outanother atom from the atmosphere and held it up for Mr. Wayne'sinspection; and while that young man's eyes protruded the poet rambledon and on until the melody of his voice became a ceaseless sound, avague, sustained monotone, which seemed to bore into Wayne's brain untilhis legs twitched with a furious desire for flight. 

When he obtained command of himself the poet was saying, "It is my hourfor withdrawal. It were insincere and artificial to ask yourindulgence----"

He rose to his rotund height. 

"You are due to sit in your cage, " stammered Wayne, comprehending. 

"My den, " corrected the poet, saturating the air with the sweetness ofhis smile. 

Wayne arose. "About that business--" he began desperately; but thepoet's soft, heavy hand hovered in mid-air, and Wayne sat down sosuddenly that when his eyes recovered their focus the poet haddisappeared. 

A benumbed resentment struggled within him for adequate expression;he hitched his chair about to command a view of the meadow, then satmotionless, hypnotized by the view. Eight girls, clad in pink blousesand trousers, golden hair twisted up, decorated the landscape. Some werekneeling, filling baskets of woven, scented grasses with wildstrawberries; some were wading the branches of the meadow brook, searching for trout with grass-woven nets; some picked early peas; twowere playing a lightning set at tennis. And in the center of everythingthat was going on was Briggs, perfectly at ease, making himselfagreeably at home. 

The spectacle of Briggs among the Hamadryads appeared to paralyze Wayne. 

Then an immense, intense resentment set every nerve in him tingling. Briggs, his friend, his confidential business adviser, his indispensable_alter ego_, had abandoned him to be tormented by this fat, saccharinepoet--abandoned him while he, Briggs, made himself popular with eight ofthe most amazingly bewitching maidens mortal man might marvel on! Themeanness stung Wayne till he jumped to his feet and strode out into thesunshine, menacing eyes fastened on Briggs. 

"Now wouldn't that sting you!" he breathed fiercely, turning up histrousers and stepping gingerly across the brook. 

Whether or not Briggs saw him coming and kept sidling away he could notdetermine; he did not wish to shout; he kept passing pretty girls andtaking off his hat, and following Briggs about, but he never seemed tocome any nearer to Briggs; Briggs always appeared in the middledistance, flitting genially from girl to girl; and presently theabsurdity of his performance struck Wayne, and he sat down on the bankof the brook, too mad to think. There was a pretty girl pickingstrawberries near-by; he rose, took off his hat to her, and sat downagain. She was one of those graceful, clean-limbed, creamy-skinnedcreatures described by Briggs; her hair was twisted up into a heavy, glistening knot, showing the back of a white neck; her eyes matched thesky and her lips the berries she occasionally bit into or dropped to thebottom of her woven basket. 

Once or twice she looked up fearlessly at Wayne as her search forberries brought her nearer; and Wayne forgot the perfidy of Briggs inan effort to look politely amiable. 

Presently she straightened up where she was kneeling in the long grassand stretched her arms. Then, still kneeling, she gazed curiously atWayne with all the charm of a friendly wild thing unafraid. 

"Shall we play tennis?" she asked. 

"Certainly, " said Wayne, startled. 

"Come, then, " she said, picking up her basket in one hand and extendingthe other to Wayne. 

He took the fresh, cool fingers, and turned scarlet. Once his glancesneaked toward Briggs, but that young man was absorbed in fishing forbrook trout with a net! Oh, ye little fishes! with a _net_!

Wayne's brain seemed to be swarming with glittering pink-winged thoughtsall singing. He walked on air, holding tightly to the hand of hisgoddess, seeing nothing but a blur of green and sunshine. Then aclean-cut idea stabbed him like a stiletto: was this Vanessa or Iole?And, to his own astonishment, he asked her quite naturally. 

"Iole, " she said, laughing. "Why?"

"Thank goodness, " he said irrationally. 

"But why?" she persisted curiously. 

"Briggs--Briggs--" he stammered, and got no further. Perplexed, hisgoddess walked on, thoughtful, pure-lidded eyes searching somereasonable interpretation for the phrase, "Briggs--Briggs. " But as Waynegave her no aid, she presently dismissed the problem, and bade himselect a tennis bat. 

"I do hope you play well, " she said. Her hope was comparatively vain;she batted Wayne around the court, drove him wildly from corner tocorner, stampeded him with volleys, lured him with lobs, and finallyleft him reeling dizzily about, while she came around from behind thenet, saying, "It's all because you have no tennis shoes. Come; we'llrest under the trees and console ourselves with chess. "

Under a group of huge silver beeches a stone chess-table was setembedded in the moss; and Iole indolently stretched herself out on oneside, chin on hands, while Wayne sorted weather-beaten basalt and marblechess-men which lay in a pile under the tree. 

She chatted on without the faintest trace of self-consciousness thewhile he arranged the pieces; then she began to move. He took a longtime between each move; but no sooner did he move than, still talking, she extended her hand and shoved her piece into place without a fractionof a second's hesitation. 

When she had mated him twice, and he was still gazing blankly at themess into which she had driven his forces, she sat up sideways, gathering her slim ankles into one hand, and cast about her forsomething to do, eyes wandering over the sunny meadow. 

"We had horses, " she mused; "we rode like demons, bareback, untiltrouble came. "

"Trouble?"

"Oh, not trouble--poverty. So our horses had to go. What shall wedo--you and I?" There was something so subtly sweet, so exquisitelyinnocent in the coupling of the pronouns that a thrill passed completelythrough Wayne, and probably came out on the other side. 

"I know what I'm going to do, " he said, drawing a note-book and a pencilfrom his pocket and beginning to write, holding it so she could see. 

"Do you want me to look over your shoulder?" she asked. 

"Please. "

She did; and it affected his penmanship so that the writing grew wabbly. Still she could read:

 (_Telegram_)

 TO SAILING MASTER, YACHT THENDARA, BAR HARBOR:

 Put boat out of commission. I may be away all summer. 

 WAYNE. 

"How far is it to the station?" asked Wayne, turning to look into hereyes. 

"Only five miles, " she said. "I'll walk with you if you like. Shall I?"

IV

 [Illustration]

"Wealth, " observed the poet, waving his heavy white hand, "is a figureof speech, Mr. Wayne. Only by the process of elimination can one arriveat the exquisite simplicity of poverty--care-free poverty. Even a singlepenny is a burden--the flaw in the marble, the fly in the amber ofperfection. Cast it away and enter Eden!" And joining thumb andforefinger, he plucked a figurative copper from the atmosphere, tossedit away, and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. 

"But--" began Wayne uneasily. 

"Try it, " smiled the poet, diffusing sweetness; "try it. Dismiss allthoughts of money from your mind. "

"I do, " said Wayne, somewhat relieved. "I thought you meant for me tochuck my securities overboard and eat herbs. "

"Not in your case--no, not in your case. _I_ can do that; I have doneit. No, your sacred mission is simply to forget that you are wealthy. That is a very precious thought, Mr. Wayne--remain a Croesus and forgetit! Not to eliminate your _wealth_, but eliminate all _thought_ of it. Very, very precious. "

"Well, I never think about things like that except at a directors'meeting, " blurted out the young fellow. "Perhaps it's because I've neverhad to think about it. "

The poet sighed so sweetly that the atmosphere seemed to drip with thesaccharine injection. 

"I wish, " ventured Wayne, "that you would let me mention the subject ofbusiness"--the poet shook his head indulgently--"just to say that I'mnot going to foreclose. " He laid a packet of legal papers in the poet'shand. 

"Hush, " smiled Guilford, "this is not seemly in the house beautiful. .. . _What_ was it you said, Mr. Wayne?"

"I? I was going to say that I just wanted--wanted to stay here--be yourguest, if you'll let me, " he said honestly. "I was cruising--I didn'tunderstand--Briggs--Briggs--" He stuck. 

"Yes, Briggs, " softly suggested the poet, spraying the night air withmore sweetness. 

"Briggs has spoken to you about--about your daughter Vanessa. You see, Briggs is my closest friend; his happiness is--er--important to me. I want to see Briggs happy; that's why I want to stay here, just to seeBriggs happy. I--I love Briggs. You understand me, don't you, Mr. Guilford?"

The poet breathed a dulcet breath. "Perfectly, " he murmured. "Thecontemplation of Mr. Briggs' happiness eliminates all thoughts of selfwithin you. By this process of elimination you arrive at happinessyourself. Ah, the thought is a very precious one, my young friend, forby elimination only can we arrive at perfection. Thank you for thethought; thank you. You have given me a very, very precious thought tocherish. "

"I--I have been here a week, " muttered Wayne. "I thought--perhaps--mywelcome might be outworn----"

"In the house beautiful, " murmured the poet, rising and waving his heavywhite hand at the open door, "welcome is eternal. " He folded his armswith difficulty, for he was stout, and one hand clutched the legalpapers; his head sank. In profound meditation he wandered away into theshadowy house, leaving Wayne sitting on the veranda rail, eyes fixed ona white shape dimly seen moving through the moonlit meadows below. Briggs sauntered into sight presently, his arms full of flowers. 

"Get me a jug of water, will you? Vanessa has been picking these and shesent me back to fix 'em. Hurry, man! She is waiting for me in thegarden. " Wayne gazed earnestly at his friend. 

"So you have done it, have you, Stuyve?"

"Done what?" demanded Briggs, blushing. 

"It. "

"If you mean, " he said with dignity, "that I've asked the sweetest girlon earth to marry me, I have. And I'm the happiest man on the footstool, too. Good Heaven, George, " he broke out, "if you knew the meaning oflove! if you could for one second catch a glimpse of the beauty of hersoul! Why, man of sordid clay that I was--creature of club and claretand turtle--like you----"

"Drop it!" said Wayne somberly. 

"I can't help it, George. We were beasts--and _you_ are yet. But my baseclay is transmuted, spiritualized; my soul is awake, traveling, toilingtoward the upward heights where hers sits enthroned. When I think ofwhat I was, and what you still are----"

Wayne rose exasperated:

"Do you think your soul is doing the only upward hustling?" he saidhotly. 

Briggs, clasping his flowers to his breast, gazed out over them atWayne. 

"You don't mean----"

"Yes, I do, " said Wayne. "I may be crazy, but I know something, " withwhich paradox he turned on his heel and walked into the moonlit meadowtoward that dim, white form moving through the dusk. 

"I wondered, " she said, "whether you were coming, " as he stepped throughthe long, fragrant grass to her side. 

"You might have wondered if I had not come, " he answered. 

"Yes, that is true. This moonlight is too wonderful to miss, " she addedwithout a trace of self-consciousness. 

"It was for you I came. "

"Couldn't you find my sisters?" she asked innocently. 

He did not reply. Presently she stumbled over a hummock, recovered herpoise without comment, and slipped her hand into his with unconsciousconfidence. 

"Do you know what I have been studying to-day?" she asked. 

"What?"

"That curious phycomycetous fungus that produces resting-spores by theconjugation of two similar club-shaped hyphæ, and in which conidia alsooccur. It's fascinating. "

After a silence he said:

"What would you think of me if I told you that I do not comprehend asingle word of what you have just told me?"

"Don't you?" she asked, astonished. 

"No, " he replied, dropping her hand. She wondered, vaguely distressed;and he went on presently: "As a plain matter of fact, I don't know much. It's an astonishing discovery for me, but it's a fact that I am not yourmental, physical, or spiritual equal. In sheer, brute strength perhaps Iam, and I am none too certain of that, either. But, and I say it to myshame, I can not follow you; I am inferior in education, in culture, infine instinct, in mental development. You chatter in a dozen languagesto your sisters: my French appals a Paris cabman; you play anyinstrument I ever heard of: the guitar is my limit, the fandango myrepertoire. As for alert intelligence, artistic comprehension, abilityto appreciate, I can not make the running with you; I amoutclassed--hopelessly. Now, if this is all true--and I have spoken thewretched truth--_what_ can a man like me have to say for himself?"

Her head was bent, her fair face was in shadow. She strayed on a littleway, then, finding herself alone, turned and looked back at him where hestood. For a moment they remained motionless, looking at one another, then, as on some sweet impulse, she came back hastily and looked intohis eyes. 

"I do not feel as you do, " she said; "you are very--good--company. I amnot all you say; I know very little. Listen. It--it distresses me tohave you think I hold you--lightly. Truly we are _not_ apart. "

"There is but one thing that can join us. "

"What is that?"

"Love. "

Her pure gaze did not falter nor her eyes droop. Curiously regardinghim, she seemed immersed in the solution of the problem as he hadsolved it. 

"Do you love me?" she asked. 

"With all my soul--such as it is, with all my heart, with every thought, every instinct, every breath I draw. "

She considered him with fearless eyes; the beauty of them was all hecould endure. 

"You love me?" she repeated. 

He bent his head, incapable of speech. 

"You wish me to love you?"

He looked at her, utterly unable to move his lips. 

"_How_ do you wish me to love you?"

He opened his arms; she stepped forward, close to him. 

Then their lips met. 

"Oh, " she said faintly, "I did not know it--it was so sweet. "

And as her head fell back on his arm about her neck she looked up at himfull of wonder at this new knowledge he had taught her, marvelous, unsuspected, divine in its simplicity. Then the first delicate blushthat ever mounted her face spread, tinting throat and forehead; she drewhis face down to her own. 

The poet paced the dim veranda, arms folded, head bent. But his glancewas sideways and full of intelligence as it included two vague figurescoming slowly back through the moon-drenched meadow. 

"By elimination we arrive at perfection, " he mused; "and perfection issuccess. There remain six more, " he added irrelevantly, "but they'reyoung yet. Patience, subtle patience--and attention to the littlethings. " He pinched a morsel of air out of the darkness, examined it andreleased it. 

"The little things, " he repeated; "that is a very precious thought. .. . I believe the sea air may agree with me--now and then. "

And he wandered off into his "den" and unlocked a drawer in his desk, and took out a bundle of legal papers, and tore them slowly, carefully, into very small pieces. 

V

 [Illustration]

The double wedding at the Church of Sainte Cicindella was pretty andsufficiently fashionable to inconvenience traffic on Fifth Avenue. Partly from loyalty, partly from curiosity, the clans of Wayne andBriggs, with their offshoots and social adherents, attended; and theysaw Briggs and Wayne on their best behavior, attended by Sudbury Greyand Winsted Forest; and they saw two bridal visions of loveliness, attended by six additional sister visions as bridesmaids; and they sawthe poet, agitated with the holy emotions of a father, now almostunmanned, now rallying, spraying the hushed air with sweetness. They sawclergymen and a bishop, and the splendor of stained glass through whichushers tiptoed. And they heard the subdued rustling of skirts and thesilken stir, and the great organ breathing over Eden, and a singleartistically-modulated sob from the poet. A good many other things theyheard and saw, especially those of the two clans who were bidden to thebreakfast at Wayne's big and splendid house on the southwest corner ofSeventy-ninth Street and Madison Avenue. 

For here they were piped to breakfast by the boatswain of Wayne's bigseagoing yacht, the _Thendara_--on which brides and grooms werepresently to embark for Cairo via the Azores--and speeches were said andtears shed into goblets glimmering with vintages worth prayerfulconsideration. 

And in due time two broughams, drawn by dancing horses, with the azureribbons aflutter from the head-stalls, bore away two very beautiful andexcited brides and two determined, but entirely rattled, grooms. Andafter that several relays of parents fraternized with the poet and sixdaughters, and the clans of Briggs and of Wayne said a number ofagreeable things to anybody who cared to listen; and as everybody didlisten, there was a great deal of talk--more talk in a minute than thesisters of Iole had heard in all their several limited and innocentlynatural existences. So it confused them, not with its quality, but itsprofusion; and the champagne made their cheeks feel as though the softpeachy skin fitted too tight, and a number of persistent musicalinstruments were being tuned in their little ears; and, not yetthoroughly habituated to any garments except pink sunbonnets andpajamas, their straight fronts felt too tight, and the tops of theirstockings pulled, and they balanced badly on their high heels, andAphrodite and Cybele, being too snugly laced, retired to rid themselvesof their first corsets. 

The remaining four, Lissa, now eighteen; Dione, fifteen; Philodice, fourteen, and Chlorippe, thirteen, found the missing Pleiads in thegreat library, joyously donning their rose-silk lounging pajamas, whiletwo parlor maids brought ices from the wrecked feast below. 

So they, too, flung from them crinkling silk and diaphanous lace, high-heel shoon and the delicate body-harness never fashioned forfree-limbed dryads of the Rose-Cross wilds; and they kept the electricsignals going for ices and fruits and pitchers brimming with clear coldwater; and they sat there in a circle like a thicket of flutteringpale-pink roses, until below the last guest had sped out into theunknown wastes of Gotham, and the poet's heavy step was on the stair. 

The poet was agitated--and like a humble bicolored quadruped of theRose-Cross wilds, which, when agitated, sprays the air--so the poet, laboring obesely under his emotion, smiled with a sweetness sointolerable that the air seemed to be squirted full of saccharinity tothe point of plethoric saturation. 

"My lambs, " he murmured, fat hands clasped and dropped before him asstraight as his rounded abdomen would permit; "my babes!"

"Do you think, " suggested Aphrodite, busy with her ice, "that we aregoing to enjoy this winter in Mr. Wayne's house?"

"Enjoyment, " breathed the poet in an overwhelming gush of sweetness, "isnot in houses; it is in one's soul. What is wealth? Everything!Therefore it is of no value. What is poverty? Nothing! And, as it is thelittle things that are the most precious, so nothing, which is less thanthe very least, is precious beyond price. Thank you for listening; thankyou for understanding. Bless you. "

And he wandered away, almost asphyxiated with his emotions. 

"I mean to have a gay winter--if I can ever get used to being laced inand pulled over by those dreadful garters, " observed Aphrodite, stretching her smooth young limbs in comfort. 

"I suppose there would be trouble if we wore our country clothes onBroadway, wouldn't there?" asked Lissa wistfully. 

Chlorippe, aged thirteen, kicked off her sandals and stretched herpretty snowy feet: "They were never in the world made to fit intohigh-heeled shoes, " she declared pensively, widening her little rosytoes. 

"But we might as well get used to all these things, " sighed Philodice, rolling over among the cushions, a bunch of hothouse grapes suspendedabove her pink mouth. She ate one, looked at Dione, and yawned. 

"I'm going to practise wearing 'em an hour a day, " said Aphrodite, "because I mean to go to the theater. It's worth the effort. Besides, ifwe just sit here in the house all day asking each other Greek riddles, we will never see anybody until Iole and Vanessa come back from theirhoneymoon and give teas and dinners for all sorts of interesting youngmen. "

"Oh, the attractive young men I have seen in these few days in NewYork!" exclaimed Lissa. "Would you believe it, the first day I walkedout with George Wayne and Iole, I was perfectly bewildered and enchantedto see so many delightful-looking men. And by and by Iole missed me, andGeorge came back and found me standing entranced on the corner of FifthAvenue; and I said, "Please don't disturb me, George, because I am onlystanding here to enjoy the sight of so many agreeable-looking men. " Buthe acted so queerly about it. " She ended with a little sigh. "However, I love George, of course, even if he does bore me. I wonder where theyare now--the bridal pairs?"

"I wonder, " mused Philodice, "whether they have any children by thistime?"

"Not yet, " explained Aphrodite. "But they'll probably have some whenthey return. I understand it takes a good many weeks--to----"

"To find new children, " nodded Chlorippe confidently. "I suppose they'vehidden the cunning little things somewhere on the yacht, and it's likehunt the thimble and lots and lots of fun. " And she distributed sixoranges. 

Lissa was not so certain of that, but, discussing the idea with Cybele, and arriving at no conclusion, devoted herself to the large juicy orangewith more satisfaction, conscious that the winter's outlook was brightfor them all and full of the charming mystery of anticipations soglittering yet so general that she could form not even the haziest ideasof their wonderful promise. And so, sucking the sunlit pulp of theiroranges, they were content to live, dream, and await fulfilment underthe full favor of a Heaven which had never yet sent them aught buthappiness beneath the sun. 

 [Illustration]

VI

 [Illustration]

Neither Lethbridge nor Harrow--lately exceedingly importantundergraduates at Harvard and now twin nobodies in the employment of thegreat Occidental Fidelity and Trust Company--neither of these young men, I say, had any particular business at the New Arts Theater thatafternoon. 

For the play was Barnard Haw's _Attitudes_, the performance was privateand intensely intellectual, the admission by invitation only, andbetween the acts there was supposed to be a general _causerie_ among thegifted individuals of the audience. 

Why Stanley West, president of the Occidental Trust, should havepresented to his two young kinsmen the tickets inscribed with his ownname was a problem, unless everybody else, including the elevator boys, had politely declined the offer. 

"That's probably the case, " observed Lethbridge. "Do we go?"

"Art, " said Harrow, "will be on the loose among that audience. And ifanybody can speak to anybody there, we'll get spoken to just as if wewere sitting for company, and first we know somebody will ask us whatArt really is. "

"I'd like to see a place full of atmosphere, " suggested Lethbridge. "I've seen almost everything--the Café Jaune, and Chinatown, and--youremember that joint at Tangier? But I've never seen atmosphere. I don'tcare how thin it is; I just want to say that I've seen it when the nextgirl throws it all over me. " And as Harrow remained timid, he added: "Wewon't have to climb across the footlights and steal a curl from theauthor, because he's already being sheared in England. There's nothingto scare you. "

Normally, however, they were intensely afraid of Art except at theirbarbers', and they had heard, in various ways as vague as Broad Streetrumors, something concerning these gatherings of the elect at the NewArts Theater on Saturday afternoons, where unselfish reformers producedplays for Art's sake as a rebuke to managers who declined to producethat sort of play for anybody's sake. 

"I'll bet, " said Harrow, "that some thrifty genius sent Stanley Westthose tickets in a desperate endeavor to amalgamate the aristocracies ofwealth and intellect!--as though you could shake 'em up as you shake acocktail! As though you'd catch your Uncle Stanley wearing his richestBurgundy flush, sitting in the orchestra and talking _Arr Noovo_ to ayoung thing with cheek-bones who'd pinch him into a cocked hat for acontribution between the acts!"

"Still, " said Lethbridge, "even Art requires a wad to pay its license. Isn't West the foxy Freddie! Do you suppose, if we go, they'll sting usfor ten?"

"They'll probably take up a collection for the professor, " said Harrowgloomily. "Better come to the club and give the tickets to the janitor. "

"Oh, that's putting it all over Art! If anybody with earnest eyes triesto speak to us we can call a policeman. "

"Well, " said Harrow, "on your promise to keep your mouth shut I'll gowith you. If you open it they'll discover you're an appraiser and I'm abroker, and then they'll think we're wealthy, because there'd be noother reason for our being there, and they'll touch us both for a braceof come-ons, and----"

"Perhaps, " interrupted the other, "we'll be fortunate enough to sit nextto a peach! And as it's the proper thing there to talk to your neighbor, the prospect--er--needn't jar you. "

There was a silence as they walked up-town, which lasted until theyentered their lodgings. And by that time they had concluded to go. 

 [Illustration]

VII

 [Illustration]

So they went, having nothing better on hand, and at two o'clock theysidled into the squatty little theater, shyly sought their reservedseats and sat very still, abashed in the presence of the massedintellects of Manhattan. 

When Clarence Guilford, the Poet of Simplicity, followed by six healthy, vigorous young daughters, entered the middle aisle of the New ArtsTheater, a number of people whispered in reverent recognition:"Guilford, the poet! Those are his daughters. They wear nothing but pinkpajamas at home. Sh-sh-h-h!"

Perhaps the poet heard, for he heard a great deal when absent-minded. He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters, two and two behind him, very naturally paused also, because the poet was bulky and the aislenarrow. 

Those of the elect who had recognized him had now an opportunity to viewhim at close range; young women with expressive eyes leaned forward, quivering; several earnest young men put up lorgnettes. 

It was as it should have been; and the poet stood motionless in dreamyabstraction, until an usher took his coupons and turned down sevenseats. Then the six daughters filed in, and the poet, slowly turning tosurvey the house, started slightly, as though surprised to find himselfunder public scrutiny, passed a large, plump hand over his forehead, andslowly subsided into the aisle-seat with a smile of whimsicalacquiescence in the knowledge of his own greatness. 

"Who, " inquired young Harrow, turning toward Lethbridge--"who is thatduck?"

"You can search me, " replied Lethbridge in a low voice, "but forHeaven's sake _look_ at those girls! Is it right to bunch such beautyand turn down Senators from Utah?"

Harrow's dazzled eyes wandered over the six golden heads and snowynecks, lovely as six wholesome young goddesses fresh from a bath in theHellespont. 

"The--the one next to the one beside you, " whispered Lethbridge, edgingaround. "I want to run away with her. Would you mind getting me ahansom?"

"The one next to me has them all pinched to death, " breathed Harrowunsteadily. "Look!--when she isn't looking. Did you ever see such eyesand mouth--such a superb free poise----"

"Sh-sh-h-h!" muttered Lethbridge, "the bell-mule is talking to them. "

"Art, " said the poet, leaning over to look along the line of fragrant, fresh young beauty, "Art is an art. " With which epigram he slowly closedhis eyes. 

His daughters looked at him; a young woman expensively but not smartlygowned bent forward from the row behind. Her attitude was almostprayerful; her eyes burned. 

 [Illustration: He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters two and two behind him. ]

"Art, " continued the poet, opening his heavy lids with a large, sweetsmile, "Art is above Art, but Art is never below Art. Art, to be Art, must be artless. That is a very precious thought--very, very precious. Thank you for understanding me--thank you. " And he included in his largesmile young Harrow, who had been unconsciously bending forward, hypnotized by the monotonous resonance of the poet's deep, rich voice. 

Now that the spell was broken, he sank back in his chair, looking atLethbridge a little wildly. 

"Let me sit next--after the first act, " began Lethbridge, coaxing;"they'll be watching the stage all the first act and you can look at 'emwithout being rude, and they'll do the same next act, and I can look at'em, and perhaps they'll ask us what Art really is----"

"Did you hear what that man said?" interrupted Harrow, recovering hisvoice. "_Did_ you?"

"No; what?"

"Well, listen next time. And all I have to say is, if that firing-line, with its battery of innocent blue eyes, understands him, you and I hadbetter apply to the nearest night-school for the rudiments of aneducation. "

"Well, what did he say?" began the other uneasily, when again the poetbent forward to address the firing-line; and the lovely blue batteryturned silently upon the author of their being. 

"Art is the result of a complex mental attitude capable of producingconcrete simplicity. "

"Help!" whispered Harrow, but the poet had caught his eye, and wasfixing the young man with a smile that held him as sirup holds a fly. 

"You ask me what is Art, young sir? Why should I not heed you? Whyshould I not answer you? What artificial barriers, falsely calledconvention, shall force me to ignore the mute eloquence of yourquestioning eyes? You ask me what is Art. I will tell you; it is_this_!" And the poet, inverting his thumb, pressed it into the air. Then, carefully inspecting the dent he had made in the atmosphere, heerased it with a gesture and folded his arms, looking gravely at Harrow, whose fascinated eyes protruded. 

Behind him Lethbridge whispered hoarsely, "I told you how it would be inthe New Arts Theater. I told you a young man alone was likely to getspoken to. Now those six girls know you're a broker!"

"Don't say it so loud, " muttered Harrow savagely. "I'm all right so far, for I haven't said a word. "

"You'd better not, " returned the other. "I wish that curtain would go upand stay up. It will be my turn to sit next them after this act, youknow. "

Harrow ventured to glance at the superb young creature sitting besidehim, and at the same instant she looked up and, catching his eye, smiledin the most innocently friendly fashion--the direct, clear-eyed advanceof a child utterly unconscious of self. 

"I have never before been in a theater, " she said; "have you?"

"I--I beg your pardon, " stammered Harrow when he found his voice, "but_were_ you good enough to speak to _me_?"

"Why, yes!" she said, surprised but amiable; "shouldn't I have spoken toyou?"

"Indeed--oh, indeed you should!" said Harrow hastily, with a quickglance at the poet. The poet, however, appeared to be immersed inthought, lids partially closed, a benignant smile imprinted on his heavyfeatures. 

"_What_ are you doing?" breathed Lethbridge in his ear. Harrow calmlyturned his back on his closest friend and gazed rapturously at hisgoddess. And again her bewildering smile broke out and he fairly blinkedin its glory. 

"This is my first play, " she said; "I'm a little excited. I hope I shallcare for it. "

"Haven't you ever seen a play?" asked Harrow, tenderly amazed. 

"Never. You see, we always lived in the country, and we have always beenpoor until my sister Iole married. And now our father has come to livewith his new son-in-law. So that is how we came to be here in New York. "

"I am _so_ glad you _did_ come, " said Harrow fervently. 

"So are we. We have never before seen anything like a large city. Wehave never had enough money to see one. But now that Iole is married, everything is possible. It is all so interesting for us--particularlythe clothing. Do you like my gown?"

"It is a dream!" stammered the infatuated youth. 

"Do you think so? I think it is wonderful--but not very comfortable. "

"Doesn't it fit?" he inquired. 

"Perfectly; that's the trouble. It is not comfortable. We never beforewere permitted to wear skirts and all sorts of pretty fluffy frillsunder them, and _such_ high heels, and _such_ long stockings, and _such_tight lacing--" She hesitated, then calmly: "But I believe father toldus that we are not to mention our pretty underwear, though it's hard notto, as it's the first we ever had. "

Harrow was past all speech. 

"I wish I had my lounging-suit on, " she said with a sigh and a hitch ofher perfectly modeled shoulders. 

"W--what sort of things do you usually dress in?" he ventured. 

"Why, in dress-reform clothes!" she said, laughing. "We never have wornanything else. "

"Bloomers!"

"I don't know; we had trousers and blouses and sandals--something likethe pink pajamas we have for night-wear now. Formerly we wore nothing atnight. I am beginning to wonder, from the way people look at us when wespeak of this, whether we were odd. But all our lives we have neverthought about clothing. However, I am glad you like my new gown, and Ifancy I'll get used to this tight lacing in time. .. . What is your name?"

"James Harrow, " he managed to say, aware of an innocence and directnessof thought and speech which were awaking in him faintest responsiveechoes. They were the blessed echoes from the dim, fair land ofchildhood, but he did not know it. 

"James Harrow, " she repeated with a friendly nod. "My name is Lissa--myfirst name; the other is Guilford. My father is the famous poet, Clarence Guilford. He named us all after butterflies--all mysisters"--counting them on her white fingers while her eyes rested onhim--"Chlorippe, twelve years old, that pretty one next to my father;then Philodice, thirteen; Dione, fourteen; Aphrodite, fifteen; Cybele, the one next to me, sixteen, and almost seventeen; and myself, seventeen, almost eighteen. Besides, there is Iole, who married Mr. Wayne, and Vanessa, married to Mr. Briggs. They have been off on Mr. Wayne's yacht, the _Thendara_, on their wedding trip. Now you know allabout us. Do you think you would like to know us?"

"_Like_ to! I'd simply love to! I----"

"That is very nice, " she said unembarrassed. 

"I thought I should like you when I saw you leaning over and listeningso reverently to father's epigrams. Then, besides, I had nobody but mysisters to talk to. Oh, you can't imagine how many attractive men I seeevery day in New York--and I should like to know them all--and many _do_look at me as though they would like it, too; but Mr. Wayne is so queer, and so are father and Mr. Briggs--about my speaking to people in publicplaces. They have told me not to, but I--I--thought I would, " she ended, smiling. "What harm can it do for me to talk to you?"

"It's perfectly heavenly of you----"

"Oh, do you think so? I wonder what father thinks"--turning to look;then, resuming: "He generally makes us stop, but I am quite sure heexpected me to talk to you. "

The lone note of a piano broke the thread of the sweetest, maddestdiscourse Harrow had ever listened to; the girl's cheeks flushed and sheturned expectantly toward the curtained stage. Again the lone note, thumped vigorously, sounded a staccato monotone. 

"Precious--very precious, " breathed the poet, closing his eyes in a sortof fatty ecstasy. 

VIII

 [Illustration]

Harrow looked at his program, then, leaning toward Lissa, whispered:"That is the overture to _Attitudes_--the program explains it: 'A seriesof pale gray notes'--what the deuce!--'pale _gray_ notes giving thevalue of the highest light in which the play is pitched'--" He paused, aghast. 

"I understand, " whispered the girl, resting her lovely arm on the chairbeside him. "Look! The curtain is rising! _How_ my heart beats! Doesyours?"

He nodded, unable to articulate. 

The curtain rose very, very slowly, upon the first scene of BarnardHaw's masterpiece of satire; and the lovely firing-line quivered, bluebatteries opening very wide, lips half parted in breathlessanticipation. And about that time Harrow almost expired as a soft, impulsive hand closed nervously over his. 

And there, upon the stage, the human species was delicately vivisectedin one act; human frailty exposed, human motives detected, human desirequenched in all the brilliancy of perverted epigram and the scalpelanalysis of the astigmatic. Life, love, and folly were portrayed withthe remorseless accuracy of an eye doubly sensitive through the stimulusof an intellectual strabismus. Barnard Haw at his greatest! And how hedissected attitudes; the attitude assumed by the lover, the father, thewife, the daughter, the mother, the mistress--proving that virtue, _perse_, is a pose. Attitudes! How he flayed those who assumed them. Hisattitude toward attitudes was remorseless, uncompromising, inexorable. 

And the curtain fell on the first act, its gray and silver folds swayingin the half-crazed whirlwind of applause. 

Lissa's silky hand trembled in Harrow's, her grasp relaxed. He droppedhis hand and, searching, encountered hers again. 

"_What_ do you think of it?" she asked. 

"I don't think there's any harm in it, " he stammered guiltily, supposingshe meant the contact of their interlaced fingers. 

"Harm? I didn't mean harm, " she said. "The play is perfectly harmless, I think. "

"Oh--the play! Oh, that's just _that_ sort of play, you know. They'reall alike; a lot of people go about telling each other how black whiteis and that white is always black--until somebody suddenly discoversthat black and white are a sort of greenish red. Then the audienceapplauds frantically in spite of the fact that everybody in it hadconcluded that black and white were really a shade of yellowish yellow!"

She had begun to laugh; and as he proceeded, excited by her approval, the most adorable gaiety possessed her. 

"I _never_ heard anything half so clever!" she said, leaning toward him. 

"I? Clever!" he faltered. "You--you don't really mean that!"

"Why? Don't you know you are? Don't you know in your heart that you havesaid the very thing that I in my heart found no words to explain?"

"Did I, really?"

"Yes. Isn't it delightful!"

It was; Harrow, holding tightly to the soft little hand half hidden bythe folds of her gown, cast a sneaking look behind him, and encounteredthe fixed and furious glare of his closest friend, who had pinched him. 

"Pig!" hissed Lethbridge, "do I sit next or not?"

"I--I can't; I'll explain----"

"_Do_ I?"

"You don't understand----"

"I understand _you_!"

"No, you don't. Lissa and I----"

"Lissa!"

"Ya--as! We're talking very cleverly; _I_ am, too. Wha'd'you wan' tobutt in for?" with sudden venom. 

"Butt in! Do you think I want to sit here and look at tha' damfool play!Fix it or I'll run about biting!"

Harrow turned. "Lissa, " he whispered in an exquisitely modulated voice, "what would happen if I spoke to your sister Cybele?"

"Why, she'd answer you, silly!" said the girl, laughing. "Wouldn't you, Cybele?"

"I'll tell you what I'd like to do, " said Cybele, leaning forward: "I'dlike very much to talk to that attractive man who is trying to look atme--only your head has been in the way. " And she smiled innocently atLethbridge. 

So Lissa moved down one. Harrow took her seat, and Cybele dropped gailyinto Harrow's vacant place. 

"_Now_, " she said to Lethbridge, "we can tell each other all sorts ofthings. I was so glad that you looked at me all the while and so vexedthat I couldn't talk to you. _How_ do you like my new gown? And what isyour name? Have you ever before seen a play? I haven't, and my name isCybele. "

"It is per--perfectly heavenly to hear you talk, " stammered Lethbridge. 

Harrow heard him, turned and looked him full in the eyes, then slowlyresumed his attitude of attention: for the poet was speaking:

"The Art of Barnard Haw is the quintessence of simplicity. What is thequintessence of simplicity?" He lifted one heavy pudgy hand, joined thetips of his soft thumb and forefinger, and selecting an atom of air, deftly captured it. "_That_ is the quintessence of simplicity; _that_ isArt!"

He smiled largely on Harrow, whose eyes had become wild again. 

"_That!_" he repeated, pinching out another molecule of atmosphere, "and_that_!" punching dent after dent in the viewless void with invertedthumb. 

On the hapless youth the overpowering sweetness of his smile acted likean anesthetic; he saw things waver, even wabble; and his hidden clutchon Lissa's fingers tightened spasmodically. 

"Thank you, " said the poet, leaning forward to fix the young man withhis heavy-lidded eyes. "Thank you for the precious thoughts you inspirein me. Bless you. Our mental and esthetic commune has been very preciousto me--very, very precious, " he mooned bulkily, his rich voice dying toa resonant, soothing drone. 

Lissa turned to the petrified young man. "Please be clever some more, "she whispered. "You were so perfectly delightful about this play. "

"Child!" he groaned, "I have scarcely sufficient intellect to keep meovernight. You must know that I haven't understood one single thing yourfather has been kind enough to say. "

"What didn't you understand?" she asked, surprised. 

"'_That!_'" He flourished his thumb. "What does '_That!_' mean?"

"Oh, that is only a trick father has caught from painters who tell youhow they're going to use their brushes. But the truth is I've usuallynoticed that they do most of their work in the air with their thumbs. .. . What else did you not understand?"

"Oh--Art!" he said wearily. "What is it? Or, as Barnard Haw, the higherexponent of the Webberfield philosophy, might say: 'What it iss? Yess?'"

"I don't know what the Webberfield philosophy is, " said Lissainnocently, "but Art is only things one believes. And it's awfully hard, too, because nobody sees the same thing in the same way, or believes thesame things that others believe. So there are all kinds of Art. I thinkthe only way to be sure is when the artist makes himself and hisaudience happier; then that is Art. .. . But one need not use one's thumb, you know. "

"The--the way you make me happy? Is _that_ Art?"

"Do I?" she laughed. "Perhaps; for I am happy, too--far, far happierthan when I read the works of Henry Haynes. And Henry Haynes _is_ Art. Oh, dear!"

But Harrow knew nothing of the intellectual obstetrics which producedthat great master's monotypes. 

"Have you read Double or Quits?" he ventured shyly. "It's a humming WallStreet story showing up the entire bunch and exposing the trading-stampswindle of the great department stores. The heroine is a detectiveand--" She was looking at him so intently that he feared he had saidsomething he shouldn't. "But I don't suppose that would interest you, "he muttered, ashamed. 

"It does! It is _new_! I--I never read that sort of a novel. Tell me!"

"Are you serious?"

"Of course. It is perfectly wonderful to think of a heroine being adetective. "

"Oh, she's a dream!" he said with cautious enthusiasm. "She falls inlove with the worst stock-washer in Wall Street, and pushes him off aferry-boat when she finds he has cornered the trading-stamp market andis bankrupting her father, who is president of the department storetrust----"

"Go on!" she whispered breathlessly. 

"I will, but----"

"What is it? Oh--is it my hand you are looking for? Here it is; I onlywanted to smooth my hair a moment. Now tell me; for I never, never knewthat such books were written. The books my father permits us to read arenot concerned with all those vital episodes of every-day life. Nobodyever _does_ anything in the few novels I am allowed to read--except, once, in _Cranford_, somebody gets up out of a chair in one chapter--butsits down again in the next, " she added wearily. 

"_I'll_ send you something to make anybody sit up and stay up, " he saidindignantly. "Baffles, the Gent Burglar; Love Militant, by Nora NorrisNewman; The Crown-Snatcher, by Reginald Rodman Roony--oh, it's simplyghastly to think of what you've missed! This is the Victorian era; youhave a right to be fully cognizant of the great literary movements ofthe twentieth century!"

"I love to hear you say such things, " she said, her beautiful faceafire. "I desire to be modern--intensely, humanly modern. All my life Ihave been nourished on the classics of ages dead; the literature of theOrient, of Asia, of Europe I am familiar with; the literature ofEngland--as far as Andrew Bang's boyhood verses. I--all mysisters--read, write, speak, even think, in ten languages. I long forsomething to read which is vital, familiar, friendly--something of myown time, my own day. I wish to know what young people do and dare; whatthey really think, what they believe, strive for, desire!"

"Well--well, I don't think people really do and say and think the thingsthat you read in interesting modern novels, " he said doubtfully. "Factis, only the tiresome novels seem to tell a portion of the truth; butthey end by overdoing it and leave you yawning with a nasty taste inyour mouth. I--I think you'd better let your father pick out yournovels. "

"I don't want to, " she said rebelliously. "I want _you_ to. "

He looked at the beautiful, rebellious face and took a closer hold onthe hidden hand. 

"I wish you--I wish I could choose--everything for you, " he saidunsteadily. 

"I wish so, too. You are exactly the sort of man I like. "

"Do--do you mean it?"

"Why, yes, " she replied, opening her splendid eyes. "Don't I show thepleasure I take in being with you?"

"But--would you tire of me if--if we always--forever----"

"Were friends? No. "

"Mo-m-m-more than friends?" Then he choked. 

The speculation in her wide eyes deepened. "What do you mean?" she askedcuriously. 

But again the lone note of the thumped piano signaled silence. In thesudden hush the poet opened his lids with a sticky smile and folded hishands over his abdomen, plump thumbs joined. 

"_What_ do you mean?" repeated Lissa hurriedly, tightening her slenderfingers around Harrow's. 

"I mean--I mean----"

He turned in silence and their eyes met. A moment later her fingersrelaxed limply in his; their hands were still in contact--but scarcelyso; and so remained while the _Attitudes_ of Barnard Haw held the stage. 

IX

 [Illustration]

There was a young wife behind the footlights explaining to a young manwho was not her husband that her marriage vows need not be too seriouslyconsidered if he, the young man, found them too inconvenient. Whichscared the young man, who was plainly a purveyor of heated air and ashort sport. And, although she explained very clearly that if he neededher in his business he had better say so quick, the author's inventiongave out just there and he called in the young wife's husband to helphim out. 

And all the while the battery of round blue eyes gazed on unwinking; thepoet's dewlaps quivered with stored emotion, and the spellbound audiencebreathed as people breathe when the hostess at table attempts to smoothover a bad break by her husband. 

"Is _that_ life?" whispered Cybele to Lethbridge, her sensitive mouthaquiver. "Did the author actually know such people? Do _you_? Isconscience really only an attitude? Is instinct the only guide? Am_I_--really--bad----"

"No, no, " whispered Lethbridge; "all that is only a dramatist'sattitude. Don't--don't look grieved! Why, every now and then some mandiscovers he can attract more attention by standing on his head. That isall--really, that is all. Barnard Haw on his feet is not amusing; butthe same gentleman on his head is worth an orchestra-chair. When a manwears his trousers where other men wear their coats, people are bound toturn around. It is not a new trick. Mystes, the Argive comic poet, andthe White Queen, taught this author the value of substituting 'is' for'is not, ' until, from standing so long inverted, he himself forgets whathe means, and at this point the eminent brothers Rogers take up theimportant work. .. . Please, please, Cybele, _don't_ take it seriously!. .. If you look that way--if you are unhappy, I--I----"

A gentle snore from the poet transfixed the firing-line, but the snorewoke up the poet and he mechanically pinched an atom out of theatmosphere, blinking at the stage. 

"Precious--very, very precious, " he murmured drowsily. "Thank you--thankeverybody--" And he sank into an obese and noiseless slumber as the grayand silver curtain slowly fell. The applause, far from rousing him, merely soothed him; a honeyed smile hovered on his lips which formed thewords "Thank you. " That was all; the firing-line stirred, breatheddeeply, and folded twelve soft white hands. Chlorippe, twelve, andPhilodice, thirteen, yawned, pink-mouthed, sleepy-eyed; Dione, fourteen, laid her golden head on the shoulder of Aphrodite, fifteen. 

The finger-tips of Lissa and Harrow still touched, scarcely clinging;they had turned toward one another when the curtain fell. But the play, to them, had been a pantomime of silhouettes, the stage, a void edgedwith flame--the scene, the audience, the theater, the poet himself asunreal and meaningless as the shadowy attitudes of the shapes thatvanished when the phantom curtain closed its folds. 

And through the subdued light, turning noiselessly, they peered at oneanother, conscious that naught else was real in the misty, golden-tintedgloom; that they were alone together there in a formless, soundlesschaos peopled by shapes impalpable as dreams. 

"_Now_ tell me, " she said, her lips scarcely moving as the soft voicestirred them like carmine petals stirring in a scented breeze. 

"Tell you that it is--love?"

"Yes, tell me. "

"That I love you, Lissa?"

"Yes; that!"

He stooped nearer; his voice was steady and very low, and she leanedwith bent head to listen, clear-eyed, intelligent, absorbed. 

"So _that_ is love--what you tell me?"

"Yes--partly. "

"And the other part?"

"The other part is when you find you love me. "

"I--do. I think it must be love, because I can't bear to have you goaway. Besides, I wish you to tell me--things. "

"Ask me. "

"Well--when two--like you and me, begin to love--what happens?"

"We confess it----"

"I do; I'm not ashamed. .. . Should I be? And then?"

"Then?" he faltered. 

"Yes; do we kiss?. .. For I am curious to have you do it--I am so certainI shall adore you when you do. .. . I wish we could go away somewheretogether. .. . But we can't do that until I am a bride, can we? Oh--do youreally want me?"

"Can you ask?" he breathed. 

"Ask? Yes--yes. .. . I love to ask! Your hand thrills me. We can't go awaynow, can we? It took Iole so long to be permitted to go away with Mr. Wayne--all that time lost in so many foolish ways--when a girl is soimpatient. .. . Is it not strange how my heart beats when I look into youreyes? Oh, there can be no doubt about it, I am dreadfully in love. .. . And so quickly, too. I suppose it's because I am in such splendidhealth; don't you?"

"I--I--well----"

"Oh, I _do_ want to get up at once and go away with you! _Can't_ we?I could explain to father. "

"Wait!" he gasped, "he--he's asleep. Don't speak--don't touch him. "

"How unselfish you are, " she breathed. "No, you are not hurting myfingers. Tell me more--about love and the blessed years awaiting us, andabout our children--oh, is it not wonderful!"

"Ex--extremely, " he managed to mutter, touching his suddenly dampenedforehead with his handkerchief, and attempting to set his thoughts insome sort of order. He could not; the incoherence held him speechless, dazed, under the magic of this superb young being instinct with the softfire of life. 

Her loveliness, her innocence, the beautiful, direct gaze, the childlikefulness of mouth and contour of cheek and throat, left him spellbound. The very air around them seemed suffused with the vital glow of heryouth and beauty; each breath they drew increased their wonder, till thewhole rosy universe seemed thrilling and singing at their feet, and theytwo, love-crowned, alone, saw Time and Eternity flowing like a goldentide under the spell of Paradise. 

"Jim!"

The hoarse whisper of Lethbridge shook the vision from him; he turned aflushed countenance to his friend; but Cybele spoke:

"We are very tired sitting here. We would like to take some tea atSherry's, " she whispered. "What do you think we had better do? It seemsso--so futile to sit here--when we wish to be alone together----"

"You and Henry, too!" gasped Harrow. 

"Yes; do you wonder?" She leaned swiftly in front of him; a fragrantbreeze stirred his hair. "Lissa, I'm desperately infatuated with Mr. Lethbridge. Do you see any use in our staying here when I'm simply dyingto have him all to myself somewhere?"

"No, it is silly. I wish to go, too. Shall we?"

"You need not go, " began Cybele; then stopped, aware of the new magic inher sister's eyes. "Lissa! Lissa!" she said softly. "_You_, too! Oh, mydear--my dearest!"

"Dear, is it not heavenly? I--I--was quite sure that if I ever had agood chance to talk to a man I really liked something would happen. Andit has. "

"If Philodice might awaken father perhaps he would let us go now, "whispered Cybele. "Henry says it does not take more than an hour----"

"To become a bride?"

"Yes; he knows a clergyman very near----"

"Do you?" inquired Lissa. Lethbridge nodded and gave a scared glance atHarrow, who returned it as though stunned. 

"But--but, " muttered the latter, "your father doesn't know who weare----"

"Oh, yes, he does, " said Cybele calmly, "for he sent you the tickets andplaced us near you so that if we found that we liked you we might talkto you----"

"Only he made a mistake in your name, " added Lissa to Harrow, "for hewrote 'Stanley West, Esq. ' on the envelope. I know because I mailed it. "

"Invited West--put _you_ where you could--good God!"

"What is the matter?" whispered Lissa in consternation; "have--have Isaid anything I should not?" And, as he was silent: "What is it? Have Ihurt you--I who----"

There was a silence; she looked him through and through and, after awhile, deep, deep in his soul, she saw, awaking once again, all he haddeemed dead--the truth, the fearless reason, the sweet and faultlessinstinct of the child whose childhood had become a memory. Then, oncemore spiritually equal, they smiled at one another; and Lissa, pausingto gather up her ermine stole, passed noiselessly out to the aisle, where she stood, perfectly self-possessed, while her sister joined her, smiling vaguely down at the firing-line and their lifted battery ofblue, inquiring eyes. 

The poet--and whether he had slumbered or not nobody but himself isqualified to judge--the poet pensively opened one eye and peeped atHarrow as that young man bent beside him with Lethbridge at his elbow. 

"In sending those two tickets you have taught us a new creed, " whisperedHarrow; "you have taught us innocence and simplicity--you have taught usto be ourselves, to scorn convention, to say and do what we believe. Thank you. "

"Dear friend, " said the poet in an artistically-modulated whisper, "I have long, long followed you in the high course of your career. To methe priceless simplicity of poverty: to you the responsibility formillions. To me the daisy, the mountain stream, the woodchuck and myArt! To you the busy mart, the haunts of men, the ship of finance ladenwith a nation's wealth, the awful burden of millions for which you areanswerable to One higher!" He raised one soft, solemn finger. 

The young men gazed at one another, astounded. Lethbridge's startledeyes said, "He still takes you for Stanley West!"

"Let him!" flashed the grim answer back from the narrowing gaze ofHarrow. 

"Daughters, " whispered the poet playfully, "are you so soon tired of thebrilliant gems of satire which our master dramatist scatters with alavish----"

"No, " said Cybele; "we are only very much in love. "

The poet sat up briskly and looked hard at Harrow. 

"Your--your friend?" he began--"doubtless associated with you in thehigh----"

"We are inseparable, " said Harrow calmly, "in the busy marts. "

The sweetness of the poet's smile was almost overpowering. 

"To discuss this sudden--ah--condition which so--ah--abruptly confrontsa father, I can not welcome you to my little home in the wild--which Icall the House Beautiful, " he said. "I would it were possible. There allis quiet and simple and exquisitely humble--though now, through thegrace of my valued son, there is no mortgage hanging like the brand ofDamocles above our lowly roof. But I bid you welcome in the name of myson-in-law, on whom--I should say, _with_ whom--I and my babes aresojourning in this clamorous city. Come and let us talk, soul to soul, heart to heart; come and partake of what simples we have. Set the day, the hour. I thank you for understanding me. "

"The hour, " replied Harrow, "will be about five P. M. On Mondayafternoon. .. . You see, we are going out now to--to----"

"To marry each other, " whispered Lissa with all her sweet fearlessness. "Oh, dear! there goes that monotonous piano and we'll be blockingpeople's view!"

The poet tried to rise upon his great flat feet, but he was wedged tootightly; he strove to speak, to call after them, but the loud thumpingnotes of the piano drowned his voice. 

"Chlorippe! Dione! Philodice! Tell them to stop! Run after them and staythem!" panted the poet. 

"_You_ go!" pouted Dione. 

"No, I don't want to, " explained Chlorippe, "because the curtain isrising. "

"I'll go, " sighed Philodice, rising to her slender height and moving upthe aisle as the children of queens moved once upon a time. She cameback presently, saying: "Dear me, they're dreadfully in love, and theyhave driven away in two hansoms. "

"Gone!" wheezed the poet. 

"Quite, " said Philodice, staring at the stage and calmly folding hersmooth little hands. 

 [Illustration]

X

 [Illustration]

When the curtain at last descended upon the parting attitudes of theplayers the poet arose with an alacrity scarcely to be expected in agentleman of his proportions. Two and two his big, healthydaughters--there remained but four now--followed him to the lobby. Whenhe was able to pack all four into a cab he did so and sent them homewithout ceremony; then, summoning another vehicle, gave the driver thedirections and climbed in. 

Half an hour later he was deposited under the bronze shelter of theporte-cochère belonging to an extremely expensive mansion overlookingthe park; and presently, admitted, he prowled ponderously and softlyabout an over-gilded rococo reception-room. But all anxiety had now fledfrom his face; he coyly nipped the atmosphere at intervals as variousportions of the furniture attracted his approval; he stood before asplendid canvas of Goya and pushed his thumb at it; he moused andprowled and peeped and snooped, and his smile grew larger and larger andsweeter and sweeter, until--dare I say it!--a low smooth chuckle, allbut noiseless, rippled the heavy cheeks of the poet; and, raising hiseyes, he beheld a stocky, fashionably-dressed and red-faced man of fortyintently eying him. The man spoke decisively and at once:

"Mr. Guilford? Quite so. I am Mr. West. "

"You are--" The poet's smile flickered like a sickly candle. "I--thisis--are you Mr. _Stanley_ West?"

"I am. "

"It must--it probably was your son----"

"I am unmarried, " said the president of the Occidental tartly, "and theonly Stanley West in the directory. "

The poet swayed, then sat down rather suddenly on a Louis XIV chairwhich crackled. Several times he passed an ample hand over his features. A mechanical smile struggled to break out, but it was not _the_ smile, any more than glucose is sugar. 

"Did--ah--_did_ you receive two tickets for the New ArtsTheater--ah--Mr. West?" he managed to say at last. 

"I did. Thank you very much, but I was not able to avail myself----"

"Quite so. And--ah--do you happen to know who it was that--ah--presentedyour tickets and occupied the seats this afternoon?"

"Why, I suppose it was two young men in our employ--Mr. Lethbridge, whoappraises property for us, and Mr. Harrow, one of our brokers. May I askwhy?"

For a long while the poet sat there, eyes squeezed tightly closed asthough in bodily anguish. Then he opened one of them:

"They are--ah--quite penniless, I presume?"

"They have prospects, " said West briefly. "Why?"

The poet rose; something of his old attitude returned; he feebly gazedat a priceless Massero vase, made a half-hearted attempt to join thumband forefinger, then rambled toward the door, where two spotlessflunkies attended with his hat and overcoat. 

"Mr. Guilford, " said West, following, a trifle perplexed and remorseful, "I should be very--er--extremely happy to subscribe to the New ArtsTheater--if that is what you wished. "

"Thank you, " said the poet absently as a footman invested him with aseal-lined coat. 

"Is there anything more I could do for you, Mr. Guilford?"

The poet's abstracted gaze rested on him, then shifted. 

"I--I don't feel very well, " said the poet hoarsely, sitting down in ahall-seat. Suddenly he began to cry, fatly. 

Nobody did anything; the stupefied footman gaped; West looked, walkednervously the length of the hall, looked again, and paced the inlaidfloor to and fro, until the bell at the door sounded and a messenger-boyappeared with a note scribbled on a yellow telegraph blank:

 "Lethbridge and I just married and madly happy. Will be on hand Monday, sure. Can't you advance us three months' salary?

 "HARROW. "

"Idiots!" said West. Then, looking up: "What are you waiting for, boy?"

"Me answer, " replied the messenger calmly. 

"Oh, you were told to bring back an answer?"

"Ya-as. "

"Then give me your pencil, my infant Chesterfield. " And West scribbledon the same yellow blank:

 "Checks for you on your desks Monday. Congratulations. I'll see you through, you damfools. 

 "WEST. "

"Here's a quarter for you, " observed West, eying the messenger. 

"T'anks. Gimme the note. "

West glanced at the moist, fat poet; then suddenly that intuition whichis bred in men of his stamp set him thinking. And presently hetentatively added two and two. 

"Mr. Guilford, " he said, "I wonder whether this note--and my answer toit--concerns you. "

The poet used his handkerchief, adjusted a pair of glasses, and blinkedat the penciled scrawl. Twice he read it; then, like the full sunbreaking through a drizzle--like the glory of a search-light dissolvinga sticky fog, _the_ smile of smiles illuminated everything: footmen, messenger, financier. 

"Thank you, " he said thickly; "thank you for your thought. Thought isbut a trifle to bestow--a little thing in itself. But it is the littlethings that are most important--the smaller the thing the more vital itsimportance, until"--he added in a genuine burst of his oldeloquence--"the thing becomes so small that it isn't anything at all, and then the value of nothing becomes so enormous that it is past allcomputation. That is a very precious thought! Thank you for it; thankyou for understanding. Bless you!"

Exuding a rich sweetness from every feature the poet moved toward thedoor at a slow fleshy waddle, head wagging, small eyes half closed, thumbing the atmosphere, while his lips moved in wordlessself-communion: "The attainment of nothing at all--that is rarest, themost precious, the most priceless of triumphs--very, very precious. So"--and his glance was sideways and nimbly intelligent--"so if nothingat all is of such inestimable value, those two young pups can live ontheir expectations--_quod erat demonstrandum_. "

He shuddered and looked up at the façade of the gorgeous house which hehad just quitted. 

"So many sunny windows to sit in--to dream in. I--I should have found itagreeable. Pups!"

Crawling into his cab he sank into a pulpy mound, partially closing hiseyes. And upon his pursed-up lips, unuttered yet imminent, a wordtrembled and wabbled as the cab bounced down the avenue. It may havebeen "precious"; it was probably "pups!"

 [Illustration]

XI

 [Illustration]

But there were further poignant emotions in store for the poet, for, ashis cab swung out of the avenue and drew up before the great house onthe southwest corner of Seventy-ninth Street and Madison Avenue, hecaught a glimpse of his eldest daughter, Iole, vanishing into the house, and, at the same moment, he perceived his son-in-law, Mr. Wayne, payingthe driver of a hansom-cab, while several liveried servants borehouseward the luggage of the wedding journey. 

"George!" he cried dramatically, thrusting his head from the window ofhis own cab as that vehicle drew up with a jolt that made his stomachvibrate, "George! I am here!"

Wayne looked around, paid the hansom-driver, and, advancing slowly, offered his hand as the poet descended to the sidewalk. "How are you?"he inquired without enthusiasm as the poet evinced a desire to paw him. "All is well here, I hope. "

"George! Son!" The poet gulped till his dewlap contracted. He laid alarge plump hand on Wayne's shoulders. "Where are my lambs?" hequavered; "where are they?"

"Which lambs?" inquired the young man uneasily. "If you mean Iole andVanessa----"

"No! My ravished lambs! Give me my stolen lambs. Trifle no longer with afather's affections! Lissa!--Cybele! Great Heavens! Where are they?" hesobbed hoarsely. 

"Well, _where_ are they?" retorted his son-in-law, horrified. "Come intothe house; people in the street are looking. "

In the broad hall the poet paused, staggered, strove to paw Wayne, thenattempted to fold his arms in an attitude of bitter scorn. 

"Two penniless wastrels, " he muttered, "are wedded to my lambs. Butthere are laws to invoke----"

An avalanche of pretty girls in pink pajamas came tumbling down thebronze and marble staircase, smothering poet and son-in-law in happyembraces; and "Oh, George!" they cried, "how sunburned you are! So isIole, but she is too sweet! Did you have a perfectly lovely honeymoon?When is Vanessa coming? And how is Mr. Briggs? And--oh, do you know thenews? Cybele and Lissa married two such extremely attractive young menthis afternoon----"

"Married!" cried Wayne, releasing Dione's arms from his neck. "_Whom_did they marry?"

"Pups!" sniveled the poet--"penniless, wastrel pups!"

"Their names, " said Aphrodite coolly, from the top of the staircase, "are James Harrow and Henry Lethbridge. I wish there had been three----"

"Harrow! Lethbridge!" gasped Wayne. "When"--he turned helplessly to thepoet--"when did they do this?"

Through the gay babble of voices and amid cries and interruptions, Waynemanaged to comprehend the story. He tried to speak, but everybody exceptthe poet laughed and chatted, and the poet, suffused now with a sort ofsad sweetness, waved his hand in slow unctuous waves until even thefootmen's eyes protruded. 

"It's all right, " said Wayne, raising his voice; "it's topsyturvy andirregular, but it's all right. I've known Harrow and Leth--For Heaven'ssake, Dione, don't kiss me like that; I want to talk!--You're hugging metoo hard, Philodice. Oh, Lord! _will_ you stop chattering all together!I--I--Do you want the house to be pinched?"

He glanced up at Aphrodite, who sat astride the banisters lighting acigarette. "Who taught you to do that?" he cried. 

"I'm sixteen, now, " she said coolly, "and I thought I'd try it. "

Her voice was drowned in the cries and laughter; Wayne, with his handsto his ears, stared up at the piquant figure in its pink pajamas andsandals, then his distracted gaze swept the groups of parlor maids andfootmen around the doors: "Great guns!" he thundered, "this is the limitand they'll pull the house! Morton!"--to a footman--"ring up 7--00--9BMurray Hill. My compliments and congratulations to Mr. Lethbridge and toMr. Harrow, and say that we usually dine at eight! Philodice! stop thathowling! Oh, just you wait until Iole has a talk with you all forrunning about the house half-dressed----"

"I _won't_ wear straight fronts indoors, and my garters hurt!" criedAphrodite defiantly, preparing to slide down the banisters. 

"Help!" said Wayne faintly, looking from Dione to Chlorippe, fromChlorippe to Philodice, from Philodice to Aphrodite. "I won't have myhouse turned into a confounded Art Nouveau music hall. I tell you----"

"Let _me_ tell them, " said Iole, laughing and kissing her hand to thepoet as she descended the stairs in her pretty bride's traveling gown. 

She checked Aphrodite, looked wisely around at her lovely sisters, thenturned to remount the stairs, summoning them with a gay littleconfidential gesture. 

And when the breathless crew had trooped after her, and the pad oflittle, eager, sandaled feet had died away on the thick rugs of thelanding above, the poet, clasping his fat white hands, thumbs joined, across his rotund abdomen, stole a glance at his dazed son-in-law, whichwas partly apprehensive and partly significant, almost cunning. "Aninnocent saturnalia, " he murmured. "The charming abandon of children. "He unclasped one hand and waved it. "Did you note the unstudied beautyof the composition as my babes glided in and out following the naturaland archaic yet exquisitely balanced symmetry of the laws which governmass and line composition, all unconsciously, yet perhaps"--he reversedhis thumb and left his sign manual upon the atmosphere--"perhaps, " hemused, overflowing with sweetness--"perhaps the laws of Art Nouveau aredivine!--perhaps angels and cherubim, unseen, watch fondly o'er mybabes, lest all unaware they guiltlessly violate some subtle canon ofArt, marring the perfect symmetry of eternal preciousness. "

Wayne's mouth was partly open, his eyes hopeless yet fixed upon the poetwith a fearful fascination. 

"Art, " breathed the poet, "is a solemn, a fearful responsibility. _You_are responsible, George, and some day you must answer for everyviolation of Art, to the eternal outraged fitness of things. _You_ mustanswer, _I_ must answer, every soul must answer!"

"A-ans--answer! What, for God's sake?" stammered Wayne. 

The poet, deliberately joining thumb and forefinger, pinched out aportion of the atmosphere. 

"That! _That_ George! For that is Art! And Art is justice! And justice, affronted, demands an answer. "

He refolded his arms, mused for a space, then stealing a veiled glancesideways:

"You--you are--ah--convinced that my two lost lambs need dread no bodilyvicissitudes----"

"Cybele and Lissa?"

"Ah--yes----"

"Lethbridge will have money to burn if he likes the aroma of the smoke. Harrow has burnt several stacks already; but his father will continue tofire the furnace. Is _that_ what you mean?"

"No!" said the poet softly, "no, George, that is not what I mean. Wealthis a great thing. Only the little things are precious to me. And themost precious of all is absolutely nothing!" But, as he wandered awayinto the great luxurious habitation of his son-in-law, his smile grewsweeter and sweeter and his half-closed eyes swam, melting into asaccharine reverie. 

"The little things, " he murmured, thumbing the air absently--"the littlethings are precious, but not as precious as absolutely nothing. Fornothing is perfection. Thank you, " he said sweetly to a petrifiedfootman, "thank you for understanding. It is precious--very, veryprecious to know that I am understood. "

 [Illustration]

XII

 [Illustration]

By early springtide the poet had taken an old-fashioned house on thesouth side of Washington Square; his sons-in-law standing for it--asthe poet was actually beginning to droop amid the civilized luxury ofMadison Avenue. He missed what he called his own "den. " So he got it, rent free, and furnished it sparingly with furniture of a slabby varietyuntil the effect produced might, profanely speaking, be described asdinky. 

His friends, too, who haunted the house, bore curious conformity to thefurnishing, being individually in various degrees either squatty, slabbyor dinky; and twice a week they gathered for "Conferences" upon what heand they described as "L'Arr Noovo. "

L'Arr Noovo, a pleasing variation of the slab style in Art, hadprofoundly impressed the poet. Glass window-panes, designed with tulippatterns, were cunningly inserted into all sorts of furniture wherewindow-glass didn't belong, and the effect appeared to be profitable;for up-stairs in his "shop, " workmen were very busy creatingextraordinary designs and setting tulip-patterned glass into everythingwith, as the poet explained, "a loving care" and considerable glue. 

His four unmarried daughters came to see him, wandering unconcernedlybetween the four handsome residences of their four brothers-in-law andthe "den" of the author of their being--Chlorippe, aged thirteen;Philodice, fourteen; Dione, fifteen, and Aphrodite, sixteen--lovely, fresh-skinned, free-limbed young girls with the delicate bloom of sunand wind still creaming their cheeks--lingering effects of a life livedever in the open, until the poet's sons-in-law were able to support himin town in the style to which he had been unaccustomed. 

To the Conferences of the poet came the mentally, morally, andphysically dinky--and a few badgered but normal husbands, hustledthither by wives whose intellectual development was tending toward theprecious. 

People read poems, discussed Yeats, Shaw, Fiona, Mendes, and L'ArrNoovo; sang, wandered about pinching or thumbing the atmosphere understimulus of a cunningly and unexpectedly set window-pane in the back ofa "mission" rocking-chair. And when the proper moment arrived the poetwould rise, exhaling sweetness from every pore of his bulky entity, tointerpret what he called a "Thought. " Sometimes it was a demonstrationof the priceless value of "nothings"; sometimes it was a naivesuggestion that no house could afford to be without an "Art"-rocker withArr Noovo insertions. Such indispensable luxuries were on saleup-stairs. Again, he performed a "necklace of precious sounds"--in otherwords, some verses upon various topics, nature, woodchucks, and thedinkified in Art. 

And it was upon one of these occasions that Aphrodite ran away. 

Aphrodite, the sweet, the reasonable, the self-possessed--Aphrodite ranaway, having without any apparent reason been stricken with anoverpowering aversion for civilization and Arr Noovo. 

 [Illustration]

XIII

 [Illustration]

At the poet's third Franco-American Conference that afternoon the roomwas still vibrating with the echoes of Aphrodite's harp accompaniment toher own singing, and gushing approbation had scarcely ceased, when thepoet softly rose and stood with eyes half-closed as though concentratingall the sweetness within him upon the surface of his pursed lips. 

A wan young man whose face figured only as a by-product of his hairwhispered "Hush!" and several people, who seemed to be more or less outof drawing, assumed attitudes which emphasized the faulty draftsmanship. 

"La Poésie!" breathed the poet; "Kesker say la poésie?"

"La poésie--say la vee!" murmured a young woman with profuse teeth. 

"Wee, wee, say la vee!" cried several people triumphantly. 

"Nong!" sighed the poet, spraying the hushed air with sweetness, "nong!Say pas le vee; say l'Immortalitay!"

After which the poet resumed his seat, and the by-product read, inFrench verse, "An Appreciation" of the works of Wilhelmina GanderburyMcNutt. 

And that was the limit of the Franco portion of the Conference; theremainder being plain American. 

Aphrodite, resting on her tall gilded harp, looked sullenly straightbefore her. Somebody lighted a Chinese joss-stick, perhaps to kill thearoma of defunct cigarettes. 

"Verse, " said the poet, opening his heavy lids and gazing around himwith the lambent-eyed wonder of a newly-wakened ram, "verse is anecklace of tinted sounds strung idly, yet lovingly, upon stray tinseledthreads of thought. .. . Thank you for understanding; thank you. "

The by-product in the corner of the studio gathered arms and legs into aseries of acute angles, and writhed; a lady ornamented with cheek-boneswell sketched in, covered her eyes with one hand as though locked injiu-jitsu with Richard Strauss. 

Aphrodite's slender fingers, barely resting on the harp-strings, suddenly contracted in a nervous tremor; a low twang echoed theinvoluntary reflex with a discord. 

A young man, whose neck was swathed in a stock à la d'Orsay, bent closeto her shoulder. 

"I feel that our souls, blindfolded, are groping toward one another, "he whispered. 

"Don't--don't talk like that!" she breathed almost fiercely; "I amtired--suffocated with sound, drugged with joss-sticks and sandal. I can't stand much more, I warn you. "

"Are you not well, beloved. "

"Perfectly well--physically. I don't know what it is--it has come sosuddenly--this overwhelming revulsion--this exasperation with scents andsounds. .. . I could rip out these harp-strings and--and kick that chairover! I--I think I need something--sunlight and the wind blowing my hairloose----"

 [Illustration: Aphrodite's slender fingers, barely resting on the harp-strings, suddenly contracted in a nervous tremor. ]

The young man with the stock nodded. "It is the exquisite pagan athirstin you, scorched by the fire of spring. Quench that sweet thirst at thefount beautiful----"

"What fount did you say?" she asked dangerously. 

"The precious fount of verse, dear maid. "

"No!" she whispered violently. "I'm half drowned already. Words, smells, sounds, attitudes, rocking-chairs--and candles profaning the sunshine--Iam suffocated, I need more air, more sense and less incense--less sound, less art----"

"Less--_what_?" he gasped. 

"Less art!--what you call 'l'arr'!--yes, I've said it; I'm sick! sick ofart! I know what I require now. " And as he remained agape in shockedsilence: "I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Frawley, but I also require lessof you. .. . So much less that father will scarcely expect me to play anymore accompaniments to your 'necklaces of precious tones'--so much lessthat the minimum of my interest in you vanishes to absolute negation. .. . So I shall not marry you. "

"Aphrodite--are--are you mad?"

Her sulky red mouth was mute. 

Meanwhile the poet's rich, resonant voice filled the studio with anagreeable and rambling monotone:

"Verse is a vehicle for expression; expression is a vehicle for verse;sound, in itself, is so subtly saturated with meaning that it requiresnothing of added logic for its vindication. Sound, therefore, is sense, modified by the mysterious portent of tone. Thank you for understanding, thank you for a thought--very, very precious, a thought beautiful. "

He smeared the air with inverted thumb and smiled at Mr. Frawley, whorose, somewhat agitated, and, crooking one lank arm behind his back, made a mechanical pinch at an atmospheric atom. 

"If--if you do that again--if you dare to recite those verses about me, I shall go! I tell you I can't stand any more, " breathed Aphroditebetween her clenched teeth. 

The young man cast his large and rather sickly eyes upon her. For amoment he was in doubt, but belief in the witchery of sound prevailed, for he had yet to meet a being insensible to the "music of the soul, "and so with a fond and fatuous murmur he pinched the martyred atmosphereonce more, and began, mousily:

 ALL

 A tear a year My pale desire requires, And that is all. Enlacements weary, passion tires, Kisses are cinder-ghosts of fires Smothered at birth with mortal earth; And that is all. 

 A year of fear My pallid soul desires And that is all-- Terror of bliss and dread of happiness, A subtle need of sorrow and distress And you to weep one tear, no more, no less, And that is all I ask-- And that is all. 

People were breathing thickly; the poet unaffectedly distilled thesuggested tear; it was a fat tear; it ran smoothly down his nose, twinkled, trembled, and fell. 

Aphrodite's features had become tense; she half rose, hesitated. Then, as the young man in the stock turned his invalid's eyes in her directionand began:

 Oh, sixteen tears In sixteen years----

she transfixed her hat with one nervous gesture sprang to her feet, turned, and vanished through the door. 

"She is too young to endure it, " sobbed the by-product to her of thesketchy face. And that was no idle epigram, either. 

 [Illustration]

XIV

 [Illustration]

She had no definite idea; all she craved for was the open--or itsmetropolitan substitute--sunshine, air, the glimpse of sanelypreoccupied faces, the dull, quickening tumult of traffic. The tumultgrew, increasing in her ears as she crossed Washington Square under thesycamores and looked up through tender feathery foliage at the whitearch of marble through which the noble avenue flows away between itssplendid arid chasms of marble, bronze, and masonry to that blessedleafy oasis in the north--the Park. 

She took an omnibus, impatient for the green rambles of the onlybreathing-place she knew of, and settled back in her seat, rebellious ofeye, sullen of mouth, scarcely noticing the amused expression of theyoung man opposite. 

Two passengers left at Twenty-third Street, three at Thirty-fourthStreet, and seven at Forty-second Street. 

Preoccupied, she glanced up at the only passenger remaining, caught thefleeting shadow of interest on his face, regarded him with naturalindifference, and looked out of the window, forgetting him. A fewmoments later, accidentally aware of him again, she carelessly noted hissuperficially attractive qualities, and, approving, resumed her idleinspection of the passing throng. But the next time her pretty headswung round she found him looking rather fixedly at her, andinvoluntarily she returned the gaze with a childlike directness--a gazewhich he sustained to the limit of good breeding, then evaded so amiablythat it left an impression rather agreeable than otherwise. 

"I don't see, " thought Aphrodite, "why I never meet that sort of man. He hasn't art nouveau legs, and his features are not by-products of hishair. .. . I have told my brothers-in-law that I am old enough to go outwithout coming out. .. . And I am. "

The lovely mouth grew sullen again: "I don't wish to wait two years andbe what dreadful newspapers call a 'bud'! I wish to go to dinners anddances _now_!. .. Where I'll meet that sort of man. .. . The sort one feelsalmost at liberty to talk to without anybody presenting anybody. .. . I'vea mind to look amiable the next time he----"

He raised his eyes at that instant; but she did not smile. 

"I--I suppose that is the effect of civilization on me, " shereflected--"metropolitan civilization. I felt like saying, 'Forgoodness' sake, let's say something'--even in spite of all my sistershave told me. I can't see why it would be dangerous for me to _look_amiable. If he glances at me again--so agreeably----"

He did; but she didn't smile. 

"You see!" she said, accusing herself discontentedly; "you don't darelook human. Why? Because you've had it so drummed into you that you cannever, never again do anything natural. Why? Oh, because they all beginto talk about mysterious dangers when you say you wish to be natural. .. . I've made up my mind to look interested the next time he turns. .. . Whyshouldn't he see that I'm quite willing to talk to him?. .. And I'm sotired of looking out of the window. .. . Before I came to this curiouscity I was never afraid to speak to anybody who attracted me. .. . And I'mnot now. .. . So if he does look at me----"

He did. 

The faintest glimmer of a smile troubled her lips. She thought: "I _do_wish he'd speak!"

There was a very becoming color in his face, partly because he wasexperienced enough not to mistake her; partly from a sudden and completerealization of her beauty. 

"It's so odd, " thought Aphrodite, "that attractive people consider itdangerous to speak to one another. I don't see any danger. .. . I wonderwhat he has in that square box beside him? It can't be a camera. .. . It_can't_ be a folding easel! It simply _can't_ be that _he_ is an artist!a man like that----"

"_Are_ you?" she asked quite involuntarily. 

"What?" he replied, astonished, wheeling around. 

"An--an artist. I can't believe it, and I don't wish to! You don't lookit, you know!"

For a moment he could scarcely realize that she had spoken; his keengaze dissected the face before him, the unembarrassed eyes, the ovalcontour, the smooth, flawless loveliness of a child. 

"Yes, I am an artist, " he said, considering her curiously. 

"I am sorry, " she said, "no, not sorry--only unpleasantly surprised. Yousee I am so tired of art--and I thought you looked so--so wholesome----"

He began to laugh--a modulated laugh--rather infectious, too, forAphrodite bit her lip, then smiled, not exactly understanding it all. 

"Why do you laugh?" she asked, still smiling. "Have I said something Ishould not have said?"

But he replied with a question: "Have you found art unwholesome?"

"I--I don't know, " she answered with a little sigh; "I am so tired of itall. Don't let us talk about it--will you?"

"It isn't often I talk about it, " he said, laughing again. 

"Oh! That is unusual. Why don't you talk about art?"

"I'm much too busy. "

"D--doing what? If that is not _very_ impertinent. "

"Oh, making pictures of things, " he said, intensely amused. 

"Pictures? You don't talk about art, and you paint pictures!"

"Yes. "

"W--what kind? Do you mind my asking? You are so--so very unusual. "

"Well, to earn my living, I make full-page pictures for magazines; tosatisfy an absurd desire, I paint people--things--anything that mightsatisfy my color senses. " He shrugged his shoulders gaily. "You see, I'mthe sort you are so tired of----"

"But you _paint_! The artists I know don't paint--except _that_ way--"She raised her pretty gloved thumb and made a gesture in the air; and, before she had achieved it, they were both convulsed with laughter. 

"You never do that, do you?" she asked at length. 

"No, I never do. I can't afford to decorate the atmosphere for nothing!"

"Then--then you are not interested in art nouveau?"

"No; and I never could see that beautiful music resembled frozenarchitecture. "

They were laughing again, looking with confidence and delight upon oneanother as though they had started life's journey together in thatancient omnibus. 

"_What_ is a 'necklace of precious tones'?" she asked. 

"Precious stones?"

"No, _tones_!"

"Let me cite, as an example, those beautiful verses of Henry Haynes, "he replied gravely. 

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

 I'd rather be a Could Be, If I can not be an Are; For a Could Be is a May Be, With a chance of touching par. 

 I had rather be a Has Been Than a Might Have Been, by far; For a Might Be is a Hasn't Been But a Has was _once_ an Are!

 Also an Are is Is and Am; A Was _was_ all of these; So I'd rather be a Has Been Than a Hasn't, if you please. 

And they fell a-laughing so shamelessly that the 'bus driver turned andsquinted through his shutter at them, and the scandalized horses stoppedof their own accord. 

"Are you going to leave?" he asked as she rose. 

"Yes; this is the Park, " she said. "Thank you, and good-by. "

He held the door for her; she nodded her thanks and descended, turningfrankly to smile again in acknowledgment of his quickly lifted hat. 

"He _was_ nice, " she reflected a trifle guiltily, "and I had a goodtime, and I really don't see any danger in it. "

 [Illustration]

XV

 [Illustration]

She drew a deep, sweet breath as she entered the leafy shade and lookedup into the bluest of cloudless skies. Odors of syringa and lilacfreshened her, cleansing her of the last lingering taint of joss-sticks. The cardinal birds were very busy in the scarlet masses of Japanesequince; orioles fluttered among golden Forsythia; here and there anexotic starling preened and peered at the burnished purple grackle, stalking solemnly through the tender grass. 

For an hour she walked vigorously, enchanted with the sun and sky andliving green, through arbors heavy with wistaria, iris hued and scented, through rambles under tall elms tufted with new leaves, past fountainssplashing over, past lakes where water-fowl floated or stretchedbrilliant wings in the late afternoon sunlight. At times the summer windblew her hair, and she lifted her lips to it, caressing it with everyfiber of her; at times she walked pensively, wondering why she had beenforbidden the Park unless accompanied. 

"More danger, I suppose, " she thought impatiently. .. . "Well, what isthis danger that seems to travel like one's shadow, dogging a girlthrough the world? It seems to me that if all the pleasant things oflife are so full of danger I'd better find out what it is. .. . I might aswell look for it so that I'll recognize it when I encounter it. .. . Andlearn to keep away. "

She scanned the flowery thickets attentively, looked behind her, thenwalked on. 

"If it's robbers they mean, " she reflected, "I'm a good wrestler, and Ican make any one of my four brothers-in-law look foolish. .. . Besides, the Park is full of fat policemen. .. . And if they mean I'm likely to getlost, or run over, or arrested, or poisoned with soda-water andbonbons--" She laughed to herself, swinging on in her free-limbed, wholesome beauty, scarcely noticing a man ahead, occupying a bench halfhidden under the maple's foliage. 

"So I'll just look about for this danger they are all afraid of, andwhen I see it, I'll know what to do, " she concluded, paying not theslightest heed to the man on the bench until he rose, as she passed him, and took off his hat. 

"You!" she exclaimed. 

She had stopped short, confronting him with the fearless and charmingdirectness natural to her. "What an amusing accident, " she said frankly. 

"The truth is, " he began, "it is not exactly an accident. "

"Isn't it?"

"N--no. .. . Are you offended?"

"Offended? No. Should I be? Why?. .. Besides, I suppose when we havefinished this conversation you are going the _other_ way. "

"I--no, I wasn't. "

"Oh! Then you are going to sit here?"

"Y--yes--I suppose so. .. . But I don't want to. "

"Then why do you?"

"Well, if I'm not going the _other_ way, and if I'm not going to remainhere--" He looked at her, half laughing. She laughed, too, not exactlyknowing why. 

"Don't you really mind my walking a little way with you?" he asked. 

"No, I don't. Why should I? Is there any reason? Am I not old enough toknow why we should not walk together? Is it because the sun is goingdown? Is there what people call 'danger'?"

He was so plainly taken aback that her fair young face became seriouslycurious. 

"_Is_ there any reason why you should not walk with me?" she persisted. 

The clear, direct gaze challenged him. He hesitated. 

"Yes, there is, " he said. 

"A--a reason why you should not walk with me?"

"Yes. "

"What is it?"

And, as he did not find words to answer, she studied him for a moment, glanced up and down the woodland walk, then impulsively seated herselfand motioned him to a place beside her on the bench. 

"Now, " she said, "I'm in a position to find out just what this danger isthat they all warn me about. _You_ know, don't you?"

"Know what?" he answered. 

"About the danger that I seem to run every time I manage to enjoymyself. .. . And you _do_ know; I see it by the way you look at me--andyour expression is just like their expression when they tell me not todo things I find most natural. "

"But--I--you----"

"You _must_ tell me! I shall be thoroughly vexed with you if you don't. "

Then he began to laugh, and she let him, leaning back to watch him withuncertain and speculative blue eyes. After a moment he said:

"You are absolutely unlike any girl I ever heard of. I am trying to getused to it--to adjust things. Will you help me?"

"How?" she asked innocently. 

"Well, by telling me"--he looked at her a moment--"your age. You lookabout nineteen. "

"I am sixteen and a half. I and all my sisters have developed our bodiesso perfectly because, until we came to New York last autumn, we hadlived all our lives out-of-doors. " She looked at him with a friendlysmile. "Would you really like to know about us?"

"Intensely. "

"Well, there are eight of us: Chlorippe, thirteen; Philodice, fourteen;Dione, fifteen; Aphrodite, sixteen--I am Aphrodite; Cybele, seventeen, married; Lissa, eighteen, married; Iole, nineteen, married, and Vanessa, twenty, married. " She raised one small, gloved finger to emphasize thenarrative. "All our lives we were brought up to be perfectly natural, tolive, act, eat, sleep, play like primitive people. Our father dressed uslike youths--boys, you know. Why, " she said earnestly, "until we came toNew York we had no idea that girls wore such lovely, fluffyunderwear--but I believe I am not to mention such things; at least theyhave told me not to--but my straight front is still a novelty to me, andso are my stockings, so you won't mind if I've said something Ishouldn't, will you?"

"No, " he said; his face was expressionless. 

"Then _that's_ all right. So you see how it is; we don't quite know whatwe may do in this city. At first we were delighted to see so manyattractive men, and we wanted to speak to some of them who seemed towant to speak to us, but my father put a stop to that--but it's absurdto think all those men might be robbers, isn't it?"

"Very. " There was not an atom of intelligence left in his face. 

"So _that's_ all right, then. Let me see, what was I saying? Oh, yes, I know! So four of my sisters were married, and we four remaining arebeing civilized. .. . But, oh--I wish I could be in the country for alittle while! I'm so homesick for the meadows and brooks and my pajamasand my bare feet in sandals again. .. . And people seem to know so littlein New York, and nobody understands us when we make little jests inGreek, or Latin, or Arabic, and nobody seems to have been very welleducated and accomplished, so we feel strange at times. "

"D--d--do you _do_ all those things?"

"What things?"

"M--make jests in Arabic?"

"Why, yes. Don't you?"

"No. What else do you do?"

"Why, not many things. "

"Music?"

"Oh, of course. "

"Piano?"

"Yes, piano, violin, harp, guitar, zither--all that sort of thing. .. . Don't you?"

"No. What else?"

"Why--just various things, ride, swim, fence, box--I box prettywell--all those things----"

"Science, too?"

"Rudiments. Of course I couldn't, for example, discourse with authorityupon the heteropterous mictidæ or tell you in what genus or genera theprothorax and femora are digitate; or whether climatic and polymorphicforms of certain diurnal lepidoptera occur within certain boreal limits. I have only a vague and superficial knowledge of any science, you see. "

"I see, " he said gravely. 

She leaned forward thoughtfully, her pretty hands loosely interlacedupon her knee. 

"Now, " she said, "tell me about this danger that such a girl as I mustguard against. "

"There is no danger, " he said slowly. 

"But they told me----"

"Let them tell you what it is, then. "

"No; you tell me?"

"I can't. "

"Why?"

"Because--I simply can't. "

"Are you ashamed to?"

"Perhaps--" He lifted his boxed sketching-kit by the strap, swung it, then set it carefully upon the ground: "Perhaps it is because I amashamed to admit that there could be any danger to any woman in thisworld of men. "

She looked at him so seriously that he straightened up and began tolaugh. But she did not forget anything he had said, and she began herquestions at once:

"Why should you not walk with me?"

"I'll take that back, " he said, still laughing; "there is every reasonwhy I should walk with you. "

"Oh!. .. But you said----"

"All I meant was not for you, but for the ordinary sort of girl. Now, the ordinary, every-day, garden girl does not concern you----"

"Yes, she does! Why am I not like her?"

"Don't attempt to be----"

"_Am_ I different--very different?"

"Superbly different!" The flush came to his face with the impulsivewords. 

She considered him in silence, then: "Should I have been offendedbecause you came into the Park to find me? And why did you? Do you findme interesting?"

"So interesting, " he said, "that I don't know what I shall do when yougo away. "

Another pause; she was deeply absorbed with her own thoughts. He watchedher, the color still in his face, and in his eyes a growing fascination. 

"I'm not out, " she said, resting her chin on one gloved hand, "so we'renot likely to meet at any of those jolly things you go to. What do youthink we'd better do?--because they've all warned me against doing justwhat you and I have done. "

"Speaking without knowing each other?" he asked guiltily. 

"Yes. .. . But I did it first to you. Still, when I tell them about it, they won't let you come to visit me. I tried it once. I was in a car, and such an attractive man looked at me as though he wanted to speak, and so when I got out of the car he got out, and I thought he seemedrather timid, so I asked him where Tiffany's was. I really didn't know, either. So we had such a jolly walk together up Fifth Avenue, and when Isaid good-by he was so anxious to see me again, and I told him where Ilived. But--do you know?--when I explained about it at home they actedso strangely, and they never would tell me whether or not he ever came. "

"Then you intend to tell them all about--_us_?"

"Of course. I've disobeyed them. "

"And--and I am never to see you again?"

"Oh, I'm very disobedient, " she said innocently. "If I wanted to see youI'd do it. "

"But _do_ you?"

"I--I am not sure. Do you want to see me?"

His answer was stammered and almost incoherent. That, and the color inhis face and the _something_ in his eyes, interested her. 

"Do you really find me so attractive?" she asked, looking him directlyin the eyes. "You must answer me quickly; see how dark it is growing!I must go. Tell me, do you like me?"

"I never cared so much for--for any woman----. "

She dimpled with delight and lay back regarding him under level, unembarrassed brows. 

"That is very pleasant, " she said. "I've often wished that a man--ofyour kind--would say that to me. I do wish we could be together a greatdeal, because you like me so much already and I truly do find youagreeable. .. . Say it to me again--about how much you like me. "

"I--I--there is no woman--none I ever saw so--so interesting. .. . I meanmore than that. "

"Say it then. "

"Say what I mean?"

"Yes. "

"I am afraid----"

"Afraid? Of what?"

"Of offending you----"

"Is it an offense to me to tell me how much you like me? _How_ can itoffend me?"

"But--it is incredible! You won't believe----"

"Believe what?"

"That in so short a time I--I could care for you so much----"

"But I shall believe you. I know how I feel toward you. And every timeyou speak to me I feel more so. "

"Feel more so?" he stammered. 

"Yes, I experience more delight in what you say. Do you think I aminsensible to the way you look at me?"

"You--you mean--" He simply could not find words. 

She leaned back, watching him with sweet composure; then laughed alittle and said: "Do you suppose that you and I are going to fall inlove with one another?"

In the purpling dusk the perfume of wistaria grew sweeter and sweeter. 

"I've done it already--" His voice shook and failed; a thrush, invisiblein shadowy depths, made soft, low sounds. 

"You _love_ me--already?" she exclaimed under her breath. 

"Love you! I--I--there are no words--" The thrush stirred the sprayedfoliage and called once, then again, restless for the moon. 

Her eyes wandered over him thoughtfully: "So _that_ is love. .. . I didn'tknow. .. . I supposed it could be nothing pleasanter than friendship, although they say it is. .. . But how could it be? There is nothingpleasanter than friendship. .. . I am perfectly delighted that you loveme. Shall we marry some day, do you think?"

He strove to speak, but her frankness stunned him. 

"I meant to tell you that I am engaged, " she observed. "Does thatmatter?"

"Engaged!" He found his tongue quickly enough then; and she, surprised, interested, and in nowise dissenting, listened to his eloquent viewsupon the matter of Mr. Frawley, whom she, during the lucid intervals ofhis silence, curtly described. 

"Do you know, " she said with great relief, "that I always felt that wayabout love, because I never knew anything about it except from thesymptoms of Mr. Frawley? So when they told me that love and friendshipwere different, I supposed it must be so, and I had no high opinion oflove . .. Until you made it so agreeable. Now I--I prefer it to anythingelse. .. . I could sit here with you all day, listening to you. Tell mesome more. "

XVI

 [Illustration]

He did. She listened, sometimes intently interested, absorbed, sometimesleaning back dreamily, her eyes partly veiled under silken lashes, hermouth curved with the vaguest of smiles. 

He spoke as a man who awakes with a start--not very clearly at first, then with feverish coherence, at times with recklessness almosteloquent. Still only half awakened himself, still scarcely convinced, scarcely credulous that this miracle of an hour had been wrought in him, here under the sky and setting sun and new-born leaves, he spoke notonly to her but of her to himself, formulating in words the rhythm hispulses were beating, interpreting this surging tide which thundered inhis heart, clamoring out the fact--the fact--the fact that heloved!--that love was on him like the grip of Fate--on him so suddenly, so surely, so inexorably, that, stricken as he was, the clutch onlyamazed and numbed him. 

He spoke, striving to teach himself that the incredible was credible, the impossible possible--that it was done! done! done! and that he loveda woman in an hour because, in an hour, he had read her innocence as onereads through crystal, and his eyes were opened for the first time uponloveliness unspoiled, sweetness untainted, truth uncompromised. 

"Do you know, " she said, "that, as you speak, you make me care for youso much more than I supposed a girl could care for a man?"

"Can you love me?"

"Oh, I do already! I don't mean mere love. It is something--_something_that I never knew about before. _Every_thing about you is so--so exactlywhat I care for--your voice, your head, the way you think, the way youlook at me. I never thought of men as I am thinking about you. .. . I wantyou to belong to me--all alone. .. . I want to see how you look when youare angry, or worried, or tired. I want you to think of me when you areperplexed and unhappy and ill. Will you? You _must_! There is nobodyelse, is there? If you do truly love me?"

"Nobody but you. "

"That is what I desire. .. . I want to live with you--I promise I won'ttalk about art--even _your_ art, which I might learn to care for. All Iwant is to really live and have your troubles to meet and overcome thembecause I will not permit anything to harm you. .. . I will love youenough for that. .. . I--do you love other women?"

"Good God, no!"

"And you shall not!" She leaned closer, looking him through and through. "I _will_ be what you love! I will be what you desire most in all theworld. I _will_ be to you everything you wish, in every way, always, ever, and forever and ever. .. . Will you marry me?"

"Will _you_?"

"Yes. "

She suddenly stripped off her glove, wrenched a ring set with brilliantsfrom the third finger of her left hand, and, rising, threw it, straightas a young boy throws, far out into deepening twilight. It was the endof Mr. Frawley; he, too, had not only become a by-product but a good-byproduct. Yet his modest demands had merely required a tear a year!Perhaps he had not asked enough. Love pardons the selfish. 

She was laughing, a trifle excited, as she turned to face him where hehad risen. But, at the touch of his hand on hers, the laughter died at abreath, and she stood, her limp hand clasped in his, silent, expressionless, save for the tremor of her mouth. 

"I--I must go, " she said, shrinking from him. 

He did not understand, thrilled as he was by the contact, but he let hersoft hand fall away from his. 

Then with a half sob she caught her own fingers to her lips and kissedthem where the pressure of his hand burned her white flesh--kissed them, looking at him. 

"You--you find a child--you leave a woman, " she said unsteadily. "Do youunderstand how I love you--for that?"

He caught her in his arms. 

"No--not yet--not my mouth!" she pleaded, holding him back; "I love youtoo much--already _too_ much. Wait! Oh, _will_ you wait?. .. And let mewait--_make_ me wait?. .. I--I begin to understand some things I did notknow an hour ago. "

In the dusk he could scarcely see her as she swayed, yielding, her armstightening about his neck in the first kiss she had ever given orforgiven in all her life. 

And through the swimming tumult of their senses the thrush's song ranglike a cry. The moon had risen. 

 [Illustration]

XVII

 [Illustration]

Mounting the deadened stairway noiselessly to her sister's room, gropingfor the door in the dark of the landing, she called: "Iole!" And again:"Iole! Come to me! It is I!"

The door swung noiselessly; a dim form stole forward, wide-eyed andwhite in the electric light. 

Then down at her sister's feet dropped Aphrodite, and laid a burningface against her silken knees. And, "Oh, Iole, Iole, " she whispered, "Iole, Iole, Iole! There is danger, as you say--there is, and Iunderstand it . .. Now. .. . But I love him so--I--I have been so happy--sohappy! Tell me what I have done . .. And how wrong it is! Oh, Iole, Iole!What have I done!"

"Done, child! What in the name of all the gods have you done?"

"Loved him--in the names of all the gods! Oh, Iole! Iole! Iole!"

"----The thrush singing in darkness; the voice of spring calling, calling me to his arms! Oh, Iole, Iole!--these, and my soul and his, alone under the pagan moon! alone, save for the old gods whispering inthe dusk----"

"----And listening, I heard the feathery tattoo of wings close by--thewings of Eros all aquiver like a soft moth trembling ere it flies! Perildivine! I understood it then. And, stirring in darkness, sweet as themelody of unseen streams, I heard the old gods laughing. .. . _Then_ Iknew. "

"Is that all, little sister?"

"Almost all. "

"What more?"

And when, at length, the trembling tale was told, Iole caught her in herwhite arms, looked at her steadily, then kissed her again and again. 

"If he is all you say--this miracle--I--I think I can make themunderstand, " she whispered. "Where is he?"

"D-down-stairs--at b-bay! Hark! You can hear George swearing! Oh, Iole, don't let him!"

In the silence from the drawing-room below came the solid sobs of thepoet:

"P-pup! P-p-penniless pup!"

"He _must_ not say that!" cried Aphrodite fiercely. "Can't you makefather and George understand that he has nearly six hundred dollars inthe bank?"

"I will try, " said Iole tenderly. "Come!"

And with one arm around Aphrodite she descended the great stairway, where, on the lower landing, immensely interested, sat Chlorippe, Philodice and Dione, observant, fairly aquiver with intelligence. 

"Oh, that young man is catching it!" remarked Dione, looking up as Iolepassed, her arm close around her sister's waist. "George has said'dammit' seven times and father is rocking--not in a rocking-chair--justrocking and expressing his inmost thoughts. And Mr. Briggs pretends toscowl and mutters: 'Hook him over the ropes, George. 'E ain't got nofriends!' Take a peep, Iole. You can just see them if you lean over andhang on to the banisters----"

But Iole brushed by her younger sisters, Aphrodite close beside her, and, entering the great receiving-hall, stood still, her clear eyesfocused upon her husband's back. 

"George!"

Mr. Wayne stiffened and wheeled; Mr. Briggs sidled hastily toward thedoorway, crabwise; the poet choked back the word, "Phup!" and gazed athis tall daughter with apprehension and protruding lips. 

"Iole, " began Wayne, "this is no place for you! Aphrodite! let thatfellow alone, I say!"

Iole turned, following with calm eyes the progress of her sister towarda tall young man who stood by the window, a red flush staining hisstrained face. 

The tense muscles in jaw and cheek relaxed as Aphrodite laid one hand onhis arm; the poet, whose pursed lips were overloaded, expelled apassionate "Phupp!" and the young man's eyes narrowed again at the shot. 

Then silence lengthened to a waiting menace, and even the three sisterson the stairs succumbed to the oppressive stillness. And all the whileIole stood like a white Greek goddess under the glory of her hair, looking full into the eyes of the tall stranger. 

A minute passed; a glimmer dawned to a smile and trembled in the azureof Iole's eyes; she slowly lifted her arms, white hands outstretched, looking steadily at the stranger. 

He came, tense, erect; Iole's cool hands dropped in his. And, turning tothe others with a light on her face that almost blinded him, she said, laughing: "Do you not understand? Aphrodite brings us the rarest gift inthe world in this tall young brother! Look! Touch him! We have neverseen his like before for all the wisdom of wise years. For he is one offew--and men are many, and artists legion--this honorable miracle, thissane and wholesome wonder! this trinity, Lover, Artist, and Man!"

And, turning again, she looked him wistfully, wonderingly, in the eyes. 

THE END

 * * * * * * * * *

Errata (noted by transcriber)

The variation between single and double quotes for nested quotationsis unchanged. 

 so many agreeable-looking men. " [_internal close quote missing_] sounded a staccato monotone [stacatto] for understanding me. " [me. '"] She leaned forward thoughtfully [foward]