[Illustration: AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS FROM THE PAINTING BY ELLEN EMMET

 _Copyright, 1908, by Ellen Emmet_]

 McCLURE'S MAGAZINE

 VOL. XXXI JUNE, 1908 No. 2

 MY FIRST APPEARANCE IN AMERICA THE DECREE MADE ABSOLUTE PRESIDENT JOHNSON AND HIS WAR ON CONGRESS THE CRYSTAL-GAZER BOB, DÉBUTANT TWO PORTRAITS BY GILBERT STUART MARY BAKER G. EDDY HER FRUITS THE KEY TO THE DOOR THE WAYFARERS THE PROBLEMS OF SUICIDE PRAIRIE DAWN THE DOINGS OF THE DEVIL YOUNG HENRY AND THE OLD MAN EDITORIAL

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 Transcriber's Note: The Table of Contents was added by the transcriber. 

 * * * * *

MY FIRST APPEARANCE IN AMERICA[1]

BY

ELLEN TERRY

The first time that there was any talk of my going to America was, Ithink, in 1874, when I was playing in "The Wandering Heir. " DionBoucicault wanted me to go, and dazzled me with figures, but I expectthe cautious Charles Reade influenced me against accepting theengagement. 

When I did go, in 1883, I was thirty-five and had an assured position inmy profession. It was the first of eight tours, seven of which I wentwith Henry Irving. The last was in 1907, after his death. I also went toAmerica one summer on a pleasure trip. The tours lasted three months atleast, seven months at most. After a rough calculation, I find that Ihave spent not quite five years of my life in America. Five out of sixtyis not a large proportion, yet I often feel that I am half American. This says a good deal for the hospitality of a people who can make astranger feel so completely at home in their midst. Perhaps it also sayssomething for my adaptableness!

"When we do not speak of things with a partiality full of love, what wesay is not worth being repeated. " That was the answer of a courteousFrenchman, who was asked for his impressions of a country. In any caseit is almost imprudent to give one's impressions of America. The countryis so vast and complex that even those who have amassed mountains ofimpressions soon find that there still are mountains more. I have livedin New York, Boston, and Chicago for a month at a time, and have feltthat to know any of these great towns even superficially would take ayear. I have become acquainted with this and that class of Americans, but I realize that there are thousands of other classes that remainunknown. 

[Illustration: _Copyrighted by Window & Grove From the collections ofMiss Frances Johnson and Mrs. Evelyn Smalley_

ELLEN TERRY OPHELIA, AND HENRIETTA MARIA, THREE PARTS WHICH SHE PLAYEDON THE FIRST AMERICAN TOUR]

_The Unknown Dangers of America_

I set out in 1883 from Liverpool on board the "Britannic" with the fixedconviction that I should never, never return. For six weeks before westarted the word America had only to be breathed to me, and I burst intofloods of tears! I was leaving my children, my bullfinch, my parrot, my"aunt" Boo, whom I never expected to see again alive, just because shesaid I never would, and I was going to face the unknown dangers of theAtlantic and of a strange, barbarous land. Our farewell performances inLondon had cheered me up a little--though I wept copiously at everyone--by showing us that we should be missed. Henry Irving's positionseemed to be confirmed and ratified by all that took place before hisdeparture. The dinners he had to eat, the speeches he had to make and tolisten to, were really terrific! One speech at the Rabelais Club had, itwas said, the longest peroration on record. It was this kind of thing:"Where is our friend Irving going? He is not going like Nares to facethe perils of the far North. He is not going like A---- to facesomething else. He is not going to China, " etc. --and so on. After aboutthe hundredth "he is not going, " Lord Houghton, who was one of theguests, grew very impatient and interrupted the orator with: "Of coursehe isn't! He's going to New York by the Cunard Line. It'll take himabout a week!"

_New York Before the "Sky-scrapers"_

My first voyage was a voyage of enchantment to me. The ship was ladenwith pig-iron, but she rolled and rolled and rolled. She could neverroll too much for me. I have always been a splendid sailor, and I feeljolly at sea. The sudden leap from home into the wilderness of wavesdoes not give me any sensation of melancholy. 

What I thought I was going to see when I arrived in America, I hardlyremember. I had a vague idea that all American women wore red flannelshirts and bowie knives and that I might be sandbagged in the street!From somewhere or other I had derived an impression that New York was anugly, noisy place. 

Ugly! When I first saw that marvellous harbour I nearly cried--it was sobeautiful. Whenever I come now to the unequalled approach to New York Iwonder what Americans must think of the approach from the sea to London. How different are the mean, flat, marshy banks of the Thames, and thewooden toy light-house at Dungeness, to the vast, spreading harbour, with its busy multitude of steam boats and ferry boats, its wharf uponwharf, and its tall statue of Liberty dominating all the racket andbustle of the sea traffic of the world!

That was one of the few times in America when I did not miss the poetryof the past. The poetry of the present, gigantic, colossal, andenormous, made me forget it. The "sky-scrapers, " so splendid in thelandscape now, did not exist in 1883; but I find it difficult to dividemy early impressions from my later ones. There was Brooklyn Bridge, though, hung up high in the air like a vast spider's web. Between 1883and 1893 I noticed a great change in New York and other cities. In tenyears they seemed to have grown with the energy of tropical plants. Butbetween 1893 and 1907 I saw no evidence of such feverish increase. It ispossible that the Americans are arriving at a stage when they can nolonger beat the record! There is a vast difference between one of theold New York brownstone houses and one of the fourteen-storied buildingsnear the river, but between this and the Times Square Building or thestill more amazing Flatiron Building, which is said to oscillate at thetop--it is so far from the ground--there is very little difference. Ihear that they are now beginning to build downwards into the earth, butthis will not change the appearance of New York for a long time. 

[Illustration: _From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley_

HENRY IRVING AS MATHIAS IN "THE BELLS"

THE PART IN WHICH IRVING MADE HIS FIRST APPEARANCE IN AMERICA]

I had not to endure the wooden shed in which most people landing inAmerica have to struggle with the custom-house officials--a struggle asbrutal as a "round in the ring" as Paul Bourget describes it. We weretaken off the "Britannic" in a tug, and Mr. Abbey, Lawrence Barrett, andmany other friends met us--including the much-dreaded reporters. 

[Illustration: _Lent by The Century Co. _

THE REJECTED DESIGN FOR A COLUMBIAN MEDAL MADE BY AUGUSTUSSAINT-GAUDENS]

When we landed, I drove to the Hotel Dam, Henry to the Brevoort House. There was no Diana on the top of the Madison Square Building then--thebuilding did not exist, to cheer the heart of a new arrival as the firstevidence of _beauty_ in the city. There were horse trams instead ofcable cars; but a quarter of a century has not altered the peculiarlydilapidated carriages in which one drives from the dock, the muddysidewalks, and the cavernous holes in the cobble-paved streets. Had theelevated railway, the first sign of _power_ that one notices afterleaving the boat, begun to thunder through the streets? I cannotremember New York without it. 

[Illustration: _Lent by The Century Co. _

THE BAS-RELIEF PORTRAIT OF BASTIEN-LEPAGE MODELED BY AUGUSTUSSAINT-GAUDENS. SAINT-GAUDENS GAVE A CAST OF THE PORTRAIT TO MISS TERRY]

I missed then, as I miss now, the numberless _hansoms_ of London plyingin the streets for hire. People in New York get about in the cars, unless they have their own carriages. The hired carriage has no reasonfor existing, and when it does, it celebrates its unique position bycharging two dollars for a journey which in London would not cost fiftycents!

[Illustration: THE BAS-RELIEF PORTRAIT OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON MODELEDBY AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS FOR THE ST. GILES CATHEDRAL, EDINBURGH. SAINT-GAUDENS GAVE A CAST OF THIS PORTRAIT TO MISS TERRY'S DAUGHTER, EDITH CRAIG]

_Irving Brings Shakespeare to America_

There were very few theatres in New York when we first went there. Allthat part of the city which is now "up town" did not exist, and what wasthen "up" is now more than "down" town. The American stage has changedalmost as much. Even then there was a liking for local plays whichshowed the peculiarities of the different States, but they were moreviolent and crude than now. The original American genius and the truedramatic pleasure of the people is, I believe, in such plays, where verycomplete observation of certain phases of American life and very realpictures of manners are combined with comedy almost childlike in itsnaïveté. The sovereignty of the young girl which is such a markedfeature in social life is reflected in American plays. This is by theway. What I want to make clear is that in 1883 there was no livingAmerican drama as there is now, that such productions of romantic playsand Shakespeare as Henry Irving brought over from England, were unknown, and that the extraordinary success of our first tours would beimpossible now. We were the first, and we were pioneers and we were_new_. To be new is everything in America. Such palaces as the HudsonTheatre, New York, were not dreamed of when we were at the Star, whichwas, however, quite equal to any theatre in London, in front of thefootlights. The stage itself, the lighting appliances, and thedressing-rooms were inferior. 

[Illustration: HENRY IRVING AS HAMLET

FROM THE STATUE BY E. ONSLOW FORD, R. A. , IN THE GUILDHALL OF THE CITY OFLONDON]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS IMOGEN

DRAWN BY ALMA-TADEMA FOR MISS TERRY'S JUBILEE IN 1906]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS PORTIA

FROM THE PAINTING BY SIR JOHN MILLAIS, R. A. ]

_Our First Appearance Before an American Audience_

Henry made his first appearance in America in "The Bells. " He was not athis best on the first night, but he could be pretty good even when hewas not at his best. I watched him from a box. Nervousness made thecompany very slow. The audience was a splendid one--discriminating andappreciative. We felt that the Americans _wanted_ to like us. We felt ina few days so extraordinarily at home. The first sensation of entering aforeign city was quickly wiped out. 

[Illustration: WILLIAM WINTER--

ONE OF THE FIRST CRITICS TO WELCOME IRVING TO THIS COUNTRY]

On the second night in New York it was my turn. "Command yourself--thisis the time to show you can act!" I said to myself as I went on thestage of the Star Theatre, dressed as Henrietta Maria. But I could notcommand myself. I played badly and cried too much in the last act. Butthe people liked me, and they liked the play, perhaps because it washistorical, and of history the Americans are passionately fond. Theaudience took many points which had been ignored in London. I had alwaysthought Henry as Charles I. Most moving when he made that involuntaryeffort to kneel to his subject, Moray, but the Lyceum audiences neverseemed to notice it. In New York the audience burst out into the mostsympathetic, spontaneous applause that I have ever heard in a theatre. 

_American Clothes_

My impression of the way the American women dressed in 1883 was notfavourable. Some of them wore Indian shawls and diamond ear-rings. Theydressed too grandly in the street and too dowdily in the theatre. Allthis has changed. The stores in New York are now the most beautiful inthe world, and the women are dressed to perfection. They are as cleverat the _demi-toilette_ as the Parisian, and the extreme neatness andsmartness of their walking gowns is very refreshing after the floppy, blowsy, trailing dresses, accompanied by the inevitable feather boa, ofwhich English girls, who used to be so tidy and "tailor-made, " now seemso fond. The universal white "waist" is so pretty and trim on theAmerican girl. It is one of the distinguishing marks of a land of thefree, a land where "class" hardly exists. The girl in the store wearsthe white waist; so does the rich girl on Fifth Avenue. It costsanything from seventy-five cents to fifty dollars!

London, when I come back from America, always seems at first like anill-lighted village, strangely tame, peaceful, and backward. Above all, I miss the sunlight of America, and the clear blue skies of an evening. 

"Are you glad to get back?" said an English friend. 

"Very. "

"It's a land of vulgarity, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, if you mean by that a wonderful land--a land of sunshine andlight, of happiness, of faith in the future!" I answered. I saw nomisery or poverty there. Everyone looked happy. What hurts me on comingback to England is the _hopeless_ look on so many faces; the dejectionand apathy of the people standing about in the streets. Of course thereis poverty in New York, but not among the Americans. The Italians, theRussians, the Poles--all the host of immigrants washed in daily acrossthe harbour--these are poor, but you don't see them unless you go Boweryways and even then you can't help feeling that in their sufferings thereis always hope. Vulgarity? I saw little of it. I thought that the peoplewho had amassed large fortunes used their wealth beautifully. When a manis rich enough to build himself a big, new house, he remembers some oldhouse which he once admired, and he has it imitated with all thetechnical skill and care that can be had in America. This accounts forthe odd jumble of styles in Fifth Avenue, along the lake-side inChicago, in the new avenues in St. Louis and elsewhere. Onemillionaire's house is modelled on a French château, another on an oldColonial house in Virginia, another on a monastery in Mexico, another islike an Italian _palazzo_. And their imitations are never weak orpretentious. The architects in America seem to me to be far more ablethan ours, or else they have a freer hand and more money. 

_The Work of Augustus Saint-Gaudens_

It is sad to remember that Mr. Stanford White was one of the best ofthese splendid architects. It was Stanford White with Saint-Gaudens, that great sculptor, whose work dignifies nearly all the great cities inAmerica, who had most to do with the Exhibition buildings of the World'sFair in Chicago in 1893. It was odd to see that fair dream city risingout of the lake, so far more beautiful in its fleeting loveliness thanthe Chicago of the stock-yards and the pit which had provided the moneyfor its beauty. The millionaires did not interfere with the artists atall. They gave their thousands--and stood aside. The result was one ofthe loveliest things conceivable. Saint-Gaudens and the rest did theirwork as well as though the buildings were to endure for centuriesinstead of being burned in a year to save the trouble of pulling down!The World's Fair recalled to me the story of how Michelangelo carved afigure in snow which, says the chronicler Vasari who saw it, "wassuperb. "

Saint-Gaudens gave me a cast of his medallion of Bastien-Lepage, andwrote to a friend of mine: "Bastien had '_le coeur au métier_. ' So hasMiss Terry, and I will place that saying in the frame that is to replacethe present unsatisfactory one. " He was very fastidious about this frameand took such a lot of trouble to get it right. 

It must have been very irritating to Saint-Gaudens when he fell a victimto that extraordinary official Puritanism which sometimes exercises apetty censorship over works of art in America. The medal that he madefor the World's Fair was rejected at Washington because it had on it abeautiful little nude figure of a boy--holding an olivebranch--emblematical of young America. I think a commonplace wreath andsome lettering were substituted. 

Saint-Gaudens did the fine bas-relief of Robert Louis Stevenson whichwas chosen for the monument in St. Giles' Cathedral, Edinburgh. He gavemy daughter a medallion cast from this, because he knew that she was agreat lover of Stevenson. The bas-relief was dedicated to his friend, Joe Evans. I knew Saint-Gaudens first through Joe Evans, an artist who, while he lived, was to me and to my daughter the dearest of all inAmerica. His character was so fine and noble--his nature so perfect. Many were the birthday cards he did for me, original in design, beautiful in execution. Whatever he did, he put the best of himselfinto it. I wrote this in my diary the year he died:

 "I heard on Saturday that our dear Joe Evans is dangerously ill. Yesterday came the worst news. Joe was not happy, but he was just heroic, and this world wasn't half good enough for him. I wonder if he has gone to a better. I keep on getting letters about him. He seems to have been so glad to die. It was like a child's funeral, I am told, and all his American friends seem to have been there--Saint-Gaudens, Taber, etc. A poem about the dear fellow by Mr. Gilder has one very good line in which he says the grave 'might snatch a brightness from his presence there. ' I thought that was very happy, the love of light and gladness being the most remarkable thing about him, the dear sad Joe. "

_Robert Taber_

Robert Taber, dear, and rather sad too, was a great friend of Joe's. They both came to me first in the shape of a little book in which wasinscribed: "Never anything can be amiss when simpleness and duty tenderit. " "Upon this hint I spake, " the book began. It was all the work of afew boys and girls who from the gallery of the Star Theatre, New York, had watched Irving's productions and learned to love him and me. JoeEvans had done a lovely picture by way of frontispiece of a group ofeager heads hanging over the gallery's edge, his own and Taber's amongthem. Eventually Taber came to England and acted with Henry Irving in"Peter the Great" and other plays. 

Like his friend Joe, he too was heroic. His health was bad and his lifenone too happy--but he struggled on. His career was cut short byconsumption and he died in the Adirondacks in 1904. 

I cannot speak of all my friends in America, or anywhere, for the matterof that, _individually_. My personal friends are so many, and they are_all_ wonderful--wonderfully staunch to me! I have "tried" them so, andthey have never given me up as a bad job. 

_Dramatic Criticism in America_

William Winter, poet, critic, and exquisite man, was one of the first towrite of Henry with whole-hearted appreciation. But all the criticism inAmerica, favourable and unfavourable, surprised us by the scholarlyknowledge it displayed. In Chicago the notices were worthy of the_Temps_ or the _Journal des Débats_. There was no attempt to force thepersonality of the writer into the foreground nor to write a style thatwould attract attention to the critic and leave the thing criticised totake care of itself. William Winter and, of late years, Alan Dale havehad their personalities associated with their criticisms, but they areexceptions. Curiously enough, the art of acting appears to bore mostdramatic critics, the very people who might be expected to be interestedin it. The American critics, however, at the time of our early visits, were keenly interested, and showed it by their observation of manypoints which our English critics had passed over. For instance, writingof "Much Ado about Nothing, " one of the Americans said of Henry in theChurch Scene that "something of him as a subtle interpreter of doubtfulsituations was exquisitely shown in the early part of this fine scene byhis suspicion of Don John--felt by him alone, and expressed only by aquick covert look, but a look so full of intelligence as to proclaim hima sharer in the secret with his audience. "

"Wherein does the superiority lie?" wrote another critic in comparingour productions with those which had been seen in America up to 1884. "Not in the amount of money expended, but in the amount of brains; inthe artistic intelligence and careful and earnest pains with which everydetail is studied and worked out. Nor is there any reason why Mr. Irvingor any other foreigner should have a monopoly of either intelligence orpains. They are common property and one man's money can buy them as wellas another's. The defect in the American manager's policy heretofore hasbeen that he has squandered his money upon high salaries for a few ofhis actors; and in costly, because unintelligent, expenditure for meredazzle and show. "

_William Winter and His Children_

William Winter soon became a great personal friend of ours, and visitedus in England. He was one of the few _sad_ people I met in America. Hecould have sat upon the ground and "told sad stories of the deaths ofkings" with the best. In England he loved going to see graveyards, andknew where every poet was buried. He was very familiar with the poetryof the _immediate_ past--Cowper, Coleridge, Gray, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and the rest. He _liked_ us, so everything we did was right tohim. He could not help being guided entirely by his feelings. If hedisliked a thing, he had no use for it. Some men can say, "I hate thisplay, but of its kind it is admirable. " Willie Winter could never takethat unemotional point of view. 

His children came to stay with me in London. When we were all cominghome from the theatre one night after Faust (the year must have been1886), I said to little Willie:

"Well, what do you think of the play?"

"Oh my!" said he, "it takes the cake. "

"Takes the _cake_, " said his little sister scornfully. "It takes theice-cream!"

"Won't you give me a kiss?" said Henry to the same little girl onenight. 

"No, I _won't_, with all that blue stuff on your face. " (He was made upfor Mephistopheles. ) Then, after a pause, "But why--why don't you _take_it!" She was only five years old at the time!

_Discovering the Southern Darkey_

For quite a while during the first tour I stayed in Washington with myfriend, Miss Olive Seward, and all the servants of that delightfulhousehold were coloured. This was my first introduction to the negroes, whose presence in the country makes America seem more foreign thananything to European eyes. They are more sharply divided into high andlow types than white people, and are not in the least alike in theirtypes. It is safe to call any coloured man "George. " They all love it, perhaps because of George Washington; and most of them are really namedGeorge. I never met with such perfect service as they can give. _Some_of them are delightful. The beautiful, full voice of the "darkey" is soattractive--so soothing, and they are so deft and gentle. Some of thewomen are beautiful, and all the young appeared to me to be well-formed. As for the babies! I washed two or three little piccaninnies when I wasin the South, and the way they rolled their gorgeous eyes at me was "toocute, " which means, in British-English, "fascinating. "

At the Washington house, the servants danced a cake-walk for me--thecoloured cook, a magnificent type, who "took the cake, " saying, "Thatwas because I chose a good handsome boy to dance with, Missie. " Theysang, too. Their voices were beautiful--with such illimitable power, yetas sweet as treacle. 

The little page boy had a pet of a woolly head--Henry once gave him atip, a "fee, " in American-English, and said: "There, that's for a newwig when this one is worn out, " gently pulling the astrakhan-like hair. The tip would have bought him many wigs, I think!

"Why, Uncle Tom, how your face shines to-night!" said my hostess to oneof the very old servants. 

"Yes, Missie, glycerine and rose-water, Missie!"

He had taken some from her dressing-table to shine up his face in honourof me! A shiny complexion is considered to be a great beauty among theblacks. The dear old man! He was very bent and very old; and looked likeone of the logs that he used to bring in for the fire--a log from somehoary, lichened tree whose life was long since past. He would producepins from his head when you wanted one; he had them stuck in his pad ofwhite woolly hair. "Always handy then, Missie, " he would say. 

"Ask them to sing 'Sweet Violets, ' Uncle Tom. "

He was acting as a sort of master of the ceremonies at the entertainmentthe servants were giving me. 

"Don't think they know dat, Miss Olly. "

"Why I heard them singing it the other night!" And she hummed the tune. 

"Oh, dat was 'Sweet Vio-_letts_, ' Miss Olly!"

_American Women_

Washington was the first city I had seen in America where the people didnot hurry, and where the social life did not seem entirely the work ofwomen. The men asserted themselves here as something more than machinesin the background, untiringly turning out the dollars while their wivesand daughters give luncheons and teas at which only women are present. 

Beautifully as the women dress, they talk very little about clothes. Iwas much struck by their culture--by the evidence that they had read farmore and developed a more fastidious taste than most young Englishwomen. Yet it is all mixed up with extraordinary naïveté. Their vivacity, theappearance, at least, of _reality_, the animation, the energy ofAmerican women, delighted me. They are very sympathetic, too, in spiteof a certain callousness which comes of regarding everything in life, even love, as "lots of fun. " I did not think that they, or the meneither, had much natural sense of beauty. They admire beauty in acurious way through their intellect. Nearly every American girl has acast of the winged Victory of the Louvre in her room. She makes it apoint of her _education_ to admire it. 

There! I am beginning to generalize--the very thing I was resolute toavoid. How silly to generalize about a country which embraces suchextremes of climate as the sharp winters of Boston and New York, and thewarm winds of Florida which blow through palms and orange groves!

THE DECREE MADE ABSOLUTE

BY MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES

ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR G. DOVE

James Tapster was eating his solitary, well-cooked dinner in hiscomfortable and handsome house, a house situated in one of the half-moonterraces which line and frame the more aristocratic side of Regent'sPark, and which may, indeed, be said to have private grounds of theirown, for each resident enjoys the use of a key to a portion of the Parkentitled locally the "Inclosure. "

Very early in his life Mr. Tapster had made up his mind that he wouldlike to live in Cumberland Crescent, and now he was living there; veryearly in his life he had decided that no one could order a plain yetpalatable meal as well as he could himself, and now for some months pastMr. Tapster had given his own orders, each morning, to the cook. 

To-night Mr. Tapster had already eaten his fried sole, and was about tocut himself off a generous portion of the grilled undercut before him, when he heard the postman's steps hurrying around the Crescent. He rosewith a certain quick deliberateness, and, going out into the hall, opened the front door just in time to avoid the rat-tat-tat. Then, theone letter he had expected duly in his hand, he waited till he had satdown again in front of his still empty plate before he broke the sealand glanced over the type-written sheet of note-paper:

 SHORTERS COURT, THROGMORTON ST. November 4, 190-. 

 DEAR JAMES:

 In reply to your letter of yesterday's date, I have been to Bedford Row and seen Greenfield, and he thinks it probable that the Decree will be made Absolute to-day; in that case you will have received a wire before this letter reaches you. 

 Your affect' brother, WM. A. TAPSTER. 

In the same handwriting as the signature were added two holograph lines:"Glad you have the children home again. Maud will be round to see themsoon. "

Mr. Tapster read over once again the body of the letter, and there cameupon him an instinctive feeling of intense relief; then, with a not lessinstinctive feeling of impatience, his eyes traveled down again to thepostscript: "Maud will be round to see them soon. " Well, he would seeabout that! But he did not exclaim, even mentally, as most men feelingas he then felt would have done, "I'll be damned if she will!" knowingthe while that Maud certainly would. 

His brother's letter, though most satisfactory as regarded its mainpoint, put Mr. Tapster out of conceit with the rest of his dinner; so herang twice and had the table cleared, frowning at the parlor-maid as shehurried through her duties, and yet not daring to rebuke her for havingneglected to answer the bell the first time he rang. After a pause, herose and turned toward the door--but no, he could not face the large, cheerless drawing-room up-stairs; instead, he sat down by the fire, andset himself to consider his future and, in a more hazy sense, that ofhis now motherless children. 

But very soon, as generally happens to those who devote any time to thatleast profitable of occupations, Mr. Tapster found that his thoughtsdrifted aimlessly, not to the future where he would have them be, but tothe past--that past which he desired to forget, to obliterate from hismemory. 

Till rather more than a year ago few men of his age--he had then beensixty, he was now sixty-one--enjoyed a pleasanter and, from his ownpoint of view, a better filled life than James Tapster. How he hadscorned the gambler, the spendthrift, the adulterer--in a word, allthose whose actions bring about their own inevitable punishment! He hadalways been self-respecting and conscientious--not a prig, mind you, butinclined rather to the serious than to the flippant side of life; and, so inclining, he had found contentment and great material prosperity. 

Not even in those days to which he was now looking back so regretfullyhad Mr. Tapster always been perfectly content; but now the poor man, sitting alone by his dining-room fire, remembered only what had beengood and pleasant in his former state. He was aware that his brotherWilliam and William's wife, Maud, both thought that even now he had muchto be thankful for. His line of business was brisk, scarcely touched byforeign competition, his income increasing at a steady rate ofprogression, and his children were exceptionally healthy. But, alas! nowthat, in place of there being a pretty little Mrs. Tapster on whom tospend easily earned money, his substance was being squandered by a crowdof unmanageable and yet indispensable thieves, --for so Mr. Tapstervoicelessly described the five servants whose loud talk and laughterwere even now floating up from the basement below, --he did not feel hisfinancial stability so comfortable a thing as he had once done. His verychildren, who should now be, as he told himself complainingly, hisgreatest comfort, had degenerated from two sturdy, well-behaved littleboys and a charming baby girl into three unruly, fretful imps, settinghim at defiance, and terrorizing their two attendants, who, thoughcarefully chosen by their Aunt Maud, did not seem to manage them as wellas the old nurse who had been an ally of the ex-Mrs. Tapster. 

Looking back at the whole horrible affair--for so, in his own mind, Mr. Tapster justly designated the divorce case in which he had figured asthe successful petitioner--he wondered uneasily if he had done quitewisely--wisely, that is, for his own repute and comfort. 

He knew very well that had it not been for William, or rather, for Maud, he would never have found out the dreadful truth. Nay, more, he wasdimly aware that but for them, and for their insistence on it as theonly proper course open to him, he would never have taken action. Allwould have been forgiven and forgotten, had not William, and moreespecially Maud, said he must divorce Flossy, if not for his ownsake, --ah, what irony!--then for that of his children. 

Of course, he felt grateful to his brother William and to his brother'swife for all they had done for him since that sad time. Still, in thedepths of his heart, Mr. Tapster felt entitled to blame and sometimesalmost to hate his kind brother and sister. To them both, or rather, toMaud, he really owed the break-up of his life; for, when all was saidand done, it had to be admitted (though Maud did not like him to remindher of it), that Flossy had met the villain while staying with theWilliam Tapsters at Boulogne. Respectable London people should haveknown better than to take a furnished house at a disreputable Frenchwatering-place, a place full of low English!

Sometimes it was only by a great exercise of self-control that he, JamesTapster, could refrain from telling Maud what he thought of her conductin this matter, the more so that she never seemed to understand howgreatly she--and William--had been to blame. On one occasion Maud hadeven said how surprised she had been that James had cared to go away toAmerica, leaving his pretty young wife alone for as long as threemonths. Why hadn't she said so at the time, then? Of course, he hadthought that he could leave Flossy to be looked after and kept out ofmischief by Maud and William. But he had been, in more than one sense, alas! bitterly deceived. 

Still, it's never any use crying over spilt milk, so Mr. Tapster got upfrom his chair and walked around the room, looking absently, as he didso, at the large Landseer engravings, of which he was naturally proud. If only he could forget, put out of his mind forever, the whole affair!Well, perhaps with the Decree being made Absolute would come oblivion. 

He sat down again before the fire. Staring at the hot embers, hereminded himself that Flossy, wicked, ungrateful Flossy, had disappearedout of his life. This being so, why think of her? The very children hadat last left off asking inconvenient questions about their mama. 

By the way, would Flossy still be their mama after the Decree had beenmade Absolute? So Mr. Tapster now suddenly asked himself. He hesitated, perplexed. But, yes, the Decree being made Absolute would not undo, oreven efface, that fact. The more so--though surely here James Tapstershowed himself less logical than usual--the more so that Flossy, inspite of what Maud had always said about her, had been a loving and, inher own light-hearted way, a careful mother. But, though Flossy wouldremain the mother of his children, --odd that the Law hadn't provided forthat contingency--she would soon be absolutely nothing, and less thannothing, to him, the father of those children. Mr. Tapster was a greatbeliever in the infallibility of the Law, and he subscribedwhole-heartedly to the new reading, "What Law has put asunder, let noman join together. "

To-night Mr. Tapster could not help looking back with a certaincomplacency to his one legal adventure. Nothing could have been betterdone or more admirably conducted than the way the whole matter had beencarried through. His brother William, and William's solicitor, Mr. Greenfield, had managed it all so very nicely. True, there had been afew uncomfortable moments in the witness-box, but every one, includingthe judge, had been most kind. As for his counsel, the leading man whomakes a specialty of these sad affairs, not even James Tapster himselfcould have put his own case in a more delicate and moving fashion. "Agentleman possessed of considerable fortune--" so had he justly beendescribed; and counsel, without undue insistence on irrelevant detail, had drawn a touching and a true picture of Mr. Tapster's one romance, his marriage eight years before to the twenty-year-old daughter of anundischarged bankrupt. Even the Petitioner had scarcely seen Flossy'sdreadful ingratitude in its true colors till he had heard his counsel'smoderate comments on the case. 

[Illustration: "HE REMINDED HIMSELF THAT FLOSSY, WICKED, UNGRATEFULFLOSSY, HAD DISAPPEARED OUT OF HIS LIFE"]

This evening Mr. Tapster saw Flossy's dreadful ingratitude terriblyclearly, and he wondered, not for the first time, how his wife couldhave had the heart to break up his happy home. Why, but for him and hisoffer of marriage, Flossy Ball--that had been his wife's maidenname--would have had to earn her own living! And as she had been verypretty, very "fetching, " she would probably have married somegood-for-nothing young fellow of her own age, lacking the means tosupport a wife in decent comfort, --such a fellow, for instance, as thewretched "co" in the case; while with Mr. Tapster--why, she had hadeverything the heart of woman could wish for--a good home, beautifulclothes, and the being waited on hand and foot. A strange chokingfeeling came into his throat as he thought of how good he had been toFlossy, and how very bad had been her return for that kindness. 

But this--this was dreadful! He was actually thinking of her again, andnot, as he had meant to do, of himself and his poor motherless children!Time enough to think of Flossy when he had news of her again. If herlover did not marry her--and, from what Mr. Greenfield had discoveredabout him, it was most improbable that he would ever be in a position todo so--she would certainly reappear on the Tapster horizon: Mr. Greenfield said "they" always did. In that case, it was arranged thatWilliam should pay her a weekly allowance. Mr. Tapster, always, as henow reminded himself sadly, ready to do the generous thing, had fixedthat allowance at three pounds a week, a sum which had astonished, infact quite staggered, Mr. Greenfield's head clerk, a very decent fellow, by the way. 

"Of course, it shall be as you wish, Mr. Tapster, but you should thinkof the future and of your children. A hundred and fifty pounds a year isa large sum; you may feel it a tax, sir, as years go on----"

"That is enough, " Mr. Tapster had answered, kindly but firmly; "you havedone your duty in laying that side of the case before me. I have, however, decided on the amount named; should I see reason to alter mymind, our arrangement leaves it open to me at any time to lower theallowance. "

But, though this conversation had taken place some months ago, andthough Mr. Tapster still held true to his generous resolve, as yetFlossy had not reappeared. Mr. Tapster sometimes told himself that if heonly knew where she was, what she was doing, --whether she was still withthat young fellow, for instance, --he would think much less about herthan he did now. Only last night, going for a moment into the nightnursery, --poor Mr. Tapster now enjoyed his children's company only whenhe was quite sure that they were asleep, --he had had an extraordinary, almost a physical impression of Flossy's presence; he certainly had felta faint whiff of her favorite perfume. Flossy had been fond of scent, and, though Maud always said that the use of scent was most unladylike, he, James, did not dislike it. 

With sudden soreness, Mr. Tapster now recalled the one letter Flossy hadwritten to him just before the actual hearing of the divorce suit. Ithad been a wild, oddly worded appeal to him to take her back, not--asMaud had at once perceived on reading the letter--because she was sorryfor the terrible thing she had done, but simply because she wasbeginning to hanker after her children. Maud had described the letter asshameless and unwomanly in the extreme, and even William, who had neverjudged his pretty young sister-in-law as severely as his wife had alwaysdone, had observed sadly that Flossy seemed quite unaware of themagnitude of her offense against God and man. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Tapster, who prided himself on his sharp ears, suddenly heard acurious little sound. He knew it for that of the front door being firstopened, and then shut again, extremely quietly. He half rose from hischair by the fire, then sat down again heavily. 

By Maud's advice, he always locked the area gate himself when he camehome each evening. But how foolish of Maud--such a sensible woman, too--to think that servants and their evil ways could be circumvented soeasily. Of course, the maids went in and out by the front door in theevening, and the policeman--a most respectable officer standing at pointduty a few yards lower down the road--must be well aware of thesedisgraceful "goings on". 

For the first two or three months of his widowerhood (how else could heterm his present peculiar wifeless condition?) there had been a constantcoming and going of servants, first chosen, and then dismissed, by Maud. At last she suggested that her brother-in-law should engage a ladyhousekeeper, and the luckless James Tapster had even interviewed severalapplicants for the post after they had been chosen--sifted out, as itwere--by Maud. Unfortunately, they had all been more or less of his ownage, and plain, very plain; while he, naturally enough, would havepreferred to see something young and pretty about him again. 

It was over this housekeeper question that he had at last escaped fromMaud's domestic thraldom; for his sister-in-law, offended by hisrejection of each of her candidates, had declared that she would take nomore trouble about his household affairs! Nay, more, she had remindedhim with a smile that she had honestly tried to make pleasant, thatthere is, after all, no fool like an old fool--about women. Thisinsinuation had made Mr. Tapster very angry, and straightway he hadengaged a respectable cook-housekeeper, and, although he had soon becomeaware that the woman was feathering her own nest, --James Tapster, as youwill have divined ere now, was fond of good workaday phrases, --yet shehad a pleasant, respectful manner, and kept rough order among theyounger servants. 

Mr. Tapster's sister-in-law now interfered only where his children wereconcerned. Never having been herself a mother, she had, of course, beenable to form a clear and unprejudiced judgment as to how children, andespecially as to how little boys, should be physically and mentallytrained. As yet, however, Maud had not been very successful with her twonephews and infant niece, but this was doubtless owing to the fact thatthere had been something gravely amiss with each of the five nurses whohad been successively engaged by her during the last year. 

The elder of Mr. Tapster's sons was six, and the second four; theyoungest child, a little girl named, unfortunately, Flora, after hermother, was three years old. There had been a fourth, Flossy's secondbaby, also a girl, who had only lived one day. All this being so, was itnot strange that a young matron who had led, for some four years out ofthe eight years her married life had lasted, so wholly womanly anddomestic an existence as had fallen to the lot of Flossy, should havebeen led astray by the meretricious allurements of unlawfullove?--Maud's striking thought and phrase, this. 

[Illustration: "THERE STOOD CLOSE TO HIM, SO CLOSE THAT HE COULD ALMOSTHAVE TOUCHED HER, FLOSSY, HIS WIFE"]

And yet, Flossy, in spite of her frivolity, had somehow managed thechildren far better than Maud was now able to do. At the present time, so Mr. Tapster admitted to himself with something very like an inwardgroan, his two sons possessed every vice of which masculine infancy iscapable. They had become, so he was told by their indignant nurses, theterror of the well-behaved children who shared with them the pleasuresof the Park Inclosure, where they took their daily exercise; and Baby, once so sweet and good, was now very fretful and peevish. 

 * * * * *

Again the train of Mr. Tapster's mournful thoughts was disturbed by acurious little sound--that of some one creeping softly down thestaircase leading from the upper floors. Once more he half rose from hischair, only to fall heavily back again, with a look of impotentannoyance on his round, whiskered face. Where was the use of his goingout into the hall and catching Nurse on her way to the kitchen? Maud haddeclared, very early in the day, that there should be as littlecommunication as possible between the kitchen and the nursery, but Mr. Tapster sometimes found himself in secret sympathy with the two womenwhose disagreeable duty it was to be always with his three turbulentchildren. 

Mr. Tapster frowned and stared gloomily into the fire; then he suddenlypulled himself together rather sharply, for the door behind him hadslowly swung open. This was intolerable! The parlor-maid had again andagain been told that, whatever might have been the case in her formerplaces, no door in Mr. Tapster's house was to be opened without thepreliminary of a respectful knock. 

Fortified by the memory of what had been a positive order, he turnedround, nerving himself to deliver the necessary rebuke. But instead ofthe shifty-eyed, impudent-looking woman he had thought to see, therestood close to him, so close that he could almost have touched her, Flossy, his wife, or rather the woman who, though no longer his wife, had still, as he had been informed to his discomfiture, the right tobear his name. 

A very strange feeling, and one so complicated that it sat uneasily uponhim, took instant possession of Mr. Tapster: anger, surprise, and reliefwarred with one another in his heart. 

Then he began to think that his eyes must be playing him some curioustrick, for the figure at which he was staring remained strangely stilland motionless. Was it possible that his mind, dwelling constantly onFlossy, had evoked her wraith? But, no, looking up in startled silenceat the still figure standing before him, he realized that not so wouldmemory have conjured up the pretty, bright little woman of whom he hadonce been proud. Flossy still looked pretty, but she was thin and pale, and there were dark rings round her eyes; also, her dress was worn, herhat curiously shabby. 

As Mr. Tapster stared up at her, noting these things, one of her handsbegan playing nervously with the fringe of the dining-table cover, andthe other sought the back of what had once been one of her dining-roomchairs. As he watched her making these slight movements, nature so farreasserted itself that a feeling of poignant regret, of pity for her, aswell as, of course, a much larger share of pity for himself, came overJames Tapster. 

Had Flossy spoken then, --had she possessed the intuitive knowledge ofmen which is the gift of so many otherwise unintelligent women, --thewhole of Mr. Tapster's future, to say nothing of her own, might havebeen different and, it may be suggested, happier. 

But the moment of softening and mansuetude slipped quickly by, and wassucceeded by a burst of anger; for Mr. Tapster suddenly became awarethat Flossy's left hand, the little thin hand resting on the back of thechair, was holding two keys which he recognized at once as his property. The one was a replica of the latch-key which always hung on hiswatch-chain, while the other and larger key, to which was attached abrass tag bearing the name of Tapster and the address of the house, gaveaccess to the Inclosure Garden opposite Cumberland Crescent!

Avoiding her eager, pitiful look, Mr. Tapster set himself to realize, with a shrewdness for which William and Maud would never have given himcredit, what Flossy's possession of those two keys had meant during thelast few months. 

This woman, who both was and was not Mrs. Tapster, had retained thepower to come freely in and out of _his_ house! She had been able tomake her way, with or without the connivance of the servants, into _his_children's nursery at any hour of the day or night convenient toherself! With the aid of that Inclosure key, she had no doubt often seenthe children during their daily walk! In a word, Flossy had been able toenjoy all the privileges of motherhood while having forfeited all thoseof happy wifehood!

His mind hastened heavily on. What a fool he must have looked beforehis servants! How they must have laughed to think that he was being sodeceived and taken in! Why, even the policeman who stood at point dutyoutside must have known all about it!

Small wonder that Mr. Tapster felt extremely incensed; small wonder thathis heart, hardening, solidifying, expelled any feeling of pity provokedby Flossy's sad and downcast appearance. 

"I must request you, " he said, in a voice which even to himself soundedharsh and needlessly loud, "to give me up those keys which you hold inyour hand. You have no right to their possession, and I grieve to thinkthat you took advantage of my great distress of mind not to return themwith the things of which I sent you a list by my brother William. Icannot believe"--and now Mr. Tapster lied as only the very truthful canlie on occasion--"I cannot believe, I say, that you have taken advantageof my having overlooked them, and that you have ever before to-nightforced yourself into this house! Still less can I believe that you havetaught our--_my_--children to deceive their father!"

Even when uttering his first sentence, he had noticed that there hadcome over Flossy's face--which was thinner, if quite as pretty andyouthful-looking, as when he had last seen it--an expression ofobstinacy which he had once well known and always dreaded. It had beenFlossy's one poor weapon against her husband's superior sense and powerof getting his own way, and sometimes it had vanquished him in that fairfight which is always being waged between the average husband and wife. 

"You are right, " she cried passionately. "I have not taught the childrento deceive you! I have never come into this house until I felt sure thatthey were asleep and alone, though I've often wondered that they neverwoke up and knew that their own mother was there! But more than once, James, I've felt like going after that society which looks after badlytreated children--for the last nurse you had for them was so cruel! Ifshe hadn't left you soon I should have _had_ to do something! I used tofeel desperate when I saw her shake Baby in her pram; why, one day, inthe Inclosure, a lady spoke to her about it, and threatened to tellher--her mistress----"

Flossy's voice sank to a shamed whisper. The tears were rolling down hercheeks; she was speaking in angry gasps, and what she said actually madeJames Tapster feel, what he knew full well he had no reason to feel, ashamed of himself. "That is why, " she went on, "that is why I have, asyou say, forced myself into your house, and why, too, I have now comehere to ask you to forgive me--to take me back--just for the sake of thechildren. "

Mr. Tapster's mind was one that traveled surely, if slowly. He saw hischance, and seized it. "And why, " he said impressively, "had thatwoman--the nurse, I mean--no mistress? Tell me that, Flossy. You shouldhave thought of all that before you behaved as you did!"

"I didn't know--I didn't think----"

Mr. Tapster finished the sentence for her: "You didn't think, " heobserved impressively, "that I should ever find you out. "

Then there came over him a morbid wish to discover--to learn from herown lips--why Flossy had done such a shameful and extraordinary thing asto be unfaithful to her marriage vow. 

"Whatever made you behave so?" he asked in a low voice. "I wasn't unkindto you, was I? You had a nice, comfortable home, hadn't you?"

"I was mad, " she answered, with a touch of sharp weariness. "I don'tsuppose I could ever make you understand; and yet, "--she looked at himdeprecatingly, --"I suppose, James, that you too were young once, and--and--mad?"

Mr. Tapster stared at Flossy. What extraordinary things she said! Ofcourse he had been young once; for the matter of that, he didn't feelold--not to say _old_--even now. But he had always been perfectlysane--she knew that well enough! As for her calling herself mad, thatwas a mere figure of speech. Of course, in a sense, she had been mad todo what she had done, and he was glad that she now understood this; buther saying so simply begged the whole question, and left him no wiserthan he was before. 

There was a long, tense silence between them. Then Mr. Tapster slowlyrose from his arm-chair and faced his wife. 

"I see, " he said, "that William was right. I mean, I suppose I may takeit that that young fellow has gone and left you?"

"Yes, " she said, with a curious indifference, "he has gone and left me. His father made him take a job out in Brazil just after the case wasthrough. "

"And what have you been doing since then?" asked Mr. Tapstersuspiciously. "How have you been living?"

"His father gives me a pound a week. " Flossy still spoke with thatcurious indifference. "I tried to get something to do"--she hesitated, then offered the lame explanation--"just to have something to do, forI've been awfully lonely and miserable, James; but I don't seem to beable to get anything. "

"If you had written to Mr. Greenfield or to William, they would havetold you that I had arranged for you to have an allowance, " he said, andthen again he fell into silence.... 

Mr. Tapster was seeing a vision of himself, magnanimous, forgiving--taking the peccant Flossy back to his heart and becoming oncemore, in a material sense, comfortable! If he acceded to her wish, if hemade up his mind to forgive her, he would have to begin life all overagain, move away from Cumberland Crescent to some distant place wherethe story was not known--perhaps to Clapham, where he had spent hisboyhood. 

But how about Maud? How about William? How about the very considerableexpense to which he had been put in connection with the divorceproceedings? Was all that money to be wasted? Mr. Tapster suddenly sawthe whole of his little world rising up in judgment, smiling pityinglyat his folly and weakness. During the whole of a long and of what hadbeen, till this last year, a very prosperous life, Mr. Tapster hadalways steered his safe course by what may be called the compass ofpublic opinion, and now, when navigating an unknown sea, he could notafford to throw that compass overboard, so----

"No, " he said; "no, Flossy. It would not be right for me to take youback. _It wouldn't do. _"

"Wouldn't it?" she asked piteously. "Oh, James, don't say no like that, all at once! People do forgive each other--sometimes. I don't ask you tobe as kind to me as you were before--only to let me come home and seeafter the children!"

But Mr. Tapster shook his head. The children! Always the children! Henoticed, even now, that she didn't say a word of wanting to come back to_him_; and yet, he had been such a kind, nay, if Maud were to bebelieved, such a foolishly indulgent husband. 

And then, Flossy looked so different. Mr. Tapster felt as if a strangerwere standing there before him. Her appearance of poverty shocked him. Had she looked well and prosperous, he would have felt injured, and yether pinched face and shabby clothes certainly repelled him. So again heshook his head, and there came into his face a look which Flossy hadalways known in old days to spell finality, and when he again spoke shesaw that her knowledge had not misled her. 

"I don't want to be unkind, " he said ponderously. "If you will only goto William, or write to him if you would rather not go to theoffice, "--Mr. Tapster did not like to think that any one once closelyconnected with him should "look like that" in his brother's office, --"hewill tell you what you had better do. I'm quite ready to make you ahandsome allowance--in fact, it is all arranged. You need not haveanything more to do with that fellow's father--an army colonel, isn'the?--and his pound a week; but William thinks, and I must say I agree, that you ought to go back to your maiden name, Flossy, as being morefair to me. "

"And am I never to see the children again?" she asked. 

"No; it wouldn't be right for me to let you do so. " He hesitated, thenadded, "They don't miss you any more now"; with no unkindly intent heconcluded, "soon they'll have forgotten you altogether. "

And then, just as Mr. Tapster was hesitating, seeking for a suitable andnot unkindly sentence of farewell, he saw a very strange, almost adesperate look come over Flossy's face, and, to his surprise, shesuddenly turned and left the room, closing the door very carefullybehind her. 

He stared after her. How very odd of her to say nothing! And what astrange look had come over her face! He could not help feeling hurt thatshe had not thanked him for what he knew to be a very generous andunusual provision on the part of an injured husband.... Mr. Tapster tooka silk handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it twice over his face, then once more he sought and sank into the arm-chair by the fire. 

Even now he still felt keenly conscious of Flossy's nearness. What couldshe be doing? Then he straightened himself and listened; yes, it was ashe feared; she had gone up-stairs--up-stairs to look at the children, for now he could hear her coming down again. How obstinate she was, howobstinate and ungrateful! Mr. Tapster wished he had the courage to goout into the hall and face her, in order to tell her how wrong herconduct was. Why, she had actually kept the keys--those keys that werehis property!

Suddenly he heard her light footsteps hurrying down the hall; now shewas opening the front door--it slammed, and again Mr. Tapster feltpained to think how strangely indifferent Flossie was to his interests. Why, what would the servants think, hearing the front door slam likethat?

But still, now that it was over, he was glad the interview had takenplace, for henceforth--or so, at least, Mr. Tapster believed--the Flossyof the past, the bright, pretty, prosperous Flossy of whom he had beenso proud, would cease to haunt him. He remembered, with a feeling ofrelief, that she was going to his brother William; of course, she wouldthen, among greater renunciations, be compelled to return the twokeys--for they, that is, his brother and himself, would have her intheir power. They would not behave unkindly to her--far from it; infact, they would arrange for her to live with some quiet, religious ladyin a country town a few hours from London. 

[Illustration: "HE SAW THAT WHICH RATHER SURPRISED HIM, AND MADE HIMFEEL ACTIVELY INDIGNANT"]

Then Mr. Tapster began going over each incident of the strange littleinterview, for he wanted to tell his brother William exactly what hadtaken place. 

His conscience was quite clear, except with regard to one matter, andthat, after all, needn't be mentioned to William. He felt rather ashamedof having asked the question which had provoked so strange and wild ananswer--so unexpected a retort. Mad? What had Flossy meant by asking himif he had ever been mad? No one had ever used the word in connectionwith James Tapster before--save once. Oddly enough, that occasion alsohad been in a way connected with Flossy, for it had happened when he hadgone to tell William and Maud of his engagement. 

It was on a fine day nine years ago come this May, and he had foundWilliam and William's wife walking in their little garden on HavenstockHill. His kind brother, as always, had been most sympathetic, and hadeven made a suitable joke--Mr. Tapster remembered it very sadlyto-night--concerning the spring and a young man's fancy; but Maud hadbeen really disagreeable. She had said, "It's no use talking to you, James, for you're mad, quite mad!"

Strange that he should remember all this to-night, for, after all, ithad nothing to do with the present state of affairs. 

Mr. Tapster felt rather shaken and nervous; he pulled out his repeaterwatch, but, alas! it was still very early--only ten minutes to nine. Hecouldn't go to bed yet. Perhaps he would do well to join a club. He hadalways thought rather poorly of men who belonged to clubs--most of themwere idle, lazy fellows; but still, circumstances alter cases. 

Suddenly he began to wish that Flossy had remained a little longer. Hethought of all sorts of things--improving, kindly remarks--he would haveliked to say to her. He blamed himself for not having offered her anyrefreshment; she would probably have refused to take anything, butstill, it was wrong on his part not to have thought of it. A pound aweek for everything! No wonder she looked starved. Why, his ownhousehold bills, exclusive of wine or beer, had worked out, since he hadhad this new expensive housekeeper, at something like fifteen shillingsa head, a fact which he had managed to conceal from Maud, who "did" herWilliam so well on exactly ten shillings and ninepence all round!

 * * * * *

It struck nine from the neighboring church, where Mr. Tapster hadsittings, --but where he seldom was able to go on Sunday mornings, for hewas proud of being among those old-fashioned folk who still regardSunday as essentially a day of rest, --and there came a sudden sound ofhoarse shouting from the road outside. Though he was glad of anythingthat broke the oppressive silence with which he felt encompassed, Mr. Tapster found time to tell himself that it was disgraceful that vulgarstreet brawlers should invade so quiet a residential thoroughfare asCumberland Crescent. But order would soon be restored, for the sound ofa policeman's whistle cut sharply through the air. 

The noise, however, continued; he could hear the tramp of feet hurryingpast his house and then leaving the pavement for the other side of theroad. What could be the matter? Something very exciting must be going onjust opposite his front door, that is, close to the Inclosure railings. 

Mr. Tapster got up from his chair, and walked in a leisurely way to thewide window. He drew aside the thick red rep curtains, and lifted acorner of the blind. Then, through the slightly foggy haze, he saw thatwhich rather surprised him and made him feel actively indignant; for astring of people, men, women, and boys, were hurrying into the InclosureGarden--that sacred place set apart for the exclusive use of thenobility and gentry who lived in Cumberland Crescent and the adjoiningterraces. 

What an abominable thing! Why, the grass would all be trampled down; andthese dirty people, these slum folk, who seem to spring out of the earthwhen anything of a disagreeable or shameful nature is taking place, --afire, for instance, or a brawl, --might easily bring infectious diseaseson to those gravel paths where the little Tapsters and their like runabout, playing their innocent games. Some careless person had evidentlyleft the gate unlocked, and the fight, or whatever it was, must betaking place inside the Inclosure!

Mr. Tapster tried in vain to see what was going on inside the railings, but everything beyond the brightly lighted road was wrapped in graydarkness. Some one suddenly held up high a flaming torch, and thewatcher at the window saw that the shadowy crowd which had managed toforce its way into the Park hung together, like bees swarming, on thefarther lawn through which flowed the Serpentine. With the gleaming ofthe yellow, wavering light there had fallen a sudden hush and silence, and Mr. Tapster wondered uneasily what those people were doing there, and what it was they were pressing forward so eagerly to see. 

[Illustration: "HE ... TURNED TO SEE HIS HALL INVADED BY A STRANGE ANDSINISTER QUARTET"]

Then he realized that it must have been a fight, after all, for now thecrowd was parting in two, and down the lane so formed Mr. Tapster sawcoming toward the gate, and so in a sense toward himself, a ratherpitiful little procession. Some one had evidently been injured, and thatseriously; for four men, bearing a sheep-hurdle on which lay a huddledmass, were walking slowly toward the gate, and he heard distinctly thegruffly uttered words: "Stand back, please--back, there! We're goingacross the road. " The now large crowd suddenly swayed forward; indeed, to Mr. Tapster's astonished eyes, they seemed to be actually making arush for his house, and a moment later they were pressing around hisarea-railings. 

Looking down on the upturned faces below him, Mr. Tapster was very gladthat a stout pane of glass stood between himself and thesinister-looking men and women who seemed to be staring up at him, orrather at his windows, with faces full of cruel, wolfish curiosity. Helet the blind fall to gently. His interest in the vulgar, sordid scenehad suddenly died down; the drama was now over; in a moment the crowdwould disperse, the human vermin (but Mr. Tapster would never have used, even to himself, so coarse an expression) would be on their way back totheir burrows. But before he had even time to rearrange the curtains intheir right folds, there came a sudden loud, persistent knocking at hisfront door. 

Mr. Tapster turned around sharply, feeling justly incensed. Of course, he knew what it was--some good-for-nothing urchin finding a vent for hisexcited feelings. His parlor-maid, who was never in any hurry to openthe door, --she had once kept him waiting ten minutes when he hadforgotten his latch-key, --would certainly take no notice of thisunseemly noise, but he, James Tapster, would himself hurry out and tryto catch the delinquent, take his name and address, and thoroughlyfrighten him. 

As he reached the door of the dining-room, Mr. Tapster heard the frontdoor open--open, too, --and this was certainly very surprising, --from theoutside! In the hall he saw that it was a policeman--in fact, theofficer on point duty close by--who had opened his front door, andapparently with a latch-key. 

The constable spoke, as constables always do to the Mr. Tapsters of thisworld, in respectful and subdued tones:

"Can I just come in and speak to you, sir? There's been a sadaccident--your lady fallen in the water; we found these keys in herpocket, and then some one said she was Mrs. Tapster"; and the policemanheld out the two keys which had played a not unimportant part in Mr. Tapster's interview with Flossy. "A man on the bridge saw her go in, "went on the policeman, "so she wasn't in the water long, --something likea quarter of an hour, --for we soon found her. I suppose you would likeher taken up-stairs, sir?"

"No, no, " stammered Mr. Tapster, "not up-stairs; the children areup-stairs. "

Mr. Tapster's round, prominent eyes were shadowed with a great horrorand an even greater surprise. He stood staring at the man before him, his hands clasped in a wholly unconscious gesture of supplication. 

The constable gradually edged himself backward into the dining-room. Realizing that he must take on himself the onus of decision, he gave aquiet look round. 

"If that's the case, " he said firmly, "we had better bring her in here;that sofa that you have there, sir, will do nicely for her to be laidupon while they try to bring her round. We've got a doctor already. "

Mr. Tapster bent his head; he was too much bewildered to propose anyother plan; and then he turned, turned to see his hall invaded by astrange and sinister quartet. It was composed of two policemen and oftwo of those loafers of whom he so greatly disapproved. They werecarrying a hurdle from which Mr. Tapster quickly averted his eyes. But, though he was able to shut out the sight he feared to see, he could notprevent himself from hearing certain sounds, those, for instance, madeby the two loafers, who breathed with ostentatious difficulty as if toshow they were unaccustomed to bearing even so comparatively light aburden as Flossy drowned. 

There came a sudden short whisper-filled delay. The doorway of thedining-room was found to be too narrow, and the hurdle was perforce leftin the hall. 

An urgent voice, full of wholly unconscious irony, muttered in Mr. Tapster's ear: "Of course, you would like to see her, sir, " and he felthimself being propelled forward. Making an effort to bear himself sothat he should not feel afterward ashamed of his lack of nerve, heforced himself to stare with dread-filled yet fascinated eyes at thatwhich had just been laid upon the leather sofa. 

Flossy's hat, the shabby hat which had shocked Mr. Tapster's sense ofwhat was seemly, was gone; her fair hair had all come down, and hung inpale-gold wisps about the face already fixed in the soft dignity whichseems so soon to drape the features of those who die by drowning. Herwidely opened eyes were now wholly emptied of the anguish with whichthey had gazed on Mr. Tapster in this very room less than an hour ago. Her mean brown serge gown, from which the water was still dripping, clung closely to her limbs, revealing the slender body which had fourtimes endured, on behalf of Mr. Tapster, the greatest of woman's naturalordeals. But that thought, it is scarcely necessary to say, did not cometo add an extra pang to those which that unfortunate man was nowsuffering, for Mr. Tapster naturally thought maternity was in everymarried woman's day's work--and pleasure. 

 * * * * *

It might have been a moment, for all that he knew, or it might have beenan hour, when at last something came to relieve the unbearable tensionof Mr. Tapster's feelings. He had been standing aside, helpless, awareof and yet not watching the efforts made to restore Flossy toconsciousness. 

The doctor raised himself and straightened his cramped shoulders andtired arms. With a look of great concern on his face, he approached thebereaved husband. 

"I'm afraid it's no good, " he said; "the shock of the plunge in the coldwater probably killed her. She was evidently in poor health, and--andill-nourished; but, of course, we shall go on for some time longer, and----"

But whatever he had meant to say remained unspoken, for a telegraph-boy, with the impudence natural to his kind, was forcing his way into andthrough the crowded room. "James Tapster, Esquire?" he cried in a high, childish treble. 

The master of the house held out his hand mechanically. He took the buffenvelop and stared down at it, sufficiently master of himself toperceive that some fool had apparently imagined Cumberland Crescent tobe in South London; before his eyes swam the line, "Delayed intransmission. " Then, opening the envelop, he saw the message for whichhe had now been waiting so eagerly for some days; but it was withindifference that he read the words, "_The Decree has been made Absolute. _"

PRESIDENT JOHNSON AND HIS WAR ON CONGRESS

BY

CARL SCHURZ

ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS

I was on the point of returning to the West when I received a messagefrom Horace Greeley, the famous editor of the New York _Tribune_, askingme to take charge of the news bureau of that journal in Washington, asits chief correspondent. Although the terms offered by Mr. Greeley weretempting, I was disinclined to accept, because I doubted whether thework would be congenial to me, and because it would keep me in the East. But Mr. Greeley, as well as some of my friends in Congress, persuaded methat, since I had studied the condition of things in the South and couldgive reliable information concerning it, my presence in Washington mightbe useful while the Southern question was under debate. This determinedme to assent, with the understanding, however, that I should notconsider myself bound beyond the pending session of Congress. 

Thus I entered the journalistic fraternity. My most agreeable experienceconsisted in my association with other members of the craft. I foundamong the correspondents of the press a number of gentlemen of uncommonability and high principle--genuine gentlemen, who loved truth for itsown sake, who heartily detested sham and false pretense, and whose senseof honor was of the finest. This was the rule, to which, as to allrules, there were of course some exceptions; but they were rare. My moreor less intimate contact with public men high and low was not souniformly gratifying. I enjoyed, indeed, the privilege of meetingstatesmen of high purpose, of well-stored minds, of unselfishpatriotism, and of the courage of their convictions. But disgustinglylarge was, on the other hand, the number of small, selfish politicians Iran against--men who seemed to know no higher end than the advantage oftheir party, which involved their own; who were always nervouslysniffing for the popular breeze; whose most demonstrative ebullitions ofvirtue consisted in the most violent denunciations of the opposition;whose moral courage quaked at the appearance of the slightest danger totheir own or their party's fortunes; and whose littlenesses exposed themsometimes with involuntary frankness to the newspaper correspondent whomthey approached to beg for a "favorable notice" or for the suppressionof an unwelcome news item. They were by no means in all instances men ofsmall parts. On the contrary, there were men of marked ability and largeacquirements among them. But never until then had I known how great amoral coward a member of Congress may be. 

It is probably now as it was then. There were few places in the UnitedStates where the public men appearing on the national stage were judgedas fairly and accurately as they were in Newspaper Row in Washington. 

[Illustration: HORACE GREELEY

AT WHOSE REQUEST CARL SCHURZ BECAME THE CHIEF WASHINGTON CORRESPONDENTOF THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE IN 1865]

I remained at the head of the _Tribune_ office in Washington, accordingto my promise to Mr. Greeley, to the end of the winter season, and thenaccepted the chief-editorship of the Detroit _Post_, a new journalestablished at Detroit, Michigan, which was offered to me--I mightalmost say urged upon me--by Senator Zachariah Chandler. In the meantimeI had occasion to witness the beginning of the political war between theexecutive and the legislative power concerning the reconstruction of the"States lately in rebellion. "

_The Beginnings of the Struggle_

I am sure I do not exaggerate when I say that this political war hasbeen one of the most unfortunate events in the history of this Republic, for it made the most important problem of the time, a problem ofextraordinary complexity, which required the calmest and most delicateand circumspect treatment, the foot-ball of a personal and party brawlwhich was in the highest degree apt to inflame the passions and toobscure the judgment of everybody concerned in it. Since my return fromthe South, the evil effects of Mr. Johnson's conduct in encouraging thereactionary spirit prevalent among the Southern whites had become moreand more evident and alarming from day to day. Charles Sumner told methat his personal experience with the President had been very much likemine. When Sumner left Washington in the spring, he had received fromMr. Johnson at repeated intervals the most emphatic assurances that hewould do nothing to precipitate the restoration of the "States lately inrebellion" to the full exercise of self-governing functions, and eventhat he favored the extension of the suffrage to the freedmen. The twomen had parted with all the appearance of a perfect friendlyunderstanding. But when the Senator returned to Washington in the lateautumn that understanding seemed to have entirely vanished from thePresident's mind and to have given place to an irritated temper and acertain acerbity of tone in the assertion of the "President's policy. "

From various other members of Congress I heard the same story. Mr. Johnson, strikingly unlike Abraham Lincoln, evidently belonged to thatunfortunate class of men with whom a difference of opinion on anyimportant matter will at once cause personal ill feeling and adisturbance of friendly intercourse. By many Congressmen Mr. Johnson wasregarded as one who had broken faith, and the memory of the disgracefulexhibition of himself in a drunken state at the inauguration ceremonies, which under ordinary circumstances everybody would have been glad toforget, was revived, so as to make him appear as a person ofungentlemanly character. All these things combined to impart to thecontroversies which followed a flavor of reckless defiance and rancorousbitterness, the outbursts of which were sometimes almost ferocious. 

[Illustration: TWO PORTRAITS OF CHARLES SUMNER]

The first gun of the political war between the President and Congress, which was to rage four years, was fired by Thaddeus Stevens in the Houseof Representatives by the introduction, even before the hearing of thePresident's Message, of the resolution already mentioned, whichsubstantially proclaimed that the reconstruction of the late rebelStates was the business, not of the President alone, but of Congress. This theory, which was constitutionally correct, was readily supportedby the Republican majority, and thus the war was declared. OfRepublican dissenters who openly took the President's part, there werebut few--in the Senate, Doolittle of Wisconsin, Dixon of Connecticut, Norton of Minnesota, Cowan of Pennsylvania, and, for a short period, Morgan of New York, as the personal friend of Mr. Seward. In the Houseof Representatives, Mr. Raymond of New York, the famous founder of theNew York _Times_, acted as the principal Republican champion of the"President's policy. "

[Illustration: PRESIDENT ANDREW JOHNSON

WHOSE RECONSTRUCTION POLICY LED TO THE FOUR YEARS' WAR BETWEEN HIMSELFAND CONGRESS]

_Stevens the Dominating Figure of the Struggle_

Thaddeus Stevens was the acknowledged leader of the Republicans in theHouse. Few historic characters have ever been more differently judgedfrom different points of view. A Southern writer of fiction has paintedhim as the fiend incarnate; others have spoken of him as a great leaderof his time, far-sighted, a man of uncompromising convictions, intellectually honest, of unflinching courage and energy. I had comeinto personal contact with him in the Presidential campaigns of 1860 and1864, when he seemed to be pleased with my efforts. I had once heard himmake a stump speech which was evidently inspired by intense hatred ofslavery, and remarkable for argumentative pith and sarcastic wit. Butthe impression his personality made upon me was not sympathetic: hisface, long and pallid, topped with an ample dark-brown wig which was atthe first glance recognized as such; beetling brows overhanging keeneyes of uncertain color which sometimes seemed to scintillate with asudden gleam; the under lip defiantly protruding; the whole expressionusually stern. His figure would have looked stalwart but for a deformedfoot which made him bend and limp. His conversation, carried on in ahollow voice devoid of music, easily disclosed a well-informed mind, butalso a certain absolutism of opinion, with contemptuous scorn foradverse argument. He belonged to the fierce class of anti-slavery menwho were inspired by humane sympathy with the slave and righteousabhorrence of slavery, but also by hatred of the slaveholder. What hehimself seemed to enjoy most in his talk was his sardonic humor, whichhe made play upon men and things like lurid freaks of lightning. He shotout such sallies with a fearfully serious mien, or at least heaccompanied them with a grim smile which was not at all like AbrahamLincoln's hearty laugh at his own jests. 

[Illustration: _From the collection of P. H. Meserve_

JOHN SHERMAN

WHO TRIED TO HEAL THE BREACH BETWEEN PRESIDENT JOHNSON AND THE SENATE]

[Illustration: THADDEUS STEVENS

THE LEADING OPPONENT OF THE MOVEMENT TO RESTORE SLAVERY, AND THE MOSTBITTER OF PRESIDENT JOHNSON'S ANTAGONISTS]

Thus Mr. Stevens' discourse was apt to make him appear a hardened cynic, inaccessible to the finer feelings, and indifferent whether he gave painor pleasure. But now and then a remark escaped him--I say "escaped him, "because he evidently preferred to wear the acrid tendencies of hischaracter on the outside--which indicated that there was behind hiscynicism a rich fund of human kindness and sympathy. And this wasstrongly confirmed by his neighbors at Lancaster, Pennsylvania, hishome, where on one of my campaigning tours I once spent a day and anight. With them, even with many of his political opponents, "oldThad, " as they called him, appeared to be eminently popular. They had noend of stories to tell about the protection he had given to fugitiveslaves, sometimes at much risk and sacrifice to himself, and of the manybenefactions he had bestowed with a lavish hand upon the widows andorphans and other persons in need, and of his generous fidelity to hisfriends. They did not, indeed, revere him as a model of virtue, but ofthe occasional lapses of his bachelor life from correct moral standards, which seemed to be well known and freely talked about, they spoke withaffectionate lenity of judgment. 

When I saw him again in Washington at the opening of the Thirty-ninthCongress, in December, 1865, he looked very much aged since our lastmeeting, and infirm in health. In repose his face was like a death-mask, and he was carried in a chair to his seat in the House by two stalwartyoung negroes. There is good authority for the story that once when theyhad set him down, he said to them, with his grim humor: "Thank you, mygood fellows. What shall I do when you are dead and gone?" But his eyesglowed from under his bushy brows with the old keen sparkle, and hismind was as alert as ever. It may be that his age--he was thenseventy-four--and his physical infirmities, admonishing him that at besthe would have only a few years more to live, served to inspire him withan impatient craving and a fierce determination to make the best of histime, and thus to intensify the activity of his mental energies. Tocompass the abolition of slavery had been the passion of his life. Hehad hailed the Civil War as the great opportunity. He had never beenquite satisfied with Lincoln, whose policy seemed to him too dilatory. He demanded quick, sharp, and decisive blows. 

[Illustration: WILLIAM PITT FESSENDEN

HEAD OF THE JOINT COMMITTEE ON RECONSTRUCTION, WHICH WAS DENOUNCED BYPRESIDENT JOHNSON AS AN "IRRESPONSIBLE CENTRAL DIRECTORY"]

Now that the abolition of slavery was actually decreed, he saw PresidentJohnson follow a policy which, in his view, threatened to undo the greatwork. His scornful anger at Andrew Johnson was equaled only by hiscontempt for the Republicans who sided with the President. He was boundto defeat this reactionary attempt and to see slavery thoroughly killedbeyond the possibility of resurrection, at any cost. As to the means tobe employed, he scrupled little. He wanted the largest possibleRepublican majority in Congress, and to this end he would have expelledany number of Democrats from their seats, by hook or crook. When my oldfriend and quondam law partner, General Halbert E. Paine, who waschairman of the Committee on Elections in the House, told him that, in acertain contested election case to be voted upon, both contestants wererascals, Stevens simply asked: "Well, which is _our_ rascal?" He saidthis, not in jest, but with perfect seriousness. He would have seatedBeelzebub in preference to the angel Gabriel, had he believed Beelzebubto be more certain than Gabriel to aid him in beating the President'sreconstruction policy. His speeches were short, peremptory, andcommanding. He bluntly avowed his purposes, however extreme they seemedto be. He disdained to make them more palatable by any art ofpersuasion, or to soften the asperity of his attacks by charitablecircumlocution. There was no hypocrisy, no cant in his utterances. Withinexorable intellectual honesty, he drew all the logical conclusionsfrom his premises. He was a terror in debate. Whenever provoked, hebrought his batteries of merciless sarcasm into play with deadly effect. Not seldom, a single sentence sufficed to lay a daring antagonistsprawling on the ground amid the roaring laughter of the House, theluckless victim feeling as if he had heedlessly touched a heavilycharged electric wire. No wonder that even the readiest and boldestdebaters were cautious in approaching old Thaddeus Stevens too closely, lest something stunning and sudden happen to them. Thus the fear heinspired became a distinct element of power in his leadership--not awholesome element, indeed, at the time of a great problem which requiredthe most circumspect and dispassionate treatment. 

_William Pitt Fessenden_

A statesman of a very different stamp was Senator Fessenden of Maine, who, being at the head of the senatorial part of the joint Committee onReconstruction, presided over that important body. William PittFessenden was a man who might easily have been overlooked in a crowd. There was nothing in his slight figure, his thin face framed in sparegray hair and side whiskers, and his quiet demeanor, to attractparticular notice. Neither did his appearance in the Senate Chamberimpress one at first sight as that of a great power in that importantassembly. I saw him more than once there walk with slow steps up anddown in the open space behind the seats, with his hands in his trouserspockets, with seeming listlessness, while another senator was speaking, and then ask to be heard, and, without changing his attitude, make anargument in a calm conversational tone, unmixed with the slightestoratorical flourish, so solid and complete that little more remained tobe said on the subject in question. He gave the impression of having athis disposal a rich and perfectly ordered store of thought and knowledgeupon which he could draw with perfect ease and assurance. When I wasfirst introduced to him, he appeared to be rather distant in manner thaninviting friendly approach. But I was told that ill health had made himunsociable and somewhat morose and testy, and, indeed, there was oftenthe trace of suffering and weariness in his face. It was also remarkedin the Senate that at times he was ill-tempered and inclined to indulgein biting sarcasms and to administer unkind lectures to other senators, which in some instances disturbed his personal intercourse with hiscolleagues. But there was not one of them who did not hold him in thehighest esteem as a statesman of commanding ability and of lofty ideals, as a gentleman of truth and conscience, as a great jurist and an eminentconstitutional lawyer, as a party man of most honorable principles andmethods, and as a patriot of noblest ambition for his country. 

[Illustration: WENDELL PHILLIPS

WHOM PRESIDENT JOHNSON NAMED AS ONE OF THE ENEMIES OF THE REPUBLIC INHIS SPEECH OF FEBRUARY 22]

Being a man also of conservative instincts, averse to unnecessaryconflicts, and always disinclined to go to extremes, in action as wellas in language, he was expected to exert a moderating influence in hiscommittee; and this expectation was not disappointed so far as hisefforts to prevent a final breach between the President and theRepublican majority in Congress were concerned. But regarding the mainquestion whether the "States lately in rebellion" should be fullyrestored to their self-governing functions and to full participation inthe government of the Republic without having given reasonableguaranties for the maintenance of the "legitimate results of the war, "he was in point of principle not far apart from Mr. Stevens. 

_The President's Logic_

It must be admitted that, if we accept his premises, Mr. Johnson made inpoint of logic a pretty plausible case. His proposition was that aState, in the view of the Federal Constitution, is indestructible; thatan ordinance of secession adopted by its inhabitants, or its politicalorgans, did not take it out of the Union; that by declaring and treatingthose ordinances of secession as "null and void, " of no force, virtuallynon-existent, the Federal government itself had accepted and sanctionedthat theory; that during the rebellion the constitutional rights andfunctions of those States were merely suspended, and that when therebellion ceased they were _ipso facto_ restored; that, therefore, therebellion having actually ceased, those States were at once entitled totheir former rights and privileges--that is, to the recognition of theirself-elected State governments and to their representation in Congress. Admitting the premises, this was logically correct in the abstract. 

But this was one of the cases to which a saying, many years later setafloat by President Cleveland, might properly have been applied: we wereconfronting a condition, not a theory. The condition was this: CertainStates had through their regular political organs declared themselvesindependent of the Union. They had, for all practical purposes, actuallyseparated themselves from the Union. They had made war upon the Union. That war put those States in a position not foreseen by theConstitution. It imposed upon the government of the Union duties notforeseen by the Constitution; by "military necessity, " war necessity, the Union was compelled to emancipate the negroes from slavery and toaccept their military services. The war had compelled the government ofthe Union to levy large loans of money and thus to contract a hugepublic debt. The government had also, in the course of the war, the aidof the Union men of the South. It had thus assumed solemn obligationsfor value received or services rendered. It had assumed the duty toprotect the emancipated negroes in their freedom, the Southern Union menin their security, and the public creditor from loss. This duty was aduty of honor as well as of policy. The Union could, therefore, notconsent, either in point of honor or of sound policy, to the restorationof the late rebel States to the functions of self-government and to fullparticipation in the national government so long as that restoration wasreasonably certain to put the freedom of the emancipated slaves, or thesecurity of the Southern Union men, or the rights of the publiccreditor, into serious jeopardy. 

[Illustration: SENATOR LYMAN TRUMBULL

WHO MOVED THAT THE FREEDMEN'S BUREAU BILL OF JANUARY 12 BE PASSED OVERPRESIDENT JOHNSON'S VETO]

_Lincoln's Policy versus Johnson's_

It was pretended at the time, and it has since been asserted byhistorians and publicists of high standing, that Mr. Johnson'sReconstruction policy was only a continuation of that of Mr. Lincoln. This was true only in a superficial sense, and not in reality. Mr. Lincoln had, indeed, put forth reconstruction plans which contemplatedan early restoration of some of the rebel States; but he had done thiswhile the Civil War was still going on, and for the evident purpose ofencouraging loyal movements in those States and of weakening theConfederate State governments there by opposing to them governmentsorganized in the interest of the Union, which could serve asrallying-points to the Union men. So long as the rebellion continued inany form and to any extent, the State governments he contemplated wouldhave been substantially in the control of really loyal men who had beenon the side of the Union during the war. Moreover, he alwaysemphatically affirmed, in public as well as private utterance, that noplan of reconstruction he had ever put forth was meant to be "exclusiveand inflexible, " but might be changed according to differentcircumstances. 

Now circumstances did change; they changed essentially with the collapseof the Confederacy. There was no more organized armed resistance to thenational government, to distract which loyal State governments in theSouth might have been efficacious. But there was an effort of personslately in rebellion to get possession of the reconstructed SouthernState governments for the purpose, in part, of using their power to saveor restore as much of the system of slavery as could be saved orrestored. The success of these efforts was to be accomplished by theprecipitate and unconditional readmission of the late rebel States toall their constitutional functions. This situation had not yet developedwhen Lincoln was assassinated. He had not contemplated it when he putforth his plans of reconstructing Louisiana and the other States. Had helived, he would have as ardently wished to stop bloodshed and to reuniteall the States as he ever did. But is it to be supposed, for a moment, that, seeing the late master class in the South still under theinfluence of their old traditional notions and prejudices, and at thesame time sorely pressed by the distressing necessities of theirsituation, intent upon subjecting the freedmen again to a system verymuch akin to slavery, Lincoln would have consented to abandon thosefreedmen to the mercies of that master class!

_The Personal Bitterness of the Struggle_

No less striking was the difference of the two policies in what may becalled the personal character of the controversies of the time. When theRepublican majority in Congress had already declared its unwillingnessto accept President Johnson's leadership in the matter ofreconstruction, a strong desire was still manifested by many Republicansenators and members of the House to prevent a decided and irremediablebreach with the President. Some of them were sanguine enough to hopethat more or less harmonious coöperation, or at least a peaceable_modus vivendi_, might still be obtained. Others apprehended that thePresident's policy, with its plausibilities, might after all find favorwith the popular mind, which was naturally tired of strife andexcitement, eager for peace and quiet, and that its opponents mightappear as reckless disturbers. Still others stood in fear of a rupturein the Republican party, which, among other evil consequences, mightprove disastrous to their own political fortunes. Several men ofimportance, such as Fessenden and Sherman in the Senate and someprominent members of the House, seriously endeavored to pour oil uponthe agitated waters by making speeches of a conciliatory tenor. Indeed, if Andrew Johnson had possessed only a little of Abraham Lincoln's sweettemper, generous tolerance, and patient tact in the treatment ofopponents, he might at least have prevented the conflict of opinionsfrom degenerating into an angry and vicious personal brawl. But thebrawl was Johnson's congenial atmosphere. 

The Judiciary Committee of the Senate, on January 12, 1866, reported abill to continue the existence, to increase the personnel, and toenlarge the powers of the Freedmen's Bureau. It was discussed in bothHouses with great thoroughness and in a temperate spirit, and thenecessity of the measure for the protection of the freedmen and theintroduction of free labor in the South was so generally acknowledgedthat the recognized Republican friends of the President in the Senate aswell as in the House supported it. It passed by overwhelming majoritiesin both Houses, and everybody, even those most intimate with thePresident, confidently expected that he would willingly accept and signit. But on the 19th of February he returned it with his veto, mainly onthe assumed ground that it was unnecessary and unconstitutional, andalso because it was passed by a Congress from which eleven States, thoselately in rebellion, were excluded--thus throwing out a dark hint thatbefore the admission of the late rebel States to representation thisCongress might be considered constitutionally unable to make any validlaws at all. Senator Trumbull, in an uncommonly able, statesmanlike, andcalm speech, combated the President's arguments and moved that the billpass, the President's veto notwithstanding. But the "AdministrationRepublicans, " although they had voted for the bill, now voted to sustainthe veto, and, there being no two-thirds majority to overcome it, theveto prevailed. Thus President Johnson had won a victory over theRepublican majority in Congress. This victory may have made him believethat he would be able to kill with his veto all legislation unpalatableto him, and that, therefore, he was actually master of the situation. Hemade the grave mistake of underestimating the opposition. 

_A Humiliating Spectacle_

On February 22, 1866, a public meeting was held in Washington for thepurpose of expressing popular approval of the President's reconstructionpolicy. The crowd marched from the meeting-place to the White House tocongratulate the President upon his successful veto of the Freedmen'sBureau Bill. The President, called upon to make a speech in response, could not resist the temptation. He then dealt a blow to himself fromwhich he never recovered. He spoke, in the egotistic strain usual withhim, of the righteousness of his own course, and then began to inveighin the most violent terms against those who opposed him. He denouncedthe joint Committee on Reconstruction, the committee headed byFessenden, as "an irresponsible central directory" that had assumed thepowers of Congress, described how he had fought the leaders of therebellion, and added that there were men on the other side of the linewho also worked for the dissolution of the Union. By this time some ofthe uproarious crowd felt that he had descended to their level, andcalled for names. He mentioned Thaddeus Stevens, Charles Sumner, andWendell Phillips as men who worked against the fundamental principles ofthe government, and excited the boisterous merriment of the audience bycalling John W. Forney, the Secretary of the Senate and a prominentjournalist, "a dead duck" upon whom "he would not waste his ammunition. "Again he spoke of his rise from humble origin, --a tailor who "alwaysmade a close fit, "--and broadly insinuated that there were men in highplaces who were not satisfied with Lincoln's blood, but, wanting more, thought of getting rid of him, too, in the same way. 

I remember well the impression made by this speech as it came out in thenewspapers. Many if not most of the public men I saw in Washington, remembering the disgraceful appearance of Andrew Johnson in a drunkenstate at the inauguration, at once expressed a belief that he must havebeen in the same condition when delivering that speech. Most of thenewspapers favoring the President's policy were struck dumb. Of thoseopposing him, most of them spoke of it in grave but evidently restrainedlanguage. The general feeling was one of profound shame and humiliationin behalf of the country. 

In Congress, where Mr. Stevens, with his characteristic sarcasm, described the whole story of the President's speech as a malignantinvention of Mr. Johnson's enemies, the hope of preventing a permanentbreach between him and the Republican majority was even then notentirely extinct. On the 26th of February, Sherman made a long andcarefully prepared speech in the Senate, advocating harmony. Herecounted all the virtues Andrew Johnson professed and all the serviceshe had rendered, and solemnly affirmed his belief that he had alwaysacted upon patriotic motives and in good faith. But he could not refrainfrom "deeply regretting his speech of the 22d of February, " He addedthat it was "impossible to conceive a more humiliating spectacle thanthe President of the United States invoking the wild passions of a mobaround him with the utterance of such sentiments as he uttered on thatday. " Still, Mr. Sherman thought that "this was no time to quarrel withthe Chief Magistrate. " Other prominent Republicans, such as GeneralJ. D. Cox of Ohio--one of the noblest men I have ever known, --calledupon him to expostulate with him in a friendly spirit, and he gave themamiable assurances, which, however, subsequently turned out to have beenwithout meaning. Then something happened which cut off the last chanceof mutual approach. 

On March 13th the House passed the Civil Rights Bill, which the Senatehad already passed on the 2d of February. Its main provision was thatall persons born in the United States, excepting Indians, not taxed, were declared to be citizens of the United States, and such citizens ofevery race and color should have the same right in every State andTerritory of the United States to make and enforce contracts, to sue, beparties, and give evidence, to inherit, purchase, lease, sell, hold, andconvey real and personal property, and to have the full and equalbenefit of all laws and proceedings for the security of person andproperty as was enjoyed by white citizens. The bill had nothing to dowith "social equity, " and did not in any way interfere with Mr. Johnson's scheme of reconstruction. In fact, it was asserted, no doubttruthfully, that Mr. Johnson himself had at various times shown himself, by word and act, favorable to its provisions. It appeared, indeed, inevery one of its features so reasonable and so necessary for theenforcement of the Thirteenth Constitutional Amendment prohibitingslavery, that disapproval of it by the President was regarded as almostimpossible. Aside from the merits of the bill, there was anotherreason, a reason of policy, for the President to sign it. Had he doneso, he would have greatly encouraged the conciliatory spirit which, inspite of all that had happened, was still flickering in many Republicanbosoms, and he might thus, even at this late hour, have secured aneffective following among the Republicans in Congress. But he did not. He returned the bill to Congress with a veto message so weak in argumentthat it appeared as if he had been laboriously groping for pretexts tokill the bill. One of the principal reasons he gave was again thesinister one that Congress had passed the bill while eleven States wereunrepresented, thus repeating the threatening hint that the validity ofthe laws made by such a Congress might be questioned. 

_False Encouragement to the South_

Congress promptly passed the bill over the President's veto by atwo-thirds majority in each House, and thus the Civil Rights Bill becamea law. President Johnson's defeat was more fatal than appeared on thesurface. The prestige he had won by the success of his veto of theFreedmen's Bureau Bill was lost again. The Republicans, whom in some wayhe had led to expect that he would sign the Civil Rights Bill, nowbelieved him to be an insincere man capable of any treachery. The lastchance of an accommodation with the Republican party was now utterlygone. But, worse than all, the reactionists in the South, who were bentupon curtailing the freedom of the emancipated negroes as much aspossible, received his veto of the Civil Rights Bill with shouts ofdelight. Believing him now unalterably opposed to the bestowal, upon thefreedmen, of equal civil rights such as were specified in the bill, theyhailed President Johnson as their champion more loudly than ever. Undisturbed by the defeat of the veto, which they looked upon as a meretemporary accident, they easily persuaded themselves that the President, aided by the Administration Republicans and the Democratic party at theNorth, would at last surely prevail, and that now they might safely dealwith the negro and the labor question in the South as they pleased. Thereactionary element felt itself encouraged to the point of foolhardinessby the President's attitude. Legislative enactments and municipalordinances and regulations tending to reduce the colored people to astate of semi-slavery multiplied at a lively rate. Measures taken forthe protection of the emancipated slaves were indiscriminately denouncedin the name of the Constitution of the United States as acts ofinsufferable tyranny. The instant admission to seats in the nationalCongress of senators and representatives from the "States lately inrebellion" was loudly demanded as a constitutional right, and for theseseats men were presented who but yesterday had stood in arms against thenational government, or who had held high place in the insurrectionaryConfederacy. And the highest authority cited for all these denunciationsand demands was Andrew Johnson, President of the United States. 

The impression made by these things upon the minds of the Northernpeople can easily be imagined. Men of sober ways of thinking, notaccessible to sensational appeals, asked themselves quite seriouslywhether there was not real danger that the legitimate results of thewar, for the achievement of which they had sacrificed uncountedthousands of lives and the fruits of many, many years of labor, were ingrave jeopardy again. Their alarm was not artificially produced bypolitical agitation; it was sincere and profound, and began to growangry. The gradual softening of the passions and resentments of the warwas checked. The feeling that the Union had to be saved once more fromthe rule of the "rebels with the President at their head" spread withfearful rapidity, and well-meaning people looking to Congress to come tothe rescue were becoming less and less squeamish as to the character ofthe means to be used to that end. 

This popular temper could not fail to exercise its influence uponCongress and to stimulate the radical tendencies among its members. Evenmen of a comparatively conservative and cautious disposition admittedthat strong remedies were necessary to avert the threatening danger, andthey soon turned to the most drastic as the best. Moreover, the partizanmotive pressed to the front to reinforce the patriotic purpose. It hadgradually become evident that President Johnson, whether such had beenhis original design or not, --probably not, --would by his politicalcourse be led into the Democratic party. The Democrats, delighted, ofcourse, with the prospect of capturing a President elected by theRepublicans, zealously supported his measures and flattered his vanitywithout stint. The old alliance between the pro-slavery sentiment in theSouth and the Democratic party in the North was thus revived--thatalliance which had already cost the South so dearly in the recent pastby making Southern people believe that if they revolted against theFederal Government the Northern Democracy would stand by them and helpthem to victory. 

 THE JULY INSTALMENT OF CARL SCHURZ' MEMOIRS WILL CONCLUDE THE STORY OF PRESIDENT JOHNSON'S STRUGGLE WITH CONGRESS

[Illustration]

THE CRYSTAL-GAZER

BY MARY S. WATTS

AUTHOR OF "THE GREAT NORTH ROAD, " ETC. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK A. NANKIVELL

The carrier's cart--for my means afforded no more lordly style oftravel--set me down at an elbow of white highroad, whence, between thesloping hills, I could see a V-shaped patch of blue, this half water andthat sky; here and there the gable of a farmhouse with a plume of smokestreaming sidewise; and below me, in the exact point of the V, the mastsand naked yards of a ketch at her moorings. Even in that shelteredharbor, to judge by the faint oscillations of her masts, she felt thetug of the waters around her keel. There had been a storm the nightbefore; without, the sea ran strong about all these exposed coasts; andI knew that, hidden from sight behind the upper headland, the surf mustbe bursting in a cloud over the Brown Cow, and the perturbed tidesetting like a mill-race between that great dun rock and the shorethrough the narrow gut we called the Cat's Mouth. 

"You'll be noticing some changes, Mr. Nick?" the carrier hinted at last, lingering to observe me. "Well, there's a deal may happen in two orthree years. You can't look to find things just the way you left 'em. "

He used a certain respectful familiarity, having known me all my life, and, as he spoke, eyed me with the kind and open curiosity of a dog. Hewas a gentle little man, with a manner oddly compounded of the sailor'ssimplicity and the rustic's bootless cunning, --for he had followed bothwalks in his day, --and was popularly held to be somewhat weak-wittedsince a fall from the masthead to the decks of the brig _Hyperion_ someyears before. 

"I am not near enough to see any changes yet, Crump, " I answered him. "The changes, if any, show most, I dare say, in myself. "

"So they do, sir; so they do, " he assented heartily. "My wife used tosay you were a pretty boy, and had the makings of a fine, personableman. First thing I thought, when I clapped eyes on you to-day, was:'Well, this here's a lesson to Sarah not to be hasty in her judgments!''Tain't often I get the better o' Sarah, you know, sir. They tell meyou've been in Italy and learned to paint?"

"I'm afraid I haven't quite learned all the art yet, Crump. It takesmore than two or three years. "

"Depends on the person, I shouldn't wonder, " he said, wagging his head. "Some people are slow by nature. Could a man make his living by it, d'yethink, sir?"

I answered this devious inquiry as to my own financial standing byassuring him that I had contrived so far to make mine. "I'm not ridingin my coach-and-four yet, as you see, Crump, but the time may come. "

"I'm sure I hope it will, Mr. Nick, " he said rather dubiously. "But it'skind o' tempting Providence, seems to me. You might 'a' been walkingyour own quarter-deck, captain o' some tall East Indiaman by this, likeyour father and grandfather before you, making a safe, easy living, andlooked up to by everybody. "

I interrupted his moralizing to ask, as, indeed, I had already done morethan once, without being able to get his attention: "How does mygrandfather seem?"

Momentary gravity fell upon him. "He--he don't always answer the helm, Mr. Nicol, " he said, and touched his forehead with a meaning look. "Barring that, I'd rate him seaworthy, for all he's cruised solong--nigh eighty year, ain't it?"

"I'm glad I came home, " I said, concerned. "The old man should not bealone. "

"He ain't exactly alone, " said Crump, with an uneasy glance into myface. "He's signed on two new hands here lately--about a month ago, Ib'lieve. I dessay he was making pretty heavy weather of it by himself, and so he--er--well----" He cleared his throat, hesitating in an oddembarrassment; he plainly felt that here was information bound to bedistasteful, and set about imparting it with a painful diplomacy. "Thecap'n--Cap'n Pendarves, your grandfather, sir, was, as you might say, short-handed, you being in foreign parts, and old John Behenna havingslipped his cable 'long about the last o' May, as I was telling you; andso the cap'n he ups and ships these here--and--and, in fac', Mr. Nick, one of 'em's a woman!" He drew a long breath and wiped his forehead. 

"You don't mean he's married!" I shouted, and with, I am afraid, apretty strong term of disapproval. 

"There, now, I _thought_ you'd take it that way!" Crump remarked, notwithout gratification. "But it ain't so bad as that, Mr. Nicol. " And hewent on to explain, with a variety of nautical metaphors, that thecouple, an elderly man and a young girl supposedly his grandchild, hadappeared in Chepstow some weeks ago during fair-time; that the youngwoman "took observations, " which I translated to mean that she toldfortunes, supporting them both, it would seem, by the pennies she gainedthis way, for the man did no work, and was most often seen "hove to, transhipping cargo, " at the bar of the Three Old Cronies or elsewhere, Crump said. He did not know how or when or where my grandfather hadfirst fallen in with these vagabonds. For several successive days he hadbeen noticed in their company, or laying a straight course for thelittle booth wherein the girl plied her mean trade; and then, all atonce, to the stupefied astonishment of Chepstow, --where the captain wasreckoned, with reason, a particularly hard, sour, dour sort of body, anything but friendly or hospitable, --the pair of them were discoveredcomfortably installed beneath the Pendarves' roof, as snug as if theyhad lived there all their lives and never meant to go away! The thingwas a mystery; it went near to being a scandal. For a final touch, Crumpassured me that these precious gentry were all but nameless; no one hadever heard the woman called anything, and the man's name defiedpronunciation. 

Upon all this agreeable intelligence, we parted, as Crump's way was bythe round-about hill road, while I struck straight across by short cutsto my grandfathers house. If I had been content to loiter on the pathheretofore, no amount of haste could satisfy me now. I doubt if anyhonest artist lad returning to the place of his birth after three years'absence ever met a grayer welcome. I had left my grandfather unimpaired, and it was well-nigh impossible to figure that harsh and domineeringspirit in decay. Abram Pendarves belonged to the ancient hearty, savagerace of British sea-captains, now fast waning to extinction. After ayouth of wild and black adventure under the rule of just such salt-waterdespots as he himself became, he had spent some two score yearspractising the tyrannies and what one may call the brutal virtues he hadlearned on every sea and beneath every sky this planet owns; then cameat last to settle down in the storm-beaten house on the cliffs byChepstow (the house his father's father had built), whence he could seethe surf whiten on the rocks and gulls forever circling about the BrownCow. His was a narrow and surly old age, not overwell provided, for hehad never been a thrifty man; and he found among the rattletrapfurnishings of his neglected home one living chattel quite asworthless--a weird, lean goblin of a boy, his sole descendant, fatherless and motherless, playing lonely little games in corners, making crass drawings with a charred stick on the walls, and viewing theblossoming orchards of spring with a crazy delight in color. I fearthere was not much affection between this ill-matched couple. For longyears I saw in my grandfather only a coarse, violent old man, niggardlyand censorious. And to him there was doubtless something unwholesomeand repellent in the most innocent of my tastes; I could not even sinroundly, like other boys, by pilfering or truantry, but must display anexotic passion for reading forbidden books, an abhorred dexterity atcaricature. I think we were equally headstrong and unreasonable, I in myyoung way, he in his old one; and as I trudged along the quiet homewardpaths, it shamed me to remember with what hard words we had parted. 

II

The sun was going down as I conquered the last steep rise toward mygrandfather's gate. Hereabouts a pair of steps had been cut into thecliff and a hand-rail erected to help the visitor against the wind, coming, as it so often did, in flaws of extraordinary force and furyaround the headland. From this high point a great expanse of oceanfilled the eye, and the ceaseless, uneasy rumor of water assailed oneeven in the fairest weather. There was always a thin run of surf aboutthe base of the Brown Cow and among those narrow conical rocks which, set in a rough crescent near the lower end of the Cat's Mouth, had notinaptly been named the Cat's Teeth. 

[Illustration: "'YOU DIDN'T SEE THE SIGN, I SUPPOSE?'"]

The path followed the edge of the cliff on the hither side of a stonewall, behind which some few experienced old apple-trees bent andflattened themselves into strange, tortuous shapes to escape the winds. The inclosure went by the name of orchard, though it was in truth littleelse than a wild jungle of weeds and rubbish; but one tree in the mostsheltered corner yearly made a conscientious effort to supply us with abushel or so of pippins, and adventurous Chepstow urchins as regularlydefeated the hope. I purposed to shorten my road by crossing here; andso, finding a toe-rest in certain familiar crannies of the masonry, clambered easily to the top of the wall, and paused there a moment, astride of the coping, to put aside the branches and take a distant viewof the forlorn pile of ruins I called home. It was a dreary place; itsroofs sagged, its chimneys leaned at perilous slants. Yet my heartwarmed to the sight of it. I took hold of the stoutest bough to swing meto the ground, when----

"Don't touch those apples, young man!" said somebody sharply. 

I was so startled as nearly to lose my hold, and came down with a runand hands well scored on the rough bark. There I stood, knee-high inrank undergrowth, staring all about in a surprise that must have beennot a little ludicrous, for the voice uttered a short cicada-chirrup oflaughter, shrill and sweet. 

"Here I am. What bats men are!" it said. 

I looked. She was standing almost immediately beneath the place where Ihad climbed over; my boot must have grazed her. She was what old womencall a slip of a girl, in a cotton gown, white, figured with fine sprigsof green sadly faded, for it was not new. The wind whipped her red hairinto her eyes. Her face was very much freckled; properly speaking, itwas one freckle from brow to chin. She wore, besides, as I remember, alittle muslin tucker (I think the garment is so named) and a littlefrilled muslin apron; and these articles, together with her old printfrock, were washed, starched, and ironed to a degree it hath not enteredinto the mind of man to conceive. I took off my hat; and something aboutthis young woman moved me thereafter hastily to adjust my cravat andshirt-ruffle. I believe these signs of perturbation (which were entirelygenuine) pleased her in some subtle way, like a tribute, for she stoppedto inquire: "You want to cut through here to the highroad? I'm verysorry, but I really cannot allow it. I've had a great deal of troublekeeping the village boys away from this tree. These are fine apples andgood winter keepers--that is, I think they are----" she added a littletentatively, searching my face. "You didn't see the sign, I suppose?"

I followed her gesture and beheld, nailed aloft on the stub of a deadtree, a square of white planking whereon was neatly lettered the legend:

 NO TRESPASSING UNDER PENALTY OF

 THE LAW

 ABRAM AND NICOL PENDARVES, PROPRIETORS PER MARY SMITH

"I did it myself with a red-hot poker, " she said proudly. 

I gazed from her to the sign-board, all but speechless. "It's very welldone, " I managed to get out at last. 

"Yes, isn't it? But, somehow, it doesn't keep the boys from coming. They're not at all law-abiding. I don't think they've been very wellbrought up. And then, of course, they're not accustomed to seeing anyone in charge here. " She looked around, and smoothed her apron with themost astonishing little air of resource and command. "I saw a bill withthe names at the bottom that way, and per So-and-So below, so I copiedit, " she continued, surveying her handiwork fondly. 

"Ah? You are Miss Mary Smith?"

"Yes. " And now she looked at me, and away again, with a strange andsudden flush. "Yes, _Smith_. That's--that's a very good name, _I_think. " There was a kind of tremulous defiance in her tone, as if shehalf expected me to question it. 

"I've heard it before, I believe, " said I stupidly--for, in fact, I hadscarcely yet got myself together. "You live here?"

She nodded, with a perplexed and inquiring eye on me. "I'm CaptainPendarves' housekeeper, " she said, with a prim and bridling air, andonce more her expression challenged me. "Deny it if you can, sir!" wasevidently her unspoken thought. 

"And how long has my--ahem!--has Captain Pendarves been employing you, may I ask?" I said, wondering that Crump had not prepared me for this asfor the other changes. 

"Young man, " said Mary Smith severely, "I have no time to stand hereanswering idle questions. If you want to see Captain Pendarves, I willspeak to him; but if not, I really think you had better be getting on, for it's late. "

"I was thinking of stopping awhile, " said I humbly, "with mygrandfather. You see, I'm Nicol Pendarves. "

Had I said, "I am the Prince of Darkness, " the announcement could nothave wrought a more appalling change in her. She fell back a step, putting out one faltering hand to the wall for support. Her smallbullying mien vanished like a garment twitched from her shoulders byunseen magic. Her face blanched piteously; terror looked from her eyes. "Oh, I was afraid of this!" she gasped, in a voice that went to theheart. "Sir, I--I--meant no harm!"

"Harm!" said I, both touched and puzzled. "Why, you've done none. Thereis no need for excuses. I never saw a better steward; you did not knowme, and you were within your rights to send me about my business. "

"Sir, " she said, still in a tremble, "I have done no wrong. You willfind everything just as you left it. "

"I shall find everything in a good deal better case, judging by whatI've seen already, I think, " said I heartily. "How long have you beenhere?"

"Four weeks--next Wednesday, " she answered nervously. 

"Then, " said I, "maybe you can tell me something about the drift ofthings here. For--not to boggle about it--I am in some uneasiness, MissSmith. These people--this man and woman who I hear have settledthemselves upon Captain Pendarves of late--who are they? what are they?"

As I spoke we emerged upon the stone-paved walk leading to our kitchendoor; it had been picked free of weeds, and the currant-bushes on eitherside trimly harnessed up to a set of stakes. A white curtain flouncedbehind the old lattice; there was a row of flowering geraniums in potsupon the sill. Through the open door you might see a clear fire and MarySmith's saucepans glowing on the wall. The place, I thought, wore, for akitchen, the best air conceivable of decent and humble dignity; norwould one have supposed that mere thrift and cleanliness could be socomely. I turned to her with some such words, and found her facing me, so much of haggard trouble in her eyes that I stopped, aghast. 

"Sir, " she said, twisting her fingers, "I see you do not understand--Ithought you knew. I--I am the woman you speak of. Your grandfather iswithin, and the other--the man--with him. "

III

Our old house being designed and built with a shiplike compactness, there was but one room on the ground floor besides the kitchen and itsoffices. It was a plain, comfortable place, wainscoted about, withshelves and lockers in the whimsical copy of a vessel's cabin. And itcontained the single work of art our establishment could show; that is, a portrait of my grandfather's grandfather, --he who founded thishouse, --in a finicking attitude, with a brocade coat and a pair ofcompasses. In his rear were to be seen a pillar and a red velvetcurtain, and (distantly) a fine storm of clouds and lightning. Never wasa respectable old sailorman so misrepresented; but all his descendantsexcept one regarded this gaudy daub with almost religious veneration. Every family has its one great man; the admiral was ours. His was thedistinction of being the only Pendarves who had ever managed to amass afortune. It had dribbled through the fingers of succeeding generations;but there was a tradition that some part of it, buried or otherwisesecreted with an admirable forethought by the old gentleman, might yetbe discovered, to the further glorification of our house. 

The picture hung directly opposite the door, favoring me, as I entered, with a disconcerting smirk; it needed no great stretch of fancy tocredit him with cherishing some secret and villainous joke. Beneath itsat my grandfather, with his pipe, in the same place and attitude as Iremembered him for upward of twenty years, but so spectral a likeness ofhimself that the sight of him shocked me like a blow. He had wasted to amere parchment envelop of bones, and the eyes he turned to mine werebright with inward fever. I had looked for I do not know what signs ofan unstable mind, but at first, save for the eyes, saw none. He showedonly a not too well pleased surprise. 

"Nicol!" he said, and pushed back his chair, without rising. "Nicol!"and then for a moment sat staring closely at me under his heavy brows. With his next action something of the horror of his affliction came hometo me, for I saw that, but for some confused sense that I had beenabsent against his will, he had utterly forgot everything concerning me, the terms of our last meeting, and the events of many years besides. 

"Hush, and sit down!" he said, in the habitually chiding tone he hadused to the boy of ten or twelve. "Take your books and get your lesson!"He pointed with the stem of his pipe to a stool in the corner where, asa lad, I had passed more than one grim hour, and turned to hiscompanion, as older people turn from the interruptions of children. 

Mary Smith, following behind, touched me gently on the arm. "Go and sitdown, " she formed the words with her lips rather than voiced them. 

There sat beside my grandfather a vast, fat creature with a forest ofgreasy black hair and beard about his pallid face; his heavy hands laymotionless in his lap, forcibly reminding me of an image I had seen ofsome Oriental god upon his throne. His eyes were scarcely opened, hisbreathing was almost imperceptible; a gross animal content appeared inhim as of a full-fed, lethargic crocodile. Side by side, he and thegaunt, fierce-eyed old man presented no mean allegory of spirit andbody. A table was before them, and in the middle of it a toy the like ofwhich I had never seen in this house or elsewhere--a globe of crystal, perhaps the size of an orange, held up on a little bronze pedestal. Thefat man's eyes, or so much of them as one might see, were fixed uponthis thing with a kind of stupid intensity; one could have fancied himpaying tribute to some idolatrous shrine. The captain watched him withan equal earnestness; so might the Roman mob have hung upon the readingof the sacred entrails; and there was about it the air of awell-practised, familiar rite. At last my grandfather asked:

"What do you see?"

[Illustration: "THE FAT MAN'S EYES ... WERE FIXED UPON THIS THING WITH AKIND OF STUPID INTENSITY"]

The other's lips moved, and an unintelligible whisper reached me. 

"Ay, that's it, that's it, " said the captain, and sent a quick, searching look about the room. "Doubloons--pieces-of-eight--Spanishpillar-dollars--doubloons, doubloons! That is what it would likely bemade up of, eh? But where--try to see that--where?"

Another interval of silent gazing, and the oracle uttered some furtherstatement, which my grandfather received with an impatient groan. 

"Doubloons--piles of gold--I know!" he said. "And a ship. Butwhereabouts was it, eh? Surely you can see whereabouts it was?"

"It's all a mist; I can see nothing, " the other answered, after a pause. 

I could have found it in me to laugh at the whole miserable hocus-pocus, had I been less indignant. The situation was, besides, sufficientlygrave; and as I listened to this silly and profane juggling, andobserved the wildness of my grandfather's bearing, it became plain to methat he could not long endure such an influence. I guessed from his talkthat the old man's disorder was based upon the idea of treasure lost, sunk, or hidden hereabout; for our coast was dangerous, a menace tovessels, and not innocent, besides, of smugglers and worse. Perhaps thepoverty of his later years was at the root of his delusion; perhaps hismadness would have taken this form anyhow. However he had fallen intothe fat man's hands, this was the secret of the latter's power. While Ipondered gloomily, the sitting (so to call it) came to an end. Perhapsmy unwelcome appearance somewhat contracted it. My grandfather lapsedinto his chair, his chin on his chest, brooding. Excitement died in himalmost visibly, like the flickering down of a spent fire. Instead ofeighty, he looked a hundred and eighty, and his face was as lifeless asa mummy's. 

"Zaira!" said the fat man, raising his thick lids (but I fancied he hadalready taken some shrewd peeps at me from under them), "I have slept, and the spirit has spoken. Arise! take away the mirror of Time andSpace!"

And hereupon the girl, advancing with a shamed glance at me, carried theglobe to one of the lockers, shoved it in, and slammed the door on itsavagely. 

"Have a care!" the seer warned her somberly; the mirror of Time andSpace, apparently, was not immune from the ordinary risks of mirrors, asone might have expected so august an instrument to be. When speakingaloud thus, he used a great rolling, sonorous voice; it filled the roomuntil the very window-panes vibrated. 

She gave him a look of angry rebellion, opened her lips as if to retortwith some stinging word, stood irresolute a moment with eyes thatwavered between the three of us, then walked off, leaving us sittingfacing each other in silence. 

The fat man and I exchanged a long stare, I choking down my temper, hesmooth and placid, to outward seeming, as the idol he resembled. Theresolution with which he stuck to his silly pose was, in its way, arogue's masterpiece; nothing more exasperating than this stolideffrontery was ever devised. The scoundrel feared, and yet knew he had, in a sense, the better of me; the helpless old man between us was hisshield. 

"Young man, " he said at last, in the same booming monotone, "have youthe gift of the seeing eye?"

"I have more the gift of the feeling fist, I think, " said I, with whatcalmness I could muster. "If you doubt it, sir, I shall be pleased toshow you. I am Nicol Pendarves, as a soothsayer like yourself will haveguessed already. Perhaps you will honor me with your name and businesshere?"

"Many names are mine, " he answered, and made a solemn gesture. "Manynames are mine----"

"Doubtless, " I said; "but I meant your _last_ alias. "

He went on, unruffled, in his great voice, as if I had not spoken: "Manynames have been mine through the uncounted eons--many names. In thisflesh men call me Constantine Paphluoides. "

It was no wonder Chepstow could not turn its tongue about that name;that and his manner together must have dumfounded our straight-thinkingtownspeople. I do not remember--indeed, I took no pains to note--whatelse he said; bits of mythology, history, poetry, rolled from him in acataract of meaningless noise. Had I been an ardent disciple sitting athis feet, he could not have feigned a greater exaltation. The fellow wasat once dull and crafty; he loosed this gust of windy rhetoric at me asif he thought to win upon me by mere sound and fury signifying nothing. 

I got up at length, when I had had enough of him, and, walking across towhere he sat, "Mr. Constantine Paphluoides, " said I, "this is my house;I give you until to-morrow morning to leave it; you will go quietly andwithout any formalities of farewell. You will find it expedient to obeyme: otherwise, although I have not consulted the mirror of Time andSpace, I should not be surprised if it revealed you, to the seeing eye, in the town jail and later in the stocks. "

He made no answer, but sat staring at me, blinking, and opening andshutting his mouth in a gasping fashion like a fish. I had striven tospeak quietly, but (being in a breathing heat of anger) mustunconsciously have raised my voice, for unexpectedly, and, as it were, for a warning, my grandfather came out of his semi-stupor andstraightened up, eying me over with a kind of wandering severity. 

"Nicol, go to bed! You hear me? Go to bed!" He reached, cursing, for hiscane. There was a grotesque familiarity in the act. With that very canehe had sought to coerce me into the straight and narrow road, as heconceived it, how many times during all my childhood!

"Go to bed, I tell you!" he screamed, and half rose, brandishing his rodof correction. 

Somebody pulled at my sleeve; it was the girl. "Please come away, Mr. Pendarves; please do come away, sir, just for a minute, and then he'llforget it, " she urged; and, with her earnest air of responsibility:"It's so bad for him. "

IV

[Illustration: "'GO TO BED, I TELL YOU, ' HE SCREAMED, AND HALF ROSE"]

In the kitchen, Zaira Mary Smith was getting supper ready, as itappeared. I followed her out passively, and sat down in a sort of maze. It seemed incredible that, amid the shabby tragedy of this household, there should be time or thought for the kindly business of spreading ameal. The girl marched briskly to and fro, stooping to the oven door, tinkling softly among her spoons and bowls, evidently taking a timidzest in her labors. It made her seem the most sane, assured, and stableperson among us, spite of her position. I could have imagined hersinging as she went, had it not been for my presence. She wasdesperately conscious of me, watching me askant with the curiouslycommingled fear and trustfulness of a child. Nor, notwithstanding theuntruths or half-truths she had told me, could her connection with theabominable rogue-fool in the next room appear other than an enormity--asif she might be the enchanted heroine of some fairy-tale, condemned tothe service of a monster. At last, when she came and laid a board andpan on the table beside me, and, rolling up the sleeves about hercapable, round little arms, began a severe maltreatment of a batch ofdough, I could keep silence no longer; curiosity crowded every otherfeeling out of me. 

"Mary Smith!" I burst out, "for God's sake, tell me all about it!"

She rested her hands on the edge of the bowl an instant. "About us?" shesaid, with a quick glance at me. She gave the dough one or twoperfunctory pats and punches, biting her lips; and then suddenly, with arush of color, her face puckered together, she clapped her beflouredhands over it, and fell on the nearest bench in a perfect whirlwind ofsobs. 

"I--I--I w-w-wanted to be respectable!" was all I could make out betweengasps--but that was staggering enough news, I thought. She wanted to berespectable!

She went on: "I didn't come here of my own free will, Mr. Pendarves, truly I didn't; but when we came, and I saw how nice I could makeit, --and I never had a home before, --I knew, if you ever came back, thatwould end it all, and I did so hope you wouldn't!"

"It seemed a pity not to make hay while the sun shone?" I suggested. 

She nodded, a little doubtfully. "I didn't think of it just that way, "she said. "But--yes, I suppose any one would put it so. Only--I haven'thurt anything, Mr. Pendarves; I--I only scrubbed--and cooked--andcleaned a little. I was so happy: there was no harm, it seemed to me. And when I pretended to be the housekeeper, that--that was just a littlegame I played with myself; it was silly, I dare say, but, after all, itdid no harm, either. It was like another game I play by myselfsometimes--of having a birthday, you know? I put little things I've madebeside the bed, and when I wake up in the morning, I make believe it'smy birthday, and I'm so surprised at all the presents I've got! It'ssilly, isn't it?' I knew you'd laugh. "

"I never felt less like it, " I said. "Don't you know your realbirthday?"

She shook her head. No, she did not know that. She had never knownanything about her father and mother. She was not even certain of herown name. "He calls me Zaira, " she said, with a scornful jerk of herauburn head toward the other room; "but that's a stupid name, and I hateit. I tell every one my name's Mary Smith. Why not? I might as well callmyself what I like--nobody cares. I think Mary Smith's beautiful, don'tyou? It's so respectable, isn't it?" she added wistfully. 

Of her childhood she could remember nothing but being in some sort ofschool or institution (a home for foundlings, most likely) governed bynuns, or at least by women who went about in black stuff dresses andwhite caps, and whom one called _ma soeur_--for this was in southernFrance, she thought. The life was clean, decorous, and peaceful, and shemight have grown up to wear a white cap herself, and herd little waifsinto chapel; but when she was probably ten or eleven years old, the fatman came and took her away, and they had been wandering up and down theworld ever since. He said he was her uncle, but she was no more sure ofthat than of anything else concerning herself. 

When they had been in Chepstow a time, she said, her uncle came intotheir fortune-telling booth one day with Captain Pendarves, whose nameshe did not then know. He talked a great deal in an excited way aboutfinding some treasure----"money I think he said his father orgrandfather had hidden a long while ago. He kept saying it would all bein 'doubloons, doubloons, ' because it was got in the Spanish Main andbrought here in a ship. And he said there was treasure, heaps of it, inthe bottom of the Cat's Mouth, where ships had sunk, gold pieces all inamongst the ribs of dead men. Mr. Pendarves, "--she looked at me with ashy, awed sympathy, --"I saw your grandfather was--was----"

"He is crazy, or nearly so, " said I. "Plain talk is best. "

"I'm afraid so. I thought shame to beguile a poor old man that way, but, sir, I could not stop it. He came every day, and they looked in thecrystal--just as they were doing this afternoon, you know. He's worsenow; I think he forgets betweenwhiles what was said the last time theylooked. Then, one day, _he_ told me we were to come here to live. It waswrong--I knew it; but when I saw it, and thought what I could do--and Idid so want to have a home and--and be respectable--and I thought, too, if I worked hard and made it nice, it would be a--a kind of payment, wouldn't it? I couldn't help longing to----"

"Don't cry that way, " I said. "I can't bear to see you cry. "

"I can't help it, " she sobbed. "It's so hard to leave it all. "

"Well, then, why leave it?" said I. "_He_ has to, surely; but that needmake no difference to you. We must have a housekeeper, you know. "

She gave me a woeful glance; and I understood that, according to herpoor little code, it would be more "respectable" to resume herjourneyings with the fat crystal-gazer than to stay in the house withNick Pendarves as his grandfather's housekeeper. Here was a ticklishpoint to argue with her; and, for all her tears, there was a firmness inthe set of her chin (it was dented with a dimple) that warned me suchargument would be a waste of time. She had made up her mind, and wouldstand to it at all costs. It was martyrdom in an eminently femininestyle; women deliver themselves up to it day by day, and contrive to beperfectly unreasonable, yet somehow in the right. She wiped her eyespresently, shut her mouth on a sob, and went resolutely about her work. We had, after all, a tolerably cheerful evening in the kitchen. Itseemed wisest for me not to show myself again before Captain Pendarves, but I am afraid I did not repine greatly at the banishment. As the doorswung to and fro behind Mary carrying their dishes, I caught glimpses ofthe gloomy parlor, my grandfather huddled in his chair by the table, with bright, roving eyes; the sorcerer surprisingly busy about the foodfor a person of his ethereal habits; and, on the wall beyond, oldAdmiral Pendarves simpering eternally over his private fun. 

V

The wind came up strong again after sunset, and all night long wentnoisily about the gables, and piped down our trembling old chimneys. Itdid not lessen with the approach of morning, and when I thrust open thewindow, an hour or so after dawn, there was a low-hanging gray sky and agreat, driving stir in the air. I had hardly pushed the casement out, had one brief vision of bare tormented trees, felt a slap of rain, andheard, not far away, the measured beating of breakers as they charged atthe foot of our cliff, when the wind, plucking the latch from my grasp, slammed the lattice and went yelling around the corner of the house likea jocular demon. I began to dress, thinking, as I had often thoughtbefore, that the place had a kind of fantastic kinship with the sea;every timber in it seemed to strain and creak to the repeated onsets ofthe storm, like those of any ship. The house stood steady enough, yetour position, open to all the winds of heaven, and within a few hundredpaces of the furious water, was surely such as none but a sailor wouldhave chosen. We rode out the weather in the open, so to speak, withabundant sea-room. And, for the better carrying out of the simile, therepresently arose, somewhere outside, a long, drawling hail, calculated, with a mariner's nicety, to overcome the wind. "Ah-o-oy! The house, ah-o-oy!"

It came from the landward-looking or highroad side of the house--abouttwo points on the starboard bow, as old Crump would have said. And, infact, when I reached the door, there was Crump himself huddled in apea-jacket on the seat of his cart, with his gray pony droopingdolefully between the shafts. I could just see them above the raggedhedge that divided our little front yard from the public way. Toweringcolumns of rain swept across the landscape; Crump and the pony lookedsoaked to the core; and I was admiring the Spartan devotion to duty thatbrought him out at this hour, in such weather, when he began anotherwailing like a castaway banshee: "Ah-o-oy, the house! Pendarves, ah-o-oy!"

I set a hand to either side of my mouth and roared an answering hail tohim up the wind. We were a bare twenty yards apart, but if he had notchanced at that moment to look in my direction, I doubt if he would havebeen aware of me, for all my efforts. The wind, in a fresh swoop, snatched the sound from my lips and ranged through the house with aturmoil of banging doors, falling crockery, and wildly flutteringdraperies. As it was, he caught sight of me, shouted somethingunintelligible, and gesticulated toward a formless heap tucked up inoilskins behind him in the cart. Then he descended laboriously andsignaled for help to remove it. 

"What is it? What has he got?" screamed Mary Smith in my ear. She musthave come running from the back of the house at the recent outburst ofracket. Her petticoats swirled; her red curls streamed (they wereshining with wet). She had certainly been outdoors already, as early asit was, in the teeth of all this blow, and I was startled by the paleanxiety of her look. "What is it? Who is there?" she cried againshrilly. 

"Nobody but Crump with my baggage, " I cried back. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, Mr. Pendarves, haven't you seen them? They are both gone! I'velooked everywhere about the house. They were gone when I got up, and Ican't find them high or low!"

"You mean Captain Pendarves--and the other?"

She nodded, with terror-struck eyes on me; then, raising on tiptoe, screamed painfully, with her mouth close to my ear (it was almostimpossible to hear otherwise): "He--your grandfather--has done itbefore. He's always restless in a storm. He goes down to the shoresometimes. I'm so afraid----" her look said the rest. 

"Ask him--ask Crump; maybe he's seen them, " she added in a shriek, as Istarted to the carrier's help. It was but a few steps to the gate, yet Ireached it wet through, half blinded by sheets of water driven slantwisein my face, and with the breath nearly beaten out of me. In the open, thus, the storm seemed to increase tenfold in violence; it filled thevast cloudy hollow of the sky with reverberating din; and I felt, orfancied I felt, the solid ground shiver with the pounding of the waveson the ledges along the Cat's Mouth. 

Crump greeted me with a cheerful grin; he had all the seaman's tolerancefor the vagaries of the weather. 

"Coming on to blow some, ain't it?" he remarked at the top of his lungs. "Your old apple-tree's carried away--that one in the corner of theorchard, I mean. I could see it as I came along by the upper road. "

"Have you seen my grandfather anywhere about?" I shouted. 

He could not have understood the question, for he answered, squinting upat me knowingly as he stooped over his end of my chest: "I see you gotrid of _him_, Mr. Nick, and in short order, too. I spoke him a littleway back, bound for Sidmouth with all sails set--at least, he was layinga course that way. Come on board, ma'am!" He pulled his forelock andmade a leg respectfully before Mary (albeit eying her with no smallinterest) as we shoved our burden through the door. The girl clapped itshut, with a sharp struggle against the draught, and in the momentarysilence that followed we stood awkwardly and apprehensively surveyingone another, while the hurricane rumbled outside. 

"I asked you if you had seen my grandfather, " I said to Crump, at last. 

"Seen the cap'n? Why, no, sir, " he said, surprised. "I was telling youI saw----" He stopped, with a glance at Mary. 

"Yes, go on. You saw _him_? Where? What was he doing?" she said sharply. 

"I was saying he crossed my bows laying his course for Sidmouth, or thatway, " said Crump, evidently striving for a witness-box exactness. "Hedidn't answer my hail. Looked like he was in too much of a hurry. "

Mary cast a troubled look about. "Did he have anything with him? Aportmanteau, or carpet-bag, or anything to carry clothes?"

"Not that I noticed, " said Crump carefully. "Looked as if he was goingout in ballast--except his pockets; there was something in his pockets, I should say. "

I stared at Mary in some perplexity. What the fat man did, or whatshould become of him, were, indeed, matters of indifference to me, except so far as they concerned her. I was well enough pleased that heshould go, but there was something unusual in the manner of his going;it was a headlong flight. To tell the truth, I had looked for furthertrouble with him. What would the girl do now? And where was CaptainPendarves? She met me with eyes at once frightened and resolute. 

"First of all we must find Captain Pendarves--we must go look for him, "she said, answering my thought and making up my mind for me in a trice. (She has a way of doing this, displaying the most unerring accuracy atit any time these twenty years!) And, in the turn of a hand, she hadkilted up her skirts, tied a shawl, over her head, and was making forthe kitchen door. 

"Lord love you, miss, you can't go out in this!" said Crump, aghast. 

"Why not? I've been out in it once already. "

"But, Mary!" I cried, and tried to withhold her. "What good can you do?Here is Crump, and here am I. We'll find them both. This is no work fora woman. You are wet, you may get hurt----"

"And you?" she retorted. Then, in a lower voice, "Don't stop me, Mr. Pendarves; don't try to keep me from going. I can't stay quietly here, and wait, and wait, and not know what's happened. I think I should gomad. I _must_ go. You are wasting time; your grandfather--oh, can't youunderstand?"

I understood only that she was frantic with anxiety, and might haveoffered further remonstrance had it not been for the sudden defection ofCrump. He edged a little nearer, and gently jogged my elbow. 

"I'm with ye, miss, " he announced, with startling alacrity; and, as wefollowed her out, he explained to me in a hoarse and perfectly audiblewhisper behind one hand: "I'm always with 'em when they get that lookon, Mr. Nicol. Catch me adrift on a lee shore! I've learned a lot sinceI signed with Sarah. "

The breakfast-table had been laid, and the empty chairs stood around itin their places, under the smiling supervision of the admiral'sportrait. In the kitchen, Mary had a bright fire going, her neat towelshanging to dry. She opened the door, and the next instant this prettyand comforting picture was shut behind us, and there we were crouchingin the rain under the eaves, with the wind bellowing overhead. 

[Illustration: "IT LAY BEFORE US, A CONSIDERABLE HEAP OF GOLD AND SILVERCOINS, TARNISHED BUT RECOGNIZABLE"]

Mary stood on tiptoe again to scream: "I've been all over except in theorchard--you can see the shore from there. "

I took her hand within my arm, and we struggled forward. As we drewnearer the cliff, the loud and awful noise of breakers in the Cat'sMouth silenced the storm; yet the wind was no whit diminished. A mancould hardly have kept his feet, I think, along the cliff path. Beforewe reached the corner where the ancient tree that had weathered so manygales lay prostrate, uprooted at last, although we had as yet no view ofthe immediate shore, we could see a white aureole of spray hang, vanish, and return in a breath, yards in air above the Brown Cow. We fetched acompass around the orchard, stumbling and staggering among stumps andmatted weeds and half-hidden logs without finding my grandfather, or anytrace of him; and Crump having dropped behind, we had lost sight of himwhen that eery screech he adopted to make himself heard traveled to usdown the wind. He was kneeling by the dislodged roots of our old tree, and, as he caught my eye, began an uncouth pantomime of surprise andwonder; then stooped, grasped a handful of something, and held it aloftwith extravagant gestures. He bawled again, and, having got closer bythis time, I heard the words:

"Doubloons, Mr. Nick! Pieces-of-eight! Spanish dollars! Doubloons!"

"Heaven help us all!" went through me, "Here's another gone mad. "

The spectacle put our search momentarily from my mind. I knew Crump'shead to be none of the strongest, and I should never have guessed whathad actually happened--for surely this was a strange place and way inwhich to stumble upon old Admiral Pendarves' treasure!

Yet that was what the carrier had done; he was never saner in his life. It lay before us, a considerable heap of gold and silver coins, tarnished but recognizable, in a rotting wooden keg sunk into the groundat the foot of the tree and partly meshed in its roots. Crump plowedamong the coins with his hand. 

"There's a mort of money here, Mr. Nicol, " he said, "and there's beenmore. Look, here's some of it scattered out in the grass; it couldn'thave got away out there of itself. And here's a footprint in the mud. "He looked up thoughtfully. "Likely some of it's on its way to Sidmouthnow, " said he. "I thought his pockets bulged. "

"Well, I wish him joy of it!" said I. 

"Lord, you could have the law on him for that, Mr. Nicol. Ain't yougoing to?"

"Not I!" said I, holding Mary's hand. 

Something in this attitude must have moved Crump to his next remark. Helooked us both over with an impartial and dispassionate air, cast acalculating eye on the treasure; then, "Enough left to get married andset up on, anyway, " he said weightily. "There's worse things in theworld than being married--though you'd hardly believe it. That's what Ioften says to Sarah!"

At that Mary Smith snatched her hand suddenly from mine and moved towardthe edge of the cliff, crying out that we must continue our search. Iclimbed the orchard wall and looked along the shore. Here the cliffdropped away almost sheer, and the narrow strip of shingle at its basewas lost in the surf. Farther to the north it widened a little with thecurve of the shore, and through a swaying curtain of rain I could followit to a point we called the Notch, near the entrance of the Cat's Mouth;of late years they have dredged the channel and moored a bell-buoy offthis headland. There was nothing alive in sight; some prone blackobjects I saw, with a start, were only a few fisher-boats drawn up onthe sand, and none too safe. I looked out to sea; the tide was making, and, where the strait drew in toward the Cat's Teeth, the waves foughtand clamored with a horrid vigor, like living monsters. Their hugevoices outdid the winds, and, as one after another made forward, towered, and broke upon the reefs, the Teeth disappeared in a welter offoam. Hereabout we found the old man at last. 

Where he had got a boat, or with what madman's strength he had launchedit, we could not guess. It was midway of the Cat's Mouth that I firstcaught sight of him, at no great distance measured by feet and inches, but as far beyond human aid as if the wide Atlantic had separated us. Hewas standing up in the stern, with folded arms, in something the posturehe may have maintained on the poop of his ship in old days--where, perhaps, he fancied himself at this moment. I trust that reason waswithheld from him in the utter hour; and certainly, although I could notdiscern his features, I saw him make no gesture either to invite help orto indicate that he had any understanding of his position. If mad, Ithought (right or wrong) his death thus less ignoble than his life hadbecome; if sane, he held a strong and steadfast heart, and bore himselfwell on his last voyage. By some strange chance, the boat spun andtossed among the breakers, yet kept an even keel, and boat and mantogether made a viking end. For, so standing, unconscious or unmoved, hewent down, before our eyes, between the white and pointed reefs of theCat's Teeth. 

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

BOB, DÉBUTANT

BY HENRY GARDNER HUNTING

ILLUSTRATIONS BY DENMAN FINK

Of course, Bob knew that, as an abstract ethical principle, it is wrongto fight. His mother had been endeavoring to impress that idea upon him, from the moment it was first decided that he should go to public schooltill his books and his lunch-box were packed and he was on his waythither; and she had succeeded fairly well, for she had exacted apromise from him faithfully to avoid personal encounters as whollysinful and unbecoming. 

As a matter of fact, Bob knew only so much about fighting as he hadlearned through round-eyed, somewhat frightened observation of a veryfew entirely bloodless encounters among older boys; and, inasmuch as hehad found himself consistently excluded from nearly all other, morepeaceful pursuits and interests of these older ones, it was notunnatural that he should feel merely a spectator's interest in theirfistic battles also, and that he should look upon them as he would havelooked upon any other natural phenomenon--with some excitement, perhaps, but with no personal concern. 

Bob admired his mother. To him, she was the most beautiful and the mostresourceful woman in the world. He had found her judgment upon manysubjects so wise that he was quite prepared to believe her position inthis matter (which did not appear to be vital) completely andunquestionably correct, and to promise accordingly. 

But conditions which exist on the big, bare public-school playgrounds, away alike from parental restraint and parental protection, are quitedifferent from those in the home door-yard, and the code which obtainsin the ward-school world is not an open book to all mothers ofchubby-fisted sons who are called upon to observe it. It seems difficultfor mothers to comprehend that a normal boy's standing on theschool-ground is, like that of a young cock in a barn-yard, simply amatter of mettle and muscle. 

So it was as early as Bob's second day at school--on the first Papa Jackhad gone with him--that a revelation came both to him and to his mother. To him it was a painful revelation, first because he had this new codeto learn, and afterward because of his promise; and it was the latterthing that made the real difficulty. When you are a small boy you caneasily adapt yourself and your habits of mind to new conditions andenvironment; but when you have some one else to think of, and when youare bound by a promise, that complicates matters. 

[Illustration: "SCHOOL-BAG AND LUNCH-BOX DROPPED FROM HIS HANDS"]

Now, one "Curly" Davis--who was said to have been christened Charles, but whose astonishingly spiral locks surely constituted better authorityfor a name than any possible application of baptismal water--was, byright of reputed might, dictator of the Vine Street Primary. Curly wasalleged to be of pugnacious disposition, and had not been bred toappreciation of the Golden Rule. He had the outward bearing of one whohas reason for confidence in his personal prowess. He was popularlybelieved to have fought many fights and fierce, --just when and where hisadmirers seemed not to consider important, --and he had a reputation forferocity rather disproportionate to his stature. He had a way of glaringat you, too, if you happened to be a new boy at school, which wassufficiently suggestive of a sanguinary temperament to overawe theaverage youngster and to render quite unnecessary any more activedemonstration. 

Like all despots who rule through fear, Curly had a following. It wasmade up of lesser lights of like tastes and ambitions, who toadied toand imitated the tyrant simply to avoid the unpleasant necessities whichthe alternative involved. These followers, numbering some six or eight, through their unity of aim and Curly's leadership, had gained a certainascendency over the far greater, but unorganized, body of would-beindependents who, chafe as they might under the yoke, dared not attemptto throw it off; and these loyal retainers were zealous in service oftheir lord's interests and pleasure. 

On that beautiful fall morning when Bob first went alone to school, hehad not been ten minutes on the playground, standing upon its outeredge, school-bag and lunch-box in hand, to gaze upon its novelties, before a satellite of Curly's, one Percy Emery, espied him. Instantly itwas as though Percy had discovered some new quarry, unearthed a freshspecimen of some genus, edible and choice. 

"Hi, Curly, " he yelled, with the eager loyalty of his kind, "come 'ere. 'Ere's a new one. Look at the school-bag to 'im. "

Curly, who was at the moment engaged in the pleasing pastime ofhectoring a scared little five-year-old who ought still to have been inthe kindergarten, pricked up his ears at the cry and, like a hungrybird of prey leaving a mouse for a lamb, promptly swooped down upon thenew game. His movement was the signal for the gathering of a crowd, and, before Bob was fairly aware that he was the object of attention, he hadbecome the center of a curious group whose interest, if not whollyhostile, was in the main certainly not friendly. The dictator himselfconfronted him with unmistakably bellicose intentions. 

"New shoes!" said Curly contemptuously, selecting the first obviouslyvulnerable point open to a shaft of insult. "New shoes! Spit on 'em!" Hesuited the action to the word, and immediately word and act alike wereimitated by two or three of his more ardent admirers. 

"Stop!" said Bob. He did not know what it meant. He backed away from hispersecutors. 

"Aw, stop, eh?" mocked Curly. "Who are _you_? What's yer name?"

"Bob McAllister. "

"Bob! Bob-tail! Bob-cat!" chanted Curly, in gratuitous insult of whichonly bantam shamelessness is capable. "Stop, will I? Who'll make me?You? You want to fight?"

He danced about Bob's quiet little figure, snapping his fingers in thenew boy's eyes. Then, suddenly, he swung his wiry body and swept astinging blow in Bob's face. 

A yell of delight from the despot's own drowned a weaker chorus ofprotest. Curly backed and squared, ready for some show of retaliation orresistance, a scornful little grin on his face. 

"Come on, now. Fight! Stop me!" he cried. 

But Bob did not move. Curly's blow had landed fair on the tender littlered lip, and it had cut against the teeth behind; a tiny scarlet streamflowed down Bob's smooth little chin. In his eyes the dizziness of thefirst jar gradually gave way to slow amazement. Then the tears welledup, hot tears which overflowed the lids and ran scalding down thecheeks, but they did not conceal or quench a glitter which grew to abright flame behind them. 

Bob's school-bag and lunch-box dropped from his hands. The pudgy fistswhich had never before been clinched with belligerent purpose, but whichwere, nevertheless, a boy's fists, doubled themselves into hard littleknots; but still he stood quiet. 

[Illustration: "HE SET HIS FACE ONCE MORE TOWARD SCHOOL AND WALKED VERYFAST"]

So far as his whirling little mind could think, he thought thus: So thiswas fighting; this was what he had promised mother not to do; what hehad promised--had promised--promised. He was not so big, this boy whohad struck him, not so big. Bob was not afraid. But that a promise isa thing to be kept inviolate he had learned, oh, years ago, from PapaJack, along with all the other _of-course-ities_ of life, like tellingthe truth, keeping your troubles to yourself, and not being a cry-babyor a telltale. And a promise to mother--well, nothing could be moresacred. Yet here was a new condition which he had never met before, anew situation which suddenly made him see in an altogether differentaspect a question supposedly settled--this question of to fight or notto fight. It made his sweeping promise to mother suddenly seem to havebeen very ill-advised indeed. He wondered if his mother could have knownthat he would meet this kind of thing at school. In that first instantafter Curly's blow was struck, instinct told him that fists were made tobe used, and reason added that self-defense is right; and now somethingelse was stirring in his heart--something which might not, perhaps, bewholly unexpected, under such circumstances, to stir in the heart of aboy whose grandfather had carried a musket at Gettysburg and whosefather had worn khaki at San Juan. He wondered if his mother could haveknown. 

[Illustration: "A RING OF BOYS--EXCITED, EAGER, YELLING"]

But Bob's fists only clinched; they did not strike. All the sturdylittle muscles in his small body stiffened, and he stood with head upand eyes blazing, but he did not strike. And then the school-bellsuddenly began to ring, and the group about him broke away; and CurlyDavis started off, shouting back something about fixing _him_ afterschool, and--he was alone. 

Bob stood still. He realized that the last bell for school had rung. Heknew that he should have gone in with the others. That was what he hadbeen sent to school for, certainly. But he stood still. 

The tears had dried upon his face, and so had the thin little line ofred on his chin. His lip was swelling, and felt as if a hazelnut or abig bean had been pushed up under it and were sticking to and stingingthe skin. He stooped and picked up his school-bag and lunch-box, stoodstill again for a moment, and then walked away. He was not going toschool, and, naturally, as there was nowhere else to go, he was goinghome. 

But a great, heavy weight seemed to have settled down upon his breastand pressed in upon it, and it was hard to breathe. His thoughts werestill confused, but he was wondering--wondering. Why was it? Why hadthey treated him so? Why had they singled him out to attack him? Why hadthat boy with the curly hair struck him? Why had the others laughed?Didn't they like him? Didn't any one like him? Why, what had he done?His heart swelled with sudden misery and wretchedness. Why was such anunkind thing permitted in the world? And then again returned thatsomething which stirred inside him, something hot and hard, which madehis cheeks and eyes burn and his fingers clinch once more. And thenagain the question, "Could mother have known?"

Mrs. McAllister saw him coming a block away, and she ran down to thegate to meet him as he trudged in. Bob looked up into his mother's face. The quick concern in her eyes, as she saw the battered little lip andthe stained chin, came nearer to making him sob than Curly's blow haddone; but, though the tears would well up and his throat felt verytight, he only swallowed and carefully wet the puffed lip with histongue. 

"Why, Bobbie, Bobbie, what is the matter?" cried his mother, droppingdown on her knees on the walk beside him. She put both her hands on hisshoulders and turned his face toward her; and Bob looked straight intoher troubled blue eyes, and suddenly began to feel better--began tofeel, indeed, that he did not have to care so much, after all. 

"Oh, Bobbie, _have_ you been fighting?"

Bob shook his head. 

"How did you get your lip hurt so? Did you fall down?"

Again he shook his head. He didn't know just how to tell her. It wasn'tfighting. At least, _he_ didn't fight; it had been that other boy. But, somehow, he did not want to say that; he did not want to tell; he wantedsomething, but he did not know just what it was. He found himselfforgetting how he had felt a moment before, and then he discovered thathe was not thinking about what he wanted at all. He was thinking what avery _blue_ blue his mother's eyes were when she looked at him so, and, all at once, he felt more sorry for her than for himself, because shelooked so troubled; and he kissed her quickly, and hurt his lip. 

Mrs. McAllister led him into the house. "Won't you tell mother, Bob?"she asked. 

But he couldn't. He was feeling better--much better--but he couldn'ttell. There was another reason now, that he hadn't thought of before: itwould make her feel more sorry. And after all, it didn't matter somuch; that is, it didn't if-- He looked up at her with a new thought. 

"But, Bob, you must tell mother all about it, " she was saying, as shecarefully bathed his chin and lip, and so he had to shake his headagain. 

"Then you must tell papa this noon, Bob. "

Bob considered. No, he couldn't tell Papa Jack, either. He felt prettysure father himself wouldn't tell about such a thing if he were a boy. He was silent. 

Mrs. McAllister began to move about her work, though she still looked athim frequently and anxiously. Bob went away to the window, and stoodlooking out. He remembered how he had started out that morning, withschool-bag and lunch; he remembered how he had approached theschool-grounds, and how big and strange and attractive a place it hadseemed to him at first, and what a good time all those boys had beenhaving; and then he remembered how, suddenly, he had found them allaround him, summoned by the call of that boy with the hateful grin, andhow Curly Davis had sneered and spat and struck. Suddenly he foundhimself tingling all over, and pressing a burning forehead against thecool glass, and digging his knuckles into the corner of the sash tillthey ached. Then he went into the library, and lay down on father's bigleather couch, and thought and thought. 

Papa Jack came home for lunch at noon, and mother told him. Bob heardthem in the hall. 

"He says he didn't fight, " said his mother, "and he says he didn't falldown. He won't tell me, and I told him he must tell you. I don't knowwhy he doesn't want to tell; he isn't ashamed or very much frightened, and he didn't cry after he came home. "

Bob heard Papa Jack's footsteps cross the hall and come in upon thehard-wood library floor, and then on the big rug by the library couch. Papa Jack sat down beside him and put his big fingers around Bob'slittle ones. 

"Well, what about it, Son?"

Bob looked up and smiled. Always such a pleasant, warm feeling came overhim when Papa Jack came near him and talked to him. 

"What about it, Son?"

But Bob could not reply. His eyes grew serious as they looked back intohis father's. 

"What did this, Bob?" asked Papa Jack, gently touching the hazelnutbruise with a finger. 

"A boy, " said Bob. 

"What boy?" asked Papa Jack. "A big boy?"

Silence, and then a shake of the head. 

"Did you strike him first?"

Again Bob shook his head. 

"What did you do to him?"

Still another shake of the head. 

"Do you mean he just came up and struck you without any provocation?"

"He laughed, " said Bob. 

"What else?"

"Spit on my new shoes, " reddening. 

Papa Jack drew his mustache down between his lip and teeth. "Hm! He did, eh? What else?"

"Said 'Bob-tail, bob-cat, '"

Papa Jack looked puzzled. 

"Said I was--Bob, bob-tail, bob-cat, " explained Bob. 

"Oh!" Papa Jack seemed to see light. "And then he struck you?"

A nod once more. 

Mr. McAllister looked out the window and his fingers closed tightlyaround Bob's. "When was this, Bob--before school?"

"Mm. "

"And you came right home?"

A nod. 

"Did you strike him back?"

Bob's eyes widened. "No. "

Papa Jack's eyes widened also. "Why?"

"Because. "

"Because what, Bob?"

"Because mama said not to fight. "

"And you promised?"

Bob nodded again. 

"I see. " Papa Jack's eyes suddenly lighted with something Bob did notunderstand, and he sat looking down at Bob for a long minute. "I see, "he said again, and then he turned and called to mother. "Helen!" Andmother came in, with a piece of white sewing in her hands. 

"Helen, " said Papa Jack, "it's a case of bullying. The boy promised younot to fight, and he didn't. It's a mistake, mother. He's been set uponby some young bully, and couldn't defend himself because of hispromise. "

Mother looked at Bob; there was distress in her eyes, but something elsecame into them, too. 

"It's only the beginning, dear--the beginning of battles, " said PapaJack, and he put his other hand on mother's. 

"Bob, " he said, "mother doesn't mean you're not to defend yourself. Understand? By fighting, mother only means beginning fights, pickingfights, provoking other boys to fight. We _have_ to defend ourselves. Itisn't right to pick a fight; that's what mother means. "

Bob saw tears come into his mother's eyes. Papa Jack saw them, too. 

"There's only one way among boys, Helen dear. The bullies must befought, you know. Our boy's got to be a boy's boy if he's to be a man'sman by-and-by. "

Suddenly mother bent over and kissed Bob, and held him, with her armsthrust under and about him--held him hard. 

"The only thing, Bob, is to be a man always. Be square and white. Do theright thing. I can't tell you what it will be every time; neither cananybody else: but you your own self will know. It may be right even tofight sometimes, for yourself and for others who are bullied; but everyboy knows for himself when it's right and when it's wrong. If he does ashe _knows_, he'll do right. "

It was a quiet lunch that day. Father and mother talked little and themeal was quickly over. Bob hardly knew what he himself ate or did orthought. There was a strange excitement in his heart and in his head, afeeling that he could not define. It was not that he was going back toschool after dinner. It was not that he would probably meet those boysagain, nor that he would sooner or later have to face again that CurlyDavis. Neither was it that, when he did face Curly Davis, he meantto--yes, to fight him. No, it was none of these things, though his heartdid beat the faster as he thought of them. It was something else; it wassomething about what his father had said, not so much his words, but theway he had said "a man's man" and "we must defend ourselves"--somethingthat thrilled him, made him proud and humble, all at once. Someway, father seemed to have taken a new attitude toward him, and in thatchange even Bob seemed to see father's recognition that babyhood wasover for his small son. 

Mother stood in the door and watched him go. She had been crying again, a little; she had even wanted to keep him at home. But father had said, "No, let him go; as well now as to-morrow, " and so she had kissed himand cried again, a little. And then she had begged him to "try to keepaway from those bad little boys, " and to "play only with good boys whodid not want to fight"; and Bob had said yes--doubtfully. He waved hishand to her from the gate, and again from the corner of the block, andthen he set his face once more toward school, and walked very fast. 

It was five o'clock when Bob came home again. School closed at four, butthe clock on the library mantel was tinkling five when he opened thedoor and closed it very softly. He didn't want mother to see him justthen. 

He was trembling and very white--his little mirror by the window showedhim that. There was a brown-and-blue bruise just in the corner of hislittle brown eyebrow, of which he had felt carefully a dozen times onthe way home, but which did not look so big in the glass as it had felt. There was a rubbed place on his chin, and the soft knuckles of his handswere grimy and stained. He laid his school-bag and box carefully on achair, and went to look out the window for a moment. And then a strangefeeling came over him. 

--This was his little room; yes, it was his--the same little room; thesame white curtains, the same little window, the same view of the littlegreen door-yard and the apple-tree and the cedar-hedge; the same softsunset light coming in upon him where it had come so many, many otherevenings, ever since he could remember. But the boy--that little boy whohad looked upon it all, who had lived there and loved the white curtainsand the sun and the apple-tree--where was he? he wondered. 

When he closed his eyes he could see just one thing--one whirling, seething vision: a ring of boys, excited, eager, yelling, laughing, cheering, with only here and there a frightened face; and there in themidst himself and another--some one who was striking and kicking andscratching at him, but whose blows he did not seem to feel, so hard andfierce and fast he himself was striking, and so hotly ran his blood. Andin his ears were ringing the cries which had gone up at the end, whenthat other boy--he of the curly hair--had suddenly, at last, turned fromhim and run away through the crowd, beaten and sniveling and--alone. Andhe remembered that he had felt sorry then--oh, so sorry--sorry for thatother boy!

He washed his face and hands carefully, and looked again in the littlemirror. Perhaps mother wouldn't notice--much. He opened his door andcrept softly down the stairs and into the library, and there was mother, looking anxiously from the window, and father, who had just come in, putting on his hat as if he were going out again. And they both turnedand looked at him; and mother ran and caught him up in her arms, just asif he were that baby-boy again--that baby he had been yesterday. Hewondered. 

Father looked at the brown bruise and the scuffed knuckles critically, while mother held him with her face against his hair. 

"Do you think he'll bother you any more, Bob?" father asked, just as ifthe whole story had been told. 

Bob shook his head, and mother suddenly clasped him closer, while fatherturned away with a grim smile. And Bob himself just wondered--wonderedabout that baby-boy he had been yesterday. 

TWO PORTRAITS BY GILBERT STUART

A NOTE ON A RECENT ACCESSION OF THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART

BY SAMUEL ISHAM

The name of Don Josef de Jaudenes y Nebot has not impressed itselfdeeply on the memory of the world. It does not appear in the great, many-volumed biographical dictionaries nor in the indexes of thestandard histories of the United States. Even in the library of theHispanic Society of America there is no record of him. He was, however, a man of some importance in the early diplomacy of the nation. Thebeginning of his official career may be definitely determined by aletter of Washington's of July 20, 1791, in which he says: "I yesterdayhad Mr. Jaudenes, who was in this country with Mr. Gardoqui and is nowcome over in a public character, presented to me for the first time byMr. Jefferson. "

Gardoqui came to America in 1786 as _chargé d'affaires_ for thenegotiation of a treaty with Spain. The "public character" in whichJaudenes was presented in 1791 was that of commissioner of Spain, and hehad united with him on the commission Josef de Viar, all their officialdocuments being signed with both names. Their main business, likeGardoqui's, was the negotiation of a treaty between Spain and the UnitedStates; a treaty which was to settle boundaries, rights of trade betweenthe two nations, and also the question of the "occlusion" of theMississippi River; but there was much outside diplomatic sparring overthe disputes between the Governor of Louisiana and the Georgians abouttrespasses and conflicting rights. The last communication of thecommissioners was dated in 1794. The next year the negotiations weretransferred to Madrid and the treaty was signed there and Jaudenesprobably then returned to Spain. There seems to be no trace of him afterthat. 

The only other facts in regard to him are to be gathered from the twopictures recently acquired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which arethe subject of this article. They are signed G. Stuart, R. A. , New York, September 8, 1794, and bear inscriptions in Spanish which, to completethe record, are here given in full:

 DON JOSEF DE JAUDENES Y NEBOT COMISARIO ORDENADOR DE LOS REALES EXERCITOS Y MINISTRO EMBIADO DE SU MAGESTAD CATHOLICA CERCA DE LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS DE AMERICA. NACIÓ EN LA CIUDAD DE VALENCIA REYNO DE ESPAÑA EL 25 DE MARZO DE 1764. 

 DOÑA MATILDE STOUGHTON DE JAUDENES--ESPOSA DE DON JOSEF DE JAUDENES Y NEBOT COMISARIO ORDENADOR DE LOS REALES EXERCITOS DE SU MAGESTAD CATHOLICA Y SU MINISTRO EMBIADO CERCA DE LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS DE AMERICA. NACIÓ EN LA CIUDAD DE NUEVA-YORK EN LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS EL 11 DE ENERO DE 1778. 

We learn from these that Don Josef was thirty and his bride in herseventeenth year, and that she was born in New York. Unfortunately thisis all that we know about her. Stoughton is a sufficiently familiar namein the colonial records of the New England and Middle States, but thelady of the portrait has not yet been identified nor has a search of thenewspapers of the day revealed any mention of her marriage. It may veryprobably have taken place on September 8th, 1794, the date placed afterStuart's name on both canvases; but the journalists of that time tookless note of such international alliances than those of the present. Something more about the lady is, however, certain to be found by thegenealogists and delvers in old diaries and correspondence, for thewedding of the young Spanish diplomat with the pretty American girl justmidway in her teens must have set tongues wagging and pens inditing. Howthe match turned out we do not know, but some argument as to theirhappiness may be based on the fact that Jaudenes' successor, the Marquisd'Yrujo, followed his example and took an American bride in the personof Miss Sally McKean, who was also painted by Stuart. 

 _Two Portraits by_ GILBERT STUART

 _reproduced by permission of_

 THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART

 _Printed from plates made by the Colorplate Engraving Company, New York_

[Illustration: _Doña_ MATILDE STOUGHTON DE JAUDENES _Wife of the FirstMinister from_ SPAIN _to the_ UNITED STATES]

[Illustration: _Don_ JOSEF DE JAUDENES Y NEBOT _First Minister from_SPAIN _to the_ UNITED STATES]

Having thus disposed (somewhat unsatisfactorily, it is true) of thepersonality of the sitters, we can turn to the portraits themselves. Theaccompanying reproductions make extended description unnecessary. Theyare characteristic Stuarts, more elaborate, more complete, than most ofhis subsequent work, but showing clearly his personal point of viewand the difference between his portraits and those of hiscontemporaries. He is less poetic, more literal than the rivals withwhom he had contended, not unsuccessfully, for the patronage of Londonsociety. For him a pretty girl is a pretty girl, and it is enough. Heseats her comfortably in a chair and paints her as she is. One cannotimagine him turning her into a nymph, a shepherdess, or a priestess ofHymen, or painting her with a very modish coiffure on her head and apair of blue-ribboned sandals on her bare feet. These things Reynoldsdid habitually and moreover put his figures in attitudes with up-rolledeyes and extended arms and filled out his larger canvases with altarsand tombs and allegorical attributes. This he did to bring his picturesin accord with those of the old masters whom he laboriously studied anddeeply admired. His achievement fully justified him. His sumptuouscanvases, rich in color, elaborate in composition, perfected with everytechnical resource, have ever since remained unequalled of their kind. 

In spite of his stay in West's studio, Stuart had none of this respectfor tradition nor any wish to attempt the grand style. In this he wasmore like Gainsborough, but Gainsborough invested his portraits, even ofprosaic sitters, with a strange, penetrating, poetic charm such as noother painter has been able to convey. Ranking artists in the order oftheir merit is an unprofitable business, but it may gratify somemethodical minds to have it stated that these canvases by Stuart are notin the same class as good Gainsboroughs or Reynolds. With the best ofother contemporary portraits they stand approximately on a footing ofequality. In spite of the quiet pose, the lack of strongly contrastedlight and shade and all of the clever tricks and forced accents ofLawrence and his followers, they are alive and alert. Thecharacterization is excellent. The young people were not of so profoundor complicated a nature as the Father of his Country, and the faces arenot wrought out with the delicate subtlety of the Gibbs-ChanningWashington which hangs between them, but they are clear-cut, compellingbelief in their truth. The execution, too, has all of Stuart's skill. Others may have attempted higher things, but none did what he attemptedwith such perfect ease and sureness. In neither of the canvases is therea sign of uncertainty, hesitation, or alteration. Each touch is putexactly where it should be and left. There is none of the scumbling andglazing and re-working so common in the English portraits of the time. It is to this that the canvases owe their admirable freshness whichmakes them look as if painted yesterday. The heads have all of Stuart'spearly gray and rose tones unimpaired by ill-usage or restoration. Theclothes and accessories are more swiftly and summarily done, the silverlace and the high lights being touched in with amazing sureness andcleverness. The composition and arrangement is pleasing, and Stuart'sbesetting fault of putting his heads too low on the canvas is excusedand justified in the case of Don Josef by the necessity of having hisportrait correspond with that of his wife, whose elaborate and stylishhead-dress fills the top of her picture. In short, New York is to becongratulated on the winning back after a sojourn abroad of more than acentury of these two most important and charming paintings executed herein the early days of the Republic. 

At this point this article might well end, but there may be some whorecall that last summer for a week or so there appeared in the papersarticles headed "Fakes at the Museum" or "The Metropolitan Gets Lemons, "which assailed the genuineness of these portraits. The discussion didnot get far beyond the daily press, which, after its habit, registeredthe charges as picturesquely and vehemently as it could, but attemptedno serious investigation of them. They were brought by a critic whoseposition as a special student of Stuart entitled them to respectfulconsideration, but after giving them that they do not seem conclusive oreven important. They were based on the fact that the pictures weresigned G. Stuart, R. A. , and bore coats of arms and long Spanishinscriptions. It was claimed that this made the genuineness of thecanvases doubtful, for Stuart signed few of his paintings--possibly noneexcept the standing Washington in the Philadelphia Academy; he was notan R. A. (Royal Academician); nor was he a heraldic illuminator. Furthermore, the painting of the male portrait and the dress andaccessories in the companion piece did not seem to the critic to agreewith Stuart's handling. To make his impressions fit with the pictures, the critic supposed that Stuart painted a smaller portrait of Jaudenesand started one of his wife, which through some freak of temper he left(as he frequently did) with only the head and part of the backgroundfinished. These being brought to Spain, some artist there finished thelady's portrait, painted from Stuart's original a companion piece of herhusband, and added to both the coats of arms, the inscriptions, andStuart's name. 

Now, frankly, this is not possible. As for the portrait of Doña Matildebeing left unfinished, there exists in Stuart's handwriting a list ofgentlemen who are to have copies of his portrait of Washington, consisting of thirty-two names. A few take two copies, no one takes moresave Jaudenes, who subscribes for five. The list is dated April 20th, 1795, which is seven months after the date on the pictures, and is thestrongest possible evidence that Jaudenes was greatly pleased withStuart--presumably on account of these portraits--and is entirelyirreconcilable with the idea that the painter had quarreled with thediplomat's wife or left her portrait unfinished. 

As to the coats of arms, the most casual examination makes it clear thatthey were painted by another hand than executed any part of theportraits. In all probability they were done after the canvases reachedSpain, and the inscriptions and signatures would naturally have beenadded at the same time. Stuart would never have engrossed a long Spanishinscription, and that he should have signed his name (contrary to hishabit) and have added the "R. A. " to which he had no right is mostunlikely. What is most unlikely of all, however, is that there shouldhave been found in Spain an artist capable of painting a portrait likethe Don Josef. Both heads are absolutely alike in handling, in texture, in mixing of the pigments, and in all of those things are absolutelycharacteristic of Stuart, whose methods were peculiarly his own andcould not be caught even by men like Sully, who not only intentlystudied his processes but sat and watched him when he was at work. Thata Spaniard with entirely different training and ideals could havereproduced them is impossible. 

As for the costumes, it may be admitted that they differ from most ofStuart's American work; but the difference is more in subject than inmethod and is chiefly noticeable because he never again painted agentleman in silver-sprigged scarlet waistcoat and small clothes. Hehated such work, and his position in America enabled him to do as hechose, and he could tell sitters that if they wanted clothes they couldgo to a mantua-maker or a tailor, he painted the works of God. Sodistasteful was such labor to him that we know that he employedassistants in the details of some of his Washington portraits. In thepresent canvases the heads are painted with an interest and athoroughness very different from that displayed in the costumes. Theselatter are skilfully done. The dexterity displayed is amazing and suchas no copyist is at all likely to have had, but it is dexterity appliedto getting a striking result as quickly as possible and with the leastpossible effort of hand or brain. 

Now, to explain this, we should remember that Stuart only returned toAmerica in 1793, and the pictures are both dated September 8, 1794. Whatever that date may mean, both pictures were presumably finishedbefore then and were thus among the first, perhaps the very first, important works that Stuart did in New York. He would consequently haveevery motive, both from the desire to establish his reputation and fromthe position and charm of his sitters, to do his very best. Theworkmanship should be compared, not with what he did afterwards inAmerica but rather with what he had done before in England and Ireland, when he was compelled by the exigencies of his sitters and the rivalryof his fellow artists to give some importance to costume andcomposition. Unfortunately, Stuart's foreign work is practically unknownto Americans (and to foreigners also, for that matter). There is littleof it in the public galleries, and a large proportion of it has probablybeen rechristened with other and more attractive names. As far as we mayjudge from a few examples and from the many engravings after it (some ofthem large enough and good enough to give an idea of the handling), thecostumes were done much in the style of those we are considering. 

After all, the strongest argument for the authenticity of the portraitsis the portraits themselves. They are beautiful, they are skilful, donein Stuart's style and entirely worthy of him. To suppose them done byany one else involves the doubter at once in a maze of improbabilitiesand impossibilities. The present writer is willing to put himself onrecord as quite convinced that they were painted by Stuart and arewholly by his own hand and are unusually important specimens of hiswork. 

MARY BAKER G. EDDY

THE STORY OF HER LIFE AND THE HISTORY OF CHRISTIAN SCIENCE

BY

GEORGINE MILMINE

XIV

MRS. EDDY'S BOOK AND DOCTRINE

 "_No human tongue or pen taught me the Science contained in this book, 'Science and Health'; and neither tongue nor pen can overthrow it. _"--MARY BAKER G. EDDY. 

Although Mrs. Eddy's book, "Science and Health, " was not published until1875, from the time Mrs. Eddy left P. P. Quimby in 1864 she had beenstruggling to get his theories before the public. Dr. Patterson, hersecond husband, left her in 1866, and for the next four years Mrs. Eddywas able to make a bare living by her "Science, " wandering about amongthe little shoe towns near Boston and teaching Quimby's theories hereand there for her board and lodging. She went from house to house withher precious copy of Quimby's "Questions and Answers"[2] and the pile ofletter-paper, covered with her own notes, which she was foreverrewriting and revising. The one thing that everybody knew about Mrs. Glover (Eddy) was that she "was writing a book. " While she was stayingwith the Wentworths, in Stoughton, she carried her pile of manuscript toBoston, and when the printer to whom she showed it demanded to be paidin advance, she tried to persuade Mrs. Wentworth to lend her the money. Had the printer who looked over that confused mass of notes known thatthey were the nucleus of a book of which over five hundred thousandcopies would be sold by 1907, and had he printed the manuscript then andthere, Christian Science in its present form would never have existed. For at that time Mrs. Eddy had not dreamed of calling her system of mindcure anything but Dr. Quimby's "Science. " She talked of Quimby to everyone she met; could talk, indeed, of little else. When she introduced thesubject of mental healing to a stranger--and she never lost anopportunity--it was always with that conscious smile and the set phraseswhich the village girls used to imitate: "I _learned_ this from Dr. Quimby, and he made me _promise_ to teach at least _two_ persons beforeI _die_. "

The story of the Quimby manuscript from 1867 to 1875 and of the gradualgrowth of Mrs. Eddy's feeling of possession, has already been recountedin an earlier chapter of this history. [3] By the time the first editionof "Science and Health" appeared, Mrs. Eddy said no more about Quimby orher promise to him. Mrs. Eddy has always been able to believe anythingshe wishes to believe, especially about her own conduct and about thatof persons who have displeased her, and it is very probable that by thistime she had persuaded herself that she really owed very little to theold Maine philosopher. 

_How "Science and Health" was Published_

Although Mrs. Eddy had been working upon her book for about eight years, writing and rewriting with almost incredible patience, she was unwillingto assume any financial risk in getting it printed. George Barry andElizabeth Newhall, two of her students, agreed to furnish the sum of onethousand dollars, which the Boston printer asked for issuing an editionof one thousand copies. Mrs. Eddy made so many changes in the proofs, continuing her revisions even after the plates had been cast, that sheran the cost of the edition up to about twenty-two hundred dollars, andMiss Newhall and Mr. Barry lost about fifteen hundred dollars on thebook. They would, indeed, have lost more, had not Daniel Spofford, muchagainst Mrs. Eddy's will, paid over to them six hundred dollars which hehad received for the copies of the book he had sold. Although Mrs. Eddyat that time owned the house in which she lived and had some money inbank, she did not, either then or later, suggest reimbursing Barry orMiss Newhall for their loss. 

Aside from the fact that she was unwilling to risk money upon it, Mrs. Eddy believed intensely in her book. One of her devoted students sentcopies of "Science and Health" to the University of Heidelberg, toThomas Carlyle, and to several noted theologians. But the book made nostir outside of Lynn, where it caused some perplexity. There was littleabout it, indeed, to suggest that it would be an historic volume. It wasa book of 564 pages, badly printed and poorly bound; a mass ofinconsequential statements and ill-constructed, ambiguous sentenceswhich wander about the page with their arms full, so to speak, heedlessly dropping unrelated clauses about as they go. 

Although the basic ideas of the book are Quimby's, and even much of theterminology, the first edition of "Science and Health" was certainlywritten by Mrs. Eddy. Not only is there every internal evidence of herhand in the style of the book, but a number of her students are stillalive who went over portions of the manuscript with her and worked withher upon the proofs. The same George Barry who helped to pay for thepublication of the book copied out in longhand twenty-five hundred pagesof the manuscript. He brought suit against Mrs. Eddy for payment for"copying the manuscript of the book 'Science and Health, ' and aiding inthe arrangement of capital letters and some of the grammaticalconstructions. " He produced some of Mrs. Eddy's manuscript in court, andthe judge allowed him more than the usual copyist's rate "on account ofthe difficulty which a portion of the pages presented to the copyist byreason of erasures and interlineations, " as it is put in the judge'sfinding. 

Although Mrs. Eddy's book has been enlarged and greatly improved as toits order and grammar, the first edition contains all the essentialelements of her philosophy, if such it may be called. Mr. Wiggin didgood work in translating the book into comparatively conventionalEnglish, and gave a kind of unity to paragraphs and sentences, and laterrevisers have greatly improved upon his work; but the first editiongave a fairly complete and, on the whole, a comprehensible statement ofMrs. Eddy's platform. 

Mrs. Eddy's religion claims to be a system of metaphysics, a system oftherapeutics, and an improved form of Christianity. As the founder of asystem of idealistic philosophy, Mrs. Eddy does indeed, as Mr. AlfredFarlow says, "begin where the sages of the world left off. " Otherphilosophers have reached the conclusion that we can have no absoluteknowledge of matter, since our evidence regarding it consists of senseimpressions, and that we can absolutely assert of matter only that itexists in human consciousness; but Mrs. Eddy begins boldly with, "Thereis no such thing as matter. " She reaches her conclusion by steps whichshe deems complete and logical:

 1. God is All in all. 2. God is good. Good is Mind. 3. God, Spirit, being all, nothing is matter. 

Mrs. Eddy calls attention to the fact that even if read backward, thesepropositions mean identically the same as when read in the usual order, and she seems to regard this as conclusive proof of their logical truth. She says, "The metaphysics of Christian Science, like the rules ofmathematics, prove the rule by inversion. For example: there is no painin Truth, and no truth in pain; no nerve in Mind, and no mind in nerve;no matter in Mind, and no mind in matter, " etc. 

In his article upon Christian Science, published in _The AtlanticMonthly_, April, 1904, Dr. John Churchman says:

 The uncompromising idealism, however, which Mrs. Eddy offers us not only has these defects, but is guilty of a far more serious charge. It poses as an explanation, and is in reality a total evasion. To deny that matter exists, and assert that it is an illusion, is only another way of asserting its existence; you are freed by your suggestion from explaining the fact, but forced by it to explain the illusion. It is the old mistake of imagining that an escape from a problem is a solution. You are out of the frying-pan, it is true, but you are in the fire instead. [4]

Having thus disposed of matter, Mrs. Eddy seems to think that herdefinition has actually changed the nature of the case, and that thoughwe live in houses, eat food, and endure the changes of the seasons, ourrelation to the material universe is changed because she has definedmatter as an illusion. 

It is not, however, Mrs. Eddy's definition which is so remarkable, buther application of it. Having stated that matter is an illusion, sheasserts that "matter cannot take cold";[5] that matter cannot "ache, swell and be inflamed";[6] that a boil cannot ache;[7] that "every lawof matter or the body, supposed to govern man, is rendered null and voidby the law of God". [8]

_There is No Material Universe_

Quimby acknowledged the actual existence of the universe, of thephysical body, and of disease; Mrs. Eddy teaches that they are allillusory. The earth, the sun, the millions of stars, says Mrs. Eddy, exist only in erring "mortal mind"; and mortal mind itself does notexist. All phenomena of nature are merely illusory expressions of thisfundamental error. "The compound minerals or aggregate substancescomposing the earth, the relations which constituent masses hold to eachother, the magnitudes, distances, and revolution of the celestialbodies, are of no real importance.... Material substances, astronomicalcalculations, and all the paraphernalia of speculative theories ... Willultimately vanish, swallowed up in the infinite calculus of spirit. ""Earthquake, wind, wave, lightning, fire, bestial ferocity" are merelythe "vapid fury of mortal mind. " "Heat and cold are products ofmind"--even a "mill at work, or the action of a water wheel, " is only amanifestation of "mortal mind force. " Apart from mortal belief, there isno such thing as climate. 

"Repulsion, attraction, cohesion, and powers supposed to belong tomatter are constituents of mind, " Mrs. Eddy says. By this she does notmean that these forces exist, for us, in our minds, but that at sometime in the dim past "mortal mind" imagined matter and imagined theseproperties in it. Christ, she says, was able to walk upon the water andto roll away the stone of the sepulcher because he had overcome thehuman _belief_ in the laws of gravity. (Yet, Mrs. Eddy is continuallyreminding us that the fall of an apple led Newton to discover a greatlaw, etc. ) "Geology, " Mrs. Eddy says, "has never explained the earth'sformations. It cannot explain them. " "Natural Science is not reallynatural or scientific, because it is deduced from the evidences of thesenses. " "Vertebra, articulata, mollusca, and radiata are evolved bymortal and material thought. " "Theorizing about man's development frommushrooms to monkeys, and from monkeys into men, amounts to nothing inthe right direction, and very much in the wrong. " But it is not onlywith the natural sciences that Mrs. Eddy is displeased. "Human history, "she says, "needs to be revised, and the _material record expunged_. "

Having dismissed the history of the race as trivial, the naturalsciences as unscientific, the evidence of the senses as a cheat, andmatter as non-existent, Mrs. Eddy proceeds to propound her own curioustheory of the Universe and man. She has a theory; incomplete, butingenious. 

_Mrs. Eddy's Exegesis_

Mrs. Eddy says that her theory of the universe is founded, not uponhuman wisdom, but upon the Bible; and so it is, but she uses bothaddition and subtraction very liberally to get her Biblicalcorroboration. The Bible may be interpreted in two ways, Mrs. Eddy says, literally and spiritually, and what she sets out to do is to give us thespiritual interpretation. Her method is simple. She starts with thepropositions that all is God and that there is no matter, and thenreconstructs the Bible to accommodate these statements. Such portions ofthe Bible as can be made, by judicious treatment, to corroborate hertheory, she takes and "spiritually interprets, "[9] that is, tells usonce and for all what the passages really mean; and such portions ascannot possibly be converted into affirmative evidence she rejects aserrors of the early copyists. Mrs. Eddy insists that the Bible is therecord of truth, but a study of her exegesis shows that only suchportions of it as meet with Mrs. Eddy's approval and lendthemselves--under very rough handling--to the support of her theory, areaccepted as the record of truth; the rest is thrown out as a mass oferroneous transcription. Mrs. Eddy's keen eye at once detects thosemeaningless passages which have for so long beguiled the world, just asit readily sees in familiar texts an entirely new meaning. She explainsthe creation of the world from the account in the first chapter ofGenesis, but the unknown author of this disputed book would neverrecognize his narrative when Mrs. Eddy gets through with it. 

_Mrs. Eddy's Account of the Creation_[10]

To begin with, Mrs. Eddy says, there was God, "All and in all, theeternal Principle. " This Principle is both masculine and feminine;"Gender is embraced in Spirit, else God could never have shadowed forthfrom out Himself, the idea of male and female. " But, Mrs. Eddy adds, "Wehave not as much authority for calling God masculine as feminine, thelatter being the last, therefore highest idea given of Him. "

Mrs. Eddy next sets about the creation. The "waters" out of which Godbrought the dry land, she says, were "Love"; the dry land itself was"the condensed idea of creation. " When God divided the light from thedarkness, it means, says Mrs. Eddy, that "Truth and error were distinctfrom the beginning, and never mingled. " But Mrs. Eddy has alwaysinsisted on the idea that "error" is a delusion which arose first in themind of mortal man; what is error doing away back here before man wascreated, and why was God himself compelled to take measures against it?Certainly the account of the Creation which came from Lynn is even moreperplexing than that which is related in the Pentateuch. 

With regard to the creation of grass and herbs, Mrs. Eddy eagerly pointsout that "God made every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew. " And that, she says, provesthat "creations of Wisdom are not dependent on laws of matter, but onIntelligence alone. " She admits here that the Universe is the "idea ofCreative Wisdom, " which is getting dangerously near the very old ideathat matter is but a manifestation of spirit. Call the universe"matter, " and Mrs. Eddy flies into a rage; call it "an idea of God, " andshe is serenely complaisant. There was certainly never any one so putabout and tricked by mere words; on the whole, it may be said that theEnglish language has avenged itself on Mrs. Eddy. 

Arriving at the creation of the beasts of the field, Mrs. Eddy says that"The beast and reptile made by Love and Wisdom were neither carnivorousnor poisonous. " Ferocious tendencies in animals are entirely the productof man's imagination. Daniel understood this, we are told, and that iswhy the lions did not hurt him. 

When she comes to the creation of man, Mrs. Eddy accepts the firstaccount given in Genesis, but the second, which states that God formedman of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breathof life, she rejects as untrustworthy. The first account, she says, "wasscience; the second was metaphorical and mythical, even the supposedutterances of matter; the scripture not being understood by itstranslators, was misinterpreted. "

_The Story of Adam_

"The history of Adam is allegorical throughout, a description of errorand its results, " etc. Man was created in God's likeness, free from sin, sickness, and death; but this Adam, who crept in, Mrs. Eddy does notexplain how, was the origin of our belief that there is life in matterand was to obstruct our growth in spirituality. Mrs. Eddy says, "Dividethe name Adam into two syllables, and it reads, _a dam_, orobstruction. " This original method of word-analysis she seems to regardas final evidence concerning Adam. About the creation of Eve, Mrs. Eddychanges her mind. In the later editions of her book she says it isabsurd to believe that God ever put Adam into a hypnotic sleep andperformed "a surgical operation" upon him. In the first edition she saysit is a mere chance that the human race is not still propagated by theremoval of man's ribs. "The belief regarding the origin of mortal manhas changed since Adam produced Eve, and the only reason a rib is notthe present mode of evolution is because of this change, " etc. 

Not to be warned by the footprints of time, Mrs. Eddy pauses in herrevision of Genesis to wonder "whence came the wife of Cain?" But on thewhole she profits by the story of Cain, for here she finds one of thoselittle etymological clews which never escape her penetration. The factthat Adam and all his race were but a dream of mortal mind is proved, she says, by the fact that Cain went "to dwell _in the land of Nod, theland of dreams and illusions_. " Mrs. Eddy offers this seriously, as"scientific" exegesis. 

Mrs. Eddy's conclusion about the Creation seems to be that we are all inreality the offspring of the first creation recounted in Genesis, inwhich man is not named but is simply said to be in the image of God; butwe _think_ we are the children of the creation described in the secondchapter; of the race that imagined sickness, sin, and death for itself. The tree of knowledge which caused Adam's fall, Mrs. Eddy says, was thebelief of life in matter, and she suggests that the forbidden fruitwhich Eve gave to Adam may have been "a medical work, perhaps. "

_Mrs. Eddy Denies the Atonement_

When she comes to the Atonement, Mrs. Eddy says that Christ did not cometo save mankind from sin, but to show us that sin is a thing imaginedby mortal mind, that it is an illusion which can be overcome, likesickness and death. It was by his understanding of the truths ofChristian Science that Christ remained sinless, healed the sick, andthat he "demonstrated" over death in the sepulcher and rose on the thirdday. His sacrifice had no more efficacy than that of any other man whodies as a result of his labors to bring a new truth into the world, andwe profit by his death only as we realize the nothingness of sickness, sin, and death. "God's wrath, vented on his only son, is without logicor humanity, and but a man-made belief. "

The Trinity, as commonly accepted, Mrs. Eddy denies, though she seems toadmit a kind of triune nature in God by saying over and over again thathe is "Love, Truth, and Life. "

The Holy Ghost she defines as Christian Science; "This Comforter Iunderstand to be Divine Science. "

_Mrs. Eddy's Revision of the Lord's Prayer_

In the course of Mrs. Eddy's revision of the Bible, she paused to"spiritually interpret" the Lord's prayer. She has revised the prayer agreat many times, and different renderings of it are given in differenteditions of "Science and Health. " The following is taken from theedition of 1902:

 "Our Father-Mother God, all-harmonious, adorable One. Thy kingdom is within us, Thou art ever-present. Enable us to know--as in heaven, so on earth--God is supreme. Give us grace for to-day; feed the famished affections. And infinite Love is reflected in love. And Love leadeth us not into temptation, but delivereth from sin, disease, and death. For God is now and forever all Life, Truth, and Love. "

In this interpretation the petitions have been converted intoaffirmations, and Mrs. Eddy's prayer seems a somewhat dry enumeration ofthe properties of the Deity rather than a supplication. 

This method of "spiritual interpretation" has given Mrs. Eddy the habitof a highly empirical use of English. At the back of her book, "Scienceand Health, " there is a glossary in which a long list of serviceable oldEnglish words are said to mean very especial things. The word"bridegroom" means "spiritual understanding"; "death" means "anillusion"; "evening" means "mistiness of mortal thought"; "mother" meansGod, etc. , etc. The seventh commandment, Mrs. Eddy insists, is aninjunction against adulterating Christian Science, although she alsoadmits the meaning ordinarily attached to it. In the _Journal_ ofNovember, 1889, there is a long discussion of the ten commandments bythe editor, in which he takes up both personal chastity and the PureFood laws under the command, "Thou shalt not commit adultery. "

Mrs. Eddy insists, and doubtless believes, that her "Science" is simplyan elaboration, a more advanced explanation, of the teachings of the NewTestament. Yet on the subject of repentance, which occupies so importanta place in the teachings of Christ, we hear never a word, and upon thatconsciousness of sin, which is the burden of the Epistles, she isconsistently silent. Paul's reiterated explanation of original sin, ofthe Atonement and Redemption, are ignored. "As in Adam all die, so inChrist shall all be made alive" is made to read: "As in error all die, so in Truth shall all, " etc. Even Paul's "Who shall deliver me from thebody of this death?" is made substantially to mean, Who shall deliver mefrom the belief that there is sensation in matter? Whatever cannot be"spiritually interpreted" into a confirmation of Mrs. Eddy's theory thatsin, sickness, and death are non-existent, she refuses to consider. 

_Mrs. Eddy's Therapeutics_

Mrs. Eddy's theology is, of course, a mere derivative of her system oftherapeutics, an attempt to base her peculiar variety of mind-cure uponBiblical authority. In her therapeutics there is nothing new except itsextremeness. That the mind is able, in a large degree, to prevent or tocause sickness and even death, all thinking people admit. Mrs. Eddy'sfundamental propositions are that death is wholly unnecessary and thatthe body and the organs of the body have nothing to do with life. A mancould live just as well after his lungs had been removed as before, ifhe but thought he could. "Cold, heat, exercise, study, food, infection, etc. , never caused a sick or healthy condition in man. " "Scrofula, fever, consumption, rheumatism or small-pox never produced pain orinharmony. " "A dislocation of the tarsal joint (ankle-joint) wouldproduce insanity as perceptible as that produced by congestion of thebrain, were it not that mortal mind thinks this joint less intimatelyconnected with mind than is the brain. "

Sight and hearing do not depend upon the eyes and ears. The nervoussystem can really cause no suffering. "Nerves are not the source of painor pleasure. " "Nerves have no more sensation, apart from what beliefbestows upon them, than the fibre of a plant. " What really suffers ismind, or belief; and, if we change that belief, the pain will disappear. "You say a boil is painful, " says Mrs. Eddy, "but that is impossible, for matter without mind is not painful. The boil simply manifests yourbelief in pain, through inflammation and swelling; and you call thisbelief a boil. "

Mrs. Eddy even argues against spanking children because "the use of therod is virtually a declaration to the child's mind that sensationbelongs to matter. "[11]

Mrs. Eddy's idea is that our lungs are necessary to us because we thinkthey are, just as we think heavy underwear is necessary in winter. Horses and cows, certainly, do not think much about their lungs, butMrs. Eddy says that domestic animals are controlled by the beliefs oftheir human masters, and that we have corrupted the horse and havetaught him to have epizoötic and colic. "What, " says Mrs. Eddy, "if thelungs are ulcerated? God is more to a man than his lungs. " "Have nofears that matter can ache, swell, and be inflamed.... Your body wouldsuffer no more from tension or wounds than would the trunk of a treewhich you gash, were it not for mortal mind. "

All functional and organic diseases are produced by a popular belief intheir reality. "No gastric juice accumulates ... Apart from the actionof mortal thought. "

"Inflammation, hemorrhages, tubercles, decompositions are all dreamshadows, " "Man is the same after, as before, a bone is broken or a headchopped off. "

But as to who invented the idea of pain and whence came the superstitionthat we must have lungs to breathe and that the heart is necessary tolife, Mrs. Eddy maintains a discreet silence. Sin, sickness, and death, she says, are beliefs which originated in mortal mind. And how and whendid mortal mind originate? Mortal mind does not exist, she answers, therefore it had no origin. This reasoning satisfies her; she believesit perfectly adequate. 

It is not only the diseased body which is to be disregarded and put outof mind, but all hygienic precautions. Mrs. Eddy particularly objects todiets, and she says that one food is as good as another. God gave man"dominion not only over the fish in the sea, but over the fish in thestomach also, " she once said. 

There is no such thing as fatigue: "You would not say that a wheel isfatigued; and yet the body is just as material as the wheel. If it werenot for what the human mind says of the body, the body would never beweary, any more than the inanimate wheel. "

Mrs. Eddy denies that physical exercise strengthens the muscles. "Because the muscles of the blacksmith's arm are strongly developed, itdoes not follow that exercise has produced this result, or that aless-used arm must be weak.... _The trip-hammer is not increased in sizeby exercise. _ Why not, since muscles are as material as wood and iron?"

Constant bathing, Mrs. Eddy says, received a "useful rebuke from Jesus'precept, 'Take no thought ... For the body, ' We must beware of makingclean merely the outside of the platter. "

_A Sensationless Body the Goal of Existence_

"A sensationless body, " Mrs. Eddy says, is the ultimate hope ofChristian Science. Since insensibility to pain is the ultimate goodwhich her system of philosophy offers, it is natural that she shouldoften point us to the lower forms of animal life for our exemplars. "Theconditions of life become less imperative in lower organisms, or wherethere is less mind and belief on this subject. " She points out hopefullythat certain marine animals multiply their species by self-division. "The less mind there is manifested in matter, the better. When theunthinking lobster loses his claw, it grows again. " If we but believedthat matter has no sensation, "then the human limb would be replaced asreadily as the lobster's claw. " She points out the fact that flowersproduce their seed without pain. "The snowbird sings and soars amid theblasts; he has no catarrh from wet feet. "

"Obesity, " Mrs. Eddy says, "is _an adipose belief of yourself as asubstance_. "

_Mrs. Eddy's Physiology_

The most discouraging thing about Mrs. Eddy's dissertations upon anatomyand physiology is that she seems to know so little about the physicalfacts and laws which she despises. She says, for instance, that a father"plunged his infant babe, only a few hours old, into water for severalminutes and repeated this operation daily until the child could remainunder water for twenty minutes, moving and playing without harm, like afish. " Does Mrs. Eddy actually believe that a child could live underwater for twenty minutes? Again: "The supposition that we can correctinsanity by the use of purgatives and narcotics is in itself a speciesof insanity. " Where did Mrs. Eddy get the idea that such treatment wasever supposed to cure "insanity"? Mrs. Eddy says the fact that a fingerwhich has been amputated continues to hurt is proof that nerves havenothing to do with pain, because, she states, "_the nerve is gone_"!

Mrs. Eddy says that when we burn a finger, not fire but mortal mindcauses the injury. To this statement she adds: "Holy inspiration hascreated states of mind which are able to nullify the action of theflames, as in the Bible case of the three young Hebrew captives, castinto the Babylonian furnace; while an opposite mental state mightproduce spontaneous combustion. " That is, if mortal mind worked hardenough, we could burn our fingers without any fire, or we could producethe fire by willing it. 

The action of drugs depends entirely upon the belief of mortal mind. Stimulants, narcotics, poisons, affect the system solely because theyare reputed to do so. And yet, with all her ingenuity, Mrs. Eddy has toadmit that if a man took arsenic unknowingly it would probably kill him. This, she says, is because of the consensus of opinion that arsenic isdeadly. Such would probably be her explanation of the destructiveprocesses which go on in the world without the knowledge of man; fireconsumes the forest, the tiger kills the antelope, and the bite of thecobra kills the tiger because the human mind has attributed suchtendencies to fire, to the tiger, and to the cobra. 

_Mrs. Eddy's View of History_

All the emanations of mortal mind are evil. Our redemption, Mrs. Eddysays, lies in Divine Mind, of which we are a part. "Spirit imparts theunderstanding which leads into all Truth.... This understanding is notintellectual, is not aided by scholarly attainments. " There is nomistaking Mrs. Eddy's meaning; the thing in us which is capable ofcultivation and expansion, that which inquires and investigates andreasons, is mortal mind, and is therefore evil. All the physicalsciences are the harmful inventions of mortal mind, and the slow andpainful accumulation of exact knowledge has been but the harmfulactivity of the baser element in human nature. There was never such adiscouraging view of human history. 

It is scarcely necessary to remark that everything which civilizationmost cherishes has been the direct result of that spirit of inquiry andof those inductive processes of reasoning which Mrs. Eddy despises. Ifthe morality of the civilized world is higher to-day than it was in thefifth century, it is not because men know any more about moral laws thanthey did two thousand years ago, but because this same spirit of inquiryhas made cleaner living possible and imperative. Mrs. Eddy says thatChristian Science would abolish war; but the diminution of war has comeabout, not through any growth of "Divine Mind" but, as Buckle pointedout, through three triumphs of the experimental tendency of theintellect;--the discovery of gunpowder, the discovery that war wasdetrimental to trade and to the best economic conditions, and theimprovement in methods of transportation. Contemplating the history ofcivilization from Mrs. Eddy's point of view, we have simply gone ondeveloping this injurious thing, "mortal mind"--applying ourintelligence to the study of the physical universe--and have gone onpiling up false belief on false belief. It is "matter" that is our greatdelusion and that stands between us and a full understanding of God; andmatter exists, or seems to exist, only because we have invented it andinvented laws to govern it and have given properties to its variousmanifestations. The more we know about the physical universe, theheavier do we make our chains; our progress in the physical sciencesdoes but increase the dose of the drug which enslaves us. And there havebeen but two breaks in this jumbled dream of "error": the first whenJesus Christ "demonstrated the nothingness of matter, " the second whenMrs. Eddy proclaimed its nothingness from Lynn. 

With a "sensationless body" for the goal of existence, the savage wascertainly much higher in "the scale of being" than the nations of modernEurope, and Mrs. Eddy is perfectly right when she refers us to theamoeba and crustacea. Happy, indeed, the lobster who thinks so littleabout his anatomy that his lost claw is replaced by another!

From all her flights Mrs. Eddy comes back to her starting-point:physical well-being. Not for a single page are we permitted to forgetthat her religion is primarily a kind of "doctoring"; therapeutics madereligion, or religion made therapeutics. She makes the fact that Christhealed the sick the principal feature of his mission, and makes itauthority for her assumption that religion and therapeutics areessentially one. Certainly the burden of the New Testament is not thatman may avoid suffering, but that he may suffer with noble fortitude. 

_Lack of Religious Feeling in Mrs. Eddy's Book_

But it is before such a word as fortitude that Mrs. Eddy's book takes onits most discouraging aspect. Her foolish logic, her ignorance of thehuman body, the liberties which she takes with the Bible, and herburlesque exegesis, could easily be overlooked if there were anynobility of feeling to be found in "Science and Health"; anygreat-hearted pity for suffering, any humility or self-forgetfulnessbefore the mysteries of life. Mrs. Eddy professes to believe that shehas found the Truth, and that all the long centuries behind her havegone out in darkness and wasted effort, yet not one page of her book istinged with compassion. "Oh that mine head were waters, and mine eyes afountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of thedaughter of my people!" If there were one sentence like that in "Scienceand Health" no one would stop to quarrel with Mrs. Eddy's metaphysics. 

But if there is little intelligence displayed in Mrs. Eddy's book, thereis even less emotion. It is not exaggeration to say that "Science andHealth" is absolutely devoid of religious feeling. God remains for Mrs. Eddy a "principle" indeed, toward which she has no attitude but that ofa somewhat patronizing and platitudinous expositor. She discusses sinand death and human suffering as if they were curves or equations. 

_Malicious Animal Magnetism_

In all the editions of Mrs. Eddy's book there is the same shiftiness, the same hardness, and the same astonishing complacency, and the text ofthe first three editions is disfigured by innumerable ebullitions ofspite and hatred. In the first edition the first fifteen pages of thechapter on "Healing the Sick" are given up to an attack upon RichardKennedy, the young man who was her first practitioner, and of whosepersonal popularity she was so bitterly jealous. The second edition, asmall volume, is largely made up of denunciations of Daniel Spofford. The third edition opens with a preface (signed Asa G. Eddy) attackingEdward Arens, and contains the famous chapter on "Demonology" in whichMrs. Eddy devotes forty-six pages to settling scores with half a dozenof her early students, charging one and another with theft, adultery, murder, blackmail, etc. The Reverend Mr. Wiggin, when he revised Mrs. Eddy's book in 1885, persuaded her to omit these vituperative passageson the ground that they were libelous. 

Mrs. Eddy's one original elemental contribution to Quimbyism, was herdoctrine of Malicious Animal Magnetism; a grewsome superstition born ofher own vindictiveness and distrust. Mrs. Eddy's more enlightenedfollowers have for years tried to divert attention from this one of herdoctrines, and there are hundreds of Christian Scientists in the fieldwho know and think very little about it. But it has been a veryimportant consideration in the lives of those who have come intopersonal contact with Mrs. Eddy. Between 1875 and 1888 many of Mrs. Eddy's students left her because in her lectures and conversation shedwelt more upon the malign power of mesmerism than upon the salutarypower of truth. In her contributions to the _Journal_ during those yearsshe frequently took up Animal Magnetism; she tells her followers overand over again that she will denounce it, and that she will not besilenced. For several years there was a regular department in the_Journal_ with the caption "Animal Magnetism, " but the crimes which werecharged to mesmerists were by no means confined to this department. "_Also they have dominion over our bodies, and over our cattle, at theirpleasure, and we are in great distress_, " the _Journal_ again and againaffirms. 

_Poverty a False Belief_

Mrs. Eddy surmounts economics as easily as she does physics andchemistry and physiology. Poverty is only a form of "error, " a falsebelief. It can be abolished as readily as sin or disease or old age. Sheadvertised the first edition of "Science and Health" as a book that"affords an opportunity to acquire a profession by which you canaccumulate a fortune. " "In the early history of Christian Science, " Mrs. Eddy says, "among my thousands of students few were wealthy. Now, Christian Scientists are not indigent; and their comfortable fortunesare acquired by healing mankind morally, physically, and spiritually. "Her healers should be well paid, she says. "Christian Sciencedemonstrates that the patient who pays what he is able to pay, is moreapt to recover than he who withholds a slight equivalent for health. " InMrs. Eddy's book[12] she publishes a long testimonial from a man whorelates how Christian Science has helped him in his business. 

This view of poverty has been generally accepted among Mrs. Eddy'sfollowers. One contributor to the _Journal_ writes: "We weredemonstrating over a lack of means, which we had learned was just asmuch a claim of error to be overcome with truth as ever sickness or sinwas. "[13]

Another contributor writes: "The lack of means is a lupine ghost siredby the same spectre as the lack of health, and both must be met and putto flight by the same mighty weapons of our spiritual warfare. "[14]

In the files of the _Journal_ there are many reports of the materialprosperity of individual Christian Scientists. It is an evidence of"at-oneness" with God to prosper in business just as it is to overcomedisease. 

In the _Journal_ of September, 1904, a contributor says:

 "Is it reasonable to believe, as we have believed, that popular fancy, whims, climate, the state of politics, any or all of a hundred lawless elements, are able to ruin a man's business while he stands by and doesn't know enough even to make an intelligent protest?"

Government, civilization, and even "climate" are demonstrated to beunreal, but the reality and importance of "business" is neverquestioned, and that each and every Christian Scientist should get on inthe world remains a matter of indubitable moment, even to Mrs. Eddyherself. 

_Mrs. Eddy's Views on Marriage_

Among the many incidental ideas which Mrs. Eddy has added to Quimbyismare her theory that the Godhead is more feminine than masculine, and herqualified disapproval of matrimony. Quimby himself had a large familyand saw nothing unspiritual in marriage. In defining the real purpose ofmarriage Mrs. Eddy says nothing about children; "to happify existence byconstant intercourse with those adapted to elevate it, is the truepurpose of marriage. " In her chapter on marriage she says: "Thescientific _morale_ of marriage is spiritual unity.... Proportionatelyas human generation ceases, the unbroken links of eternal harmoniousbeing will be spiritually discerned. "

In her chapter called "Wedlock" in Miscellaneous Writings (1897) Mrs. Eddy, after a vague and evasive discussion of the subject, squarely putsthe question: "Is marriage nearer right than celibacy? Human knowledgeinculcates that it is, while Science indicates that it is _not_. " In thesame chapter she further says: "Human nature has bestowed on a wife theright to become a mother; but if the wife esteems not this privilege, bymutual consent, exalted and increased affections, she may win a higher. "

Mrs. Eddy apparently believes that Jesus Christ taught us to ignorefamily relations: "Jesus acknowledged no ties of the flesh. He said:'Call no man your father upon the earth; for one is your father which isin heaven. ' Again he asked: 'Who is my mother, and who are my brethrenbut they who will do the will of my father?' We have no record of hiscalling any man by the name of father. "

_Future of Christian Science_

Whoever has watched the amazing growth of the Christian Science sectmust feel some curiosity as to its future. Mrs. Eddy's followers are byno means the only people who are trying to meet, by suggestivetreatment, nervous diseases and the many functional disorders whichresult from overwork, worry, and discouragement. The foremostneurologists of all countries are employing more and more thissuggestive method which is the essential reality in Christian Sciencehealing. The followers of the "New Thought" school apply this principlein their own way, and the hundreds of unaffiliated "mind curists" and"mental healers" are each applying it in ways more or less honest andlegitimate. 

In October, 1906, Dr. Elwood Worcester and Dr. Samuel McComb, the rectorand the associate rector of the Emmanuel (Episcopal) Church of Boston, organized the Emmanuel Church Health Class, for the treatment of nervousdisorders. Believing that, as Professor William James has said, "thesovereign cure for worry is religious faith, " the workers at EmmanuelChurch have been endeavoring to cure nervous disorders by putting thepatient at peace with himself. Every patient is examined by a physician, and if the root of his disorder proves to be nervous (hysteria, alcoholism, a drug habit, insomnia, or any one of the many forms of neurasthenia)he is admitted into the Health Class for psycho-therapeutical treatment. Here he is encouraged to unburden himself of the distress or perplexitywhich haunts him, and is given the kind of suggestive treatment whichseems best adapted to his disorder. Dr. Worcester studied psychologyunder Wundt, in Germany, and taught it for six years at LehighUniversity. Dr. McComb studied psychology at Oxford. The records of theEmmanuel Health Class show that of the 178 cases treated between March, 1907, and November, 1907, the condition of seventy-five patients hasbeen improved, forty-eight have not been helped at all, while infifty-five cases the result is unknown. [15]

_Mrs. Eddy's Opposition to the Mind Cure Movement_

Mrs. Eddy and her followers have given a demonstration too great to beoverlooked, of the fact that many ills which the sufferer believesentirely physical can be reached and eradicated by "ministering to amind diseased, " by persuading the sick man continually to suggest tohimself ideas of health and hope and happiness and usefulness, insteadof brooding upon the emptiness and unanswered needs of his life or uponhis failing physical powers. Mrs. Eddy's sect, more than any other oneof the cults which believe in and practise this method of bettering thepatient's physical condition through his mind, has forced the mosthide-bound medical practitioners to take account of this old but newlyapplied force in therapeutics. 

But what is Mrs. Eddy's own attitude toward the general awakening to thevalue of psycho-therapeutics in the treatment of human diseases? Shedeclares that every kind of mind cure and suggestive treatment excepther own is dangerous and harmful. As one of Mrs. Eddy's students wrotein the _Christian Science Journal_, September, 1901, "The loyalChristian Scientist knows that neither he nor his patient should read orstudy the books of any other author than those of our beloved Leader inorder to learn the Science of the Christ truth, which she is teachingand demonstrating to this age. "

Mrs. Eddy's own editorials in the _Journal_ are never so bitter as whenshe is attacking the mental healers who do not practise her owncopyrighted variety of mind cure. Recently the _Christian ScienceSentinel_ of January 18, 1908, stated that Mrs. Eddy cannot countenancethe work done at the Emmanuel Church. Mr. Archibald McClellan, theeditor of that publication, published an article entitled "No ChristianPsychology. " He says: "Christian Psychology is equivalent to Christianphrenology, physiology and mythology, whereas Jesus predicted anddemonstrated Christian healing on the basis of Spirit, God. He nevercomplicated Spirit with matter, etc.... Her teachings (Mrs. Eddy's) showfurther that she cannot consistently endorse as Christianity the twodistinctly contradictory statements and points of view contained in theterm 'Christian psychology'--otherwise Christian materialism. "

Mrs. Eddy holds that any system of healing which at all takes accountof, or admits physical structure, is not Christian. 

Mrs. Eddy's endeavor has been to convert a universal principle into apersonal property. And she has gone a wonderfully long way toward doingit. Thousands of people believe that they owe their health and happinessto a healing principle which was revealed by God to Mrs. Eddy and byMrs. Eddy to mankind; that since the ministry of Jesus Christ upon earthno one of the human race has understood this principle except Mrs. Eddy, and that she is the only human being now alive who fully understands it;that when she dies her works alone will stand between the world anddarkness. 

But all the while that Mrs. Eddy was energetically copyrighting, andpruning, and expelling, and disciplining, that other stream which camefrom Quimby, through Dr. Evans and through Julius Dresser and his wife, was slowly and quietly doing its work. [16] Mind Cure and New Thoughtgrew up side by side with Christian Science. As organizations they werenot nearly so effective, and their ranks, like Mrs. Eddy's, were oftendarkened by the adventuress and the battered soldier of fortune. But theMental healers and the New Thought healers treated the sick on exactlythe same principle which Mrs. Eddy's successful healers employed. 

As to the future of Mrs. Eddy's church, her own attitude toward everyattempt to investigate and to apply liberally the principle of mentalhealing, seems to determine that. It has been possible for her, duringher own lifetime, absolutely to prohibit preaching, thinking, independent writing, --investigation or inquiry of any sort--in herchurches. But after her death, when that compelling hand is withdrawn, either the church must renew itself from among the ignorant andsuperstitious, as Mormonism has done, or it must permit its members touse their minds. Those who use their minds will discover that ChristianScience is only one method of applying a general truth, and that it is amethod which is hampered by a great deal that is illogical and absurd;that if Christian Science, as Mrs. Eddy has promulgated it, wereuniversally believed and practised, it would be the revolt of a speciesagainst its own physical structure; against its relation to its naturalphysical environment, against the needs of its own physical organism, against the perpetuation of its kind. The moment a Christian Scientistrealizes that the helpful and hopeful principle of his religion canoperate quite independently of all the inconsequential theories whichMrs. Eddy has attached to it, that moment he is, of course, lost to Mrs. Eddy. Mrs. Eddy's church organization stands as a sort of dyke betweenthe general principle of mind cure and Mrs. Eddy's very empirical, violent, and temperamental interpretation of that principle. It is thefuture of psycho-therapeutics that will determine the future ofChristian Science. If "Mind Cure, " "Christian Psychology, " and regularphysicians offer the benefits of suggestive treatment in a more rationaland direct way than does Christian Science, Mrs. Eddy's church will findin them very formidable competition. On the other hand, if ChristianScientists throw down their barriers and join the general mind-curemovement, and the two branches of Quimbyism meet, then half of Mrs. Eddy's life-work is lost. The labor of her days has been to keep thesetwo streams apart; to prove one the true and the other the false. Herefforts to stem the progress of all other schools of mental healing havebeen secondary only to her efforts to advance her own. Yet, unconsciously and against her own wish, she has been the most effectiveinstrument in promoting the interest of the whole movement. 

On the theoretical side, Mrs. Eddy's contribution to mental healing hasbeen, in the main, fallacious, pseudodoxal, and absurd, but upon thepractical side she has been wonderfully efficient. New movements areusually launched and old ideas are revivified, not through the effortsof a group of people, but through one person. These dynamicpersonalities have not always conformed to our highest ideals; theireffectiveness has not always been associated with a large intelligenceor with nobility of character. Not infrequently it has been true ofthem--as it seems to be true of Mrs. Eddy--that their power wasgenerated in the ferment of an inharmonious and violent nature. But, forpractical purposes, it is only fair to measure them by their actualaccomplishment and by the machinery they have set in motion. 

 THE END

HER FRUITS

BY

MARY ELEANOR ROBERTS

 These are her fruits, kindness and gentleness, And gratefully we take them at her hands; Patience she has, and pity for distress, And love that understands. 

 Ah, ask not how such rich reward was won, How sharp the harrow in the former years, Or mellowed in what agony of sun, Or watered with what tears. 

THE KEY TO THE DOOR

BY FIELDING BALL

ILLUSTRATIONS BY WALTER JACK DUNCAN

 "_There was the Door to which I found no Key; There was the Veil through which I might not see. Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee There was--and then no more of Thee and Me. _"

The postmaster was lounging in an open window, cleaning his fingernailswith his pocket-knife, as Allison went into the post-office. He rosewith some show of animation at sight of the tall, boyish figure in thedoorway. 

"I got a hired girl for you all right, Mr. Allison, " he said, advancingto meet him. "Used to work down to Webb City, in a restaurant, but gottired of it--hours too hard. She's a good cook, and she knows how to getthings on the table so they look real nice--I knew that would meanconsiderable to you folks. "

He went on to dwell at length upon the girl's good points, becoming morenervously demonstrative in his praise as he found that Allison's facereflected none of his enthusiasm, but remained unexpectedly impassiveand non-committal. 

Allison interrupted at the first opportunity. 

"You have been very kind, Mr. Barbour, " he said, with impersonalcivility. "Would you be so good as to get me my mail?"

He took the letters which the man handed him and walked out withoutgiving him another glance. 

Just outside of the door he met Jim Brown, man-of-all-work at thestation. Allison himself was station agent. Allison looked at Jim as hepassed with such a cold, unswerving gaze that in spite of himself theother dropped his eyes. Jim had been present at the interview betweenBillings and Allison that morning; Allison knew that he was coming nowto tell the postmaster about it. The young man set his lips hard at thethought of some of the things he had done during the last two weeks, when he had been full of glad confidence in himself and in thisinvention of his--this brake which Billings had told him an hour ago wasnot worth the stuff of which it was made. The recountal of hisperformance would doubtless afford much entertainment to the pair in thepost-office. Just yesterday he had asked the postmaster to find for him, if possible, a capable maid-servant, and had said, without thinkinganything in particular about it, that he would pay a satisfactory girlfive dollars a week. Five dollars a week--it had not seemed much to him;he had been amused by Barbour's evident astonishment. To-day he saw morereason in it.... Then there was that perfume for Gertrude--he shouldhave to countermand his order for that. He had no choice in the matter, he told himself, with bitter resentment that a paltry nine dollarsshould mean so much to him. In spite of the fact that he had come tothis decision before he reached the drug store, he did not go in, butwalked past with his head in the air, looking neither to right nor toleft. He felt as though every one must already know of the morning'sexperience; and he was fearful of meeting eyes alight with cynicalunderstanding. 

The postmaster and Jim watched the young man from the post-office dooras he made his way up the one hilly street of the little town. Thesoldierly precision of his carriage and gait, together with a certainair of distinction about his clothes, made him seem singularly out ofkeeping with all about him--the narrow, stony road, the straggling whitehouses on each side of it, the unkempt yards, the neglected trees, thedilapidated sidewalks half hidden by an amazing growth of dog-fennel. 

"You'd know somep'n had gone wrong by the way he had his head rearedback, wouldn't you?" Jim asked with a smile on his dark face. 

He had just finished telling Barbour of what had happened that morning. Several days before, Allison had got word from the railroad companythat some time this week they would send a man to tell him what offerthey were prepared to make for the brake on which he had been workingfor so many weeks, and had finally finished; and this morning Billingshad put in his appearance. The brake was practically good for nothing, he assured Allison--certainly not worth a cent to the company; and hetold him the reasons why this was so. 

He went on to say, however, that he felt sorry for Allison, --sorry forthat nice little wife of his, --Jim smiled grimly as he repeated thecondescending phrase, --that he knew they were having a mighty hard timeof it. Sixty dollars a month was not enough for a single man to live ondecently, much less a married one; and the way in which Allison had beenbrought up made it harder. He didn't mean to criticize Allison'sfather--he didn't believe in criticizing the dead--but he certainlyshould not bring up _his_ son in such a way that he couldn't make aliving for himself if necessary. You never could tell what was going tohappen in this world; Allison wasn't the first gay young fellow who hadgrown up not expecting ever to have to do a day's work, and then all ofa sudden had found himself glad to get almost any sort of a job. Well, as he said, he was sorry for Allison, and ready to help him out alittle. He meant to see to it that Allison got something out of thisbrake of his--a couple of hundred dollars, perhaps; of course, twohundred dollars wasn't a great deal; it wouldn't mean much tohim--Billings--but it would probably mean considerable to Allison. 

"What did Mr. Allison say?" the postmaster asked. 

"Never changed face. Set there starin' at Billings with those darnedcool eyes o' his that look's if they'd never blink 'f a cannon went offunder his very nose--waited till Billings got good and done, 'n' thensaid with that high 'n' mighty air of his, f'r all the world's if he wasspeakin' to some poor, half-witted Swede: 'Two hundred dollars doesn'tmean as much to me as you think, Mr. Billings. ' Then he stopped aminute, 'n' went on in a little diff'rent tone, 'You needn't concernyourself any further about me and my troubles'--'n' that had very muchthe sound of 'I'll make kindling-wood of you if you do!' Then he looksat his watch. 'I've given you all the time I can spare, ' says he; andwith that he swings around 'n' begins looking over some papers on hisdesk. Billings reddened up a little--coughed 'n' wriggled around in hischair, 'n' tried to get up courage to say somethin' more--but he simplydidn't _darst_. He went off finally lookin' sort o' cheap. Mist'Allison never give him another glance, no more'n 's if he was that dogo' yours. "

The postmaster was silent for a minute or two. Then he turned to Jim. "I'm not particularly sorry to see Billings get left, " he said. "Still, it might be just as well for Mr. Allison if he'd have kept on the rightside of Billings from the start. There's no use talking, he's got anawfully uppish way with him, that boy. "

Jim nodded an emphatic assent. Along with other smaller grievances therestill rankled in his mind the memory of how, when Allison had first comeas station agent to the little town, a year ago now, he had one dayasked Jim if he did not suppose that the nice-looking girl who hadpassed their house with Jim the Sunday before could be induced to comeand work for them. Allison had asked the question in all innocence, notdreaming that this unshaven young man in blue seersucker shirt andgreasy trousers considered himself in every way Allison's equal, and wasas much affronted by this suggestion as Allison would have been by oneof the same sort. Jim could not forgive him for it--any admiration hefelt for Allison was invariably tempered by resentful remembrance. 

"It's about time he woke up to the fact that he doesn't have a fatherworth two millions behind him these days, " Barbour went on. "Extravagant! Lord, he never stops to ask what a thing costs beforegetting it, as long as he has money in his pockets. Went into thebook-store the other afternoon to get some magazines--carried off abouteverything Henry had in the place. Three dollars and fifteen cents hisbill was. Never thinks, when he's buying anything in the way of shirtsor ties, of getting less than half a dozen at a time--s'pose he hasn'tfound out you can buy them any other way. And his laundry bills--guesshe about runs the laundry. And just yesterday he was telling me in themost off-hand way that he would pay five dollars a week to a hired girl. Five dollars a week! I could hardly believe my ears. But I guess he'sgone back on that. " The postmaster smiled sourly. 

The young man of whom they were talking was almost at the top of thehill by this time. So far he had met few people; and those whom he hadmet had not forced any formal recognition from him. But as he passedMrs. Jennings, she called out a greeting that could not be ignored. Gertrude had stopped once to talk to her and to admire her collection ofshells; and since then every noon and night he found her waiting here byher gate to speak to him; and she invariably asked the same questionabout his wife, always in the same tone, always with the sameinflection. The meeting with her had become one of the frightfullyunvarying things of his day. As he walked on now, he saw stretchingbefore him an interminable vista of days, weeks, years--one deadlysameness of hard work, long hours, scanty pay, poor living, growingdebts--and inextricably mixed up with it all, this dreary, gaunt blackfigure, waiting always for him at the top of the hill.... He had notrealized what it meant to him, the success of his invention--how much hewas depending on it. He felt now as he might if, moving blindly througha dark passage, hoping any minute to see a glimmer of light ahead, anoutlet into the open air, he had run full into a locked door--a door towhich he had no key. 

The thought of going home to his wife brought no comfort with it. Theyhad long ago ceased to be honest with each other, Gertrude and he; theirattempts to make the best of a sorry situation had in the end become abarrier which held them apart. Gertrude would not admit that she wasever tired, or lonesome, or discouraged; would find no fault with theirpoor little house, their scanty means, her unaccustomed duties. Shenever spoke of the past any more, nor of the future, lest in that theremight be an implied criticism of the present; she was resolutely, unvaryingly, aggressively contented. But this contentment was tooconstant, too uniform, like false color on a woman's cheek. He sometimeswished she would throw pretense to the winds--would put her head on hisshoulder, and sob and cry, and confess that she wished she were dead--orthat she would upbraid him, reproach him, call him some of the hardnames he called himself. But she was insistently cheerful; and there wasnothing for him to do, in the face of this, but play an awkward secondto her, ignore his aching back, his sore hands, his throbbing head, andkeep a resolute silence as to all that happened to vex and humiliate andperplex and hurt him. It was not always easy; to-day he was consciousthat he was walking more and more slowly as he drew near the house. 

How poor and forlorn it looked in this glare of light! During these lastweeks his thoughts had turned often to that stately house where he hadlived for nineteen years--its green, close-clipped lawn glistening undera perpetual play of water, its great beds of white and green andcardinal foliage plants, its shut-in porches, its awnings, its floweringshrubs, its vines, its heavy iron fence. He looked with bitterattentiveness at the dingy frame cottage he was approaching, noticingeach homely detail--the dish-towels spread on the bushes in the backyard, the mop hanging by the door, the kerosene can under the step, thelean hen scuttling away under the currant bushes, the vegetable gardenlying parched and dry along the fence. There was a small artificialmound of stones at one side of the house, with a somewhat scanty growthof portulaca springing from its top. The last occupant of the house wasresponsible for that adornment. Allison wondered how they had happenedto leave it there so long. That mound of stones--all his hopes mighthave been buried under it and he could not have hated it more. It stood, somehow, for all that chafed and irritated him here--the moral, mental, and physical stuntedness of the people--their petty ambitions, pettyjealousies, petty quarrels, petty virtues. 

Allison was seized with a sudden vague fear as he saw on the kitchenwindow-sill, just where he had left it at seven this morning, thepackage which Gertrude had promised to take to Mr. Fulton as soon as shehad finished the breakfast dishes. He noticed almost at the same instantthat the kitchen door was open; countless flies were sailing in and out;and there on the cellar door, in the blazing sunlight, was the morning'smilk, thick and sour by this time. He quickened his steps--made his wayhurriedly through the kitchen and dining-room, noticing, as he went, various signs of disorder. The kitchen fire was out--the floor unswept;the coffee he had knocked over when he had built the fire this morninglay where it had fallen: the room was full of its pungent odor. On thedining-room table were the remnants of breakfast, the oatmeal dry andstiff, the butter melted down to a thin oil. In the front room he foundGertrude, bending a flushed face over something she was writing. Shegave a start of fright as he came in--then got very red. 

"I sat down to write a little of that play I was telling you about lastnight"--she was picking up her papers with frantic haste as shespoke--"and I had no idea it was getting so late. " She cast an appalledglance around the room, and hurried out to begin clearing off the table, making a great clatter with the dishes in her excitement and haste. 

[Illustration: "THIS DREARY, GAUNT BLACK FIGURE, WAITING ALWAYS FOR HIMAT THE TOP OF THE HILL"]

Allison stood for a minute looking after her wearily. Her manner hurthim. More than once, in days gone by, he had told her fondly that whenshe married him she should do nothing but what she liked to do--if shechose, she might work on her little dialogues and fairy stories frommorning till night. The air of frightened apology which she wore--thisservile haste--pained and irritated him. He threw himself into a chairand began mechanically to look over the mail which the postmaster hadhanded him. A week ago he had written to an Eastern firm asking for acatalogue of the refrigerators they made. Here it was--bulky, imposing, abounding in alluring pictures of tile-lined refrigeratorsfilled with game, fish, fruit, wine. He found he could buy theirsmallest and most inexpensive refrigerator, "built especially to supplya demand for low-priced goods, "--so the advertisement ran--forforty-five dollars. He dropped the book, and turned to his other letter. It was from a great retail dry-goods house, and was in answer to arequest he had made for samples of dotted swiss--he had thought he wouldlike to get Gertrude a dress such as she had worn when he first knewher. The samples were sent, and along with them a letter expressingpleasure at being able to serve him, and a desire further to accommodatehim whenever possible; its extreme deference and respect was like acalculated sarcasm. He pushed it away from him and leaned back in hischair, looking about the room with a curious stare, as a convict, whohas just heard that his sentence is for life, might gaze at the walls ofhis cell. It was a low-ceiled room, with an uneven floor, cheapwoodwork, painted in an unsuccessful imitation of natural wood, andwalls hung with faded paper of an indeterminate pattern and even moreindeterminate color. To-day it was in greater confusion than usual, withwhite dust thick on table and chair, a window-shade askew, themusic-rack disarranged, and a plate of grape-skins which Allison hadleft last night on the piano still standing there. But it was not thedisorder which irritated Allison most, nor the signs of poverty, but thefact that the poverty was so _genteel_, so self-respecting, sodetermined to make the best of things and present a brave front to theworld. The kerosene lamp had a shade of red, crinkled tissue-paper--thecheap net curtains were arranged with the utmost elaboration--a rug wasartfully laid down in such a way as almost to cover the square of zincon which the stove stood in the winter time, and all of Gertrude'sphotographs were placed with a view to concealing various defects anddeficiencies. His loathing for all this was intensified by a memory ofvast rooms stretching out one after the other, hushed and cool, withgracious shadows lending their mystery and romance to everything. Withsudden restlessness he rose, and walked over to the window; but thesmell of dust and dry, dead vegetation smothered him. Gertrude had rakedthe long, sparse brown grass all in one direction; it had a grotesquelook of having been combed. 

He seized his hat, and went to get Mr. Fulton's package from thewindow-sill. He had barely turned toward the gate, however, when hiswife hurried out, remonstrating, apologizing, with an urgent hand onhis arm. "It is important that Mr. Fulton should get these papersto-day, " he said stiffly. It did not really matter whether Mr. Fultongot the roll of agricultural papers to-day, to-morrow, or next week; butAllison felt the necessity for doing something, it did not much matterwhat, to crush down his growing despair; and this was the only thingwhich suggested itself. Gertrude was persistent, however, in herentreaties that he come back; it was frightfully hot, and he alreadylooked tired; she would take the papers to Mr. Fulton right afterluncheon. He yielded at last, from sheer languidness, and came silentlyinto the house. Gertrude's moist face, her loud, anxious voice, herwarm, clinging hand, were exceedingly disagreeable to him--so much sothat finally the desire to escape them became more importunate than anyother. 

He was again standing by the window, gazing out, when his wife came intothe dining-room to set the table. He did not turn--gave no sign ofseeing her. 

"What are you thinking about, Philip?" she asked presently, with aneffort to make her question sound casual. 

"I am not thinking--at least I am trying not to, " Allison answered, in asomewhat strained, unnatural voice. Why would she not leave him alone?Could she not see that he did not wish to talk?

"What was the last thing that you were thinking about before youstopped?" Gertrude spoke with painstaking gaiety. 

Would she always keep up this dissimulation? Allison asked himself. Forhis part, he was done with it!

"I was thinking that this place was fit for a dog-kennel--and fornothing else!" he said. All the bitterness that was eating out his heartwas in the low words. 

"It does look pretty bad to-day, " Gertrude acquiesced, after anappreciable interval of time. 

"_To-day!_" Allison gave a hard, contemptuous little laugh. "As thoughit ever looked any other way!"

Gertrude did not reply.... When Allison noticed her silence, and turnedto look at her, he saw that there was a peculiar light in her eyes, ared flush over all her face; after a moment's dazed wonder, he realizedthat she had misunderstood him--had misunderstood him utterly. Histhoughts had been on the sagging floors, the cheap furniture, the marredwall-paper, the miserable ugliness and poverty of the house, andeverything in it; but she had seen in his remark only scorn for herhousekeeping, irritation at the room's untidiness. She was very angry. As Allison realized this, a sudden fierce satisfaction possessed him. Now at last she would speak out, without pretence, without reserve! Heshould hear the truth at last. 

[Illustration: "HE HEARD HER MOVING ABOUT, GETTING HIS LUNCHEON"]

But the wrathful look died out of her eyes. She began arranging theknives and forks, looking suddenly old, and steady, and sober. 

"I'm not much of a housekeeper, " she said, quietly. 

"No, you're not. " Allison made his tone as ugly as possible--and waited. Surely she would turn upon him now, overwhelm him with bitter words!

She made no answer of any kind, however, but turned and hurried into thekitchen, striking her arm clumsily against one side of the door as shepassed through, as though she had not seen very well. He heard hermoving rapidly about, getting his luncheon. She brought it in with herhead in the air and her lips compressed. The coffee was muddy, the steakburned, the creamed potatoes scorched--she had been having bad luck. Allison ate every scrap of what she brought him. He did not dare look ather--did not dare ask her to forgive him. What right had he to do that?He lingered on the steps some time before starting for the station, fussing with his cuff, pulling his hat into shape, breaking off from thetree at the corner of the house the branch Gertrude had complained wasin her way. His wife usually followed him to the door to tell himgood-by; but to-day she was sweeping the dining-room vigorously, singingthe while a very gay and cheerful tune. It was one to which they hadoften danced together in the old days; at the same moment at which herealized it, the song stopped, as though Gertrude had been silenced bythe same memory that had come to him. He whistled tentatively; but shedid not answer, though she was near enough to hear, as he knew from thesound of her broom. 

Allison went about his work that afternoon with a droop to his head, anda dullness about his dark eyes, which Jim noticed with vague discomfort, and which made him wish heartily that he had not confided to thepostmaster the story of Billings and the brake. He had quarreled withGertrude--everything else seemed insignificant to Allison beside that. He had quarreled with Gertrude--Gertrude, who had been so brave, souncomplaining, so patient, so forbearing--had gone away from her withthe shadow of a misunderstanding between them. He kept repeating tohimself everything he had said and everything she had said, recallingevery tone and gesture. He wondered how he could have felt such ashrinking dislike as she stood with her hand--her poor little scarredhand!--on his arm, begging him to come back, to let her take the papersto Mr. Fulton. How sweet she had been--how sweet! And he!

He started for home a little earlier than usual--Jim urged him to go, with a certain rough friendliness, saying that he could look out forthings at the station. On his way home Allison went to the post-office, hoping to get a letter for Gertrude from her mother or sister, and hetold the postmaster very humbly and simply why he had not felt liketalking this noon, and of the fact that he could not really afford topay five dollars a week for a maid. It was very strange, but after hehad begun, it was not at all hard to go on. He wondered vaguely how hecould have thought the postmaster a meddlesome, malicious, vulgar youngman; he seemed very sensible and friendly and respectful to-night. 

Mrs. Jennings stood at the top of the hill, gaunt and black as usual;somehow Allison did not feel the usual resentment. He stopped to speakto her with unwonted warmth; and when, encouraged by his manner, shebegan to talk about Gertrude, and what a pretty girl, and what a smartgirl, and what a sweet girl she was, he felt a sudden kindness for theold lady, and accepted almost demonstratively the bunch of magenta andorange vinnias she gave him to take to his wife. 

As Allison went into the house, he noticed signs of a vigorous cleaning. The back steps had been scrubbed--were still wet; the kitchen floor wasas white as the rough, dark boards could be made; the dining-room tablewas set with their finest table-cloth and prettiest dishes, and was gaywith yellow flowers; fresh white curtains, breathing out sweetness, hungat the windows. A note was pinned to the corner of the table. 

"If you should get home before I do, " it ran, "this is to tell you thatI have gone to Mr. Fulton's with those papers I promised to take rightafter luncheon--I forgot all about them till just now. I'll be back inthree-quarters of an hour sure; it's half-past five now. Supper's allready now but making the coffee. Be sure and wait. "

He smoothed the hurried scrawl out tenderly, feeling as if somethinghard and cold in his left side had melted with a sudden gush of warmth. Back in three-quarters of an hour! He laughed aloud at the sanguinenessof it. Why, it took _him_ forty minutes to go to Mr. Fulton's and back!And the idea of telling him to be sure and wait! The little goose! Didshe think he would take himself off in a temper at not finding her, ashe had once months ago? He went out to the kitchen to put his flowersin water, and to finish slicing an egg over the top of the bowl of saladthere--Gertrude had evidently just begun to do it when the packageoutside the window caught her eye. He put on some water for the coffee, and brought in an armful of wood; then he strolled to the gate to waitfor his wife. The neighbor's two-year-old baby came staggering down thewalk in front of the house. Allison caught up the child in his arms, andlifted it to the top of the gate-post, beside him. This was the littlegirl for whom Gertrude had been making a dress the other day; she hadlooked very shocked--Gertrude--when he had asked her if she proposed tomake clothes for all the dirty little brats in the neighborhood, and hadtold him with some dignity that Dolly was a very pretty baby, and waskept as clean as could be expected. Dolly _was_ a pretty baby. Hetightened the arm that was about her a little, and began to talk clumsybaby-talk to her; her mother looked on with a pleased smile from herfront door. The sun was setting, and a strange bright peace was oneverything. 

Suddenly Allison's eyes were caught by an unaccustomed sight--a crowd ofpeople, men, women, and children, advancing down the road, slowly, steadily, and silently--very silently. He surveyed them curiously, ignorantly. Suddenly a man spoke to the one next him--Allison saw thedip of his head--and almost at the same instant a child--atwelve-year-old girl--put up her hands to shade her eyes, staringintently at Allison, and then with a loud shriek ran wildly, blindly, inthe other direction. And then Allison knew that this silent companymeant disaster to him. 

They dragged him away before he caught more than a glimpse of what theyhad in their midst--the limp, white-faced thing in the silly pink dresshe had liked. She had started home by the short way, they told him--theshort way over the old bridge--the bridge that every one knew was notsafe. And how it happened no one could say--perhaps she had stumbled andcaught hold of the rotten railing, and it had given under her hand; atany rate they had found her in the dry river-bottom, thirty feet below. He looked at them very calmly as they finished. "She is dead, " he saidquietly, "there is no need to tell me that. " And then, suddenly, withouta cry or any warning, he toppled over against the man nearest him. 

But she was not dead. He came out of his delirium and fever three weekslater to find her limping around the room, looking a little pale andtired, but very pretty in some sort of ruffled white dress, with herhair done up in the puffs and rolls he had always liked. People had beenvery good, she told him when he was strong enough to listen andunderstand. The doctor had said that he could eat eggs before he couldeat anything else--so everybody had been sending fresh eggs. Mary saidshe was going to buy an incubator and start to raising chickens--theycouldn't eat half the eggs that were sent in, even if they ate nothingbut custard. Mary was the pretty girl that they had seen walking withMr. Brown one Sunday, and had thought would be a nice person to havearound. She was going to stay with them all winter; Gertrude was goingto teach her German and music, and she was going to teach Gertrude howto cook. She was doing all the work just now, she and the neighbors. Mrs. Ferry came in every morning to scrub the kitchen and black thestove. They said Gertrude must keep her hands nice--Philip had seemedmore worried about her hands than about anything else, all the time hewas sick. Did he see how soft and white they were? She had been washingthem in buttermilk--the doctor's wife had suggested that--and puttingsome sort of cream on them that Mr. Gilson, the young man who clerked inthe drug store, had sent up by Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown had been so kind--ithad been he who had sat up with Philip when his fever was at itsworst--he had chopped all the ice that they had used from first to last. He was out in the back yard now, fixing--but there, that was to be asurprise. 

Allison lay very still, smoothing his wife's hand, and looking outthrough the open door at the dry grass of the yard, browner, dustierthan ever, and at the portulaca waving on top of the pyramid of stones. He could hear Jim's whistle as he moved about the yard; some one at theback door was talking to Mary in a hushed, eager undertone; over on herporch Dolly was singing happily, sinking her voice to a mere murmur nowand then at a low remonstrance from within the house. It all made a sortof accompaniment to Gertrude's happy talk. 

Suddenly she stopped, and leaned her cheek against his, with a littlesigh. "Isn't it a nice world, dear?" she whispered. 

He turned so that he could look into her eyes, and said, with a littletremble in his voice:

"It's a beautiful world!"

[Illustration: "HE CAME TOWARD HER WITH THE PITCHER"]

THE WAYFARERS

BY

MARY STEWART CUTTING

AUTHOR OF "LITTLE STORIES OF COURTSHIP, " "LITTLE STORIES OF MARRIEDLIFE, " ETC. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALICE BARBER STEPHENS

XIX

"Slipped through your fingers like that! Like a--" Leverich's words werenot fit for print. He had been away for a couple of days, and now sattilted back in his office chair, a heavy, leather-covered thing notmeant for tilting, his face puffed with anger, his mouth snarling--awild beast balked of his prey. His eyes, ferociously insolent, dwelt onJustin, who, fine and keen and smiling a little, sat opposite him. Bruteanger never had any effect on Justin but to give him a contemptuous, chill self-possession. 

"You're sure the agreement's made?"

"Cater's been sending new consignments as fast as they could go for thepast three days; he's loaded up with machines. "

Leverich swore again. "Confounded fools, not to have made terms withHardanger first! If we'd only known! If there was only some way to put aspoke in the wheel, even yet!"

"Oh, I've got the spoke, easily enough, " said Justin indifferently. "Theonly trouble is, I can't use it. "

"Got a spoke! Why in heaven didn't you say that before?" Leverich camedown on the front legs of his chair with a force that sent it rollingahead on its casters. "What are you sitting here for? What do you meanby telling me that you can't use it?"

"Just what I say. But it's not worth talking about. "

"See here, Alexander, could you get our machine in now instead of his?"

"I suppose I might. "

"And you're not going to do it?"

"I can't, I tell you, Leverich. The information came to me in such a waythat I can't touch it. "

"'The information--' It's something damaging to do with the machine?"

Justin drummed with his fingers on the desk without answering. 

"You have proof?"

"What's the sense of talking, Leverich? Proof or no, I tell you, I can'tuse it. This isn't any funny business; you can see that. Don't yousuppose, if I could use it, that I would? But there are some things aman can't do. At any rate, _I_ can't. And that settles it. "

Heaven knows he had gone over the matter insistently enough in the lastfew days, since the combination had been unwillingly given into hishands, but always with the foregone conclusion. The devil, as a rule, doesn't actively try to tempt us to evil: he simply confuses us, so thatwe are kept from using our reason. But this time he had no field foraction. To use secret information against Cater, that could never havebeen had but for Cater's kindness to him in helping him to those bars intime of need, was first, last, and every time impossible to JustinAlexander. It was vain for argument to suggest that this very deed ofkindness had worked his disaster--the fact remained the same. He mightdo other things; he might do worse things: this thing he could notdo--not though the refusal worked his own ruin, not though Cater's ruinwith Hardanger was insured anyway, but too late for the typometer toprofit by it. Even if the typometer could by some means keep afloatuntil that day arrived, it would take a couple of years for such atiming-machine to regain its prestige in a foreign country. 

Justin had no excess of sentiment; no quixotic impulse urged him to goand tell Cater what he had learned. It was Cater's business to lookafter his end of the game. If the price of material or labor was toocheap, he must know that there was something wrong with it. The streamof Justin's mind ran clear in spite of that feeling of sharp practicetoward himself--nay, because of it; it was impossible to use the weaponthat a former kindness had placed in his hand. He looked at Leverich nowwith an expression which the latter quieted himself to meet. This was asituation, not for bluster and rage, but to be competently grappledwith. 

"How about your obligations? Do you call this fair dealing to us, Alexander? There's Lewiston's note; once this deal was settled, we wouldhave paid that, as you know. But it's out of the question as thingsstand. We'll have to get our money out the best way we can. If this isyour sense of honor--to sacrifice your friends! See here, Alexander, let's talk this out. When it comes to talking of ruin, no man can affordto stand on terms. We didn't put you into the typometer business on anykindergarten principles--it isn't to form your character. What we did, we did for profit; and if the profit isn't there, we get out. We've noobjection to doing a kindness for any one, if we can do it and make aprofit; but it stands to reason that we're not in the business forphilanthropy any more than for kindergartening. We liked you, and wewere willing to give you a place in the game if you could run it to suitus. But we don't consider any scheme that doesn't make money. Whatdoesn't make money has to go. Profit, profit, profit--that's what everysane man puts first, and there's no justice in losing a chance to makeit. What you lose, another man takes. If you make another man's wife andchildren better off, you stint your own. You've got to consider aquestion on all sides. No woman respects a man who can't make money;it's his everlasting business to make money, and she knows it. Your wifewon't think much of your fine scruples if she's to go without for 'em. And, by the Lord, she's right! When you go into business, you've got tomake up your mind to one of two things: you've either got to step hardon the necks of those below you, or you've got to lie down and let themwipe their feet on you. "

[Illustration: "'I DON'T GIVE QUARTER, AND I DON'T EXPECT ANY. IF I'MSQUEEZED, I PAY'"]

Leverich had stopped at intervals for comment from Justin. Since nonewas offered, he went on, with the large and easy manner of one who feelsthe justice of his convictions: "No man ever accused me of being close. I'm free-handed, if I say it that shouldn't. I like to give, and I _do_give. If there's money wanted for charity, the committees know very wellwhere to come. And my wife likes to give, too; her name's on the booksof twenty charitable organizations. But we give out of money I've madeby _not_ being free-handed--by getting every last cent that belonged tome. You see, I don't leave my wife out of my calculations--any man's afool that does. She's got the right to have as good as I can give her. Iwouldn't talk like this to most men, Alexander, but between you and meit's different. It pays to keep your wife in a good humor, when you'vegot to go home after a hard day's work; you take a dissatisfied woman, and she'll make your home a hell. I know men--Great Scott! I don't knowhow they live!" He paused again. Justin did not answer. He sat with hishead on his hand, looking, not at Leverich, but to one side of him. 

[Illustration: "EVEN REDGE ... HAD BEEN ALLOWED TO HOLD HIM"]

"When I say I've made the money, " continued Leverich, "I mean that Iactually _have_ made most of it--made it out of nothing! like the firstchapter of Genesis. If a man has money to start with, he can add to itas easily as you can roll up a snowball. It's no credit to him. But I'vehad only my brains. I've seen money where other men couldn't, andnothing has stood in my way of getting to it. That's the whole secret ofsuccess. And my attitude's fair--you couldn't find a fairer. When one ofyour clerks falls sick, you pay him his full salary for three or fourmonths till he's around again. _I_ know! Well, I don't do any suchstunts. When I was a clerk myself, I was on the sick-list once for threemonths, and nobody paid me. After the first month I was bounced, and Ididn't expect anything else. I didn't expect any philanthropicalbusiness, and I don't give it. That's fair, isn't it? I don't givequarter, and I don't expect any. If I'm squeezed, I pay. I don't standstill in the middle of a deal and snivel about what I can do and what Ican't do. I don't snivel about what you call moral obligations. I onlyrecognize money obligations. Why, see here, Alexander, " he broke off, "if you use the influence you spoke of, you don't have to tell me whatit is--you don't have to tell anybody but Hardanger. Cater himselfneedn't know that you had anything to do with it. "

"But I'd know, " said Justin quietly. 

Leverich lost his easy manner; his jaw protruded. 

"Very well, then; it comes down to this: If you fail us now, out of anyof your fool scruples toward that poor devil across the street, --who'sbound to get the blood sucked out of him anyway, --you ruin your ownprospects, and you try and cheat us out of the money we put up on you. By ----, if you see any honor in that, I don't. "

"Mr. Leverich, " said Justin, raising his head simply, with a steelygleam in his eyes that matched the other's, "when I try to cheat you orLewiston or any man out of what has been put up on me, I'll give youleave to say what you please. At present I'll say good morning. "

[Illustration: "AFTER THIS HE ONLY APPEARED IN THE VILLAGE STREETGUARDED ON EITHER SIDE BY A FEMALE SNOW"]

Leverich shrugged his shoulders and turned his back as he bent over hisdesk. Justin picked up his hat and went out, brushing, as he did so, against a dark, pleasant-faced man who had been sitting in the nextroom. Something in his face instantly conveyed to Justin the knowledgethat the conversation he had just been engaged in had grown louder thanthe partition warranted. The next instant he recognized the man as a Mr. Warren, of Rondell & Co. Both men turned to look back at each other, andboth bowed. The action had a certain definiteness in it, unwarranted bythe slightness of the meeting. The next moment Justin was in thestreet. 

[Illustration: "TO PUT HER YOUNG ARMS AROUND LOIS AND HOLD HER CLOSEWITH ACHING PITY"]

The active clash of steel always roused the blood in him; he feltactively stronger for combat. He was competently apportioning towardLewiston's note the different sums coming in this month. There werelarge bills to be paid to the typometer's credit by several firms, oneof them Coneways'. Coneways represented the largest counted-in asset forthe entire year--it was the backbone of the establishment. If it went toLewiston, what would be left for the business? That could come next. Lewiston was first. Leverich and Martin would exact every penny of theirprincipal after these intervening six months of the year were over. Well, let them! Lewiston's note was what he had to think of now. 

All business undertakings, no matter how wild, how precarious, to thesense of the beholder, are started with confidence in their ultimatesuccess; it is the one trite, universal reason for starting--that faithis the capital that all possess in common. Some of these doubtfulventures, while never really succeeding, do not really fail at once. They are always hard up, but they keep on, though gradually sinkinglower all the time. Others seem to exist by the continuance of thatfirst faith alone--a sheer optimism that keeps the courage alive andkeen enough to seize hold of the slightest driftwood of opportunity, binding this flotsam into a raft that takes them triumphantly out on thehigh tide. For all the long drag, the anxiety, the physical strain, theharassment, failure in itself seemed as inherently impossible to Justinas that he should be stricken blind or lose the use of his limbs. Hemust think harder to find a way of accomplishment; that was all. 

His step had its own peculiar ring in it as he left Leverich's, but itlost somewhat of its alertness as he turned down the street that led tothe factory, unaltered, since his first coming to it, save for thetransformation of the neglected house he had noticed then, with itsgruesome interior, which had been turned into a freshly painted shoplong ago. The effect of association is inexorable. There was not acorner, not a building, along that too familiar way, that was not hungwith some thought of care. There were moments of such strong repulsionthat he felt as if he couldn't turn down that street again--momentslately when to enter the factory with its red-brick-arched yawning mouthof a doorway occasioned a physical nausea--a foolish, womanish statewhich irritated him. 

The mail brought him the usual miscellaneous assortment of orders andbills, and letters on minor points, and questions as to the typometer. The mail was rather apt to be encouraging in its suggestions of a largetrade. Two letters this morning were full of enthusiastic encomium onthe use of the machine. In spite of an enormous and long-outstandingbill for office stationery, insistently clamorous for payment--one ofthose bills looked upon as trifles until they suddenly becomestaggering--there was, after the mail, a general feeling of wielding thedestiny of a large part of the world, where the typometer was a power. 

[Illustration: "'YOU'RE VERY GOOD TO BE SO SORRY FOR ME, ' SHEWHISPERED"]

A little woman whose husband, now dead, had been in his employ came into get help in collecting his insurance; she was timid before Justin, deeply grateful for his kind and effective assistance. Two men came in, at different times, for advice and introductions to important people. Afriend brought in a possible customer from the Sandwich Islands. Therewas all that aura of prosperity that has nothing to do with the paymentof one's bills. 

Justin took both the friend and the customer out to lunch, his agreeablesense of hospitality only dimmed by the disagreeable fact of its takingevery cent of the five dollars he had expected to last for the week. Hewas "strapped. " The luncheon took longer, also, than he had counted onits doing. The morning, begun well, seemed to lead up only to sordid andanxious details--a sense of non-accomplishment, induced also by smallrequisitions from different people, requiring cash from a cash-drawerthat was usually empty. 

It was a welcome relief to figure, with Harker's assistance, on thelarge sums coming in at the end of the month from Coneways. There were ahundred ways for them to go, but they were to go to Lewiston. Perhaps, after all, as Harker astutely suggested, Lewiston would be satisfiedwith a partial payment and extend the rest of the note. While they werestill consulting, word was brought in that Mr. Lewiston was there. 

Mr. Lewiston was a young man, small-featured, black-haired, smooth-shaven, and with an air of nattiness and fashion, set at odds atpresent by a very pale and anxious face and eager, dilated black eyes. He cut short Justin's greeting with the words:

"I've just come over to speak about that note, Alexander. "

"Well, I was just wanting to speak to you about it myself, " said Justineasily. "Have a cigar?"

"Thank you, " said Lewiston mechanically, and as mechanically holding outhis hand for the cigar, evidently forgetting it the next moment. "Thefact is, I don't want to seem importunate, but if you could pay off thatnote fifteen days before date, --a week from to-day, that is, --we'ddiscount it to satisfy you, if you can collect now. I didn't want tobother you about it, and I tried outside first, but nobody will take upthe paper just now, except at a ruinous rate. If you could make itconvenient, Alexander. " Young Lewiston sat with his small, eager facebent forward over his knees, his lips twitching slightly. "You know, that money wasn't loaned on strictly business principles, Alexander, butfor friendship; I got father to consent to it. And if you could let ushave it now, it would save us a world of trouble. It's really notmuch--only ten thousand. "

Justin shook his head, his keen blue eyes fixed on the other. "I can'tlet you have it, Lewiston; I wish I could! But I'm waiting paymentsmyself. Can't you pull out without it?"

Lewiston drew in his breath. "Oh, yes, of course we'll have to; but itmeans-- Well, I know you would if you could, Alexander; I told fatherso--father in a way holds me responsible. He was in London when Irenewed the note the last time. There isn't anything to interfere withthe payment when it's due?"

"On my honor, no, " said Justin. "You shall have it then without fail. "

"For if that should slip up--" continued young Lewiston, wrapped insomber contemplation of his own affairs alone; he threw his arms outwardwith a gesture suddenly tragic in its intensity, paused an instant, thenwrung Justin's hand silently and departed. 

"Are you busy, Alexander? They said I could come in. "

"Why, Girard!"

Justin wheeled a chair around with an instantly brightened face. "Sitdown. I'm mighty glad to see you. " He looked smilingly at his visitor, whose presence, long-limbed, straight, clean, and clear-eyed, alwayselicited a peculiar admiration from other men. "I heard that you had aroom at the Snows' now, while Billy is away, but I haven't laid eyes onyou for a month. "

"I've been coming in on a later train every morning and going out againon a very much later one at night. I'm back in town on the paper for awhile. "

"Why don't you settle down to something worth while?" asked Justin, withthe reserved disapproval of the business man for any mode of life buthis own. 

[Illustration: "MRS. SNOW WAS FUMBLING WITH A PAPER"]

"Settle down to this kind of thing?" said Girard thoughtfully. "Well, Idid think of it last year, when I undertook those commissions for you. But what's the use--yet awhile, at any rate? You see, I can always makeenough money for what I want and to spare, and there's nobody else tocare. I like my liberty! The love of trade doesn't take hold of me, somehow--and you have to have such a tremendous amount of capital tokeep your place. By the way, have you sold the island yet?" The islandwas a small one up near Nova Scotia, taken once for a debt. 

"Not yet. "

Girard gave him a quick glance. "How are things going with you?"

"Fine, " said Justin in a conventionally prosperous tone, with a suddensight of a bottomless pit yawning below him. "I've a few things on mymind lately--but they're all right now. By the way, how do you like itat the Snows'?"

"Oh, all right. " Girard's gray eyes smiled in an irrepressible smile. "Iscore high at present. They all approve of me, and I am told that I amthe only man who has never run into the Boston fern or got tangled inthe Wandering Jew. Miss Bertha and I have long talks together--she'sgreat. As for Mrs. Snow--she heard Sutton speak of her the other nightto Ada as 'the old lady, ' I assure you that since--" He shook his head, and both men laughed. 

"Come to see us. Miss Linden is back with us again, " said Justinhospitably. 

"Thank you, " said Girard, an indefinable stiffening change instantlycoming over him. "By the way, I mustn't forget what I came for, before Ihurry off. "

He took some bills out of his long, flat leather wallet as he rose. "Doyou remember lending that sixty dollars to my friend Keston last year?He turned up yesterday, and asked me to see that you got this. "

"I'd forgotten all about it, " averred Justin. He had not realized untilhe took the bills that he had been keeping up all day by main strength, with that caved-in sensation of there being nothing back of it--nothingback of it. There are times when the touch of money is as the elixir oflife. Justin, holding on by the skin of his teeth for ten thousanddollars, and needing imperatively at least as much more, felt that withthis paltry sixty dollars it was suddenly possible to draw a freebreath, felt a sheer lightness of spirit that showed how terrible wasthe persistent weight under which he was living. The very feeling ofthose separate bills in his pocket made him calmly sanguine. 

He got ready to go home a little earlier than usual, saying lightly toHarker, who had come in for his signature to some papers:

"Those payments will begin to straggle in next week. Coneways' isn't dueuntil the 31st--the very last minute! But he's always prompt, thankHeaven--what are you doing?"

"Knocking on wood, " said Harker, with a grim smile. 

"Oh, knock on wood all you want to, " returned Justin. 

He even thought of Lois on his way, and stopped to buy her some flowers. It was the first time he had thought of her unconsciously for a week. While he was waiting for a car to pass before he crossed the street, hiseye caught the headline on a paper a newsboy was holding out to him:

 GREAT CRASH

 CONEWAYS & CO. FAIL

 IN BOSTON

XX

"I don't think Justin looks very well, " said Dosia that afternoon. Shewas sitting on the edge of the bed, with her arms spread outhalf-protectingly over Lois. The latter was only resting; she had beenup and around the house now for three or four weeks, and, although shelooked unusually fragile, seemed well, if not very strong. 

The baby, wrapped in a blue embroidered blanket, with only a roundforehead and a small pink nose visible, was of that satisfactory varietyentirely given to sleep. Zaidee and even Redge, adoring little sisterand brother, had been allowed to hold him in their arms, so securelyunstirring was their little burden. Lois, who had passionately rebelledagainst the prospect of additional motherhood, exhibited a not unusualphase of it now in as passionately adoring this second boy. He seemedpeculiarly, intensely her own, not only a baby, but a spiritualpossession that communicated a new strength to her. Lois was changed. She had always been beautiful, as a matter of fact, but there wassomething withheld, mysterious, in her expression, as if she were takingcounsel of some half-slumberous force within, as of one listening at ashell for the murmur of the ocean. 

Not only Lois, but everything else, seemed changed to Dosia, at the sametime being also flatly, unchangeably natural. She had longed--oh, howshe had longed!--to be back here. Even while loving and working in herso-called home, she had felt that this was her real home, although hereher cruelest blows had fallen on her; even while bleeding with thewrench of parting from her own flesh and blood, she had felt that thiswas the real home, for here she had really lived; and it was the home ofthe nicer, more delicate instincts. After the crude housekeeping, thelack of comforts that made the simplest nursing a grinding struggle withcircumstance, it was a blessed relief to get back to a sphere whereminor details were all in order as a matter of course. The Alexanders, with their three children, kept only one maid now; but even thatrestriction did not prevent the unlimited flow of hot and cold water!

Yet she had also dreaded this returning, --how she had dreaded it!--withthat old sickening shame which came over her inevitably as she thoughtof certain people and places and days. The mere thought of seeing Mrs. Leverich or George Sutton and that chorus of onlookers was like passingthrough fire. One braces one's self to withstand the pain of scenes ofjoy or sorrow revisited, to find that, after all, when the moment comes, there is little of that dreaded pain. It has been lived through and theclimax passed in that previsioning which imagination made more intense, more harrowingly real, than the reality. 

Mrs. Leverich stopped her carriage one day to greet Dosia, and to askher, with a tentative semblance of her old effusion, to come and makeher a visit--an effusion which immediately died down into completenon-interest, on Dosia's polite refusal; and the incident was notespecially heart-racking at the time, though afterward it set herunaccountably trembling. Mrs. Leverich had in the carriage with her asmall, thin, long-nosed man with a pale-reddish mustache and hair, who, gossip said, passed most of his time at the Leverichs'--he was seen outdriving alone with Myra nearly every day. He was "an old friend fromhome. " It had been gossip at first, but it was growing to be scandalnow, with audible wonder as to how much Mr. Leverich knew about it. 

Her avoidance of George Sutton was as nothing to his desire of avoidingher. He dived with surreptitious haste down side streets when he saw hercoming, or disappeared within shop doorways. Once, when Dosia confrontedhim inadvertently on the platform of a car, and he had perforce to takeoff his hat and murmur, "Good morning, " he turned pale and was evidentlyscared to death. After this he only appeared in the village streetguarded on either side by a female Snow--usually Ada and her mother, though occasionally Bertha served as escort instead of the latter. Theelder Snows, in spite of this apparent security, were in a state ofconstant nervous tension over Mr. Sutton's attention to Ada. He had not"spoken" yet, but it had begun to be felt severely of late that heought to speak. Whenever Ada came into the house, her face was eagerlyscanned by both mother and sister to see from its look if it bore anytrace of the fateful words having been uttered. Every one knew, thoughhow no one could tell, that that bold thing, Dosia Linden, had tried toget him once, and failed. 

The thing that had unaccountably stirred her most since her arrival wasan unexpected meeting with Bailey Girard. Dosia, with Zaidee and Redgeheld by either hand and pressing close to her as they walked merrilyalong, suddenly came upon a gray-clad figure emerging from thepost-office. He seemed to make an instinctive movement as if to drawback, that sent the swift color to her cheeks and then turned themwhite. Were all the men in the place trying to avoid her? Dosia thought, with bitter humor; but, if it were so, he instantly recovered himself, and came forward, hat in hand, with a quick access of bright courtesy, apunctilious warmth of manner. He walked along with her a few paces as hetalked, lifting Zaidee over a flooded crossing, before going once moreon his way. He was nothing to her, the stranger who had killed herideal; yet all day it was as if his image were photographed in thecolors of life upon the retina of her eye. She could not push it away, try as she might. 

Of Lawson Dosia had heard only such vague rumors as had sifted throughthe letters written by Lois. He had been reported as going on in his oldway in the mining-camps, drifting from one to another. She heard nothingmore now. He was the only one who had really loved her up here, exceptLois, who loved her now. Dosia had slipped into her new position ofsister and helper as if she had always filled it. She was not anoutsider any more; she _belonged_. 

As she sat bending over Lois now, her attitude was instinct withsomething high-mindedly lovely. The Dosia who had only wanted to beloved now felt--after a year of trial and conflict with death--that sheonly wanted, and with the same youthful intensity, to be very good, eventhough it seemed sometimes to that same youthfulness a strange andtragic thing that it should be all she wanted. The mysterious, fathomless depression of youth, as of something akin to unknown primaldepths of loneliness, sometimes laid its chill hand on her heart; butwhen Dosia "said her prayers, " she got, child-fashion, very near to aSome One who brought her an intimate tender comfort of resurrection andof life. 

"I don't think Justin seems well, " she repeated, Lois, looking up at herwith calmly expressionless eyes from her pillow, having taken no noticeof the remark. "He has changed, I think, even in the ten days since Icame. "

"He has something on his mind, " assented Lois, with a note of languor inher voice. "I suppose it's the business. I made up my mind to ask himabout it to-night. He has been out every evening lately, and I hardlysee him at all before he goes off in the morning, now that I don't getdown to breakfast. "

"Oh, he gave me a message for you this morning, " cried Dosia, withcompunction at having so far forgotten it. "He said that Mr. Larue hadcome in to inquire about you yesterday. He is going to send you a basketof strawberries and roses from his place at Collingswood to-morrow. "

"Eugene Larue!" Lois' lips relaxed into a pleased curve; a slight colortouched her cheek. "That was very nice of him. He knew I'd like to lookforward to getting them. Strawberries and roses!"

"I met Mr. Girard in the street to-day; he asked after you, " continuedDosia, with the feeling that if she spoke of him she might get thattiresome, insistent image of him from before her eyes. 

"Bailey Girard? Yes; he has a room at the Snows'. Billy's out West. "

"So I've heard, " said Dosia. 

It was one of the strange and melancholy ironies of life that the man ofall others whom she had desired to meet should be thrown daily in herpathway now, after that desire was gone!

"You'd better not talk any more now, Lois; you look tired. It's time foryou to take a little rest. I'll see to the children. I hope baby willstay asleep. Let me pull this coverlet over you. Shall I pull down theshades?"

"No, I'd rather have the light. Please hand me that book over there onthe stand, " said Lois, holding out her hand for the big, old-fashionedbrown volume that Dosia brought to her. 

"You oughtn't to read; you ought to go to sleep, " said Dosia, withtender severity. 

"I'm not going to read, " returned Lois pacifically. Her hand closed overthe book, she smiled, and Dosia closed the door. Lois turned to thesleeping child with a peculiar delight in being quite alone withhim--alone with him, to think. 

The book was a novel of some forty years ago, called, as the title-pageproclaimed, "A Woman's Kingdom, " and written by Dinah Maria Mulock. Aneighbor had brought it in to Lois during the first month of herconvalescence. In all the time she had had it, she had never read anyfurther than that title-page. 

There is often more in the birth of a child than the coming of anotherson or daughter into the world. Between those forces of life and death awoman may also get her chance to be born anew, made over again, spiritually as well as physically. In those long, restful hoursafterward, when suspense is over and pain is over, and there is afreedom from household cares, and one is looked upon with renewedtenderness, the thoughts may flow over long, long ways. To face dangerbravely in itself gives strength for the clearer vision; and apeculiarly loved child unlocks with its tiny hands springs unknownbefore. 

Lois, though she had been a mother twice before, had never felt towardeither of the other children at all as she did now toward this littleboy. She could not bear to be parted from him. Somehow that terriblecorrosive selfishness had been blessedly taken away from her--for alittle while only? She only felt at first that she must not think ofthose horrible depths, for fear of slipping back into the pit again;even to think of the slimy powers of darkness gave them a fresh hold onone. She put off her return to that soul-embracing egotism. It was sweetto lie there and meet the tender gentleness of her husband's gaze whenhe came home, and to talk to him about the baby as a child might talkabout a new toy, though she could not but begin to perceive that she wasas far, far out of his real life as if she had indeed been a child. 

One evening he came in to sit by her, --her convalescence had been a longand dragging one, --and she had paused in the midst of telling himsomething to await an answer. None came. She spoke again, and raisedherself to look. Then she saw that even within that brief space he hadfallen asleep, as a man may who is thoroughly exhausted. Thoroughlyexhausted! Everything proclaimed it--his attitude, grimly grotesque inthe dim light, one leg stretched out half in front of the other, as hehad dropped into the seat, his relaxed arms hanging down, his headresting sidewise against the back of the chair, with the face sharplyupturned. The shadows lay in the hollows under his cheek-bones and inthose lines that marked his temples. Divested of color and thetransforming play of expression, he looked strangely old, terriblylifeless. He slept without moving, --almost, it seemed, withoutbreathing, --while Lois, with a new dread, watched him with frightened, dilated, fascinated eyes. How had he grown like this? What unnoticedchange had been at work? She called him again, but he did not hear; shestretched out her arm, but he was just beyond reach. Suddenly it seemedto her that he was dead, and that she could never reach him again; anicy hand seemed to have been laid on her heart. What if never, never, never----

Just then he opened his eyes and sat up, saying naturally, "Did youspeak?"

"Oh, you frightened me so! Don't go to sleep like that again, " saidLois, with a shaking voice. "Come here. "

He came and knelt down by her, and she pressed his cheek close to herswith a rush of painful emotion. "Why, you mustn't get worked up over alittle thing like that, " he objected lightly, going out of the roomafterward with a reassuring smile at her, while she gazed after him withstrangely awakened eyes. For the first time in months, she thought ofhim without any thought of benefit to herself. 

The next day the neighbor sent her over the book; the title arrested herattention oddly--"The Woman's Kingdom. " Another phrase correlated withit in her memory--"Queen of the Home. " That was supposed to be woman'sdomain, where she was the sovereign power; there she was helper, sustainer, director, the dear dispenser of favors. The woman's kingdom, queen of the home. Gradually the words led her down long lanes ofretrospect, led by the rose-leaf touch of the baby's fingers; _they_kept her strong. What kingdom had she ever made her own? She, poor, bedraggled, complaining suppliant, a beggar where she should have been aqueen! Home and the heart of her husband--there lay her woman's kingdom, her realm, her God-given province. She had had the ordering of it, noneother: she had married a good man. Glad or sorry, that kingdom was asher rule made it; she must be judged by her government--as she was queenenough to hold it. She fell asleep that day thinking of the words. 

Day by day, other thoughts came to her more or less disconnectedly, --setin motion by those magic words, --when she lay at rest in the afternoons, with the book in her fingers and the dear little baby form close besideher. Lois was one of those women of intense feeling who can neverperceive from imagination, but only from experience--who cannot evenadequately sympathize with sorrows and conditions which they have notpersonally experienced. No advice touches them, for the words thatembody it are in a language not yet understood. The mistakes of the pastseem to have been necessary, when they look back. Given the samecircumstances, they could not have acted differently; but they seldomlook back--the present, that is always climbing on into the future, occupies them exclusively. 

Lois with "The Woman's Kingdom" in her hand, felt that some source ofpower and happiness which she had not realized had slipped from hergrasp, yet might still be hers. So many disconnected, half-childishthoughts came with the words--historic names of women whom men had loveddevotedly, who had kept them as their friends and lovers even when theythemselves had grown old, women who had never lost their charm. Therewere those women of the French salons, who could interest even othergenerations; queens indeed! She couldn't really interest _one_ man! Shethought over the married couples of her acquaintance, in search of thosewho should reveal some secret, some guiding light. One woman across thestreet had no other object in life than purveying to the householdcomfort of her husband, and seemed, good soul, to expect nothing fromhim in return; if William liked his fish, she was repaid. A couplefarther down appeared to be held together by the fact of marriage, nothing more; they were bored to death by each other's society. Anothercouple were happily absorbed in their children, to whom they were bothsacrificially subordinate. With none of these conditions could Lois besatisfied. Then, there were the women who always spoke as if a man werean animal and a woman were not a woman, but a spirit; but Lois was verymuch a woman! She settled at last, after penetrative thought, on onehusband and wife, the latter a plain little person no longer young. Every man liked to go to her charming, comfortable house; every manadmired her; and that her husband, a very handsome man himself, admiredher most of all was unobtrusively evident. Every look, every gesture, betrayed the charming, vivifying unity between those two. How was itaccomplished?

How could one interest a man like that? There was Eugene Larue--shecould interest him! The thought of him always gave her a sense ofconscious power; he paid her homage. She did not know what his relationswere with other women, but of his with her she was sure: she felt herwoman's kingdom. If you could talk to the soul of a man like that as ifhe had the soul of an angel, and learn from him what you wanted toknow--get his guidance-- But Lois was before all things inviolably awife, with the instinctive dignity of one. The sympathy between her andEugene Larue was so deep that she feared sometimes that in some briefmoment she might reveal in words, to be forever regretted afterward, conditions which he knew without her telling. To be loved as EugeneLarue would love a woman! But his wife had not cared to be loved thatway. She took deep, thoughtful counsel of her heart. If they two, sheand Eugene, had met while both were free? The answer was what she hadknown it would be, else she had not dared to make the test. The man whowas her husband was the only man who could ever have been her husband. Justin!

With "The Woman's Kingdom" in her hand now, her lips touching the cheekof the soft little darling thing beside her, she felt that some newknowledge had been gradually revealed to her, of which she was nowreally aware only for the first time. Justin was not looking well--thatwas what Dosia had said. Oh, he was _not_ looking well! But she wouldmake him forget his cares, his anxieties, with this new-found power ofhers; she would bewitch him, take him off his feet, so that he would beable to think of nothing, of no one, but her--he had not always thoughtof her. _She would not pity herself. _ She would learn to laugh, even ifit took heroic effort; men liked you to laugh. She had always takeneverything too seriously. The vision of his sleeping, _dead_ face of amonth ago frightened her for a moment, painfully; but he had seemedbetter since, though, as Dosia said, he didn't look well. Oh, when hecame home to-night----!

She dressed herself with a new care, putting on a soft yellowish gownwith a yoke of creamy lace, unworn for months. The color was morebrilliant than ever in her cheeks, her lips redder, her eyes more deeplyblue. The children exclaimed over their "pretty mama. " She lookedyounger, more beautiful, than Dosia had ever seen her. She could nothelp saying:

"How lovely you are, Lois! And you're all dressed up, too; do you expectany one?"

"Only Justin, " said Lois. 

"Only Justin"! The words brought an exquisite joy with them--onlyJustin, the one man in all the world for her. There was but a half-hournow until dinner-time. It had passed, and he had not come; but he wasoften late-- Still he did not come; that happened too, sometimes. Thetwo women sat down to dinner alone, at last. The baby woke up afterward, an unusual thing, and wailed, and would not stop. Lois, divested of herrich apparel and once more swathed in a loose, shabby gown, rocked andsoothed the infant interminably, while Dosia, her efforts to helpunavailing, crouched over a book down-stairs, trying to read. After aninterval of quiet she went up-stairs, to find Lois at last lying down. 

"It's eleven o'clock, Lois; I think I'll go to bed. Shall I leave thegas burning down-stairs?"

"Yes, please do; he can't get anything now but the last train out. "

"And you don't want me to stay here with you?"

"No--oh, no. "

As once before, Lois waited for that train--yet how differently! If thatinjured feeling rose, for an instant, at his not having sent her word, she crushed it back as one would crush the head of a viper that showeditself between the crevices of the hearthstone. She would not pityherself--she would not pity herself! She knew now that madness lay thatway. 

The night was clear and warm, the stars were shining, as she got up andsat by the window, looking out from behind the curtain, her beautifulbraided hair over one shoulder. The last train came in; the people fromit, in twos and threes, straggled down the street, but not Justin. Hemust have missed that last train out. Of course he must have missed it!

We are apt to fancy causeless disaster to those we love; the amount of"worry" more or less willingly indulged in by uncontrolled minds seemsat times enough to swamp the understanding: yet there is a foreboding, unsought, unwelcomed, combated, which, once felt, can never becounterfeited; it carries with it some chill, unfathomed quality oftruth. 

Lois knew now that she had had this foreboding all day. 

XXI

"And you haven't heard _anything_ of him yet?"

"Not yet, Mrs. Alexander. I'm sorry--oh, so sorry--to have nothing moreto tell you. But I'm sure we'll hear something before morning. "

Bailey Girard spoke with confidence, his eyes bent controllingly onLois, who trembled as she stood in the little hallway, looking up athim, with Dosia behind her. This was the third night since that one whenJustin had failed to appear, and there had been no word from him in theinterim. Owing to that curious way that women have of waiting for eventsto happen that will end suspense, rather than seeking to end it by anyunaccustomed action of their own, no inquiry had been made at theTypometer Company until late in the afternoon of the next day, which hadbeen passed in the hourly expectation of hearing from Justin or seeinghim walk in. However, nobody at the company knew anything of Justin'smovements, except that he had left the office rather early the afternoonbefore, and had been seen to take a car going up-town. It was presumablethat he had been called suddenly out of town, and had sent some word toMrs. Alexander that had miscarried. 

That evening, however, Lois sent for Leverich, who was evidentlybothered; though bluffly and rather irritatingly making light of herfears, he seemed to be both a little reluctant and a littlecontemptuous. 

"My dear Mrs. Alexander, you can't expect a fellow to be always tied tohis wife's apron-strings! He doesn't tell you everything. We like tohave a free foot once in a while. Why, my wife's glad when I get off fora day or two--coaxes me to go away herself! And as for anythinghappening to Alexander--well, an able-bodied man can look out forhimself every time; there's nothing in the world to be anxious about. He's meant to wire to you and forgotten to do it, that's all. I did thatmyself last year, when I was called away suddenly; but Myra didn't turna hair. She knew I was all right. And if I were you, Mrs. Alexander, --this is just a tip, --I wouldn't go around telling _every_one that he's gone off and you don't know where he is. It's the kind ofthing folks get talking about in all kinds of ways; his affairs aren'tin any too good shape, as he may have told you. "

"Isn't the business all right?" queried Lois, with a puzzled fear. 

"Oh, yes, of course--all right; but--I wouldn't go around wonderingabout his being away; he's got his own reasons. You haven't a telephone, have you? I'll send around word to have one put in to-day. I'll tell youwhat: I'll ask Bailey Girard to come around and see you on thequiet--he's got lots of wires he can pull. You won't need me any more. "

Leverich's meeting with Dosia had been characterized by a sort ofbrusque uninterest. He seemed to her indefinably lowered and coarsenedin some way; his cheeks sagged; in his eyes was an unpleasant admissionthat he must bluster to avoid the detection of some weakness. And Dosiahad lived in his house, eaten at his table, received benefits from him, caressed him prettily! He had been really kind to her. She ought not tolet that fact be defaced. But everything connected with that time seemednow to lower her in retrospect, to fill her with a sort of horror. Allhis loud rebuttal of anxiety now could not cover an undercurrent ofuneasiness that made the anxiety of the two women tenfold greater whenhe was gone. 

Mr. Girard had come twice the next morning. Dosia, as well as Lois, hadseen him both times. He had greeted her with matter-of-fact courtesy, and appealed to her with earnest painstaking, whenever necessary, fordetails or confirmation, in their mutual office of helpers to Mrs. Alexander; but the retrieving warmth and intimacy of his manner the dayhe had avoided her in the street was lacking. There was certainlynothing in Dosia's quietly impersonal attitude to call it forth. Herface no longer swiftly mirrored each fleeting emotion at all times, forany one to see. Poor Dosia had learned in a bitter school her woman'slesson of concealment. 

But, if Girard were only sensibly consulting with her, toward Lois hissympathy was instinct with strength and helpfulness. He seemed to haveaffiliations with reporters, with telegraph operators, with a hundredlower runways of life unknown to other people. He gave the tortured wifethe feeling so dear, so sustaining to one in sorrow, of his beingentirely one with her in its absorption--of there being no otherinterest, no other issue in life, but this one of Justin's return. WhenGirard came, bright and alert and confident, all fears seemed to be setat rest; during the few minutes that he stayed all difficulties wereswept away, everything was on the right train, word would arrive fromJustin at once; and when he left, all was black and terrible again. 

The children had clung to Dosia in the hours of these strange days whenmama never seemed to hear their questions. Dosia read to them, mademerry for them, and saw to her household, which was dependent on theservices of a new and untrained maid, going back in the interval to puther young arms around Lois and hold her close with aching pity. 

The suspense of these days had changed Lois terribly. Her cheeks werehollow, her mouth was drawn, her eyes looked twice their natural size, with the black circles below them. Only the knowledge that her baby'swelfare--perhaps his life--depended on her, kept her from giving wayentirely. Redge, always a complicating child, had an attack of croup, which necessitated a visit from the doctor and further anxiety. Towardafternoon of this third day a man came to put in the telephone, whichset them in touch with the unseen world. Girard's voice over it laterhad been mistakenly understood to promise an immediate ending of themystery. 

Everything was excitement: delicacies were bought, in case Justin mightlike them; Redge and Zaidee were hurriedly dressed in their best "to seedear papa, " and, even though they had to go to bed without the desiredresult, Redge in a fresh spasm of coughing, it was with the repeatedpromise that the father should come up-stairs to kiss them as soon as hegot in. 

Expectation had been unwarrantedly raised so high in the suddenlysanguine heart of Lois that now, to-night, at Girard's word that nothingmore had been heard, as she was still looking up at him everythingturned black before her. She found herself half lying on the littlespindle-legged sofa, without knowing how she got there, her headpillowed on a green silken cushion, with Dosia fanning her, while Girardleaned against the little mirrored mantelpiece with set face andcontracted brows. Presently Lois pushed away the fan, made a motion asif to rise, only to relapse again on the cushion, looked up at Girard, and tried to smile with piteous, brimming eyes. 

"Ah, don't!" he said, with a quick gesture. His voice had an odd sound, as if drawing breath hurt him, yet with it mingled also a compassionatetenderness so great that it seemed to inform not only his face but hiswhole attitude as he bent over her. 

"You're very good to be so sorry for me, " she whispered. 

He made a swift gesture of protest. "There's one thing I _can't_stand--to see a woman suffer. "

She waited a moment, as if to take in his words, and then motioned himto the seat beside her. When she spoke again, it was slowly, as if shewere trying to concentrate her mind:

"You have known sorrow?"

"Yes. "

"Tell me. "

He saw that she wished to forget her own trouble for a moment in that ofanother, yet the effort to obey evidently cost him much. They had bothspoken as if they two were alone in the room. Dosia, who had withdrawnto the ottoman some paces away, out of the radius of the lamp, sat therein her white cotton frock, leaning a little forward, her hands claspedloosely in her lap, her face upraised and her eyes looking somewherebeyond. So still was she, so gentle, so fair, that she might have been aspirit outside the stormy circle in which these two communed. (In suchmoments as these she prayed for Lawson. )

"I"--it was Girard who spoke at last--"my mother--Cater said once thathe'd told you something about me. "

"Yes, I remember. "

"I was so little when we drifted off. I didn't know how to help, how tosave anything. Yet it has always seemed to me since that I ought to haveknown--I ought to have known!" His hands clenched; his voice hadsubsided to a groan. 

"You were her comfort when you least thought it, " said Lois. 

"Perhaps. I've always hoped so, in my saner moments. We stumbled alongfrom day to day, and slept out at night, always trying to keep away frompeople, when--she thought we were going home, and that they wouldprevent me. " He stopped for a moment, and then went on, driven by thatAncient Mariner spirit which makes people, once they have touched on aforbidden subject, probe it to its haunting depths. "Did Cater tell youhow she died? She died in a barn. My _mother_! She used to hold me inher arms at night, and make me rest my head against her bosom when I wastired; and I didn't even have a pillow for her when she was dying! It'sone of those things you can never make up for--that you can neverchange, no matter how you live, no matter what you do. It comes back toyou when you least expect it. "

Both were silent for a while before Lois murmured: "But the pain endedin happiness and peace for her. It would hurt her more than anything toknow that you grieved. "

"Yes, I believe that, " he acquiesced simply. "I'm glad you said it now. I couldn't rest until I got money enough to take her out of her paupergrave and lay her by the side of her own people at home. "

"And you have had a pretty hard time. "

"Oh, that's nothing!" He squared his shoulders with unconscious rebuttalof sympathy. "When I was a kid, perhaps--but I get a lot of pleasure outof life. "

"But you must be lonely without any one belonging to you, " said Lois, trying to grope her way into the labyrinth. "Wouldn't you be happier ifyou were married?"

He laughed involuntarily and shook his head, with a slight flush thatseemed to come from the embarrassment of some secret thought. Theaction, and the change of expression, made him singularly charming. "Possibly; but the chance of that is small. Women--that is, unmarriedwomen--don't care for my society. "

"Oh, oh!" protested Lois, with quick knowledge, as she looked at him, ofhow much the reverse the truth must be. "But if you found the rightwoman you might make her care for you. "

He shook his head, with a sudden gleam in his gray eyes. "No; thereyou're wrong. I'd never make any woman care for me, because I'd neverwant to. If she couldn't care for me without my _making_ her--! I'd haveto know, when I first looked at her, that she was _mine_. And if shewere not, if she did not care for me herself, I'd never want to makeher--never!"

"Oh, oh!" protested Lois again, with interested amusement, shattered thenext instant as a fragile glass may be shattered by the blow of ahammer. 

The telephone-bell had rung, and Girard ran to it, closing theintervening door behind him. The curtain of anxiety, lifted forbreathing-space for a moment, hung over them again somberly, like apall. Where was Justin?

The two women clinging together hung breathlessly on Girard's movements;his low, murmuring voice told nothing. When he returned to where theystood, his face was impassive. 

"Nothing new; I'm just going to town for a couple of hours, that's all. "

"Oh, must you leave us?"

"I'm coming back, if you'll let me. " He bent over Lois with that earnestlook which seemed somehow to insure protection. "I want you to let mestay down-stairs here all night, if you will. I'm going to makearrangements to get a special message through, no matter what time itcomes, and I'll sit here in the parlor and wait for it, so that you twoladies can sleep. "

"Oh, I'd be so glad to have you here! Redge has that croupy cough again. But you can't sit up, " said Lois. 

"Why not? It's luxury to stay awake in a comfortable chair with a lot ofbooks around. I'll be back in a couple of hours without fail. "

A couple of hours! If he had said a couple of years, the words couldhave brought, it seemed, no deeper sense of desolation. Hardly had hegone, however, when the door-bell rang, and word was brought to Lois, who with Dosia had gone up-stairs, that it was Mr. Harker from thetypometer office. The visitor, a tall, colorless, darkly sack-coatedman, with a jaded necktie, had entered the little drawing-room with adecorously self-effacing step, and sat now on the edge of his chair, hisbody bent forward and his hat still held in one hand, with an effect ofbeing entirely isolated from social relations and existing here solelyat the behest of business. He rose as Lois came into the room, andhanded her a small packet, in response to her greeting, before reseatinghimself. 

"Thank you very much, " said Lois. "This is the money, I suppose. I'msorry you went to the trouble of bringing it out yourself. I thought youmight send me out a check. "

Mr. Harker shook his head with a grim semblance of a smile. "That's thetrouble, Mrs. Alexander. We can't send any checks. Mr. Alexander is theone who does that. Everything is in Mr. Alexander's name. I went to Mr. Leverich to-day to see how we were going to straighten out things; buthe doesn't seem inclined to take hold at all, though he could help usout easily enough if he wanted to. I--there's no use keeping it back, Mrs. Alexander. This is a pretty bad time for Mr. Alexander to stayaway. He ought to be home. "

"Why, yes, " said Lois. 

"Exactly. His absence places us all in a very strange, very unpleasantposition. " Mr. Harker spoke with a sort of somber monotony, with hisgaze on the ground. "The business requires the most particularmanagement at the moment--the most particular. I--" He raised his eyeswith such tragic earnestness that Lois realized for the first time thatthis manner of his might not be his usual manner, but was called forthby the stress of anxiety. For the first time also, the force of thedaily tie of business companionship was borne in upon her. She looked atMr. Harker. This man spent more waking hours with Justin than shedid--knew him, perhaps, in a sense, better. 

He went on now, with a tremor in his voice: "Mrs. Alexander, yourhusband and I have worked together for a year and a half now, with nevera word between us. I'm ready to swear by him any moment, if I've got himto swear by. I'll back him up in anything, no matter what, if it's hissay-so. We've pulled through a good many tight places. But I can't do italone; it's madness to try. If he doesn't show up, I'd better close theplace down at once. "

"Why do you say this to me?" asked Lois, shrinking a little. 

"Why? Because, Mrs. Alexander, this is no time to mince words. If youknow where your husband is, for God's sake, get word to him to comeback--every minute is precious. He may be ill, --Heaven knows he hadenough to make him so; my wife knows the strain I've been through; shesays she wonders I'm alive, --but he can't look after his health now. Ifhe's on top of ground, he's got to _come_. I've put every cent I owninto this business. I haven't drawn my whole salary, even, for months. Idon't know what reasons he has for staying away, but his nerve mustn'tgive out now. "

"Mr. Harker!" cried Lois. She turned blankly to Dosia, who had comeforward. "What does he mean?"

"She doesn't know where her husband is, " said the girl convincingly. Hereyes and Mr. Harker's met. The somber eagerness faded out of his; hesighed and rose. 

"Anything I can do for you, Mrs. Alexander? I think I'll hurry to catchthe next train; I haven't been home to my dinner yet. "

"Won't you have something here before you go?" asked Lois. "It's solate. "

"Oh, that's nothing. I'm used to it, " returned Mr. Harker, with a palesmile and the passive, self-effacing business manner as he departed, while Lois went up-stairs once more. The baby cried, and she soothedhim, holding the warm little form close, closer to her--some thingtangible before she put him down again to step back into this strangevoid where Justin was not. 

For the first time, in this meeting with Mr. Harker, Lois realized theexistence of a world beyond her ken--a world that had been Justin's. Newas the visitor's words had been, they seemed to open to her a vision ofherculean struggle: the way this man had looked--_his_ wife had"wondered that he was still alive. " And Justin--where was he now? _She_had not noticed, she had not wondered--until lately. 

Slight as seemed her recognition, her sympathy, her help, it was the onething now that kept her reason firm. She knew that she had not been allunfaithful; sometimes he had been rested, sometimes cheered, when shewas near. She had suffered, too; _she_ had longed for _his_ help andsympathy. No, she would not think of that; she would not. When two areseparated, one must love enough to bridge the gulf--what matter whichone? It seemed now as if there were so much that she might have given, if all this torrent of love that nearly broke her heart might have beenpoured out and poured out at his feet--lavished on him, without regardto need or fitness or expense, as Mary lavished her precious box ofspikenard on One she loved. Now that he was gone, there could be nothingtoo hard to have done for him, no words too sweet for her to have saidto him. 

Redge woke up and cried for her, and she told him hoarsely to be still;and then, suddenly conscience-stricken and fearful at the slighting ofthis other demand of love, --what awful reprisal might it not exact fromher?--she went to kiss the child, to infold him in her arms, the boythat Justin loved, before she bade him go to sleep, for mother wouldstay by her darling. And, left to herself again, the grinding anddestroying wheel of thought had her bound to it once more. 

He could not have left her of his own will! If he did not come, it wouldbe because he was dead--and then he could never know, never, never know. There would be nothing left to her but the place where he had been. Shelooked at the walls and the homely furnishings as one seeing them forthe first time bare forever of the beloved presence, and fell on herknees, and went on them around the room, dragging herself from chair tosofa, from sofa to bed, --these were the Stations of the Cross that shewas making, --with sobs and cries, low and inarticulate, yet carryingwith them the awful anguish of a heart laid bare before the Almighty. Here his dear hand had rested, while he thought of her; on thistable--here--and here; and here his head had lain. Her tears ceased; sheburied her face in the pillow. She must go after him, wherever he was, in this world or another. For he was her husband. Where he was she mustbe, either in body or in spirit. 

The telephone-bell rang, and Dosia answered it, the voice at the otherend inquiring for Mr. Girard, cautiously, it seemed, withholdinginformation from any other. The doctor rang up, in response to anearlier call, with directions for Redge. Hardly had the receiver beenlaid down when the door-bell clanged. This was to be a night of theringing of bells!

XXII

This time, of course, the visitor was Mrs. Snow. In any exigency, anymind-and body-absorbing event of life, the inopportune presence of Mrs. Snow was inexorably to be counted on, though it came always as one ofthose exasperating recurrences which bring with them a ridiculouslyfresh irritation each time. It seemed to be the one extra thing youcouldn't stand. In either trouble or joy, she affected one like aclinging, ankle-flapping mackintosh on a rainy day. She bowed now toDosia with a patronizing dignity, pointed by the plaintive warmth of thegreeting to Lois, who had come hurrying down-stairs out of thosepassion-depths of darkness, so that Mrs. Snow wouldn't suspect anything. She had an uncanny faculty of divining just what you didn't want her to. 

Once before Lois had suspended tragedy for Mrs. Snow. The same thingshappen to us over and over again daily in our crowded yet restrictedlives--it is we who change in our meeting with them. We have our greatpassions, our great joys, our heartbreaks, no matter how small ourenvironment. 

"How do you do, my dear? Mr. Girard has just told me that he was goingto stay here to-night, in Mr. Alexander's absence. He said little Redgewas threatened with the croup. Now, if I had only known that Mr. Alexander was away, _I_ could have come and stayed with you!"

"Oh, that wasn't at all necessary, " said Lois hastily. "Thank you verymuch. Do sit down, won't you, Mrs. Snow?"

"Only for a minute, then; I must go back to Bertha, " said Mrs. Snow, seating herself and fumbling for something under her cloak. "I just cameover to read you a letter. It's in my bag--I can't seem to find it. Well, perhaps I'd better rest for a minute. " Mrs. Snow's face lookedunusually lined and set; in spite of her plaintiveness, her eyes had aharassed glitter. 

"Isn't it rather late for you to be out alone?" asked Lois. 

"Yes; Ada would have come around here with me, but she was expecting Mr. Sutton. She was expecting him last night, but he didn't come. If _I_were a young lady, I'd let a gentleman wait for _me_ the next time; itused to be thought more attractive, in my day: but Ada's so afraid ofnot seeming cordial; gentlemen seem to be so sensitive nowadays! I saidto her, 'Ada, when a man is enough at home in a house to kick the cat, and ask for cake whenever he feels like it, I do _not_ see that it isnecessary to stand on ceremony with him. ' But Ada thinks differently. "

"It is difficult to make rules, " said Lois vaguely. 

"Yes, " sighed Mrs. Snow. "As I was saying to Bertha, you don't find ayoung man like Mr. Girard, so considerate of every one--not that he's so_very_ young, either; I'm sure he often appears much older than he is. It's his manner--he has a manner like my dear father. He and Bertha havelong chats together; really, he is what _I_ would call quite attentive, though she won't hear of such a thing--but sometimes young men _do_ takea great fancy for older girls. I had a friend who married a gentlemantwenty-seven years younger--he died soon afterward. But many peoplethink nothing of a little difference of twelve or fifteen years. I saidto Bertha this morning, 'Bertha, if you'd dress yourself a littleyounger--if you'd only wear a blue bow in your hair. ' But no; I can'tsay anything nowadays to my own children without being flown at!" Mrs. Snow's voice trembled. "If my darling William were here!"

"Have you heard from William lately?" asked Lois, with supreme effort. 

"My dear, he's in Chicago. I came over to read you a letter from himthat I got to-night. That new postman left it at the Scovels', bymistake, and they never sent it over until a little while ago. There wasa sentence in it, " Mrs. Snow was fumbling with a paper, "that I thoughtyou'd like to hear. Where is it? Let me see. 'Next month I hope to beable to send you more'--no, no, that's not it. 'When my socks get holesin them I throw them'--that's not it, either. Oh! he says, 'I caught aglimpse of Mr. Alexander last night, getting on a West Side car'--thiswas written yesterday morning. 'I called to him, but too late. I'msorry, for I'd like to have seen him, ' That's all; but Mr. Girard seemedso pleased with the letter, I promised that I would bring it around toyou that very minute, --he had to run for the train, --but I was detained. He thought you'd like to hear that William had seen Mr. Alexander. "

Like to hear! The relief for the moment turned Lois faint. Yet, afterMrs. Snow went, the torturing questions began to repeat themselvesagain. Justin was alive--Justin was alive on Tuesday night. Was he alivenow? And why had he gone to Chicago at all? Why had he sent her no word?The wall between them seemed only the more opaque. Every fear thatimagination could devise seemed to center around this new fact. 

She and Dosia went around, straightening up the little drawing-room, making it ready for Girard's occupancy--pulling out a big chair for hisuse, and putting fresh books on the table. The maid had long ago gone tobed, and there was coffee to be made for him--he might get hungry in thenight. When he came in at last, he brought all the brightness andcourage of hope with him. He had wired to William; he had phoned to adozen different places in Chicago. 

"Oh, what should we do without you?" breathed Lois, her foot on thestairway. 

"It doesn't seem to me I've helped you very much so far. Our one cluehas been from Mrs. Snow. I want you to go to bed now, and to sleep, Mrs. Alexander; take all the rest you can. I'm here to do the watching. Ifthere's anything really to tell, I'll call you. I promise faithfully. What is it, Miss Linden? Did you want to speak to me?"

"There was a message for you while you were gone, " said Dosia in a lowtone. 

His eyes assented. "Yes, I know. I went there--to the place thatthey--but it wasn't Alexander, I'm glad to say, though I was afraid whenI went in----"

"I know, " said Dosia. 

Another strange night had begun, with the master of the house away. Loiswent to her room to lie down clothed, jumping up to come to the head ofthe stairs whenever the telephone-bell rang, and then going back againwhen she found that those who were consulting were asking forinformation instead of giving it; but by and by the messages ceased. 

Suppose Justin never came back! She began to feel that he had been gonefor years, and tried confusedly to plan out the future. There were thechildren--how should she support them? She must support them. It washard to get work when you had a baby. If she hadn't the baby--no oneshould take the baby from her! She clasped him to her for a moment interror, as if she were being hunted, before she grew calm and beganplanning again. There was only a little money left. To-morrow they muststill eat. She must make the money last. 

Dosia, on the bed by Redge's crib, went softly after a while into theother room, and saw that Lois at last slept, though she herself couldnot. Each time that she saw Girard he seemed more and more a stranger, so far removed was he from her dream of him. Through all his softness, his gentleness, she felt the streak of hardness, if nobody else did(though Mr. Cater, she remembered now, had spoken of it too), that thefires of adversity had molded. Perhaps no man could have worked up fromthe cruel circumstances of his early days without that hardening streakto uphold him. She divined, with some surprising new power ofdivination, that, for all his strong, capable dealing with actualities, his magnetic drawing of men, for the inner conduct of his own life hewas shyly dependent on odd, deeply held theory--theory that he hadsolitarily woven for himself. She felt impersonally sorry for him, asfor a boy who must be disappointed, though he was nothing to her. 

Yet, as Dosia lay there in the dumb stretches of the night, her tiredeyes wide open, close to Redge's crib, with his little hot hand clingingto hers, the mere fact of Girard's bodily presence in the house, down-stairs, seemed something overpoweringly insistent; she couldn't getaway from it. It gave her, apparently, neither pleasure nor pain; itcalled forth no conscious excitement as had been the case withLawson--unless this strange, rarefied sense was a higher excitement. This consciousness of his presence was, tiresomely enough, something notto be escaped from; it pulsed in every vein, keeping her awake. Shetried to lose it in the thought of Lois' great trouble, of thisweighting, pitiful mystery of Justin's absence--of what it meant to himand to the household. She tried to lose it in the thought of Lawson, with the prayer that always instinctively came at his name. Nothingavailed; through everything was that wearing, persistent consciousnessof Girard's bodily presence down-stairs. If it would only fade out, sothat she might sleep, she was so tired! The clock struck two. A voicespoke from the other room, sending her to her feet instantly:

"Dosia?"

"Yes, Lois, dearest, I'm here. "

"Has any word come from Justin?"

"No. "

Lois shivered. "I think, when Redge wakes up next, you'd better give hima drink of water; he sounds so hoarse. I've used all I brought up. Doyou mind going down to get some more? I would go myself, but I can'tslip my arm from under baby; he wakes when I move. Here is the pitcher. "

"Yes, " said Dosia, stopping for a moment to pull the coverlet tenderlyover Lois, before stepping out into the lighted hall. 

It seemed very silent; there was no sound from below. Dosia went downthe low, wide stairs with that indescribable air of the watcher in thenight. Her white cotton gown, the same that she had worn throughout theafternoon, had lost its freshness, and clung to her figure in twistedfolds; the waist was slightly open at the throat, and the long whitenecktie hung half untied. One cheek was warm where it had pressed thepillow; the other was pale, and her hair, half loosened, hung againstit. Her eyes, very blue, showed a rayed starriness, the pupilscontracted from the sudden light--her expression, tired and halfbewildered, had in it somewhat of the little lost look of a child, up inthe unwonted middle of the night, who might go naturally and comfortablyinto any kind arms held out to her. The turn of the stairs brought herfronting the little drawing-room and the figure of Girard, who satleaning forward, smoking, in the Morris chair, with his elbow resting onthe arm of it and his head on his hand. The books and bric-à-brac on thetable beside him had been pushed back to make room for the traycontaining the coffee-pot, a cup and saucer, and a plate with somebiscuits. A newspaper lay on the floor at his feet. Notwithstanding thelight in the hallway and the room, there was that odd atmospheric effectwhich belongs only to the late and solitary hours of the night, when thevery furniture itself seems to share in a chill detachment from the lifeof the day. Yet, in the midst of this night silence, this withdrawing ofthe ordinary vital forces, the figure of Bailey Girard seemed to beextraordinarily instinct with vitality, even in that second before hemoved; his attitude, his eyes, his expression, were informed with suchintense and eager thoughts that it was as startling, as instantlyarresting, as the blast of a trumpet. 

At the sound of Dosia's light oncoming step opposite the door, he roseat once--however, laying the cigar on the table--and with a quick stridestood beside her. He seemed tall and unexpectedly dazzling as heconfronted her; his deep-set gray eyes were very brilliant. 

"What is the matter? Is Mrs. Alexander ill?"

"No--oh, no; the children have been restless, that is all, " said Dosia, recovering, with annoyed self-possession, from a momentary shock, andfeeling disagreeably conscious of looking tumbled and forlorn. "I camedown to get a pitcher of water. "

"Can't I get it in the dining-room for you?" he asked, with formalpoliteness. 

"Thank you. The water isn't running in the butler's pantry; I have to goin the kitchen for it. If you would light the gas there for me----"

"Yes, certainly, " he responded promptly, pushing the portières aside tomake a passage for her, as he went ahead to scratch a match and lightthe long, one-armed flickering kitchen burner. The bare, deeply shadowedfloor, the kitchen table, the blank windows, and the blackened range, inwhich the fire was out, came desolately into view. There was a sense asof deep darkness of the night outside around everything. 

A large white cat lying on a red-striped cushion on a chair by thechilly hearth stretched itself and blinked its yellow eyes toward thetwo intruders. 

"Let me fill this, " said Girard, taking the pitcher from her--a ratherlarge, clumsy majolica article with a twisted vine for a handle--andcarrying it over to the faucet. The intimacy of the hour and the sceneemphasized the more the punctilious aloofness of this enforcedcompanionship. 

Dosia leaned back against the table, while he let the water run, that itmight grow cold. It sounded in the silence as if it were falling on adrumhead. The moment--it was hardly more--seemed interminable to Dosia. The white cat, jumping up on the table, put its paws on her shoulders, and she leaned back very absently, and curved her throat sideways, thather cheek might touch him in recognition. Some inner thought claimedher, to the exclusion of the present; her eyes, looking dreamily beforeher, took on that expression that was indescribably gentle, intolerablysweet. 

Dosia has been ill described if it has not been made evident that tocaress, to _touch_ her, seemed the involuntarily natural expression ofany feeling toward her. Something in the bright, tendril-curling hair, the curve of her young cheek, the curve of her red lips, her light, yetround form, with its confiding, unconscious movements, made asinevitable an allure as the soft rosiness of a darling child, withalways the suggestion of that illusive spirit that dared, and retreated, ever giving, ere it veiled itself, the promise of some lovelier glimpseto come. 

The water had stopped running, and Dosia straightened herself. Sheraised her head, to meet his eyes upon her. What was in them? The colorflamed in her face and left her white, although in a second there wasnothing more to see in his but a deep and guarded gentleness as he cametoward her with the pitcher. 

"I'll take it now, please, " she said hurriedly. 

"Won't you let me carry it up for you?"

"Thank you, it isn't necessary. I'll go along, if you'll wait and turnout the light. "

"Very well. You're sure it's not too heavy for you?" he asked anxiously, as her wrists bent a little with the weight. 

"Oh, no, indeed, " said Dosia quickly, turning to go. At that moment thewhite cat, jumping down from the table in front of her, rubbed itselfagainst her skirts, and she stumbled slightly. 

"Take care!" cried Girard, grasping the shaking pitcher over her slighthold of it. 

Their hands touched--for the first time since the night of disaster, thenight of her trust and his protection. The next instant there was acrash; the fragments of the jug lay upon the kitchen floor, the waterstreaming over it in rivulets. 

"Dosia!" called the frightened voice of Lois from above. 

"Yes, I'm coming, " Dosia called back. "There's nothing the matter!" Shehad run from the room without looking up at that figure beside her, snatching a glass of water automatically from the dining-table as shepassed by it. Fast as her feet might carry her, they could not keep pacewith her beating heart. 

When the telephone-bell rang a moment after, it was to confirm thetidings given before. Justin was in Chicago. 

TO BE CONCLUDED

[Illustration]

THE PROBLEMS OF SUICIDE

BY GEORGE KENNAN

Few branches of sociological investigation have more practicalimportance, or present a greater number of problems, difficulties, andinteresting speculative questions, than the branch that deals with thecomplex, varied, and often inexplicable phenomena of suicide. When weconsider the fact that more than ten thousand persons take their ownlives in the United States every year, that more than seventy thousanddie annually by their own hands in Europe, and that the suicide rate isconstantly and rapidly increasing throughout the greater part of thecivilized world, we are forced to admit that, from the view-point ofvital economy at least, the subject is one of the utmost gravity. In1881 the annual suicide rate of the United States was only 12 permillion of the population, and our total number of suicides was only605; last year our suicide rate had risen to 126 per million, and oursuicides numbered 10, 782. If the present rate of increase be maintained, we shall lose by suicide, in the next five years, nearly as many livesas were lost by the Union armies in battle in the five years of theCivil War. We are already losing annually from this cause more men thanwere killed on the Union side in the three great battles of Gettysburg, Spottsylvania, and the Wilderness taken together. 

Statisticians have estimated that, in the world as a whole, there is asuicide every three minutes, and we know, with an approximation tocertainty, that there is a suicide every six minutes and a half inEurope and the United States alone. Suicide has cost France 274, 000lives since 1871, Germany 158, 000 since 1893, and the United States120, 000 since 1890. I need hardly point out the practical importance ofthe questions that present themselves in connection with this abnormaland apparently unnecessary waste of human life. Among such questionsare: Upon what general and world-wide conditions does suicide depend?Are any of its causes removable? What are the reasons for the steady andprogressive increase of self-destruction in civilized countries? Issuicide controlled or affected by any natural laws, and, if so, by whatlaws? These are all questions of practical importance, because upon theanswers to them depends the possibility of economizing human life andincreasing the sum total of human happiness. But the subject is one ofdeep interest, entirely apart from its practical importance. 

_Psychological Problems of Suicide_

In some of its aspects, suicide raises psychological questions whichbristle with difficulties, but which, nevertheless, pique the curiosityand demand explanatory answers. Why, for example, is the rate of suicidestrictly dependent everywhere upon season and weather? Why is thetendency to self-destruction lessened by war? What is the explanation ofsuicide in the face of impending death, when there is still a fairchance of escape, or when the natural death that is threatened wouldinvolve less suffering than the act of self-destruction? What is themental state of the hundreds of persons who kill themselves every yearupon what would seem to be absurdly inadequate provocation--of the man, for example, who commits suicide because his wife declines to get outhis clean underclothes, or the woman who takes poison because she hasreceived a comic valentine? In its religious aspect, why is the tendencyto suicide greatest among Protestant Christians and least amongMohammedans and Jews? In its racial aspect, why is the suicide rate ofJapan eight times that of Portugal, and the rate of American whiteseight or ten times that of full-blooded American blacks? Why do theSlavs of Bohemia kill themselves at the rate of 158 per million, whilethe Slavs of Russia commit suicide at the rate of only 31 per million?Why do emigrants, going to a new country, carry their national suiciderates with them, and maintain such rates, with little or no alteration, long after their environment has completely changed? These questions maynot have great practical importance, but, from the view-point of thepsychologist and the sociologist, they are full of speculative interest. 

When we study the phenomena of suicide as they appear in the light ofstatistics, we are struck by the fact that among the general andworld-wide conditions that limit or control the suicidal impulse areweather and war. Other factors, such as education, religion, or economicstatus, may seem to be more influential, if observation be limited to asingle nation or a single continent; but if a comprehensive survey bemade of the whole world, weather and war will be seen to take aprominent place among the few agencies that affect uniformly thesuicidal tendency. 

As soon as accurate and trustworthy statistics of self-destructionbecame available in Europe, sociologists began to study the questionwhether suicide is controlled or regulated in any way by natural laws, and, if so, whether cosmical causes, such as climate, temperature, season, and weather, have any perceptible influence upon the suiciderate. It was soon discovered that the tendency to self-destruction isgreatest in the zone lying between the fiftieth and fifty-fifthparallels of north latitude. South of forty-three degrees the annualsuicide rate is only 21 per million, and north of fifty-five degrees itis only 88 per million; but between the parallels of forty-three andfifty it rises to 93 per million, and between fifty and fifty-five itreaches its maximum of 172 per million. The suicide belt, therefore, lies in the north temperate zone, where the climate is most favorable tohuman development and happiness. This fact, however, does not prove thata moderate and equable climate predisposes to suicide. Things maycoexist without being in any way related to each other, and thefrequency of suicide in the north temperate zone may be due wholly tothe fact that the zone in question is the home of the most cultivatedraces and the seat of the highest and most complicated civilization. Inthis zone the struggle for life is fiercest, the interference withnatural laws is most extensive, and the physical and emotional wear andtear of the economic contest is most acutely felt. It is more thanprobable, therefore, that the high rate of suicide in the northtemperate zone is due to the civilization, rather than to the climate, of that region. This phase of the subject need not be discussed atlength, because all competent authorities agree that climate, in itsrelation to suicide, is not a controlling or determining factor. 

A very different state of affairs appears, however, when we bring thesuicide rate into correlation with season and weather. Long ago, beforeaccurate statistics made a scientific investigation of the subjectpossible, there was a widely prevalent popular belief that dark anddismal months of the year, and gloomy, rainy, or uncomfortable weather, predisposed mankind to self-destruction, and that the suicide rate washighest in November or December, and lowest in spring or early summer. 

_Spring and Summer the Suicide Seasons_

The French philosopher Montesquieu went so far as to explain thesupposed frequency of suicide in London by connecting it with Englishrains and fogs. It was only natural, he argued, that unhappy peopleshould kill themselves in a country where the autumnal and winter monthswere so dark, and where there was so much gloomy, depressing weather. When, however, investigators began to study the subject in the light ofaccurate statistics, when they grouped suicides by months and comparedone month with another, they were surprised to find that the tendency tosuicide was greatest, not in the gloomy and depressing months ofNovember and December, but in the bright and cheerful month of June. In1898 Dr. Oscar Geck, of Strasburg, published statistics of about 100, 000suicides that took place in Prussia in the twenty-year period between1876 and 1896. They showed that, so far at least as Prussia wasconcerned, suicides invariably attained their maximum in June and theirminimum in December. There was a constant rise in the suicide curve fromJanuary to the end of June, and a constant decline from June to the endof the first winter month. 

Durkheim, of Paris, and Dr. Gubski, of St. Petersburg, who are among themost recent investigators of the subject, assert that, so far as theseasonal distribution of suicides is concerned, the figures for Prussiahold good throughout Europe. June is everywhere the suicide month, andDecember is everywhere the month in which self-destruction is leastfrequent. Durkheim gives tabulated statistics for seven of the principalcountries of Europe, which show conclusively that, in point ofpredisposing tendency to suicide, the four seasons stand in thefollowing order: summer first, spring second, autumn third, and winterlast. [17] Even in Russia, which differs most from the rest of Europe inethnology and economic status, the seasonal distribution of suicides isthe same. Dr. Gubski's statistics show that of every thousand Russiansuicides, 328 take place in summer, 272 in spring, 215 in autumn, and185 in winter. If we divide the year into halves, and group the suicidesin semi-annual periods, we find that 600 occur in the pleasant springand summer months and only 400 in the gloomy months of winter and fall. 

A study of American statistics brings us to almost exactly the sameresult. In September, 1895, Dr. Forbes Winslow, of New York, read apaper before the medico-legal congress which was then in session in thatcity upon the subject of "Suicide as a Mental Epidemic. " The statisticswhich he submitted showed that in the United States, as in Europe, suicide reaches its maximum in June and falls to its minimum inDecember. The average annual number of American suicides in June is 336and in December 217. If we divide the year into halves and compare thefigures of the semi-annual periods with those of Russia, thecorrespondence is almost startling. 

Notwithstanding the immense difference between the population of Russiaand that of the United States, in environment, in education, inreligion, in inherited character, in temperament, and in civilizationgenerally, the mysterious law that controls the seasonal distribution ofsuicides operates in America exactly as it operates in the great empireof the Slavs. In Russia, out of every thousand suicides, the number whokill themselves in the fall-and-winter half of the year is precisely400; in America it is 386. In Russia, the proportion per thousand in thespring-and-summer half of the year is 600; in America it is 614. Thereis a slightly greater tendency to spring-and-summer suicide in theUnited States than in Russia, but the variation is only a little morethan one per cent. , and taking into consideration the great differencebetween the oppressed and ignorant peasants of Russia, and the free, well-educated citizens of our own country, the practical identity oftheir seasonal suicide rates seems to me a most extraordinary social andpsychological fact. 

This, however, is by no means a complete statement of the probleminvolved in the seasonal distribution of suicides. Spring and summer arethe suicide seasons, not only among the closely related nationalities ofEurope and the United States, but among the ethnologically alien peoplesof the Far East. The reports of the Statistical Bureau of Japan showthat between 1899 and 1903 the average annual number of suicides was8, 840. They were distributed through the year as follows: winter 1, 711, spring 2, 475, summer 2, 703, fall 1, 951. If we divide the year intohalves, we find that 59 per cent. Of the Japanese suicides occur in thespring and summer months and only 41 per cent. In the months of fall andwinter. This corresponds almost exactly with the annual distribution ofsuicides in the United States, in Russia, and in Europe as a whole. Theseasonal percentages may be shown in tabular form as follows:[18]

 United States Russia Europe Japan per cent. Per cent. Per cent. Per cent. Spring and summer 61 60 59 59 Fall and winter 39 40 41 41

It thus appears that the tendency of mankind to commit suicide in springand summer, rather than in fall and winter, is quite as strongly markedin Japan as it is in Europe and America. Despite all differences ofcharacter and environment, the suicidal impulses of Yankee, muzhik, andcoolie are governed by the same law. 

_Suicide Weather_

The evidence above set forth, and much more for which I cannot here findspace, seems conclusively to establish the fact that, throughout thecivilized world, the pleasantest seasons of the year are most conduciveto suicide. The question then arises, Does this rule hold good ifapplied to the pleasantest days of the pleasantest seasons? In otherwords, is the tendency to suicide greater on clear, dry, and sunny daysin June than on dark, cloudy, and rainy days in June? Professor Edwin G. Dexter, of the University of Illinois, published in the _Popular ScienceMonthly_, in April, 1901, a long and interesting paper entitled "Suicideand the Weather, " in which he gave the result of a comparison betweenthe police records of 1, 962 cases of suicide in the city of New York andthe records of the New York Weather Bureau for all the days on whichthese suicides occurred. His comparisons and computations, which seem tohave been made with great thoroughness and care, show not only that thetendency to suicide is greatest in the spring and summer months, butthat it is most marked on the clearest, sunniest, and pleasantest daysof those months. To state his conclusions in his own words: "The clear, dry days show the greatest number of suicides, and the wet, partlycloudy days the least; and with differences too great to be attributedto accident or chance. In fact, there are thirty-one per cent. Moresuicides on dry than on wet days, and twenty-one per cent. More on cleardays than on days that are partly cloudy. "

It thus appears that, as a rule, the tendency to suicide, throughout thecivilized world, is greatest in the pleasantest seasons of the year;that it is everywhere greatest in the pleasantest month of thepleasantest season; and that in New York City it is greatest on theclearest and sunniest days of the pleasantest month. From the point ofview of science, therefore, it is perfectly reasonable and absolutelyaccurate to say on a beautiful, sunny day in early June, "This isregular suicide weather. "

Now, what is the explanation of this world-wide tendency toself-destruction in the seasons, months, and days when life would seemto be best worth living? The cause, whatever it be, can have noconnection with race, religion, history, political status, orgeographical location, because it acts uniformly among peoples as widelydifferent, in all these respects, as the Russians, the Italians, theAmericans, and the Japanese. It is evidently a cosmic cause, but what isits nature?

Some investigators have suggested that the suicidal tendency isdependent on heat; but June is not the hottest month, nor is Decemberthe coldest. Durkheim has tested this conjecture by comparingtemperatures with suicides in France, Italy, and Prussia. He finds that, in all three of these countries, suicides reach their maximum in Juneand their minimum in December, while the temperature does not rise toits maximum until July and does not fall to its minimum untilJanuary. [19] Moreover, if heat were a predisposing cause of suicide, weshould find the suicide rate of Europeans much higher in the tropicsthan it is in the north temperate zone; but such is not the case. Heat, therefore, as a possible cause, must be eliminated. Other writers, including Dr. Gubski, have called attention to the very close relationbetween suicide and light. It is true that daylight, if measured byhours, has its minimum in December and its maximum in June, in precisecorrespondence with the seasonal rates of suicide; but what about theequinoctial periods of March and September?

If light be the efficient cause, the tendency to suicide should be asgreat at the time of the fall equinox as it is at the time of the springequinox; but this is not the case. Two hundred and seventy-two suicidesout of every thousand occur in the vernal equinoctial period and onlytwo hundred and fifteen in the autumnal equinoctial period, and thisproportion holds good throughout the whole northern hemisphere. Light, therefore, must also be eliminated. 

Morselli suggests that suicide is influenced by the first heat of earlyspring and summer, which "seizes upon the organism not yet acclimatedand still under the influence of the cold season. " But is there any suchthing as winter debility, and, if so, why should it last until June?Many physicians, on the other hand, assert that during the period ofearly summer the organism, instead of being debilitated, is working at ahigh tension, that every function of mind and body is then more activethan at any other period of the year, and, that, consequently, there isthen greater liability to sudden mental and physical collapse. But thereis no evidence to show that suicides, generally, are caused by seasonalovertension and subsequent collapse. 

Goldwin Smith thinks that with the revival of vitality in the spring andearly summer "all feelings and impressions become more lively, " thosethat impel to suicide among the rest. But if all the feelings "becomemore lively, " why do not the stimulated sensations of joy and pleasureon a beautiful day in June overcome, or at least evenly balance, thestimulated sensations of suffering and unhappiness?

_Influence of Environment on Self-Destruction_

None of these explanations is at all satisfactory, and it seems to methat the solution of the problem is to be found, not in the merephysical action of light, heat, or weather on the human body, but in theinfluence of the whole environment on the human mind. Sir Arthur Helpswas the first, so far as I know, to suggest that the increased tendencyto suicide in spring and summer is due to a psychological rather than aphysical cause. Speaking, in "Realmah, " of the fact that suicides aremore frequent on pleasant days than on unpleasant ones, he says:"Perhaps it is because, on these beautiful days, the higher powers seemto be more beneficent; and the wretch overladen with misery thinks thathe can trust more to their mercy. "

This explanation is little more satisfactory than the others; but itdoes, nevertheless, recognize and take into account the influence of theenvironment on a preëxisting emotional state. It errs only ininterpretation. The smiling, happy, joyous aspect of Nature in June doesnot inspire the unhappy man with confidence in the beneficence and mercyof the higher powers. On the contrary, it shows him that the higherpowers pay no attention at all to his feelings and have no sympathywhatever with his grief. The blue skies, sunshine, leafy trees, andsinging birds, which make up the environment of June, add to thehappiness of the man who is happy already, but they intensify, bycontrast, the misery of the man who is already miserable. In Novemberand December, when all is dark, bare, and cheerless, Nature seems to bein sympathy with the unhappy man's mood, and from that voiceless, pitying sympathy of the great World-Mother he derives a certainsustaining comfort and consolation. In June his mood is the same, butthe mood of Nature has changed. The great World-Mother no longersympathizes with his grief, but laughs him to scorn with her sunshine, her blossoming flowers, her leafy trees, and her jubilation of matingbirds. He looks about him and thinks: "Everybody is happy, everything isrejoicing. I am the solitary exception; I am the only living thing thatis out of place. " And then there comes upon him a heartbreaking sense ofloneliness, a feeling of complete isolation, as if the great, happyworld had cast him off and gone on its way singing. He has thought ofsuicide before--he has thought of it often; and now, when the world, inits triumphant gladness, ignores his very existence, when there is nolonger sympathy, nor pity, nor any further hope of a share in thehappiness that he sees about him, it seems to him that the time forself-destruction has come. Whether he be a Russian, an American, or aJapanese, he can observe and he can feel: and when he sees that thewhole world is jubilant, while he himself is wretched, he becomes moreacutely conscious than ever before of his loneliness and misery, andresolves to give up the struggle and get out of the way of the world'slaughing, singing, summer-carnival procession. He ends his life; and insome Russian, American, or Japanese table of statistics his death addsone more to the suicides in June. [20]

The close relation that exists between suicide and war was first broughtto my attention by the sudden and remarkable decrease of suicide in theUnited States in 1898, the year of the war with Spain. Instead ofincreasing that year, as it had every previous year for more than adecade, the number of suicides decreased suddenly from 6, 600 to 5, 920, afalling off of 680 cases. Then, when the war in the Philippines followedthe war in Cuba, the number was again reduced by 580 cases. When, however, in 1900, we began to lose interest in the Philippines and tothink of our own home troubles and trials, the number of suicides rosesuddenly from 5, 340 to 7, 245, an increase of 1, 905 cases in two years. The decrease in the suicide rate during the war was nearly 16 per cent. , and the increase after the war about 23 per cent. 

_War As a Deterrent to Suicide_

This struck me as a phenomenon interesting enough to warrantinvestigation, and I began study of it by looking up the statistics ofsuicide in the national capital. It seemed to me that if the decrease in1898 was due to a general economic cause, it would not be particularlynoticeable in the city of Washington, for the reason that Washington isnot a manufacturing or business center. If, on the other hand, the fallin the suicide rate was really due to the war as a specific cause, itwould be most marked at the nation's capital, where the war attractedmost attention and created most excitement. I went to the DistrictHealth Office and made an examination of the suicide records for a termof six years, beginning with 1895 and ending with 1900. I found not onlythat the depression in the Washington suicide curve was preciselysynchronous with that of the national suicide curve, but that it wasmuch deeper, amounting, in fact, to a sudden decrease of fifty per cent. 

As suicides are tabulated in the Health Office of the District ofColumbia by months, I was able to ascertain, furthermore, that thedecrease began, not in the first month of the year, but in the springmonths, when the war excitement became epidemic. Normally, the suiciderate should have risen, from January to June, in accordance with theseasonal law; but, instead of so doing, it fell rapidly at the very timewhen it should have been approaching its maximum. The colored populationof the city, taken separately, was affected in the same way and to aneven greater degree, the number of suicides among the blacks falling offfifty-six per cent. , as compared with fifty per cent. Among the whites. The number of suicides in both races remained low throughout the year1899, and then rose suddenly in 1900, an almost precise correspondencewith the suicide curve of the nation as a whole. 

During our Civil War the suicidal tendency was affected in the same way, but to a much greater extent. I have not been able to find mortalitystatistics of the whole country for the period in question, but in NewYork City the average rate of suicide in the five years of the Civil Warwas forty-two per cent. Lower than the average for the five precedingyears, and forty-three per cent. Lower than the average for the fivesubsequent years. In the State of Massachusetts, where accuratestatistics were kept, the number of suicides decreased seventeen percent. In the five-year period from 1861 to 1865, as compared with thefive-year period from 1856 to 1860. 

In Europe the restraining influence of war upon the suicidal impulse isequally marked. The war between Austria and Italy in 1866 decreased thesuicide rate of each country about fourteen per cent. The Franco-Germanwar of 1870-71 lowered the suicide rate of Saxony 8. 0 per cent. , that ofPrussia 11. 4 per cent. , and that of France 18. 7 per cent. The reductionwas greatest in France, because the German invasion of that country madethe war excitement there much more general and intense than it was inSaxony or Prussia. 

An explanation of the decrease of suicide in time of war may be found, perhaps, in the power that any strong excitement has to change thecurrent of thought and substitute one emotion for another. Suicide, among civilized peoples, is largely due to morbid introspection and longbrooding over real or imaginary trouble; and anything that takes a man'smind away from his own unhappiness, and gives him a keen interest inthings or events about him, weakens his suicidal impulse. An unhappy manmight resolve to end his life, and might load a revolver with theintention of shooting himself; but if he should happen to see a coupleof his neighbors fighting in his front door-yard, he would probably laythe revolver aside, for a time, and watch the combat. The cause of hisunhappiness would still remain, but the current of his thought wouldsuddenly be diverted into a new channel and his despondency would giveway to the excitement of a fresh and vivid interest. War acts upon menin the same way, but with greater force. 

Then, too, war restrains suicide by strengthening the bonds of socialsympathy and drawing large masses of people more closely together. Theunhappy man always thinks of himself as lonely, isolated, and out ofharmony with his environment; but when, as a result of the victories ordefeats of war, he finds himself participating in the triumph or sharingthe grief of thousands of other persons, the mere consciousness ofsympathetic association with his fellow-men becomes a source of comfortand consolation to him and makes his life more endurable. But war is notthe only agency that exerts a restraining influence uponself-destruction. Any great calamity which causes intense publicexcitement, and which at the same time draws people together in friendlysympathy and coöperation, lowers the suicide rate. The calamity maygreatly intensify suffering, and may make life, for a time, almostintolerable; but it does not increase the number of persons who try toescape from life; on the contrary, it reduces it. 

_San Francisco Earthquake Decreased Suicides_

A striking illustration of this fact was furnished by San Francisco in1906. Before the earthquake and fire of April 18 the suicides in thatcity averaged twelve a week. After the earthquake, when the wholepopulation was homeless, destitute, and exposed to hardships andprivations of every kind, there were only three suicides in two months. The decrease, therefore, in the suicide rate was more than 97 per cent. This surprising result of a disheartening and depressing calamity wasdue partly to the excitement of life under new and extraordinaryconditions, and partly to the feeling, which every man had, that he wasenduring and working with a host of sympathetic comrades, and notsuffering and striving alone. If life were always vividly interesting, as it was in San Francisco after the earthquake, and if all men workedand suffered together as the San Franciscans did for a few weeks, suicide would not end ten thousand American lives every year, as it doesnow. 

The dependence of suicide upon such conditions as age, sex, occupation, and religion does not offer any problem as difficult and baffling asthat involved in the relation of suicide to weather, nor any as curiousand suggestive as that which connects suicide with war; but there ishardly a phase of the subject that does not present some more or lessinteresting question. The researches of Durkheim and Gubski show that, after the period of childhood, the tendency to suicide increasessteadily with advancing age. In France, for example, if the populationbe segregated in groups comprising all persons ten to twenty years ofage, all persons twenty to thirty years of age, all persons thirty toforty years of age, and so on, by decades, the annual number of suicidesper million rises as follows: first group 56, second group 130, third155, fourth 204, fifth 217, sixth 274, seventh 317, and the rate finallyreaches its maximum in the group that comprises persons more than eightyyears of age. 

In the United States, the rate increases from 128 per million, in theage group comprising persons under forty-five, to 300 per million in theage group comprising persons over sixty-five. The figures vary indifferent countries, according to the hereditary national suicidetendencies; but the steady increase with advancing age is common to all. These statistics would seem to support the pessimistic philosophy ofSchopenhauer, and to prove that the longer one lives the less one wantsto live; but it must not be forgotten that the suicide rate is a measureof exceptional unhappiness, not of the general welfare. 

In the suicidal tendencies of the sexes there is, as might be expected, a very great difference. In all countries and in all parts of the world, suicides among women are far less frequent than among men. The ratiovaries from one to two to two to five. This difference is generallyattributed to the supposed fact that women are sheltered and protectedby men, as well as by their domestic environment, and that, consequently, they suffer less from the wear and tear of life; but Idoubt very much the adequacy of this explanation. The life of women, inthe world at large, is quite as hard as that of men, and often harder. In the higher and wealthier classes of society women may be, anddoubtless are, sheltered and protected; but in the poorer classes theytake their full share of the suffering, even if they do not bear thebrunt of the struggle. 

The hundreds of Russian women who between 1877 and 1885 were exiled toeastern Siberia for political offenses had no shelter or protectionwhatever, and must necessarily have suffered more than the exiled menfrom the hardships and privations of banishment; and yet, I am quitesure that I understate the fact when I say that the number of suicidesamong the men was at least five times greater than it was among thewomen. The exiled men themselves admitted to me that when it came to theendurance of suffering against which no fight could be made and fromwhich there was no escape, the women were greatly their superiors. Theinfrequency of self-destruction among women, as compared with that amongmen, seems to me to be due, not to their comparative immunity fromsuffering, but to three other causes, namely, first, a greater power ofpatient, passive endurance, when there is no fight to be made; second, amind and heart that are more influenced by feelings and beliefs that maybe called religious; and, third, a peculiar capacity for self-restraintand self-preservation, based on the maternal instinct, that is, oncloser and more intimate relations with, stronger love for, and greaterdevotion to young children. 

A study of the relation that suicide bears to occupation discloses someinteresting and noteworthy facts. The first is that soldiers, both inEurope and in the United States, must be put in a class by themselves, for the reason that the suicide rate of army officers and men is so muchhigher than that of the populations to which they belong that they canhardly be included in the same category. In Prussia, for example, theproportion of military suicides to civilian suicides is 1-1/2 to 1; inEngland 2-1/2 to 1; in Italy 5 to 1; in Austria 10 to 1; and in Russianearly 11 to 1. Even in the United States, the tendency of soldiers tokill themselves is 8-1/2 times that of adult men in civil life. 

This disproportionately high suicide rate in armies is not easy ofexplanation. In countries where military service is compulsory, andwhere inexperienced young men, torn suddenly from their families, aresubjected to rigorous discipline in a strange and uncongenialenvironment, the suicidal impulse may be intensified by homesickness, loneliness, humiliation, and the monotony of camp or barrack life; butin our own country, where the army is filled by voluntary enlistment, and where the relations between officers and men are fairly sympatheticand cordial, there would seem to be fewer reasons for unhappiness andsuffering than in the military service of Italy, Austria, or Russia. TheAmerican soldier is generally well taken care of and well treated; andwhile his life, in time of peace, is not exciting, it is easier and lessmonotonous than that of a factory operative, and it is hard tounderstand why he should be abnormally disposed to self-destruction. Hissuicidal tendency, however, is reduced by war, just as that of the civilpopulation is, and for the same reasons. 

_Professional Classes Furnish Most Suicides_

Statistics of self-destruction are not yet accurate and detailed enoughto enable us to determine the relation that suicide bears to businessemployment; but it may be said, in a general way, that the occupationsin which the suicide rate is lowest are those that involve rough manuallabor out of doors and employ men of comparatively little educationalculture, such as miners, quarrymen, shipwrights, fishermen, gardeners, bricklayers, and masons. Next come farmers, shopkeepers, and townartisans. And at the head of the list, with the highest suicide rate ofall, are physicians, journalists, teachers, and lawyers. The tendencyof these professional classes to commit suicide is from one and a halfto three times as great as that of the population generally. 

Clergymen, however, who also constitute an educated professional class, have a suicide rate which is only half that of the population as awhole, and this is undoubtedly due to the restraining influence ofreligion, which is much stronger in clergymen than in laymen. Therelation of suicide to religion raises a number of curious andinteresting questions, but, unfortunately, the religious factor is soinvolved with other factors in the complicated problem ofself-destruction that it is almost impossible to isolate it so as tostudy it alone. For example, the suicide rate of Protestant Christiansin the northern part of Ireland is twice that of Roman Catholics in thesouthern part; but here education comes in as a complication: theProtestants are generally better educated than the Catholics, and theirhigher suicide rate may be due to their education and not to the form oftheir religion. In Europe generally, the tendency to suicide is muchgreater among both Protestants and Catholics than among Jews; but hereeducation, race, and economic condition all come in as complicatingfactors, so that it is impossible to credit the Jewish faith alone withthe lower rate. In view, however, of the fact that the suicide rate ofthe Protestant cantons in Switzerland is nearly four times that of theCatholic cantons, it seems probable that Catholicism, as a form ofreligious belief, does restrain the suicidal impulse. The efficientcause may be the Catholic practice of confessing to priests, whichprobably gives much encouragement and consolation to unhappy but devoutbelievers, and thus induces many of them to struggle on in spite ofmisfortune and depression. 

The Salvation Army, in attempting to lessen self-destruction by opening"anti-suicide bureaus" in large cities, and by inviting persons who arecontemplating suicide to visit these bureaus and talk over theirtroubles, is virtually introducing a system of confession which, so faras this particular evil is concerned, resembles that of the CatholicChurch. 

In view, however, of the conflicting nature of the evidence, and theextreme difficulty of disentangling religious factors from otherimportant factors, I doubt the possibility of drawing any trustworthyconclusions with regard to the dependence of suicide upon religiousbelief. It may be said, as a matter of record, that the tendency toself-destruction is greatest among Protestant Christians, next largestamong Roman Catholics and Orthodox Greeks, and lowest among Mohammedansand Jews; but the differences are not certainly due to religion. 

The dependence of suicide upon nationality and race presents a number ofproblems of great interest, but of extraordinary difficulty andcomplexity. I can state a few of these problems, but I cannot solve anyof them. 

Among the highest suicide rates in Europe are those of Saxony andDenmark, and among the lowest those of Italy, Portugal, and Spain. Youmay perhaps conclude, from this, that the tendency to self-destructionis much greater among the Slavs and Scandinavians of the north than itis among the Latin peoples of the south, and that the differences aredue to latitude or race; but your specious generalization is shatteredwhen you discover that the suicide rates of Norway and Russia, bothnorthern countries inhabited by Scandinavians and Slavs, are almost aslow as those of Italy, Portugal, and Spain, all southern countriesinhabited by Latins. 

From an ethnological point of view, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway arenearly homogeneous Scandinavian states, and we should therefore expecttheir suicide rates to be nearly if not quite identical; but the rate ofDenmark is twice that of Sweden and three times that of Norway. 

The Slavs of Bohemia do not differ ethnologically from the Slavs ofDalmatia, but the suicide rate of the one group is 158 per million, while that of the other is only 14 per million. Saxony is not far away, geographically, from Belgium; but the suicide rate of the former is 324per million, while that of the latter is only 128 per million. 

I am unable to offer even a conjectural solution of the problemsinvolved in the differences thus shown to exist between populations thatare ethnologically identical, or that stand at nearly the same level ofeducational culture and economic well being. 

_Germany's High Suicide Rates_

The extremely high suicide rate of the Germanic peoples long agoattracted the attention of European sociologists, but, so far as I know, it has never been satisfactorily explained. If it were limited to adultsit might possibly be attributed to economic causes, particularly to therapid development of manufacturing industry, which seems everywhere toincrease the suicidal tendency; but self-destruction in Germany isalmost as common among children as among grown people. Between 1883 and1903 there were 1, 125 suicides among the pupils of the public schoolsin Prussia alone, and most of them were of boys and girls under fifteenyears of age. An investigation made by the ministry of publicinstruction showed that this prevalence of suicide among children wasnot due to the conditions of modern life in cities, inasmuch as theproportion of cases was fully as large in places of the smallest size asin crowded centers of population. It seemed to be due, rather, to aninherent suicidal tendency in the race. 

Racial characteristics, however, do not by any means account for theextraordinary differences in suicide rates that we find among theEuropean peoples, as shown in the following table:[21]

EUROPEAN PEOPLES GROUPED RACIALLY

NUMBER OF SUICIDES PER MILLION INHABITANTS

 I. SLAVS

 In Dalmatia (about 1896) 14 European Russia (1900) 31 Bulgaria (about 1900) 118

 II. SCANDINAVIANS

 In Norway (1901-'05) 65 Sweden (1900-'04) 142 Denmark (1901-'05) 227

 III. LATINS

 In Spain (1893) 21 Portugal (1906) 23 Italy (1901-'05) 64 France (1900-'04) 227

 IV. GERMANS

 In Austria (1902) 173 Prussia (1902-'06) 201 Saxony (1902-06) 324 Bavaria (1902-'06) 141

 V. ENGLISH

 In Ireland (1906) 34 Scotland (1905) 65 England and Wales (1906) 100 Australasia (1903) 121 United States (1907) 126

 VI. ASIATICS

 In Japan (1905) 209

It is difficult to assign definite or satisfactory reasons for the widedifferences shown in the above table. Skelton has suggested that the lowsuicide rates of certain countries are due to emigration, "whichprovides an outlet for a great deal of misery and constitutes a hopefulalternative to suicide"; but this conjecture, although ingenious, ishardly supported by the facts. It might perhaps explain the low suiciderates of Italy and Ireland, but it does not account for the equally lowsuicide rate of the Russian peasants, who emigrate hardly at all, norfor the extremely high suicide rate of the Germans, who emigrate inlarge numbers. Neither does it throw any light upon the persistence ofnational suicide rates long after emigration. The generalization thatseems to harmonize and explain the greatest number of facts is thatsuicide is most prevalent in countries where education goes hand in handwith highly developed manufacturing industry. In Spain, Portugal, Italy, and Russia the people have little education, manufacturing industriesare feebly developed, and the suicide rate is low. In Saxony thepercentage of illiteracy is very small, more than half of the populationwork in factories, and the suicide rate is the highest in Europe. I donot dare to assert that even this rude generalization is warranted bythe facts; but, if it were sustained, it would seem to show that suicideis a by-product of the great, complicated machine that we call moderncivilization. 

Whatever may be the reasons for differences in national suicide rates, and whatever may be the causes that have produced them, there is littledoubt, I think, that the rates themselves are true manifestations ofnational character, and that they are as permanent as the character ofwhich they are an outcome. When, therefore, a people migrates from oneplace to another, it takes both its character and its suicide rate tothe new location. This is clearly apparent in the vital statistics ofimmigrants who come from various parts of Europe to the United States. Such immigrants, as a rule, prosper here and become happier here, butthe increased prosperity and happiness do not greatly affect thesuicidal tendencies that they had when they were poor and wretched intheir original homes. Even their descendants, born in America, keepsubstantially unchanged the suicide rates that they have inherited, withtheir character, from their European ancestors. The Germans who camehere forty or fifty years ago brought a high suicide rate with them, andtheir descendants maintain it. The Irish, on the contrary, brought a lowsuicide rate to this country, and their children have it still. In thefollowing table will be found the suicide rates of a few nationalitiesin Europe and of their descendants in the United States. [22]

SUICIDES PER MILLION OF POPULATION

 NATIONALITIES IN EUROPE IN THE U. S. 

 Native Americans 68 Hungarians 114 118 Germans 213 193 French 228 220 English 100 104

In an address delivered before the Anthropological Society ofWashington, D. C. , on October 19, 1880, Mr. M. B. W. Hough said: "Aslong as the features of the ancestor are repeated in his descendants, solong will the traits of his character reappear. Language may change, customs be left behind, races may migrate from place to place andsubsist on whatever the country they occupy affords; but theirfundamental characteristics will survive, because they are comparativelyuninfluenced by the mere accidents of nutrition. " This statement is astrue of suicide as it is of other manifestations of national character. 

_Odd Methods Employed by Suicides_

Nothing is more surprising in the records of suicide than theextraordinary variety and novelty of the methods to which man hasresorted in his efforts to escape from the sufferings and misfortunes oflife. One would naturally suppose that a person who had made up his mindto commit suicide would do so in the easiest, most convenient, and leastpainful way; but the literature of the subject proves conclusively thathundreds of suicides, every year, take their lives in the mostdifficult, agonizing, and extraordinary ways; and that there is hardly apossible or conceivable method of self-destruction that has not beentried. When I clipped from a newspaper my first case of self-cremationwith kerosene and a match, I regarded it as rather a remarkable andunusual method of taking life; but I soon discovered that self-cremationis comparatively common. When I learned that Mary Reinhardt, of NewYork, had sung "Rock of Ages" and had then killed herself by inhalinggas in a barrel stuffed with pillows, I thought it a curious andnoteworthy case; but when I compared it with suicides that came to myknowledge later, it seemed quite simple and natural. I havewell-authenticated cases in which men or women have committed suicide byhanging themselves, or taking poison, in the tops of high trees; bythrowing themselves upon swiftly revolving circular saws; by explodingdynamite in their mouths; by thrusting red-hot pokers down theirthroats; by hugging red-hot stoves; by stripping themselves naked andallowing themselves to freeze to death on winter snow-drifts out ofdoors, or on piles of ice in refrigerator-cars; by lacerating theirthroats on barbed-wire fences; by drowning themselves head downward inbarrels; by suffocating themselves head downward in chimneys; by divinginto white-hot coke-ovens; by throwing themselves into craters ofvolcanoes; by shooting themselves with ingenious combinations of a riflewith a sewing-machine; by strangling themselves with their hair; byswallowing poisonous spiders; by piercing their hearts with corkscrewsand darning-needles; by cutting their throats with hand-saws andsheep-shears; by hanging themselves with grape vines; by swallowingstrips of under-clothing and buckles of suspenders; by forcing teams ofhorses to tear their heads off; by drowning themselves in vats of softsoap; by plunging into retorts of molten glass; by jumping intoslaughter-house tanks of blood; by decapitation with home-madeguillotines; and by self-crucifixion. 

Of course, persons who resort to such methods as these are, in mostcases, mentally unsound. A man who shoots, hangs, poisons, or drownshimself may be sane; but the man who crucifies himself, buries himselfalive, cuts his throat on a barbed-wire fence, or climbs into the top ofa tree to take poison, is evidently on the border-line of insanity, evenif he be not a recognized lunatic. 

The most prevalent methods of suicide in Europe are, first, hanging, second, drowning. In the United States they are, first, poisoning, second, shooting. About three fourths of all the persons who commitsuicide in the United States use pistol or poison. The differencebetween European and American methods is probably due to the fact thaton the other side of the Atlantic drugs and fire-arms are not so easilyobtainable as they are here, and Europeans therefore resort to water andthe rope as the best and surest means accessible. Police restrictionsand regulations make it almost impossible for a Russian peasant to geteither poison or a pistol; but all the police in the empire cannotprevent him from drowning himself in a pond, or hanging himself in hisown barn. 

A careful comparison of all the facts accessible seems to show that inEurope, at least, suicide bears a certain definite relation to educationand manufactures; and that, as I have already said, it is a by-productof the great, complicated world-machine that we call moderncivilization. Its specific causes, so far as they can be ascertained, are, on the educational side, the development of increased nervous andpsychic sensibility, which makes men feel more acutely all wants, deprivations, misfortunes, and sufferings; and, on the manufacturingside, a monotony of employment which wearies and exhausts the body whileit gives little exercise to the educated mind and leaves the latter freeto brood over its unsatisfied longings and desires, as well as its manytrials and disappointments. There are other causes, such as the growingdisproportion between wants generally and the means of gratificationgenerally; alcoholism; unhealthful work, especially in manufacturingdistricts; barrack and tenement-house life; and all the evils incidentto poverty, overcrowding, and bad sanitary conditions in cities. So faras I can see, these causes, at present, are not removable. Educationmust continue to intensify sensibility and increase the number of men'swants, and the great economic machine must grind on, even though itcrush thousands of human beings, every year, in the cogs of itsinnumerable wheels. A high suicide rate is part of the price that we payfor the educational and material achievements upon which we prideourselves. We have greatly multiplied the means of human happiness, butwhether, on the whole, we have increased the sum total of humanhappiness is perhaps an open question. In any event, the high andrapidly increasing suicide rate shows that we are pushing the weaklingsto the wall. 

The question of what can be done to lessen the suicide tendency andcheck this great waste of human power and energy brings me to the onlyimportant cause of self-destruction which seems to me removable, andthat is newspaper publicity. No argument is needed to prove that man isessentially an imitative animal. In dress, in behavior, in speech, inmodes of thought, and in social conventions, we are all prone to do whatwe see others do; and when unhappy men and women learn, from thenewspapers, that scores of other unhappy people are daily escaping fromtheir troubles through the always open door of suicide, when familiaritywith the idea of self-destruction deprives the act of all its naturalterror, it is not at all surprising that they yield to what seems to bethe general current of their social environment. I have, in my owncollection of material, a surprisingly large number of cases in whichthe suicidal act may be traced directly to newspaper publicity andimitation; but I must limit myself to a single strikingillustration--the suicidal epidemic in Emporia, Kansas, in the summer of1901. As a result, apparently, of the publication of the details of twoor three suicides of people prominent in that little Kansas town, therebroke out an epidemic of self-destruction which culminated in thesunny, flowery month of June, and which carried the annual suicide ratefrom about 90 per million to 1, 665 per million--a rate five timesgreater than that of Saxony. Mr. Morse, the mayor of the city, consultedthe Board of Health, and decided to stop the publication of the detailsof suicides in the local papers, even if it should require theemployment of force. He issued a proclamation, on the 16th of June, inwhich he said: "I have consulted the Board of Health, and if the Emporiapapers do not comply with my request, I shall have a right to stop, andI will stop summarily, the publication of these suicide details, underthe law providing for the suppression of epidemics. There is clearly anepidemic in this city, and although it is mental, it is none the lessdeadly. Its contagion may be clearly shown to come from what is known inmedicine as the psychic suggestion, found in the publication of thedetails of suicides. If the paper on which the local journals areprinted had been kept in a place infected with small-pox, I could demandthat the journals stop using that paper, or stop publication. If theyspread another contagion--the contagious suggestion of suicide--Ibelieve the liberty of the press is not to be considered before thepublic welfare, and that the courts would sustain me in using force toprevent the publication of newspapers containing matter clearlydeleterious to the public health. "

I believe that the reasoning of Mayor Morse is perfectly sound, and thatthe position taken by him is absolutely impregnable. The prevention ofthe publication of suicides in the newspapers of a State would require aspecial legislative act, but it would probably do more to lessen thesuicidal tendency than any other single measure that could be taken. Inthe winter of 1902, Representative Jenkins introduced in the NationalHouse of Representatives a bill making periodicals containing details ofsuicides unmailable; but I think it was never reported from committee. 

_The Emotional Temperament as a Cause_

There is one other way in which the suicide rate may possibly belowered, or at least held in check, and that is through the cultivationof what may be called the heroic spirit. We are becoming too emotionaland sentimental, and too much inclined to regard weakness with sympathy, instead of with the contempt that it generally deserves. In the languageof the prize ring, the pugilist who lies down while he can yet stand andsee is called a "quitter. " It would be harsh and unjust to apply to allsuicides this opprobrious name; but there can be little doubt, I think, that the majority of them are weaklings who give up and lie down whilethey still have a fighting chance. 

Readers of shipping news may still remember the wreck of a Germankerosene steamer on the wildest, most precipitous part of the coast ofNewfoundland, in February, 1901. The steamer took fire during a heavywinter gale, and the captain ran her ashore, at the nearest point ofland, with the hope of saving the lives of the crew. She struck on asubmerged reef in a little cove, about an eighth of a mile from a coastwhich was three or four hundred feet high and as precipitous as a wall. When she was first seen by a few fishermen at daylight, her boats weregone, and all of her crew had apparently perished except three men. Twowere standing on the bridge, and one was lashed aloft in thefore-rigging. About ten o'clock in the forenoon a tremendous sea carriedaway the bridge and the two men on it, and they were seen no more. Atthree o'clock in the afternoon the solitary survivor, --the man in thefore-rigging, --who was evidently suffering intensely from hunger andcold, unlashed himself, threshed his arms against his body for fiveminutes to restore the circulation in them, and then took off his coat, waved his hand to the fishermen on top of the cliff, climbed down theshrouds, and plunged into the sea--but not to commit suicide. He swam tothe shore, made three attempts in different places to get a footingamong the rocks at the base of the cliff, but was swept away every timeby the surf, and finally abandoned the attempt as hopeless. At thatcrisis in the struggle ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have givenup and allowed themselves to drown; but this man was not a "quitter. " Heturned his face again seaward, struck out for the half-submerged ship, and after a long and desperate struggle succeeded in reaching her andgetting on board. He climbed the fore-shrouds, waved his hand to thepitying but powerless fishermen on the edge of the cliff, and lashedhimself again in the rigging. At intervals, until dark, he made signalsto the fishermen to show that he was yet alive. At daybreak on thefollowing morning he could still be seen in the fore-rigging, but hishead had fallen on his breast and he was motionless. He had frozen todeath in the night. That man died, as a man in adverse circumstancesought to die, fighting to the last. You may call it foolish, and saythat he might better have ended his sufferings by allowing himself todrown when he found that he could not make a landing at the base of thecliff; but deep down in your hearts you pay secret homage to hiscourage, his endurance, and his indomitable will. He was defeated atlast, but, so long as he had consciousness, neither fire nor cold nortempest could break down his manhood. 

The Caucasian mountaineers have a proverb which says: "Heroism isendurance for one moment more. " That proverb recognizes the fact that inthis world the human spirit, with its dominating force, the will, may beand ought to be superior to all bodily sensations and all accidents ofenvironment. We should not only feel, but we should teach, by ourconversation and by our literature, that, in the struggle of life, it isessentially a noble thing and a heroic thing to die fighting. In arecent psychological story called "My Friend Will, " Charles F. Lummispays a striking tribute to the power of the human mind over theaccidents of life and chance when he makes his "friend Will" say: "I ambigger than anything that can happen to me. All these things--sorrow, misfortune, and suffering--are outside my door. I'm in the house andI've got the key!"

PRAIRIE DAWN

BY WILLA SIBERT CATHER

 A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars; A pungent odor from the dusty sage; A sudden stirring of the huddled herds; A breaking of the distant table-lands Through purple mists ascending, and the flare Of water ditches silver in the light; A swift, bright lance hurled low across the world; A sudden sickness for the hills of home. 

 --_From April Twilights. _

THE DOINGS OF THE DEVIL

BY HARVEY J. O'HIGGINS

ILLUSTRATIONS BY THOMAS FOGARTY

Mrs. Cregan wept, and her tears were ludicrous. She was as fat as aFalstaff. Her features were as ill-suited for the expression of grief asa circus clown's. She had not even a channel in her plump cheeks todrain the tears from the corners of her eyes; and the slow drops, largeand unctuous, trickled down her round jowl and soaked into herbonnet-strings, leaving her cheeks as fresh and as ruddy in the sunlightas if they had been merely wet with perspiration. Her eyes stared, unpuckered, apparently unconscious that they wept. Her mouth was tightin an expression of resentful determination. Only her little round chintrembled--like a child's. 

And yet Mrs. Cregan was as nearly heart-broken as she had ever been inher life. She was leaving her husband; what was more grievous to her, she was leaving her home; she was on the streets of New York, with hersmall savings in her greasy purse--clasped tightly in her two handsunder her "Sunday cape, " that was trimmed with fringe and tassels in away to remind you of a lambrequin. She did not know where to go. Therewas no one to whom she could turn for aid, and she would not go to anyone for pity. Behind her was the wreck of a breakfast table--the visiblesymbol of her ruined home--with a cursing Irishman, whom nobody couldlive with any longer, shouting, "_Your_ house, is it? I'll show yehwhose house it is! I'll show yeh! I'll break ev'ry danged thing in theplace!" Before her were the crooked byways of what had once been"Greenwich village, " as quiet as a desert, and as indifferent, in theearly morning radiance, with shuttered windows and closed doors. 

The domestic peace of those old streets made her own homelessness themore pitiful to her. She felt as she had felt once before--yearsbefore--in her childhood, when she had set sail with her parents forAmerica. It had been a cold day; and the mists had steamed up horridlyfrom the water, with a desolate, wet sea-odor; and the memory of thesunlight on green fields and the warm perfume of the land had been likea longing for health and daylight to the darkness of a death-bed. Thefuture had threatened her with the terrors of an unknown world. Thepast--despite its poverty and starvation--had been as dear as life. Shehad suffered all those pangs of dissolution that assail the home-lovingIrish when they have to leave what association has made dear to them;for, with the Irish, familiarity does not breed contempt but affection. 

She suffered these same miseries now. She saw her home through tears ofregret, though unhappiness had driven her from it. And her lips were setin a determination never to return to Cregan, though her chin trembledwith pity of herself in the determination. 

Some distance behind her came a smaller woman, as shrunken, as withered, and as yellow as an old leaf. Even her shoes seemed to have dried andshriveled, curling up at the toes. And she fluttered along in the lightmorning breeze, holding back against it, on her heels, with an oddeffect of being carried forward faster than she wished to go. 

She was Mrs. Byrne, from the floor below Mrs. Cregan's flat, and she hadbeen starting out on a secret errand of her own when she heard thequarrel overhead and stopped to hear the end of it. There was somethingguilty in her manner, and she was evidently struggling between herdesire to reach the next street unseen by Mrs. Cregan and her desire toknow what had happened in the Cregan flat. Her curiosity proved thestronger. 

She let the wind blow her alongside her friend's portly despair. Shesaid, in the hoarse whisper that was all she had left of her voice: "Isit yerself, Missus Cregan? Yuh're off to choorch early this mornin'. "

Mrs. Cregan looked around, blinking to clear her eyes. "Choorch?" shesaid, on the plaintiveness of a high note that broke in her throat. 

"Yuh're cryin', woman!". Her look of craftiness had changed at once toone of startled distress. "Come back out o' this with yuh. " She caughtMrs. Cregan's arm. "It's no thing to be doin' on the street! Come back, now. Where're yuh goin'?"

Mrs. Cregan marched stolidly ahead and carried her neighbor with her. "I've quit 'm. "

"Quit who?"

"Himsilf.... Dinny. "

Mrs. Byrne expressed her emotion and showed her tact by silentlycompressing her lips. 

"I've quit 'im, fer good an' all. " She stroked a tear down her cheekwith a thick forefinger. "I'll niver go back. Niver!"

"Come away with yuh, Mary Cregan, " Mrs. Byrne cried, in her breathyhuskiness. "At _your_ age! Faith, yuh're as flighty as one o' them girlswith the pink silk petticoats. He's yer husban', ain't he? D'yuh thinkyuh were married over the broomstick? Come an' behave yerself like adecent woman. What'd Father Dumphy say to _this_, think yuh?"

"He's a man. I know what he'd say. He'd tell me to go back to Cregan. I'll niver go back. Niver!"

"Yuh won't! What'll yuh do, then? Where'll yuh go to?"

"I'll niver go back. Niver! He's broke me best chiny--an' kicked the legoff the chair--an' overtoorned the table--an' ordered me out o' thelittle bit o' home I been all these years puttin' together. The teapotth' ol' man brought from Ireland--the very teapot--smashed tosmithereens! An' the little white dishes with the gilt trimmin's I hadto me weddin' day, Mrs. Byrne! There was the poor things all broke tobits!" She stopped to point at the sidewalk, as if the wreckage laythere before her. "All me little bit o' chiny. All of it. All of it, Mrs. Byrne. Ev'ry bit! Boorsted!"

Her tears choked her. She could not express the piercing irreparabilityof the injury. It would not have been so bad if he had beaten her; ahurt will heal. But the innocent, wee cups--and the fat old brownteapot--and the sweet little chair with its pretty legs, carved andturned so daintily! She had washed them and wiped them, and dusted andpolished them, and been so careful of them and felt so proud of them, for twenty years past. And, now, there they were lying, all inbits--past mending--gone forever. And they so pretty and so harmless. 

The crash as they fell on the floor had sounded in her ears like thescream of a child murdered. 

She started forward again, determinedly. "I'll niver go back to 'm. Hecan have his house to himsilf.... What do I care for Father Dumphy? Hewants nothin' but the dime I leaves at the choorch doore, an' the dime Idrops on the plate! Whin me poorse's impty, he'll not bother his headabout me!"

"Shame _on_ yuh!" Mrs. Byrne wheezed, with her eye on the house she waspassing. "Yuh talk no better than a Prod'stunt. "

"An' if I _was_ a Prod'stint, " she cried, "I'd not have to pay moneyiv'ry time I wanted to hear mass. I'd not be out on the street here, notknowin' where I'm goin' to, ner how I'm to live. It's _thim_ that knowshow to take care o' their own--givin' the women worrk, an' takin' thechilder off to the farrms, an' all the like o' that. You Dogans----"

Mrs. Byrne glanced about her fearfully, "Stop yer talk, now. Stop yertalk. Stop it before someone hears yuh makin' a big fool o' yerself. "

"I'll not stop it. What do I care who hears me? I'm goin' off from herefer good an' all. 'Twill know me no more. 'Twill not. I'm done with itall. I'm done with it. " She held out her purse. "I've got me bit o'money. I'll hire me a little room up-town. I'm done with _him_ an'Father Dumphy an' the whole dang lot o' yuz. Slavin' an' savin' fernothin' at all. I'll worrk fer mesilf now, an' none other. NeitherCregan ner the choorch ner no one ilse 'll get a penny's good o' me nomore. I got no one in the wide worrld but mesilf to look to, an' I'll goit alone. "

Mrs. Byrne was a little woman of a somewhat sinister aspect, her dulleyes very deep in their wrinkles, her nose pushed aside out of theperpendicular, her long lips stretched tightly over protruding teeth. She was as curious as an old monkey; but it was not only her curiositythat made her the busiest gossip and the most charitable "good soul" inthe street; she had her share of human kindness, and if she was ascrafty as a hypocrite, it was because she enjoyed handling men andwomen, like a politician. 

Seeing that Mrs. Cregan was beyond the reach of shame or the appeal ofthe priest, she said: "Well, I don't blame yuh, woman. Cregan's afool--like all the rest o' the men. An' yerself such a good manager. Well, well! Yer rooms was that purty 't 'ud make yuh wistful. Where willyuh be goin'?"

"I dunno. "

"Have yuh had yer breakfast?"

Mrs. Cregan shook her head. 

"Come back, then, an' have a bite with me. "

"Niver! I'll niver go back. "

Mrs. Byrne hitched up her shawl. "Come along then to the da-aryrestr'unt. There's no one home to miss me. Ill take a bit o' holiday, this mornin', meself. I've been wantin' to taste one o' those battercakes they make in the restr'unt windahs, this long enough. "

"Yuh've ate yer breakfast. "

"I have not" Mrs. Byrne replied. "I was off to the grocer to buy somesugar when yuh stopped me. "

It was a lie. She had, in fact; started out, secretly, on a guiltyerrand which she should not acknowledge. 

"It's a lonely meal I'd 've been havin', " she said, "with Byrne down atthe boiler house an' the boy off on his run. "

Mrs. Cregan did not reply, and they came to Sixth Avenue without morewords. They paused before a dairy restaurant that advertised its"Surpassing Coffee" in white-enamel letters on its shop-front windows. Mrs. Cregan's hunger drew her in, but slowly; and Mrs. Byrne followed, coughing to conceal her embarrassment. 

[Illustration: "'YOUR HOUSE, IS IT? I'LL SHOW YEH WHOSE HOUSE IT IS!'"]

II

It was the first time that Mrs. Byrne had ever sat down in any publicrestaurant, except the eating-halls at Coney Island (where she went with"basket parties") or the ice-cream "parlors" at Fort George. And sheglanced about her at tiled walls and mosaic floors with a furtivenessthat was none the less critical for being so sly. "It's eatin' in abathroom we are, " she whispered. "An' will yuh look at the cup yonder. The sides of it are that thick there's scarce room fer the coffee in it!Well, well! It do beat the Dutch! They're drawin' the drink out of aboiler big enough fer wash day. " The approach of a waitress silencedher. When she saw that Mrs. Cregan was not going to speak, she looked upat the girl with a bargain-counter keenness. "Have y' any pancakes fitt' eat? How much are they? Ten cents! Fer how many? Fer three pancakes?Fer three! D'yuh hear that?" she appealed to Mrs. Cregan. "Come homewith me, that's a good woman. It's a sin to pay it. Three cents fer apancake! Aw, come along out o' this. Ten cents! We c'u'd get two loaveso' bread fer the money an' live on it fer a week!"

But Mrs. Cregan was beyond the reach of practicalities, and she orderedher buckwheat cakes and coffee with an air that was mournfully distrait. Mrs. Byrne made a vain attempt to get her own cakes from the waitressfor five cents, and then resigned herself to the senseless extravagance. "Yuh'll not make yer own livin' an' eat the likes o' this, " shegrumbled asthmatically. "Yuh'd better be savin' yer money. "

Mrs. Cregan was looking at the thick china with a sort of aggrieveddespondence. (It was almost the expression of a bereaved mother lookingat one of her neighbor's children and thinking it a healthy, ugly bratwhom nobody would have missed!) She stared at the bare walls and thebare tables of the restaurant, and found the place, by comparison withher own cozy flat, as unhome-like as the waiting-room of a railroadstation--the waiting-room of a railroad station when you have saidgood-bye to your past and the train has not yet arrived to carry you toyour future. 

As her pancakes were served to her, she bent over the plate to hide atear that trickled down her nose. It splashed on the piece of food thatshe raised to her mouth. She ate it--tear and all. 

"An' them no bigger than the top of a tomato can!" Mrs. Byrne wasmuttering. 

Mrs. Cregan ate, and the food helped, to stop her tears. It was thestrong coffee, at last, that brought her back her voice. "If it'd b'en_him_, he'd 'a' gone an' got drunk, " she said, wiping her cheeks withher napkin. "The men have the best of it. Us women have to take it allstarin' sober. "

"They're no more than children, " Mrs. Byrne replied, "an' they're to betreated as such. Sure, Cregan couldn't live without yuh. He'd have nobuttons to his pants in a week. "

"An' him!" Mrs. Cregan cried. "Iver, since the Raypublicuns got licked, there's be'n no gettin' on with him at all. Thim Sunday papers 'vetoorned his head. He's all blather about his rights an' his wrongs. Th'other moornin' didn't I try to get on his bus from the wrong side o' thecrossin', an' he bawls at me: 'Th' other side! Th' other side! Yuh're nobetter than any one ilse!' An' I had to chase through the mud after him!The little wizened runt! He's talkin' like an arnachist! An' that's whyhe smashed me dish. He'll have no one say 'No' to 'im.... Ah, Mrs. Byrne, niver marry a man older than yersilf. "

"Thank yuh, " Mrs. Byrne replied with hoarse sarcasm. "I'm not likely to, at my age. " She added, consolingly: "Cregan's young fer his years. Drivin' a Fift' Avenah bus is fine, preservin', outdoor work. "

"It is _that!_" And Mrs. Cregan's tone remarked that the fact was themore to be deplored. "He'll be crankier an' crabbeder the older hegrows. " She dipped to her coffee and swallowed hard. 

Mrs. Byrne had screwed up her eyes to squint at an idea that could notwell be looked in the face. When she spoke it was to say slyly: "Godforbid! But they do go off sometimes in a puff. He looks as if he'd livefer long enough, thank Heaven. But yuh never can tell. "

[Illustration]

Mrs. Cregan blinked, held her hand for a moment, and then began hastilyto fill her mouth with food. The silence that ensued was long enough totake on an appearance of guilt. 

It was long enough, too, for Mrs. Byrne to "contrive a procedure. "

"Yuh never can tell, " she began, "unless yuh have doin's with thedevil--like them gipsies that see what's comin' by lookin' in the flato' yer hand. There's one o' them aroun' the corner, an' they say shetold Minnie Doyle the name o' the man she was to marry. An' he marriedher, at that!" Mrs. Cregan looked blank. Mrs. Byrne leaned forward toher. "I never whispered it to a livin' soul but yerself--but it was hertold Mrs. Gunn that her last was to be a boy. A good month ahead! An'when she saw it was true she had no peace o' mind till she heard thepriest say the words over the poor child an' saw that the sprinkle o'holy water didn't bubble off him like yuh'd sprinkled it on a hotstove. " Mrs. Cregan's vacant regard had slowly gathered a gleam ofstartled intelligence. "An' if I was yerself, Mrs. Cregan--not knowin'where I was to go to, ner how I was to live--I'd go an' have a talk withher before I went further, d'yuh see?"

"God forbid! 'Tis a mortal sin. "

"'Tis not. When I told Father Dumphy what I'd done, he called me an ol'fool an' gave me an extry litany fer penance. What's a litany!"

"I'd be scared o' me life!"

"Yuh w'd not. Come along with me. I was goin'. I got troubles o' me own. Never mind that. There's nothin' to be scared of. Nothin' at all. Noone'll see us. I been there meself, many's the time, an' no one knowsit. "

III

Mrs. Byrne entered the "reception rooms" of Madame Wampa, "clairvoyant, palmist, and card-reader, " with the propitiatory smile of the woman whoknows she is doing wrong but is prepared to argue that there is "nogreat harm into it. " She was followed by Mrs. Cregan, as guiltilyreverential as if she were an altar boy who had been persuaded to joinin some mischievous trespass on the "sanctuary. " Madame Wampa receivedthem, professionally insolent in her indifference. Mrs. Byrne explainedthat she wanted only a "small card reading" for twenty-five cents. Madame Wampa said curtly: "Sit down!"

They sat down. 

She had been a music-hall singer when her husband was a sleight-of-handartist, "The Great Malino, the Wizard of Milan. " Her voice had longsince left her; she had nothing of her beauty but its yellow ruins; andher life was made up of the consideration of two great grievances:first, that her husband was always idle, and second, that her landlordovercharged her for her rooms on account of the nature of her"business. "

[Illustration: MADAME WAMPA]

She saw nothing in Mrs. Byrne and Mrs. Cregan but their inability tohelp her pay her rent. She said: "I give a full trance readin' withnames, dates, and all questions answered, for a dollar, or a full cardreadin' for fifty cents. It's impossible to tell much for a quarter. "

Mrs. Byrne shook her head. 

Madame Wampa said "Very well, " in a tone of haughty resignation. Sheturned to a booth that had been made of turkey-red chintz in one cornerof the room. She lit a small red lamp and sat down before a littlebamboo table. A toy angel from a Christmas tree hung above her. Astuffed alligator sat up, on its hind legs, beside her--a porcelain bellhung on a red ribbon about its neck--to grin with a cheerful uncanninesson the rigmaroles of magic. 

She said: "Come!"

Mrs. Byrne entered the gipsy tent, and Mrs. Cregan was left alone in theatmosphere of a bespangled past reduced to its lowest terms ofimposture. There were strings of Indian corn hanging from the ceiling, Chinese coins and rabbits' feet on the walls, a horseshoe wrapped intinfoil over the door, and a collection of absurdly grotesquebric-à-brac on shelves and tables. There were necklaces of lucky beadsfor sale, and love charms in the shape of small glass hearts enclosingimitation shamrocks, and dream books and manuals of palmistry and gipsycards for fortune-telling, and photographs of Madame Wampa in a gorgeousevening dress trimmed with feathers. Over all was a smoky odor ofkerosene from an oil heater. 

Mrs. Cregan looked from side to side with a vaguely worried feeling thatit must take a power of dusting and wiping to keep such a clutter ofthings clean; and this feeling gradually rose into her consciousnessabove the dull stupefaction of her grief. 

Madame Wampa, in the chintz tent, recited without expression: "Thoughyou travel east or west, may your luck be the best. " She dropped hervoice to a toneless mutter about a "journey, " and some papers that wereto be signed, and a "false" dark woman who pretended to be Mrs. Byrne'sfriend, but would do her an injury. 

Mrs. Cregan sat as if she were waiting for her turn to enter aconfessional, her hands folded, her head dropped. She heard Mrs. Byrnewhispering hoarsely, but she did not listen. 

Madame Wampa said, at last, wearily: "Very well. Send her in. "

She shuffled her cards and sighed. She was professionally acquaintedwith many griefs, and she took her toll of them. They meant no more toher than sickness does to a quack. She looked up at Mrs. Cregan'sentrance almost absent-mindedly. 

But there was, at once, something so helplessly stricken about thewoman's plump despair, so infantile, so touchingly ridiculous, thatMadame Wampa even smiled faintly and moved the bamboo table to let Mrs. Cregan squeeze into the chair that waited her. She sat down and held outher money in her palm. Madame Wampa took her hand. "I will tell you, "she said. "I will see it in your hand. "

She crossed the palm three times with the coin, and began in themonotonous voice and with the expressionless face of the fakir: "You aremarried. Many years. I see many years. You have not been happy. Mondayis your unlucky day. Do not begin anything on Monday. You are thinkin'of takin' a journey--somethin'--some change. It will not end well. Youhad better remain without the change--whatever it is. There is a man--aman who has horses--who drives horses, perhaps. I see horses. He willmeet with an accident--I think, a runaway--a collision, perhaps. He willbe hurt. He will be--hurt. Yes. He is an old man. It will be bad. He maydie. Perhaps. He is a relative--related to you. You must beware ofanimals. One will do you an injury. You will never be rich--butcomfortable. The best of your life is comin'. You will have your wish. "

She had finished, but Mrs. Cregan did not move. She had drawn back inher chair. Her mouth had loosened; her hand lay limp on the table; allher intelligence seemed to have concentrated in her eyes in anexpression of guilty and horrified surprise. She said faintly: "Is'tCregan?"

Madame Wampa shrugged one shoulder in her red kimono. "The lines do notsay. " She blew out the lamp and rose from the table. "That is all. It isimpossible to tell much for a quarter. I give a full trance readin', with names, dates, and all questions answered----"

Mrs. Cregan "blessed" herself, --with the sign of the cross, --gasped, "God forgi' me!" and blundered out into the room. Mrs. Byrne cried:"What's wrong?" Mrs. Cregan did not hear. She stampeded to the door inthe ponderous fright of a panic-stricken elephant. Her one thought wasto find a place where she might get on her knees.... Cregan! It washimself! It was Dinny! Killed, maybe! She had blasphemed against theChurch and Father Dumphy, and she must pray. She must pray for herselfand for Cregan. She would "take back" everything she had said. She wouldnever leave him. She would be good. 

Mrs. Byrne tugged at her cape. "Whist! Whist! What's come over yuh, woman? What is it?"

"It's Dinny!"

That was all that could be had out of her. Even when she reached herhome again, and Mrs. Byrne followed her in, afraid of leaving thefrightened woman alone lest she should "blab" the whole secret to thefirst person she met, --even then Mrs. Cregan could not speak until shehad gathered up the broken dishes and propped the broken chair againstthe wall, as frantically as if she were trying to conceal the evidenceof a crime. Then she sank down on a sofa and burst into tears. "The poorcreature!" she wept. "The poor ol' man. Poor Dinny!"

Mrs. Byrne folded her arms. "Mary Cregan, " she said, in hoarse disgust, "when yuh've done makin' a fool o' yerself, I'll trouble yuh to listento _me_. _Now!_ If y' ever breathe a word o' this to Cregan, he'll laughhimself blind! Mind yuh that! He'll not believe yuh. No one'll believeyuh. No one! An' if yuh don't want somethin' turrible to happen, yuh'llsay nothin', but yuh'll behave yerself like a decent married woman an'go to church an' say yer prayers against trouble. That woman with thecards says whatever th' old Nick puts into her head to say. "

Mrs. Cregan cried: "She saw it in me hand!"

Mrs. Byrne drew herself up like a prophetess. "Dip yer hand in holywater, an' yuh'll hear no more of it. Now, then. Behave yerself. "

"I was wishin' it!" she wailed. "I was wishin' somethin' 'd happen tohim to leave me free here in m' own home!"

"An' that, " Mrs. Byrne said, "is the judgment o' heaven on yuh fercarin' more fer yer dishes than yuh did fer yer husband. Yuh're a goodmanager, Mrs. Cregan, but yuh've been a dang poor wife. Think of yer manfirst an' yer house after, an' yuh'll be a happier woman, I tell yuh. "

"I will that. I will, " Mrs. Cregan wept, "if he's spared to me. "

"Never fear, " Mrs. Byrne said drily. "He'll be spared to yuh. "

 * * * * *

And he _has_ been spared to her. At first he was suspicious of hersubdued manner and remorseful gentleness; and for a long time hewatched her, very warily, with an eye for treachery. Then he understoodthat she had succumbed to his masterful handling of her, and he wasmasculinely proud of his conquest. 

[Illustration: "MRS. CREGAN SAT AS IF SHE WERE WAITING FOR HER TURN TOENTER A CONFESSIONAL. "]

Mrs. Cregan is beginning to hope that she has warded off the predictedbad fortune by her devoutness, but she still has her fears. "Twas thedoin's o' the divil, " she says to Mrs. Byrne. 

"He had a hand in it, no doubt, " Mrs. Byrne agrees. "An' how's Cregan?"she says, "Well, I'm glad o' that.... An' the new dishes?... Good luckto them. Yuh're off early to church again. "

YOUNG HENRY AND THE OLD MAN

BY JOHN M. OSKISON

The ranchman and I were discussing courage. I had that day seen youngHenry Thomas mount and ride a horse which had bucked in a way to impressthe imagination. I spoke of it. 

"Was it the gray?" queried Brunner, and when I said it was, he scoffed. "That horse is trained to buck just the way young Henry wants him, andhe hobbles the stirrups. "

Brunner's scepticism was disappointing. I ventured to speak of anotherinstance that seemed to illustrate the nerve of Henry Thomas:

"Didn't he help capture the 'Kep' Queen bunch of outlaws a few yearsago? I've heard he showed nerve then. "

"I reckon you have. " Brunner glanced across at me, then stooped to dig alive coal out of the ashes. He held it for half a minute before packingit into the bowl of his pipe, shifting it imperceptibly in his toughenedhand as he studied the backlog. When his tobacco was burning steadily, he spoke:

"I can tell you the truth about young Henry--and the old man, too. " Ithought his tone changed. "Twenty-four years ago I came to this Indiancountry. For twelve years I rode with the posses as a deputy marshal andfor twelve years now I've been running cattle here on Cabin Creek. I'vebeen all over the Territory. I know every man in the Cherokee Nationthat ever handled a hot iron. And I know young Henry Thomas, too. 

"It was in 1882 that Queen 'went bad, ' and began to hold up trains onthe 'Katy' and 'Frisco roads. All of that fall and winter we were afterhim and his gang, but we never got a sight of them. They were 'goers'all right, and when we came up to a two-weeks-old camp-fire they'dbuilt, we thought we were lucky. 

"For six months after the first of the year they did nothing. We heardthat Queen was in California. Then, in June, 1883, while I was atMuscogee, I got a telegram from 'Cap' White asking me to report at onceto him at Red Oak. Paden Tolbert and I caught the eleven o'clock trainup, dropping off at Red Oak at one in the morning. 'Cap' met us, told ushe had two men ready, and that the five of us would start for PryorCreek at once. 

"It was a fifteen-mile ride. We planned to pick up four men from theranches on the way down, and get to 'Kep' Queen's camp at daylight. Wehad been told that there were five men in the camp, that they had beenin the Pryor Creek woods for two days, and that it was their plan tohold up the flyer from the north next evening. 'Cap' White was sure ofhis information, and he had decided upon the men he wanted from theranches. The two Thomases--old man Henry and young Henry--were pickedout, for there was no one else in the family except a younger brother ofeighteen, who has since died. 'Bud' Ryder and Jim Kelso were the othertwo--both good on horses and handy with a gun. 

"'Cap' was proud of his posse when he finally got us together. TheThomases came out and joined us like bees a-swarming. The young fellowwas all up in the air with excitement, like a boy going to a circus. Hewas so brash that at first we couldn't keep him from riding on ahead ofthe rest of us; you'd think he wanted to bring in the bunch all byhimself. 

"That was all right; brash, eager young fellows ain't always so bravewhen trouble begins, but they steady into good fighters. It's hardenough to get 'em that want to go after a man like 'Cap' Queen at all. "

Brunner told me then of the fight in the woods at daybreak. It was hissummary of young Henry Thomas that interested me. 

One of the men whom White took from Red Oak led the posse to the camp onPryor Creek. It was on a ledge on a hillside. The fires had been builtunder a jutting rock. Only a bush wren could have hidden its nest morecompletely--Bruce had been lucky in spying it out. He told White thatthere was but one unprotected approach--a long unused trail that leddown from the cliff-top and ended in a briar tangle fifty feet above theledge. That trail, it was evident, 'Kep' Queen did not know existed. 

Young Thomas had ridden with Brunner, seeking him out, as the novicealways seeks out the veteran, to practise his valorous speeches upon. For four hours young Thomas talked about bravery, with illustrations. From one incident to another he skipped, for the history of outlawrywest of St. Louis, in the last generation, was more familiar to him thanmany another topic he had gathered from books. Brunner could have sethim right on the facts many times, but what was the use?

After a time the youngster's monologue became a sort of soothing hum, for which the other was grateful. "I was cross and sleepy and chilly andnervous, " Brunner explained, "and the boy's gabble rested me. "

I gathered that the young man was more excited than he cared to confess, even to himself. He talked, as others whistle, to "keep up his courage. "Yet the implication that he needed distraction or stimulation would haveangered him. Youth and courage are twins, or should be, and a man oftwenty-two takes it for granted. At forty, a man may confess to turningtail and yet save his self-respect. I had heard Brunner tell of "backdowns" that would have shamed a young village constable, and it hadnever occurred to me to question his courage. 

It was only in the last mile of their ride that the chatter of youngThomas really became audible to Brunner. 

"I woke up, " he said, "and actually listened to him. I don't rememberexactly what he was saying, but this was the idea: 'All of you fellowsthat chase outlaws make too much fuss about it. ' Well, some of us do, though the newspapers and the wind-bags that follow us around make tentimes the fuss we do. He went on to say that the only way to nab ahorse-thief or an express robber was to go right up to him, don't youknow, like the little boy went up to the sign-post that he thought was aghost. 

"It's a good theory and generally works. I told him so, and thenapologized for doing any other way. The way I thought about thisbusiness of a deputy marshal's was the way an old soldier thinks aboutwar. I was hired to get the criminals, and not to be caught by thecriminals, to shoot the bad man, if I had to, but not to be shot by thebad man if there was any way to help it. One way to help it is to runand hide. It's a good way, too, for I've tried it. "

The young man roused Brunner's curiosity. It was possible that he mightbe of the exceptional breed that puts a fine theory to the test ofaction. 

"I decided to watch him, " the ranchman told me, "and see if he wouldplay up to his big talk. When we left our ponies, half a mile from thecamp, I pretended to argue with 'Cap' White, told him he ought to leaveyoung Thomas with the horses and not get such a boy as that all shotup. 'Cap' caught my point and begged him to stay, but, of course, hewouldn't hear of it. 'I'll stick to Brunner, ' says he. 

"'All right, ' says I, 'come on. '

"When we started afoot, we trailed out single file, and I noticed thatold man Thomas waited for the boy and me to pass him, dropping in rightbehind his son. 'Cap' was in front, then Bruce, then Paden Tolbert, thenRyder and Kelso, and then I and the Thomases. The old man was at thetail of the procession. 

"Old man Thomas was the kind that you never think about one way or theother. You said to yourself that he would do his share, whatever itamounted to, and you wouldn't have to bother about him. That's yournotion of him, ain't it?"

It _was_ my notion of the older Thomas. I don't think a more commonplacelooking man ever lived. Brunner told me that he had not changed infourteen years. 

"'Young Henry swells around and talks big; the old man he says nothingand chaws tobacco, ' That's the way people size 'em up around here. "Brunner thus confirmed my own impression of the pair. 

"What a man can see out of the back of his head, " Brunner went on, "is alot different from what comes in front of his eyes. He feels a lot thatdon't make a sound and that ain't visible. I did see, out of the cornerof my eye, that young Henry Thomas was dropping behind me little bylittle, but I didn't see why it was he moved up again. I know why, though. The old man had ordered him up--not in words, you understand, for I could have heard a whisper in the still dawn, the way we weresnaking it over the trail. From that time on, every foot of the way, theold man drove the boy. You ask me how, and I can't tell you. Therewasn't a word, not a motion that I could see, but all the time it wasone man driving the other as plain as could be. And it wasn't easy. Ifelt that young Henry was worse than balky, that he would have brokethrough the bushes and run off screaming if that old man had taken hiseyes off of him for ten seconds. 

"A quarter of a mile it was, and we went slow--twenty feet forwardpicking our way, then the eight of us would stop to listen. If you everget a chance, ask young Henry how long that trail was. If he don't stopto think, he'll tell you we crawled through the bushes for five miles, but if he remembers his part as the hero of the fight, he'll say, 'Oh, we sneaked a hundred yards or so before lighting into Queen's bunch. '"

The trail from above ended in a briar tangle fifty feet up the hillfrom the ledge on which four of the five outlaws slept. The fifth man, posted as a sentry, was on the lower trail, somewhere out of sight ofthe party led by "Cap" White. When the deputies came up to the briars, therefore, they could see no one. As soon as the four sleepers came outof shelter, however, White's men could cover them with their guns. 

What had to be done, obviously, was to rouse the four outlaws withoutrevealing the presence of the deputies above. It could be done by someone in the woods below the ledge. But the outpost was down there toreckon with. They could not all be trapped merely by waiting, for theywould come out, after waking, one by one; and White wanted the wholebunch. 

It was decided that three men should be sent, by a round-about trail, down to the creek; that they should follow it up until they got oppositeto the ledge; and that they should then rouse the sleeping men. Theywere also to find the sentry and capture him. The risk was that thesentry might discover the three first and spoil the chance to take him. The detail might be dangerous, though with luck it should prove easy. 

Brunner was assigned to lead the three. Young Thomas and Kelso werenamed by White as the other two, but Brunner, who had been aware of thatduel on the trail, said he preferred the old man to Jim Kelso. 

They beat back for a short distance, then, separating, dropped down thesteep hillside to the creek. In open order, they went forward quietly, slowly; they might come upon 'Kep' Queen's outpost at any turn. Now andthen they came in sight of one another. Each time Brunner saw that theold man was edging closer to his son. Still there was no wordspoken--only a grim old man's gray eyes were fixed upon a young man'sshifting, over-bright eyes, and the young man moved on, cautiously. 

Brunner held close to the creek bank; the old man was twenty yards awayand moving farther out as he approached his son. So they advanced, abreast, until they came out upon the trail leading up to the ledge. Then Brunner saw old man Thomas run, with short, noiseless steps, toyoung Henry's side and point up the trail. Hidden from both and out ofsight of what had attracted the old man's attention, Brunner yet knewwhat was happening. Farther up the trail was the sentry, half asleep inthe chill dawn. 

Brunner saw, as he himself came up cautiously, that the old man waswhispering to young Henry. He grasped the boy's arm, half-shoving himforward and pointing with his rifle. The youngster moved a step, thenturned with a look of utter panic on his face. His father's eyes glared;a sort of savage anger blazed on his face. From his grip on youngHenry's arm, the old man's hand sprang to the boy's throat. There wasone fierce, terrible shake, a sort of gurgling scream that expressedterror, and protest, too, but which was scarcely audible to Brunner, twenty feet away. In the tone of a man enraged to the point of madness, old man Thomas snapped out:

"Go on, you confounded whelp!"

Young Henry shook himself free, his terror replaced by a sudden, resentful anger. Fifty yards away the sentry nodded, his back against atree and his gun across his lap. Brunner saw the man now, and steppedaside to cover him as young Henry approached. But there was no need ofthat. The boy was swift and noiseless; before the outlaw could wake ormove, his gun was in Henry's hand, and he heard the command, "hands up!"

The sentry was quick-witted. He couldn't shoot, but he could yell. Brunner, however was ready for that. He began to bawl a reveler's song, popular with cowboys on a spree, and old man Thomas joined him. Fromabove, it sounded as if a drunken riot had broken out, in which theoutpost's warning shout became only a meaningless discord. The babelbrought the four sleeping men out of their blankets. They listened amoment, then stepped out in view of the posse in the briars. 

As Brunner came up, old man Thomas turned to face him. On his seamedface the sweat had almost dried, but when he shoved his hat up with hisforearm, his sleeve came away from his forehead damp. The compellingglitter in the gray eyes turned to a challenging stare. Brunner met it, then glanced up the trail towards young Thomas and his captive. 

"He got him all right, " said Brunner. 

"Yes, " the old man triumphed, "my boy got him. He captured 'Kep' Queenhimself. "

"I reckon you've heard young Henry's story of how he got 'Kep' Queen, "Brunner finished. "If you've ever talked with him when he was out ofsight of the old man, I know you have. What I've told you to-night iswhat old man Henry could tell if he wanted to. But he never will. As Isaid awhile ago, 'young Henry swells around and talks big; the old manhe says nothing and chaws tobacco. '"

EDITORIAL

THE TRUTH OF ORCHARD'S STORY

McClure's Magazine printed during last summer and fall the Autobiographyof Harry Orchard, with its confessions of wholesale assassinationsduring the labor war in the mining districts of the West. There was, atthat time, repeated and angry denial of the truth of his story; and, since the acquittal of W. D. Haywood, secretary and treasurer of theWestern Federation of Miners, and of George A. Pettibone, whom Orchardcharged with being the instigators of his crimes, their adherents have, of course, maintained that Orchard's story has been entirely disproved. 

Logically, this does not follow. The acquittal of these two men meansnothing more than that they were not proved guilty to the satisfactionof the juries trying them. Before a final judgment as to the truth orfalsity of Orchard's statement is made, the last development in thismatter must be thoroughly considered. On March 18, Orchard, persistingin his story to the last, pleaded guilty to the murder of Governor FrankSteunenberg, at Caldwell, Idaho, and was sentenced to be hanged--withthe recommendation by the presiding judge that his sentence be commutedto life imprisonment by the Prison Board of the State. In pronouncingsentence upon Orchard, Judge Fremont Wood, who presided over the trialsof both Haywood and Pettibone, expressed his belief in Orchard's storyin a most convincing way. The parts of the Judge's statement dealingwith Orchard's testimony, which follow, are of peculiar value to thosedesiring to arrive at a final conclusion regarding the responsibilityfor the campaign of murders which took place during the labor wars ofthe Western Federation of Miners; they are the summing up of the entirematter by a mind whose judicial fairness has been recognized by bothparties in this great controversy. 

 "I am more than satisfied, " said Judge Wood, "that the defendant now at the bar of this court awaiting final sentence has not only acted in good faith in making the disclosures that he did, but that he also testified fully and fairly to the whole truth, withholding nothing that was material and declaring nothing that had not actually taken place. 

 "During the two trials the testimony of the defendant covered a long series of transactions involving personal relations between himself and many others. In the first trial he was subjected to the most critical cross-examination by very able counsel for at least six days, and I do not now recall that at any point he contradicted himself in any material manner, but on the other hand disclosed his connection with many crimes that were probably not known to the attorneys for the State, at least not brought out by them on the direct examination of the witness. 

 "Upon the second trial the same testimony underwent a most thorough and critical examination and in no particular was there any discrepancy in a material matter between the testimony given upon the latter trial as compared with the testimony given by the same witness at the former trial. I am of the opinion that no man living could conceive the stories of crime told by the witness and maintain himself under the merciless fire of the leading cross-examining attorneys of the country unless upon the theory that he was testifying to facts and to circumstances which had an actual existence within his own experience. 

 "A child can testify truly and maintain itself on cross-examination. A man may be able to frame his testimony and testify falsely to a brief statement of facts involving a short and single transaction and maintain himself on cross-examination. 

 "But I cannot conceive of a case where even the greatest intellect can conceive a story of crime covering years of duration, with constantly shifting scenes and changing characters, and maintain that story with circumstantial detail as to times, places, persons, and particular circumstances and under as merciless a cross-examination as was ever given a witness in an American court unless the witness thus testifying was speaking truthfully and without any attempt either to misrepresent or conceal.... It is my opinion, after a careful examination of this case in all its details, that this defendant and the crimes which he committed were only the natural product and outcome of the system which he represented and the doctrines taught by its leaders, some of which were boldly proclaimed and maintained, even upon the trial of the defendant Haywood. 

 "This defendant had evidently become imbued with the idea inculcated by those around him that the organized miners were engaged in an industrial warfare upon one side of which his own organization was alone represented, while on the other hand they were confronted with the powers of organized capital, supported by executive authority, and which counter organization included, or at least controlled, the courts, which were the final arbiters upon all legal questions involved. 

 "With the promulgation of such doctrines it is not a difficult matter for some people to justify murder, arson, and other outrages, and I am satisfied that it was that condition of mind that sustained, bore up and nerved on this defendant and his associates in the commission of the various crimes with which he was connected. "

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Copyright, 1908, by Ellen Terry (Mrs. Carew)_ _Copyright, 1908, by The S. S. McClure Co. All rights reserved_

[2] Mrs. Eddy also had copies of other Quimby manuscripts in herpossession. 

[3] See MCCLURE'S MAGAZINE, May, 1907. 

[4] Many typical instances of Christian Science logic may be found inMr. Alfred Farlow's answer to Dr. Churchman's article (_ChristianScience Journal_, 1904). Mr. Farlow takes up Dr. Churchman's statement, "To deny that matter exists and assert that it is an illusion, is onlyanother way of asserting its existence. " Says Mr. Farlow: "According tothis logic, when a defendant denies a charge brought against him incourt, he is only choosing a method of asserting its truth. "

Mr. Farlow seems to think that Mrs. Eddy arrived at her discovery of thenon-existence of matter, not by any process of reasoning, but by_personal experience_. He says:

 "From doubting matter and learning by experience its utter emptiness Mrs. Eddy began to search for the universal spiritual cause, and having found it through actual demonstration in spirit, she was obliged in consistence therewith to deny the material sense of existence. "

Mr. Farlow seems to consider the logic of this progression inevitable. 

[5] Science and Health (1898), page 375. 

[6] " " " " " 392. 

[7] " " " " " 46. 

[8] " " " " " 379. 

[9] Mrs. Eddy and her followers believe that she possesses anenlightened or spiritual understanding of the Bible and the universe, not common to the rest of mankind. 

[10] This account of the Creation is taken from the first edition of"Science and Health. " It remains practically the same in later editionsunder the chapter called "Genesis. "

[11] Miscellaneous Writings (1896), page 51. 

[12] "Science and Health" (1906), pages 696, 697. 

[13] _Christian Science Journal_, September. 1898. 

[14] _Christian Science Journal_, October, 1904. 

[15] For an exposition of the theory upon which this work at EmmanuelChurch is conducted, the reader is referred to a pamphlet, "The HealingMinistry of the Church, " by the Reverend Samuel McComb, issued by theEmmanuel Church, Boston. For a detailed account of the method of healingpractised there and its results, see an article, "New Phases in theRelation of the Church to Health, " by Dr. Richard Cabot, in the_Outlook_, February 29, 1908. The reader who is interested in theprinciple and possibilities of psycho-therapeutics or "mental healing" isagain referred to Paul Dubois' remarkable book, "Psychical Treatment ofNervous Disorders. "

[16] The reader who is interested in Quimby's teaching and healing isreferred to "The True History of Mental Science, " by Julius A. Dresser, published by George H. Ellis, 272 Congress Street, Boston. 

Dr. Warren F. Evans, in his book, "Mental Medicine, " published threeyears before the first edition of "Science and Health, " said: "Diseasebeing in its root a _wrong belief_, change that belief and we cure thedisease. By faith we are thus made whole. There is a law here which theworld will sometime understand and use in the cure of the diseases thatafflict mankind. The late Dr. Quimby, of Portland, one of the mostsuccessful healers of this or any age, embraced this view of the natureof disease, and by a long succession of the most remarkable cures, effected by psychopathic remedies, at the same time proved the truth ofthe theory and the efficiency of that mode of treatment. Had he lived ina remote age or country, the wonderful facts which occurred in hispractise would now have been deemed either mythical or miraculous. Heseemed to reproduce the wonders of Gospel history. But all this was onlyan exhibition of the force of suggestion, or the action of the law offaith, over a patient in the impressible condition. "

[17] Distribution of every 1000 suicides by season:

 _Country Summer Spring Fall Winter Total_

 Denmark 312 284 227 177 1, 000 Belgium 301 275 229 195 1, 000 France 306 283 210 201 1, 000 Saxony 307 281 217 195 1, 000 Bavaria 308 282 218 192 1, 000 Austria 315 281 219 185 1, 000 Prussia 290 284 227 199 1, 000

Durkheim, "Le Suicide, " (Paris, 1897), p. 88. 

[18] The figures are those of Dr. Forbes Winslow for the United States, those of Dr. M. Gubski for Russia, those of Dr. Rehfisch (in _DerSelbsmord_) for Europe, and those of the Government Statistical Bureaufor Japan. 

[19] Durkheim, "Le Suicide" (Paris, 1897), p. 93. 

[20] Five or six years ago, in a paper that I read before the LiterarySociety of Washington, D. C. , I suggested this explanation of the highsuicide rate in June. At the conclusion of the reading, a young Italianstudent, who happened to be present as a guest, came to me and said: "IfI did not know it to be impossible, I should think that your explanationof June suicides had been suggested by, if not copied from, a letterleft by a dear friend of mine who killed himself in Genoa, two yearsago, on a beautiful evening in June. You have expressed his thoughtsalmost in the words that he used. "

[21] For the suicide statistics embodied in this table I am largelyindebted to the coöperation and assistance of Mr. M. L. Jacobson, of theBureau of Statistics in Washington. In the literature of the subjectthere are no figures more recent than 1893 for most of the Europeancountries. In this table they are nearly all later than 1900. 

[22] The figures for Europe are from the latest reports of governmentstatistical bureaus, and for America from the registration area coveredin the twelfth census.