A BREATH OF PRAIRIE AND OTHER STORIES By WILL LILLIBRIDGE THE DOMINANT DOLLAR. Illustrated in color by Lester Ralph. Crown 8vo . . . $1. 50 BEN BLAIR, PLAINSMAN. Frontispiece in color by Maynard Dixon. Seventieth thousand. Crown 8vo . . . $1. 50 QUERCUS ALBA: The Veteran of the Ozarks. With frontispiece. 16mo. Net . . . $. 50 A. C. MCCLURG & CO. , Publishers CHICAGO [Illustration: She wheeled swiftly round, confronting him. [See"Journey's End. "]] A BREATH OF PRAIRIE AND OTHER STORIES BY WILL LILLIBRIDGE AUTHOR OF "BEN BLAIR, " "THE DOMINANT DOLLAR, " ETC. WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY J. N. MARCHAND CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1911 Copyright A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1911 Published April, 1911 W. J. Hall Printing Company Chicago A TRIBUTE It is an accepted truth, I believe, that every novelist embodies inthe personalities of his heroes some of his own traits of character. Those who were intimately acquainted with William Otis Lillibridgecould not fail to recognize this in a marked degree. To a casualreader, the heroes of his five novels might perhaps suggest fivetotally different personalities, but one who knows them well willinevitably recognize beneath the various disguises the same dominantcharacteristics in them all. Whether it be Ben Blair the sturdyplainsman, Bob McLeod the cripple, Dr. Watson, Darley Roberts, or evenHow Landor the Indian, one finds the same foundation stones ofcharacter, --repression, virility, firmness of purpose, an abhorrenceof artificiality or affectation, --love of Nature and of Nature's worksrather than things man-made. And these were unquestionably thepronounced traits of Will Lillibridge's personality. Markedlyreserved, silent, forceful, he was seldom found in the places wheremen congregate, but loved rather the company of books and of the greatout-doors. Living practically his entire life on the prairies it isundoubtedly true that he was greatly influenced by his environment. And certain it is that he could never have so successfully painted thevarious phases of prairie-life without a sympathetic, personalknowledge. The story of his life is characteristically told in this briefautobiographical sketch, written at the request of an interestedmagazine. "I was born on a farm in Union County, Iowa, near the boundary of thethen Dakota Territory. Like most boys bred and raised in an atmosphereof eighteen hours of work out of twenty-four, I matured early. Attwelve I was a useful citizen, at fifteen I was to all practicalpurposes a man, --did a man's work whatever the need. In this capacityI was alternately farmer, rancher, cattleman. Something prompted me toexplore a university and I went to Iowa, where for six years Ivibrated between the collegiate, dental, and medical departments. After graduating from the dental in 1898 I drifted to Sioux Falls andbegan to practise my profession. As the years passed the roots sankdeeper and I am still here. "Work? My writing is done entirely at night. The waiting-room, --theplum-tree, --requires vigorous shaking in the daytime. After dinner, --Ihave a den, telephone-proof, piano-proof, friend-proof. Whattranspires therein no one knows because no one has ever seen. "Recreation? I have a mania, by no means always gratified, --to be outof doors. Once each summer 'the Lady' and I go somewhere for atime, --and forget it absolutely. In this way we've been able to travela bit. We, --again 'the Lady' and I, --steal an hour when we can, anddrive a gasoline car, keeping within the speed laws when necessary. Once each Fall, when the first frost shrivels the corn-stalk and when, if you chance to be out of doors after dark you hear, away upoverhead, invisible, the accelerating, throbbing, diminishing purr ofwings that drives the sportsman mad, --the town knows me no more. " Every novel may have a happy close, but a real life's story has butone inevitable ending, --Death. And to "the Lady" has been left the sorrowful task of writing "Finis"across the final page. January 29, 1909, he died at his home in Sioux Falls after a briefillness. But thirty-one years of age, he had won a place in literatureso gratifying that one might well rest content with a recital of hisaccomplishments. But his youth suggests a tale that is only partlytold and the conjecture naturally arises, --"What success might he nothave won?" Five novels, "Ben Blair, " "Where the Trail Divides, " "TheDissolving Circle, " "The Quest Eternal, " and "The Dominant Dollar, "besides magazine articles, and a number of short stories (many of themappearing in this volume) were all written in the space of eightyears' time, and, as he said, were entirely produced after nightfall. While interested naturally in the many phases of his life, --as aprofessional man, as an author, as the chief factor in the domesticdrama, --yet most of all it pleases me to remember him as he appearedwhen under the spell of the prairies he loved so well. Tramping thefields in search of prairie-chicken or quail, a patient watcher in therushes of a duck-pond, or merely lying flat on his back in thesunshine, --he was a being transformed. For he had in him much of theprimitive man and his whole nature responded to the "call of thewild. " But you who know his prairie-tales must have read between thelines, --for who, unless he loved the "honk" of the wild geese, couldwrite, "to those who have heard it year by year it is the sweetest, most insistent of music. It is the spirit of the wild, of magnificentdistances, of freedom impersonate"? To the late Mrs. Wilbur Teeters I am indebted for the followingtribute, which appeared in the "Iowa Alumnus. " "Dr. Lillibridge's field of romance was his own. Others have told ofthe Western mountains and pictured the great desert of the Southwest, but none has painted with so masterful a hand the great prairies ofthe Northwest, shown the lavish hand with which Nature pours out hergifts upon the pioneer, and again the calm cruelty with which sheeffaces him. In the midst of these scenes his actors played theirparts and there he played his own part, clean in life and thought, aman to the last, slipping away upon the wings of the great storm whichhad just swept over his much-loved land, wrapped in the snowy mantleof his own prairies. " Edith Keller-Lillibridge CONTENTS I A BREATH OF PRAIRIE 13 II THE DOMINANT IMPULSE 61 III THE STUFF OF HEROES 87 IV ARCADIA IN AVERNUS 109 Chapter I Prelude Chapter II The Leap Chapter III The Wonder of Prairie Chapter IV A Revelation Chapter V The Dominance of the Evolved Chapter VI By a Candle's Flame Chapter VII The Price of the Leap V JOURNEY'S END 239 VI A PRAIRIE IDYL 265 VII THE MADNESS OF WHISTLING WINGS 279 Chapter I Sandford the Exemplary Chapter II The Presage of the Wings Chapter III The Other Man Chapter IV Capitulation Chapter V Anticipation Chapter VI "Mark the Right, Sandford!" Chapter VII The Bacon What Am! Chapter VIII Feathered Bullets Chapter IX Oblivion Chapter X Upon "Wiping the Eye" Chapter XI The Cold Gray Dawn VIII A FRONTIER ROMANCE: A TALE OF JUMEL MANSION 309 IX THE CUP THAT O'ERFLOWED: AN OUTLINE 339 X UNJUDGED 347 XI THE TOUCH HUMAN 367 XII A DARK HORSE 373 XIII THE WORTH OF THE PRICE 393 ILLUSTRATIONS She wheeled swiftly round, confronting him. Frontispiece They saw the hands which had gone to hips flash up and forward like pistons, and two puffs of smoke like escaping steam. 74 "You'll apologize. " 190 The two men went East together. 326 He heard a voice . .. And glanced back. 388 A BREATH OF PRAIRIE AND OTHER STORIES A BREATH OF PRAIRIE I Dense darkness of early morning wrapped all things within and withouta square, story-and-a-half prairie farm-house. Silence, all-pervading, dense as the darkness, its companion, needed but a human ear to becomepainfully noticeable. Up-stairs in the half-story attic was Life. From one corner of theroom deep, regular breathing marked the unvarying time of healthyphysical life asleep. Nearby a clock beat loud automatic time, with abrassy resonance--healthy mechanical life awake. Man and machine, sideby side, punctuated the passage of time. Alone in the darkness the mechanical mind of the clock conceived a bitof fiendish pleasantry. With violent, shocking clamor, its deafeningalarm suddenly shattered the stillness. The two victims of the outrage sat up in bed and blinked sleepily atthe dark. The younger, in a voice of wrath, relieved his feelings witha vigorously expressed opinion of the applied uses of things ingeneral, and of alarm-clocks and milk pans in particular. He thereuponyawned prodigiously, and promptly began snoring away again, as thoughnothing had interrupted. The other man made one final effort, and came down hard upon themiddle of the floor. Rough it was, uncarpeted, cold with the dampchill of early morning. He groped for a match, and dressed rapidly inthe dim light, his teeth chattering a diminishing accompaniment untilthe last piece was on. Deep, regular breathing still came from the bed. The man listened amoment, irresolutely; then with a smile on his face he drew a featherfrom a pillow, and, rolling back the bed-clothes, he applied thefeather's tip to the sleeper's bare soles, where experience haddemonstrated it to be the most effective. Dodging the ensuing kick, he remarked simply, "I'll leave the light, Jim. Better hurry--this isgoing to be a busy day. " Outside, a reddish light in the sky marked east, but over all elsethere lay only starlight, as, lantern in hand, he swung down thefrozen path. With the opening barn door there came a puff of warmanimal breath. As the first rays of light entered, the stock stood upwith many a sleepy groan, and bright eyes shining in the half-lightswayed back and forth in the narrow stalls, while their owners waitedpatiently for the feed they knew was coming. Jim, still sleepy, appeared presently; together the two went throughthe routine of chores, as they had done hundreds of times before. Theyworked mechanically, being still stiff and sore from the previousday's work, but swiftly, in the way mechanical work is sometimesdone. Side by side, with singing milk pails between their knees, Jim stoppedlong enough to ask, "Made up your mind yet what you'll do, Guy?" The older brother answered without a break in the swish of milkthrough foam: "No, I haven't, Jim. If it wasn't for you and father and mother and--"he diverted with a redoubled clatter of milk on tin. "Be honest, Guy, " was the reproachful caution. "--and Faith, " added the older brother simply. The reddish glow in the east had spread and lit up the earth; so theyput out the lantern, and, bending under the weight of steaming milkpails, walked single file toward the house and breakfast. Far in thedistance a thin jet of steam spreading broadly in the frosty airmarked the location of a threshing crew. The whistle, --thin, brassy, --spoke the one word "Come!" over miles of level prairie, tothe scattered neighbors. Four people, rough, homely, sat down to a breakfast of coarse, plaincookery, and talked of common, homely things. "I see you didn't get so much milk as usual this morning, Jim, " saidthe mother. "No, the line-backed heifer kicked over a half-pailful. " "Goin' to finish shuckin' that west field this week, Guy?" asked thefather. "Yes. We'll cross over before night. " Nothing more was said. They were all hungry, and in the followingsilence the jangle of iron on coarse queensware, and the aspiration ofbeverages steaming still though undergoing the cooling medium ofsaucers, filled in all lulls that might otherwise have seemed torequire conversation. Not until the boys got up to go to work did the family bond draw tightenough to show. Then the mother, tenderly as a surgeon, dressed thechafed spots on her boys' hands, saying low in words that spokevolumes, "I'll be so glad when the corn's all husked"; and the fatherfollowed them out onto the little porch to add, "Better quit earlyso's to hear the speakin' to-night, Guy. " "How are you feeling to-day, father?" asked the young man, in a tonehe attempted to make honestly interested, but which an infinitenumber of repetitions had made almost automatic. The father hesitated, and a look of sadness crept over his weatheredface. "No better, Guy. " He laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, looking down into the frank blue eyes with a tenderness that made hisrough features almost beautiful. "It all depends upon you now, Guy, my boy. " Unconsciously his voicetook on the incomparable pathos of age displaced. "I'm out of therace, " he finished simply. The heavy, weather-painted lumber wagon turned at the farm-yard, andrumbled down a country road, bound hard as asphalt in the fall frosts. The air cut sharply at the ears of the man in the box, as he held thelines in either hand alternately, swinging its mate with vigor. Thesun was just peeping from the broad lap of the prairie, casting thebeauty of color and of sparkle over all things. Ahead of the wagoncoveys of quail broke and ran swiftly in the track until tired, when, with a side movement the tall grass by the border absorbed them. Flocks of prairie-chickens, frightened by the clatter, sprang wingingfrom the roadside, and together sailed away on spread wings. The manin the wagon looked about him and forgetting all else in thequick-flowing blood of morning, smiled gladly. He stopped at the edge of the field, tying the reins loosely andbuilding up the sideboards, gradually shorter, each above the other, pyramid-like, until they reached higher than his own head as he stoodin the wagon-box. Stiff from the jolting and inactivity of the drive, he jumped out upon the uneven surface of the corn-field. Slowly at first, as sore fingers rebelled against the roughness ofhusks, he began work, touching the frosty ears gingerly; then ashe warmed to the task, stopping at nothing. The frost, dense, all-covering, shook from the stalks as he moved, coloring the rustyblue of his overalls white, and melting ice-cold, wet him throughto the skin on arms and shoulders and knees. Swiftly, two motions tothe ear, he kept up a tapping like the regular blows of a hammer, asthe ears struck the sideboard. Fifteen taps to the minute, you wouldhave counted; a goodly man's record. This morning, though, Landers' mind was not upon his work. The vague, uncertain restlessness that marked the birth of a desire for broaderthings than he had known heretofore, was taking form in his brain. Hehimself could not have told what he wanted, what he planned; he simplyfelt a distaste for the things of Now; an unrest that prevented hissitting quiet; that took him up very early at morning; that made himhusk more bushels of corn, and toss more bundles of grain into theself-feed of a threshing machine than any other man he knew; that kepthim awake thinking at night until the discordant snores of the familysent him to bed, with the covers over his ears in self-defence. A vague wonder that such thoughts were in his mind at all was uponhim. He was the son of his parents; his life so far had been theirlife: why should he not be as content as they? He could not answer, yet the distaste grew. Irresistibly he hadacquired a habit of seeing unpleasant things: the meanness and thesmallness of his surroundings; the uncouth furnishings of his home;the lack of grace in his parents and acquaintances; the triflingincidents that required so many hours of discussion; and in all thingsthe absence of that sense of humor and appreciation of the lighterside of life which, from reading, he had learned to recognize. Try as he might, he could not recollect even the faint flash of a poorpun coming originally from his parents. Was he to be as they? Afeeling of intense repugnance swept over him at the thought--arepugnance unaccountable, and of which he felt much ashamed. Self-suspicion followed. Was it well for him to read the books andthink the thoughts of the past year? He could not escape except bybrutally tearing himself by the roots from his parents' lives. It wasall so hopelessly selfish on his part! "True, " answered the hot spirit of resentment, "but is it not rightthat you should think first of Self? Is not individual advancement thefirst law of Nature? If there is something better, why should you notsecure it?" The innate spirit of independence, the intense passion of pride andequality inborn with the true country-bred, surged warmly through hisbody until he fairly tingled. Why should others have things, think thoughts, enjoy pleasures ofwhich he was to remain in ignorance? The mood of rebellion was uponhim and he swore he would be as they. Of the best the world contained, he, Guy Landers, would partake. With the decision came an exultant consciousness of the graceful playof his own muscles in rapid action. The self-confidence of thesplendid animal was his. He would work and advance himself. The worldmust move, and he would help. He would do things, great things, ofwhich he and the world would be proud. Unconsciously he worked faster and faster as thought travelled. Theother wagons dropped behind, the tapping of corn ears on theirsideboards making faint music in the clear air. The sun rose swiftly, warming and drying the earth. Instead of frostthe dust of weathered husks fell thickly over him. Overflowing withlife and physical power, he worked through the long rows to the end, then mounted the wagon and looked around. Silently he noted the gainover the other workers, and a smile lit up the sturdy lines of hisface. Evening was approaching. The rough lumber wagon, heavily loaded fromthe afternoon's work, groaned loudly over the uneven ground. Insteadof the east, the west was now red, glorious. High up in the sky, surrounding the glow, a part of it as well, narrow luminous sun-dogspresaged uncertain weather to follow. Guy Landers mounted the wagon wearily, and looked ahead. The end ofthe two loaded corn-rows which he was robbing was in sight, and hereturned doggedly to his task. The ardor of the morning had succumbedto the steady grind of physical toil, and he worked with the impassiveperseverance of a machine. Night and the stillness thereof settled fast. The world darkened soswiftly that the change could almost be distinguished. The rows aheadgrew shadowy, and in their midst, by contrast, the corn-ears stood outwhite and distinct. The whole world seemed to draw more closelytogether. The low vibrant hum that marked the location of the distantthreshing crew, sounded now almost as near as the voice of a friend. Aflock of prairie-chickens flew low overhead, their flatly spread wingscutting the air with a sound like whips. They settled nearby, and outof the twilight came anon the confused murmur of their voices. Landers stopped the impatient horses at the end of the field, andshook level the irregular, golden heap in the wagon-box. Slowly hedrew on coat and top-coat, and mounted the full load, sitting sidewayswith legs hanging over the bulging wagon-box. It was dark now, but hewas not alone. Other wagons were groaning homeward as well. Suddenly, thin and brassy, out of the distance came the sound of a steamwhistle; and when it was again silent the hum of the thresher hadceased. From a field by the roadside, a solitary prairie-rooster gaveonce, twice, its lone, restless call. The man stretched back full length on the corn bed and looked up wherethe stars sparkled clear and bright. It all appealed to him, and amoisture formed in his eyes. A new side to the problem of the morningcame to him. These sounds--he realized now how he loved them. Verilythey were a part of his life. Mid them he had been bred; of them as offood he had grown. That whistle, thin and unmusical; that elusive, indescribable call of prairie male; all these homely sounds that meantso much to him--could he leave them? The moisture in his eyes deepened and a tightness gripped his throat. Slowly two great tears fought their way down through the dust on hisface, and dropped lingeringly, one after the other amid thecorn-ears. II The little, low, weather-white school-house stood glaring solitarilyin the bright starlight, from out its setting of brown, hard-troddenprairie. Within, the assembled farmers were packed tight and regularin the seats and aisles, like kernels on an ear of corn. In the frontof the room a little space had been shelled bare for the speaker, andthe displaced human kernels thereto incident were scattered crouchingin the narrow hall and anteroom. From without, groups of men deniedadmittance, thrust hairy faces in at the open windows. A row of dusty, grease-covered lamps flanked by composition metal reflectors, concentrated light upon the shelled spot, leaving the remainder of theroom in variant shadow. The low murmur of suppressed conversation, accompanied by the unconscious shuffling of restless feet, soundedthrough the place. Becoming constantly more noticeable, an unpleasant, penetrating odor, of the unclean human animal filled the room. Guy Landers sat on a crowded back seat, where, leaning one elbow onhis knee, he shaded his eyes with his hand. On his right a big, sweatyfarmer was smoking a stale pipe. The smell of the cheap, vile tobacco, bad as it was, became a welcome substitute for the odor of the manhimself. At his left were two boys of his own age, splendid, both of them, withthe overflowing vitality that makes all young animals splendid. Theywere talking--of women. They spoke low, watching sheepishly whetherany one was listening, and snickering suppressedly together. The young man's head dropped in his hands. It all depressed him like aweight. From the depths of his soul he despised them for theirvulgarity, and hated himself for so doing, for he was of their lifeand work akin. He shut his eyes, suffering blindly. Consciousness returned at the sound of a strangely soft voice, and helooked up a little bewildered. A swarm of night-bugs encircled each ofthe greasy lamps, blindly beating out their lives against the hotchimney; but save this and the soft voice there was no other sound. The man at the right held his pipe in his hand; to the left the boyshad ceased whispering; one and all were listening to the speaker withthe stolid, expressionless gaze of interested animals. Guy Landers could not have told why he had come that night. Perhaps itwas in response to that gregarious instinct which prompts us all attimes to mingle with a crowd; certainly he had not expected to beinterested. Thus it was with almost a feeling of rebellious curiositythat he caught himself listening intently. The speech was political, the speaker a college man. What he said wasimmaterial--not a listener but had heard the same arguments a dozentimes before; it was the man himself that held them. What the farmers in that dingy little room saw was a smooth-facedyoung man, with blue eyes set far apart and light hair that exposedthe temples far back; they heard a soft voice which made them forgetfor a time that they were very tired--forget all else but that he wasspeaking. Landers saw further: not a single man, but a type; the concreteillustration of a vague ideal he had long known. He realized asthe others did not, that the speaker was merely practising onthem--training, as the man himself would have said. When Landerswas critically conscious, he was not deceived; yet, with thisknowledge, at times he forgot and moved along with the speaker, unconsciously. It was all deliriously intoxicating to the farmer--this firstunderstanding glimpse of things he had before merely dreamedof--and he waited exultantly for those brief moments when he felt, sympathetically with the speaker, the keen joy of mastery inperfect art; that joy beside which no other of earth can compare, thecompelling magnetism which carries another's mind irresistiblyalong with one's own. The speaker finished and sat down wearily, and almost simultaneouslythe hairy faces left the windows. The shuffling of feet and the murmurof rough voices once more sounded through the room; again the odor ofvile tobacco filled the air. Several of the older men gathered aroundthe speaker, in turn holding his hand in a relentless grip while theystruggled bravely for words to express the broadest of compliments. Young boys stood wide-eyed under their fathers' arms and looked at thecollege man steadily, like young calves. The reaction was on the slender young speaker, and though theexperience was new, he shook hands wearily. In spite of himself ashade of disgust crept into his face. He was not bidding for thesefarmers' votes, and the big sweaty men were foully odorous. He workedhis way steadily out into the open air. Landers, in response to a motive he made no attempt to explain even tohimself, walked over and touched the chairman on the shoulder. "'Evening, Ross, " he greeted perfunctorily. "Pretty good talk, wasn'tit?" Without waiting for a reply he went on, "Suppose you're nothankering for a drive back to town to-night? I'll see that"--a swiftnod toward the departing group--"he gets back home, if you wish. " Ross looked up in pleased surprise. He was tired and sleepy and onlytoo glad to accept the suggestion. "Thank you, Guy, " he answered gratefully. "I'll do as much for yousome time. " Landers waited silently until the last eulogist had lingeringlydeparted, leaving the bewildered speaker gazing about for thechairman. "I'm to take you to town, " said Landers, simply, as he led the waytoward his wagon. He then added, as an afterthought: "If you're tiredand prefer, you may stay with me to-night. " The collegian, looking up to decline, met the countryman's eye, andfor the first time the two studied each other steadily. "I will stay with you, if you please, " he said in sudden change ofmind. They drove out, slowly, into the frosty night, the sound of the otherwagons rattling over frozen roads coming pleasantly to their ears. Overhead countless stars lit up the earth and sky, almost as brightlyas moonlight. "I suppose you are husking corn these days, " initiated the collegian, perfunctorily. "Yes, " was the short answer. They rode on again in silence, the other wagons rumbling slowly awayinto the distance until their sound came only as a low humming fromthe frozen earth. "Prices pretty good this season?" questioned the college man, tentatively. Landers flashed around on him almost fiercely. "In Heaven's name, man, " he protested, "give me credit for a thoughtoutside my work--" He paused, and his voice became natural: "--athought such as other people have, " he finished, sadly. The two men looked steadily at each other, a multitude of conflictingemotions on the face of the collegian. He could not have been moresurprised had a clothing dummy raised its voice and spoken. Landersturned away and looked out over the frosty prairie. "I beg your pardon, "--wearily. "You're not to blame for thinking--aseverybody else thinks. " His companion started to interrupt but Landersraised his hand in silencing motion. "Let us be honest--withourselves, at least, " he anticipated. "I know we of the farm are dull, and crude, and vulgar, and ourthoughts are of common things. You of the other world patronize us;you practise on us as you did to-night, thinking we do not know. Butsome of us do, and it hurts. " The other man impulsively held out his hand; a swift apology came tohis lips, but as he looked into the face before him, he felt it wouldbe better left unsaid. Instead, he voiced the question that cameuppermost to his mind. "Why don't you leave--this--and go to school?" he asked abruptly. "Youhave an equal chance with the rest. We're each what we makeourselves. " Landers broke in on him quickly. "We all like to talk of equality, but in reality we know there isnone. You say 'leave' without the slightest knowledge of what in mycase it means. " He gave the collegian a quick look. "I'm talking as though I'd known you all my life. " A question was inhis voice. "I'm listening, " said the man, simply. "I'll tell you what it means, then. It means that I divorce myselffrom everything of Now; that I unlive my past life; that I leave mycompanionship with dumb things--horses and cattle and birds--and Ilove them, for they are natural. This seems childish to you; but livewith them for years, more than with human beings, and you willunderstand. "More than all else it means that I must become as a stranger to myfamily; and they depend upon me. My friends of now would not be myfriends when I returned; they would be as I am to you now--a thing tobe patronized. " He hesitated, and then went recklessly on: "I've told you so much, I may as well tell you everything. On the nextfarm to ours there's a little, brown-eyed girl--Faith's hername--and--and--" His new-found flow of words failed, and he ended inunconscious apostrophe: "To think of growing out of her life, and strange to my father andmother--it's all so selfish, so hideously selfish!" "I think I understand, " said the soft voice at his side. They drove on without a word, the frost-bound road ringing under thehorses' feet, the stars above smiling sympathetic indulgence at thislast repetition of the old, old tale of man. The gentle voice of the collegian broke the silence. "You say it would be selfish to leave. Is it not right, though, and ofnecessity, that we think first of self?" He paused, then boldlysounded the keynote of the universe. "Is not selfishness the first law of nature?" he asked. Landers opened his lips to answer, but closed them without a word. III Brown, magnetic Fall, with her overflow of animal activity, shadedgradually into the white of lethic Winter; then in slow dissolutionrelinquished supremacy to the tans and mottled greens of Springtime. Unsatisfied as man, the mighty cycle of the seasons' evolution movedon until the ripe yellow of harvest and of corn-field wrote "Autumn"on the broad page of the prairies. Of an evening in early September, Guy Landers turned out from theuncut grass of the farm-yard into the yellow, beaten dust of thecountry road. He walked slowly, for it was his last night on the farm, and it would be long ere he passed that way again. This was the roadthat led to the district school-house, and with him every inch hadbeen familiar from childhood. As a boy he had run barefoot in itsyellow dust, and paddled joyously in the soft mud of its summershowers. The rows of tall cottonwoods that bordered it on either sidehe had helped plant, watching them grow year by year, as he himselfhad grown, until now the whispering of prairie night winds in theirloosely hung leaves spoke a language as familiar as his nativetongue. He walked down the road for a half-mile, and turned in between stillother tall cottonwoods at another weather-stained, square farm-house, scarcely distinguishable from his own. "'Evening, Mr. Baker. " He nodded to the round-shouldered man who satsmoking on the doorstep. The farmer moved to one side, making generous room beside him. "'Evening, Guy, " he echoed. "Won't y' set down?" "Not to-night, Mr. Baker. I came over to see Faith. " He hesitated, then added as an afterthought: "I go away to-morrow. " The man on the steps smoked silently for a minute, the glow from thecorn-cob bowl emphasizing the gathering twilight. Slowly he took thepipe from his mouth, and, standing up, seized the young man's hand inthe grip of a vise. "I heerd y' were goin', Guy. " He looked down through the steadiest ofmild blue eyes. "Good-bye, my boy. " An uncertain catch came into hisvoice, and he shook the hand harder than before. "We'll all miss ye. " He dropped his arm, and sat down on the step, impassively resuming hispipe. Without raising his eyes, he nodded toward the back yard. "Faith's back there with her posies, " he said. The young man hesitated, swallowing fiercely at the lump in histhroat. "Good-bye, Mr. Baker, " he faltered at length. He walked slowly around the corner of the house, stopping a moment topat the friendly collie that wagged his tail, welcomingly, in thepath. A large mixed orchard-garden, surrounded by a row of sturdy softmaples, opened up before him; and, coming up its side path, with themost cautious of gingerly treads, was the big hired man, bearing ahuge striped watermelon. He nodded in passing, and grinned with ameaning hospitality on the visitor. At one corner of the garden an oblong mound of earth, bordered withbright stones and river-clam shells, marked the "posy" bed. Withinits boundaries a collection of overgrown house plants, belated pinks, and seeding sweet-peas, fought for life with the early fall frosts. Landers looked steadily down at the sorry little garden. Likeeverything else he had seen that night, it told its pathetic tale ofthings that had been but would be no more. As he looked, a multitude of homely blossoms that he had plucked inthe past flowered anew in his memory. The mild faces of violets andpansies, the gaudy blotches of phlox, stood out like nature. He couldalmost smell the heavy odor of mignonette. A mist gathered over hiseyes, and again, as at the good-bye of a moment ago, the lump rosechokingly in his throat. He turned away from the tiny, damaged bed to send a searching lookaround the garden. "Faith!" he called gently. "Faith!"--louder. A soft little sound caught his ear from the grass-plot at the border. He started swiftly toward it, but stopped half-way, for the sound wasrepeated, and this time came distinctly--a bitter, half-choked sob. With a motion of weariness and of pain the man passed his hand overhis eyes, then walked on firmly, his footsteps muffled in the shortgrass. A dainty little figure in the plainest of calico, lay curled up on thesod beneath the big maple. Her face was buried in both arms; her wholebody trembled, as she struggled hard against the great sobs. "Faith--" interrupted the man softly, "Faith--" The sobs became more violent. "Go away, Guy, " pleaded a tearful, muffled voice between the breaks. "Please go away, please--" The man knelt swiftly down on the grass; irresistibly his arm spreadover the dainty, trembling, little woman. Then as suddenly he drewback with a face white as moonlight, and a sound in his throat thatwas almost a groan. He knelt a moment so, then touched her shoulder gently--as he wouldhave touched earth's most sacred thing. "Faith--" he repeated uncertainly. The girl buried her head more deeply. "I won't, I tell you, " she cried chokingly, "I won't--" she could sayno more. There were no words in her meagre vocabulary to voice herbitterness of heart. The man got to his feet almost roughly, face and hands set like alock. He stood a second looking passionately down at her. "Good-bye, Faith, " he said, and his trembling voice was the gentlestof caresses. He started swiftly away down the path. The girl listened a moment to the retreating steps, then raised atear-stained face above her arms. "Guy!" she called chokingly, "Guy!" The man quickened his steps at the sound, but did not turn. The girl sprang to her feet. "Oh, Guy! Guy!" pleadingly, desperately. "Guy!" The man had reached the open. With a motion that was almost insane, heclapped his hands over his ears, and ran blindly down the dusty pathuntil he was tired, then dropped hopelessly by the roadside. Overhead the big cottonwoods whispered softly in the starlight, and asolitary catbird sang its lonely night song. The man flung his arms around the big, friendly tree, and sobbedwildly--as the girl had sobbed. "Oh, Faith!" he groaned. IV A month had passed by, bringing to Guy Landers a new Heaven and a newearth. Already the prosy old university town had begun to assume anatmosphere of home. The well-clipped campus, with its huge oaks andits limestone walks, had taken on the familiar possessive plural "ourcampus, " and the solitary red squirrel which sported fearlessly in itsmidst had likewise become "our squirrel. " The imposing, dignifiedcollege buildings had ceased to elicit open-mouthed observance, andamong the student-body surnames had yielded precedence to Christiannames--oftener, though, to some outlandish sobriquet which satirizedan idiosyncrasy of temperament or outward aspect. Meantime the farmer had learned many things. Prominent among these wasa conception of the preponderant amount he had yet to learn. Anothermatter of illumination involved the relation of clothes to man. He hadbeen reared in the delusion that the person who gave thought to thatwhich he wore, must necessarily think of nothing else. Very confusing, therefore, was the experience of having representatives of this sameclass immeasurably outdistance him in the quiz room. Again, on the athletic field he saw men of much lighter weight excelhim in a way that made his face burn with a redness not of physicalexertion. It was a wholesome lesson that he was learning--that thereare everywhere scores of others, equally or better fitted by Naturefor the struggle of life than oneself, and who can only be surpassedby the indomitable application and determination that wins allthings. Landers' nature though was that of the born combatant. The class thatlaughed openly at his first tremblingly bashful, and ludicrously inaptanswer at quiz, was indelibly photographed upon his memory. "Before this session is complete--" he challenged softly to himself, and glared at those members nearest him in a way that made themsuddenly forget the humor of the situation. But youth is ever tractable, and even this short time had accomplishedmuch. Already the warm, contagious, college comradeship possessed him. Violent attacks of homesickness that made gray the brightest falldays, like the callous spots on his palms, were becoming more rare. The old existence was already a dream, as yet a little sad, but nonethe less a thing without a substance. The new life was a warm, magnetic reality; the future glowed bright with limitless promise. "The first day of the second month, " remarked Landers, meeting afellow-classman on the way to college hall one morning. "Yes, an auspicious time to quit--this, " completed the student with asuggestive shuffle of his feet. "We've furnished our share ofamusement. " Landers looked up questioningly. "Is that from the class president?" he asked. "Yes, " answered the other, "hadn't you heard? No more dancing, 'hisnibs' says. " They had reached the entrance to the big college building, and at thatmoment a great roar of voices sounded from out the second-floorwindows. Simultaneously the two freshmen quickened their pace. "The fun's on, " commented Landers' informant excitedly, as togetherthey broke for the lecture-room, two stairs at the jump. The large department amphitheatre opened up like a fan--the handle inthe centre of the building on the entrance floor, the spread edge, nearly a complete half-circle, marked by the boundary walls of thebuilding, a full story higher. The intervening space, at aninclination of thirty odd degrees, was a field of seats, cut intothree equal parts by two aisles that ran from the entrance, divergently upward. The small space at the entrance--popularly dubbed"the pit"--was professordom's own particular region. From this point, by an unwritten law, the classes ranged themselves according to thelength of their university life; the seniors at the extreme apex ofthe angle, the other classes respectively above, leaving the freshmenfar beyond in space. As guardians of the two narrow aisles, the seniors dealt lightly withjuniors and "sophs, " but demanded insatiable toll of every freshmanbefore he was allowed to ascend. That a first-year man must dance was irrevocable. It had the authorityof precedent in uncounted graduate classes. To be sure, it was neitherrequired nor expected that all applicants be masters of the art; but, agitate his feet in some manner, every able-bodied male member must, or remain forever a freshman. When Landers and his companion arrived at the top of the stairs theyfound the hall packed close with fellow-classmates. The lower rows ofseats were already filled with triumphant seniors, waiting for thethrong that crowded pit and lobby to come within their reach. Withregular tapping of feet and clapping of hands in unison, the class asone man beat the steady time of one who marches. "Dance, freshies!" they repeated monotonously. "Dance!" "Clear the pit for a rush, " yelled the president of the besiegingfreshmen, elbowing his way back into the mass. A lull fell upon the room, as both sides gathered themselvestogether. "Now--all at once!" yelled the president, and pandemonium brokeloose. "Rush 'em! Shove, behind there!" shrieked the struggling freshmen atthe front. "Dance, freshies! Dance!" challenged the seniors, as they locked armsacross the narrow aisle. "Hold 'em, fellows! Hold 'em!" encouraged the men of the upper seats, bracing themselves against the broad backs below. The classes met like water against a wall. To go up was impossible;advantage of gravity and of position was all with the seniors. For aninstant, at the centre, there were frantic yelling and pulling ofloose wearing apparel; then, packed like cotton in a bale, they couldonly scream for mercy. "Loosen up, back there! Back!" they panted, squirming impotently asthey gasped for breath. Slowly the reaction came amid the triumphant, "Dance, freshies!" ofthe conquering hosts. The jam loosened; the seniors' opportunity came. Like a big machine, the occupants of the front row leaned forward, and seized upon acircle of unsuspecting, retreating freshmen, among the number theclass president. "Pass 'em up! Pass 'em up!" insisted the men above, reaching out eagerhands to aid; and with an irresistibility that seemed miraculous, thesquirming, kicking, struggling freshmen found themselves rollingupward--head foremost, feet foremost, position unclassified--over theheads of the upper classmen; bumping against seats, and scattering thecontents of their pockets loosely along the way. "Up with them, " repeated the denizens of the front row as they reachedforward for a fresh supply. But there was no more material available; the besieging party hadretreated. On the top row the dishevelled president was confusedlypulling himself together, and grinning sheepishly. The rebellion wasover. "Dance, freshies, " resumed the seniors mockingly; and once more theregular tap of feet and clapping of hands beat slow march-time. One by one the freshmen came forward, and, shuffling a few steps tothe encouraging "well done" of the seniors, mounted the steps betweenthe rows of laughing upper classmen. It happened that Landers came last. He wore heavy shoes and walkedwith an undeniable clump. "He's Dutch, make him clog, " called a man from an upper row. The class caught the cry. "Clog! Clog!" they commanded. A big fellow next the aisle made an addition. "Clog there, hayseed, "he grumbled. Landers stopped as though the words were a blow. That one word"hayseed" with all that it meant to him--to be thrown at him now, tauntingly, before the whole class! His face grew white beneath theremaining coat of tan, and he stepped up to the big senior with aswiftness of which no one would have suspected him capable. "Take that back!" he blazed into the man's face. The senior hesitated; the room grew breathlessly quiet. "Take it back, I say!" The big fellow tried to laugh, but his voice only grated. "Damned if I will--hayseed, " he retorted with a meaning pause andaccent. Before the words were out of his mouth Landers had the man by thecollar, and they were fighting like cats. For a time things in that pit were very confused and very noisy. Bothstudents were big and both were furiously angry. By rule they wouldhave been very evenly matched, but in a rough-and-tumble scrimmagethere was no comparison. The classes made silent and neutralspectators, as Landers swung the man around in the narrow pit like awhirlwind, and finally pushed him back into his seat. "Now will you take it back!" he roared breathlessly, vigorouslyshaking his victim. The hot lust of battle was upon the farmer, and he forgot that severalhundred students were watching his every motion. "Take it back, " he repeated, "or I'll--" and he lifted the man halfout of the seat. The senior seized both arms of the chair, and looked up in a dazedsort of way. "I--" he began weakly. "Louder--" interrupted Landers. "I--beg your pardon, " said the reluctant, trembling voice. That instant the amphitheatre went wild. "Bravo!" yelled a hundredvoices over the clamor of cheering hands. "Three cheers for the freshman!" shrilled a voice over the tumult; andthe "rah, rah, rah" that followed made the skylight rattle. Landers stepped back and looked up bewildered; then a realization ofthe thing came to him and his face burned as no sun could make itburn, and his knees grew weak. He gladly would have given all hispresent earthly belongings, and all in prospect for the immediatefuture for a kindly earth to open suddenly and swallow him. Perspiration stood out on his face as he went slowly up the stairs, atevery step a row of friendly hands grasping him in congratulation. Slowly the room became quiet. The whole confusion had not taken upeven the time of grace at the beginning of the hour; and a great burstof applause greeted the mild old dean as he came absently in, as washis wont, at the tap of the ten-minute bell. He looked up innocentlyat the unusual greeting, and the cheer was repeated with interest. Asfirst in authority he was supposed to report all such inter-classoffences; but in effect he invariably happened to be convenientlyabsent at such times--the times of the freshman rebellion. He beganlecturing now without a word of comment, and on the instant thepeaceful scratching of fountain pens on notebooks replaced the clamorsof war. The lecture was about half over when there was a tap on the entrancedoor; and the white-haired dean, answering, stepped out into the hall. In a second he returned carrying a thin, yellow envelope. "A message for--, " he studied the writing with near-sighted eyes, "--for Guy Landers, " he announced slowly. The message went up the incline, hand over hand toward the top row, and the boy who waited felt the room growing gradually close and dark. To him a telegram could mean but one thing. The class sat watching silently until they saw him take the paper fromhis neighbor; then in kindness they turned away at the look on hisface. In the pit below the mild old dean began talking absently. Landers tried to open the envelope, but his nervous hands rebelled. Helaid the broad side firmly against his knee and tore open the endraggedly, drawing out the inclosed sheet with a trembling rustle thatcould be heard all over the room. The open page was before him; but the letters only danced before hiseyes. He spread the paper as before, flat upon his knee, ere he couldread. The one short line, the line of which every word was as he expected, stood clear before him. He felt now a vague sort of wonder that thebrief, picked sentences should have affected him as they had. He hadalready known what they told for so long--ever since his name wasspoken at the door--ages ago. He looked hesitatingly around the room. Several students were scrutinizing him curiously, as though expectingsomething. Oh, yes--that recalled him. He must go--home. He hated tointerrupt the lecture, but he must. He got up unsteadily, and starteddown the stair, groping his way uncertainly, as a man walks in thedark. The kind old dean waited in silence until Landers had passedhesitatingly through the door; then followed him out into the hall. Amoment, and he returned, standing abstractedly by the lecture table. He picked up his scattered notes absently, shaking the ends even witha painstaking hand; then as carefully scattered them as before. Helooked up at the silent, waiting class, and those who were near sawthe tears sparkling in the mild old eyes. "Landers' father is dead, " came the simple, hushed announcement. V The bright afternoon sun of late October shone slantingly on the trainof weathered wagons that stretched out like an uncoiling spring fromthe group collected in front of the little farm-house. From near andafar the neighbors had gathered; and now, falling slowly into line, they formed a chain a full quarter-mile in length. Guy Landers was glad that at last it was over and they were out in thesunshine once more. He turned into the carefully reserved place at thehead of the procession with almost a sense of relief. He was tired, fiercely tired, of the well-meant but insistent pity which dogged himwith a tenacity that drove him desperate. They would not even allowhim to think. He rode alone on the front seat of the open wagon. Behind him, hismother and Jim sat stiffly, hand in hand. They gazed dully at theblack thing ahead, and sobbed softly, now singly, now together. Both--himself as well--were dressed in complete black; old mustyblack, gotten out of the dark, hurriedly, and with the close smell ofthe closet still upon it. Even the horses conformed to the sobershade. They had been supplied by a neighbor on account of theirsombre color. A heavy black tassel swung back and forth with the motion of theuneven road just ahead of the horses' heads, and Landers sat watchingit idly. He even caught himself counting the vibrations, as though itwere a pendulum, dividing the beats into minutes. Very slow time itwas; but somehow it did not surprise him. It all conformed soperfectly with the brown, quiet prairie, and the sun shining, slantingand sleepy. The swinging tassel grew indistinct, and the _patter_, _patter_, _patter_ of the teams behind came as from a distance. He closed hiseyes, and the events of the past two days drifted through his mind. Already they seemed indistinct, as a dream. He wondered dully thatthey could be true and yet seem so foreign to his life, now. He evenbegan to doubt their verity, and opened his eyes slowly, halfexpecting to see the cool, green campus, and the big collegebuildings. The slanting sunlight met him full in the face, and theblack pendant swung monotonously, from side to side, as before. Hewearily closed his eyes again. Only two days since he had heard the taunting "Dance, freshy!" of theseniors, and felt the mighty rush of the freshman hosts; since the"rah, rah, rah, Landers!" had shook the old amphitheatre and thedozens of welcoming hands had greeted him; and then--the darkness--thehesitating leave-taking of the building, and the lingering walk acrossthe deserted campus toward his room--the walk he knew so well he wouldtake no more. A brief time of waiting--a blank--and then the bitter, thumping ride across two States toward his home, when he could onlythink, and think, and try to adjust himself--and fail; and at last theend. And again, at the little station, when he felt the touch of hismother's hand, and heard her choking "Guy, my boy--" that spoke somuch of love and of trust; when he heard his own voice answeringcheerily, with a firmness which surprised him even then, speaking thatwhich all through the long ride he had known he must speak--but couldnot: "It's all right, mother; don't worry; I'll not leave youagain!"--it all came back to him now, and he lived it over again andagain. The big, black tassel danced tantalizingly in front of him. Yes, hehad said that he would never leave again. He dully repeated the wordsnow to himself: "never again. " It was so fitting; quite in accordancewith the rest of the black pageant. His dream of life, his new-feltambitions--all were dead, dead, like his father before him, where theblack plume nodded. They passed up through the little town and the shop-keepers came outto look. Some were in their shirt sleeves; the butcher had his whiteapron tucked up around his belt. They gathered together in twos andgroups, nodding toward the procession, their lips moving as inpantomime. One man walked out to the crossing, counting aloud as theteams went by. "One, two, three, four, five, six--" he intoned. To himit was all a thing to amuse, like a circus parade, --interesting inproportion to its length. Landers looked almost curiously at the stolid shopmen. It required noflush of inspiration to tell him that but a few years of this lifewere necessary to make him as impassive as they. He who had sworn tomake the world move would be contentedly sitting on an empty goodsbox, diligently numbering a passing procession! The biting humor of the thought appealed to him. He smiled grimly tohimself. VI Once more on an early evening, a man turned out from a weather-stainedprairie farm-house, through the frosted grass, arriving presently atthe dusty public road. As before, he walked slowly along between thetall cottonwoods; but not, as on a memorable former occasion, becauseit would be for the last time. He was tired, tired with that absoluteabandon of youth that sees no hope in the future, and has nophilosophy to support it. Only thirty odd days since he went that waybefore! That many years would not add more to his life in the future. Unconsciously he searched along the way for the landmarks he hadwatched with so much interest the past summer. He found the nestwhere the quail had reared their brood, empty now, and covered thickwith the scattered dust of passing teams. Forgetful that he was wearyhe climbed well up the bole of a shaggy old friend, to peep in at theopening of a deserted woodpecker's home. He came to the big tree atwhose roots, on that other night he remembered so well, he had thrownhimself hopelessly. With a stolid sort of curiosity he looked down atthe spot. Yes, there was the place. A few fallen leaves were scatteredupon the earth where his body had pressed tightly against thetree-trunk, and there were the hollows where his clenched hands hadfound hold. A dull rebellion crept over him as he looked. It had beenneedless to torture him so! He came in sight of the familiar little farm-house and turned inslowly at the break between the trees. It was growing dark now, butthe odor of tobacco was on the air, and looking closely, he couldcatch the gleam from a glowing pipe-bowl in the doorway. He passed hishand across his brow, almost doubting--it was all so like--before-- A light step came tapping quickly down the pathway toward him. "Guy!"a voice called softly. "Guy, is that you?" The voice was quite near him now, and he stopped short, a big mapleabove him. "Yes, Faith. " She came up close, peering into the shadow. "Guy--" she repeated, "Guy, where are you?" He reached out and clasped her hand; then again, and took both hands. Her breath came quickly. Slowly his arm slipped about her waist, shestruggling a little against her own will; then her head fell forwardon his breast, and he could feel her whole body tremble. The man looked out through the rifts in the half-naked trees; into thesky, clear and sparkling beyond; on his face an expression of sadness, of joy, of abandon--all blended indescribably. Two soft arms crept gently about his neck, and a mass of fluffy haircaressed his face. "Oh! Guy! Guy!" sobbed the girl, "it's wicked, I know, but I'm soglad--so glad--" THE DOMINANT IMPULSE I Calmar Bye was a writer. That is to say, writing was his vocation andhis recreation as well. As yet, unfortunately, he had been unable to find publishers; but forthat deficiency no reasonable person could hold him responsible. Hehad tried them all--and repeatedly. A certain expressman now smiledwhen he saw the long, slim figure approaching with a package under hisarm, which from frequent reappearances had become easily recognizable;but as a person becomes accustomed to a physical deformity, Calmar Byehad ceased to notice banter. Of but one thing in his life he was positively certain; and that wasif Nature had fashioned him for any purpose in particular, it was todo the very thing he was doing now. The reason for this certainty wasthat he could do nothing else with even moderate satisfaction. He hadtried, frequently, to break away, and had even succeeded for a monthat a time in an endeavor to avoid writing a word; but inevitably therecame a relapse and a more desperate debauch in literature. Try as hemight he could not avoid the temptation. An incident, a trifle out ofthe ordinary in his commonplace life, a sudden thrill at the readingof another man's story, a night of insomnia, and resolution was intatters, and shortly thereafter Calmar Bye's pencil would be coursingwith redoubled vigor over a sheet of virgin paper. To be sure, Calmar did other things besides write. Being a normal manwith a normal appetite, he could not successfully evade the demands ofanimal existence, and when his finances became unbearably low, hewould proceed to their improvement by whatever means came first tohand. Book-keeping, clerical work, stenography--anything was grist forhis mill at such times, and for a period he would work without rest. No better assistant could be found anywhere--until he had satisfiedhis few creditors and established a small surplus of his own. Then, presto, change!--and on the surface reappeared Bye, the long, slender, blue-eyed, dreaming, dawdling, irresponsible writer. Being what he was, the tenor of Calmar's life was markedly uneven. Attimes the lust to write, the spirit of inspiration, as he would haveexplained to himself in the privacy of his own study, would come uponhim strong, and for hours or days life would be a joyous thing, hisfellow-men dear brothers of a happy family, the obvious unhappinessand injustice about him not reality, but mere comedy being enacted forhis particular delectation. Then at last, his work finished, would come inevitable reaction. Theproduct of his hand and brain, completed, seemed inadequate andcommonplace. He would smile grimly as with dogged persistence hestarted this latest child of his fancy out along the trail so thicklybestrewn with the skeletons of elder offspring. In measure, asbadinage had previously passed him harmlessly by, it now cut deeply. No one in the entire town thought him a more complete failure than heconsidered himself. Skies, from being sunny, grew suddenly sodden; nota tenement or alley but thrust obtrusively forward its tale ofmisery. "Think of me, " he confided to his friend Bob Wilson one evening asduring his transit through a particularly dismal slough of despondthey in company were busily engaged in blazing the trail with emptybottles; "One such as I, a man of thirty and of good health, without adollar or the prospect of a dollar, an income or the prospect of anincome, a home or the prospect of a home, following a cold scent likethe one I am now on!" He snapped his finger against the rim of histhin drinking glass until it rang merrily. "The idea, again, of a man such as I, untravelled, penniless, self-educated, thinking to compete with others who journey the worldover to secure material, and who have spent a fortune in preparationfor this particular work. " He excitedly drained the contents of theglass. "It's preposterous, childlike!"--he brought the frail trifle down to thetable with an emphasis which was all but its destruction--"imbecile!I tell you I'm going to quit. "Quit for good, " he repeated at the expression on the other's face. Bob Wilson scrutinized his companion with a critical eye. "Waiter, " he said, speaking over his shoulder, "waiter, kindly tax ourcredit further to the extent of a couple of Havanas. " "Yes, sah, " acknowledged the waiter. Silence fell; but Bob's observation of his friend continued. "So you are going to quit the fight?" he commented at last. "I am, "--decidedly. Wilson lit his cigar. "You have completed that latest--production on which you were engaged, I suppose?" The writer scratched a match. "This afternoon. " "And sent it on?" A nod. "Yes, on to the furnace room. " A smile which approached a grin formed over Bob's big face. "You have hope of its acceptance, I trust?" Calmar Bye blew a cloud of smoke far toward the ceiling, and thesmile, a shade grim, was reflected. "More than hope, " laconically. "I have certainty at last. " Another pause followed and slowly the smile vanished from the faces ofboth. "Bob, " and the long Calmar straightened in his chair, "I've been anass. It's all apparent, too apparent, now. I've tried to compete withthe entire world, and I'm too small. It's enough for me to workagainst local competition. " He meditatively flicked the ash from hiscigar with his little finger. "I realize that a lot of my friends--women friends particularly--willsay they always knew I had no determination, wouldn't stay in the gameuntil I won. They're all alike in this one particular, Bob; allsticklers for the big lower jaw. "But I don't care. I've been shooting into a covey of publishers fortwelve years and never have touched a feather. Perseverance is a goodquality, but there is such a thing as insanity. " He staredunconsciously at the portieres of the booth. "Once and for all, I tell you I'm through, " he repeated. "What are you going at?" queried Bob, sympathetically, a shadequizzically. The long Calmar reached into his pocket with deliberation. "Read that. " He tossed a letter across the tiny table. Bob poised the epistle in his hand gingerly. "South Dakota, " he commented, as he observed the postmark. "Humph, Ican't make out the town. " "It's not a town at all, only a postoffice. Immaterial anyway, "explained Calmar, irritably. The round-faced man unfolded the letter slowly and read aloud:-- "MY DEAR SIR:-- "Your request, coming from a stranger, is rather unusual; but if you really mean business, I will say this: Provided you're willing to take hold and stay right with me, I'll take you in and at the end of a half-year pay $75. 00 per month. You can then put into the common fund whatever part of your savings you wish and have a proportionate interest in the herd. Permit me to observe, however, that you will find your surroundings somewhat different from those amid which you are living at present, and I should advise you to consider carefully before you make the change. "Very truly yours, "E. J. DOUGLASS. " Bob slowly folded the sheet, and tossed it back. "In what particular portion of that desert, if I may ask, does yournew employer reside?" There was uncertainty in the speaker's voice, as of one who spoke of India or the islands of the Pacific. "Likewise--pardon my ignorance--is that herd he mentions--buffalo?" Calmar imperturbably returned the letter to his pocket. "I'm serious, Robert. Douglass is a cattle man west of the river. " "The river!" apostrophized Bob. "The man juggles with mysteries. Whatriver, pray?" "The Missouri, of course. Didn't you ever study geography?" "I beg your pardon, " in humble apology. "Is that, " vaguely, "what theycall the Bad Lands?" Bye looked across at his friend, of a mind to be indignant; then hisgood-nature triumphed. "No, it's not so bad as that, " with a feeble attempt at a pun. Hepaused to light a cigar, and absent-minded as usual, continued indigression. "I've dangled long enough, old man; too long. I'm going to dosomething now. I start to-morrow. " Bob Wilson the skeptic, looked at his friend again critically. Resolutions of reconstruction he had heard before--and later watchedtheir downfall; but this time somehow there was a new elementintroduced. Perhaps, after all-- "Waiter, " he called, "we'll trifle with another quart of extra-dry, ifyou please. " "To your success, " he added to his companion across the table, whenthe waiter had returned from his mission. II A year passed around, as years have a way of doing, and foundCalmar Bye, the city man, metamorphosed indeed. Bronzed, bearded, corduroy-clothed, cigarette-smoking, --for cigars fifty miles from arailroad are a curiosity, --as the seasons are dissimilar, so was heunlike his former inconsequent self. In his every action now was adirectness and a purpose of which he had not even a conception inhis former existence. Very, very thin upon us all is the veneer of civilization; very, veryswift is the reversion to the primitive when opportunity presents. Only twelve short months and this man, end product of civilization, doer of nothing practical, dreamer of dreams and recorder of fancies, had become a positive force, a contributor to the world's food supply, a producer of meat. What a satire, in a period of time of which theshifting seasons could be counted upon one hand, to have vibratedfrom manuscript to beef, and for the change to be seeminglyunalterable! To be sure there had been a struggle; a period of travail whilereadjustment was being established; a desperate sense of homesicknessat first view of the undulating, grass-covered, horizon-boundedprairies; an insatiable need of the shops, the theatres, thetelephones, the _cafés_, the newspapers, all of which previously hadconstituted everything that made life worth living. But these emotionshad passed away. What evolvement of civilization could equal thebeauty of a dew-scented, sun-sparkling prairie morning, or thegrandeur of a soundless, star-dotted prairie night, wherein the verylimitlessness of things, their immensity, was a never ending source ofwonder? Verily, all changes and conditions of life have theircompensations. Calmar Bye, the one time listless, had learned many things in thisunheard-of world. First of all, most insistent of all, he was impressed with theoverwhelming predominance of the physical over the mental. Later, inpractical knowledge, he grew inured to the "feel" of a native buckingbroncho and the sound of mocking, human laughter after a stunningfall; in direct evolution, the method of throwing a steer and the odorof burnt hair and hide which followed the puff of smoke where thebranding iron touched ceased to be cruel. Last of all, highest evolvement of all, came the absorption ofrevolver-lore under the instruction of experts who made but pastime ofpicking a jack-rabbit in its flight, or bringing a kite, soaring highin air, tumbling precipitate to earth. A wild life it was and a rough, but fascinating nevertheless in its demonstration of the overwhelmingsuperiority of man, the animal, in nerve and endurance over everyother live thing on earth. At the end of the year, with the hand of winter again pressed firmlyupon the land, it seemed time could do no more; that the adaptation ofthe exotic to his new surroundings was complete. Already the past lifeseemed a thing interesting but aloof from reality, like the fantasticexploits of a hero of fiction, and the present, the insistentlyactive, vital present, the sole consideration of importance. In the appreciation of the stoic indifference of the then West it wasa slight incident which overthrew. One cowboy, "Slim" Rawley, had aparticularly vicious broncho, which none but he had ever been able tocontrol, and which in consequence, he prized as the apple of his eye. During his temporary absence from the ranch one day a _confrère_, "Stiff" Warwick, had, in a spirit of bravado, roped the "devil" andinstituted a contest of wills. The pony was stubborn, the manlikewise, and a battle royal followed. As a buzzard scents carrion, other cowboys anticipated sport, and a group soon gathered. Ereminutes had passed the blood of the belligerents was up, and they werebattling as for life, with a dogged determination which would havelasted upon the part of either, the man or the beast, until death. Rough scenes and inhuman, Bye had witnessed until _blasé_; but nothingbefore like this. The man used quirt, rowel, and profanity like afiend. The pony, panting, quivering, bucking, struggling, covered withfoam and streaming with blood, shrilled with the impotent anger of ademon. Even the impassive cowboy spectators from chaffing lapsed intosilence. Of a sudden, loping easily over the frost-bound prairie and followingthe winding trail of a cowpath, appeared the approaching figure of ahorse and rider. It came on steadily, clear to the gathered group, andstopped. An instant and the newcomer understood the scene and a cursesprang to his lips. Another instant and his own mustang was spurred inclose by the strugglers. His right hand raised in air and bearing aheavy quirt, descended; not upon the broncho, but far across thecursing, devilish face of the man, its rider. Then swift as thoughtand simultaneously as twin machines, the hands of the intruder and ofthe struggling "buster" went to their hips. The spectators held their breaths; not one stirred. Before them theysaw the hands which had gone to hips flash up and forward like pistonsfrom companion cylinders, and they saw two puffs of smoke likeescaping steam. Smoothly, as a scene in a rehearsed play, the reports mingled, theriders, scarcely ten feet apart, tottered in their saddles, andslowly, unconsciously resistant even in death, the two bodies slippedto earth. [Illustration: They saw the hands which had gone to hips flash up andforward like pistons, and two puffs of smoke like escaping steam. ] But there the unison ended. The mustang which "Slim" Rawley rode stoodstill in its tracks; but before the spectators could rush in, the"devil" broncho, relieved of the hand upon the curb, sprang away, andwith the "buster's" foot caught fast in the stirrup ran squealing, kicking, crazy mad out over the prairie, dragging by its side the limpfigure of its unseated enemy. Calmar Bye watched the whole spectacle as in a dream. So swift hadbeen the action, so fantastic the denouement, that he could not atfirst reconcile it all with reality. He went slowly over to theprostrate "Slim" Rawley, whom the others had laid out decently uponthe ground, half expecting him to leap up and laugh in their faces;but the already stiffening figure with the fiendish scowl upon itsface, was convincing. Besides, --gods, the indifference of these men to death! The party ofonlookers were already separating--one division, mounted, starting inpursuit of the escaping broncho, along the narrow trail made by thedragged man; the others impassively reconnoitring for spades andshovels, were stolidly awaiting the breaking of the lock offrost-bound earth at the hands of a big, red-shirted cowboy with apick! "Here, Bye, " suggested one toiler, "you're an eddicated man; say aprayer er something, can't ye, before we plant old 'Slim. ' He wa'ntsech a bad sort. " The tenderfoot complied, and said something--he never knew justwhat--as the dry clods thumped dully upon the huddled figure in theold gunny sack. What he said must have been good, for those presentresisted with difficulty a disposition to applaud. This labor complete, the cowboys scattered, miles apart, each to hisdivision of the herd, which for better range had been distributed overa wide territory. Bye was in charge of the home bunch, and sat longafter the others had left, upon the new-formed mound in the ranchdooryard. Far over the broad, rolling prairies, as yet bare and frost-bound, thesun shone brightly. A half-mile away he could see his own herdscattered and grazing. The stillness after the sudden excitement wasalmost unbelievable. Minutes passed by which dragged into an hour. Over the face of the sun a faint haze began to form and, unnoticeableto one not prairie-trained, the air took on a sympathetic feel, almostof dampness. A native would have sensed a warning; but Calmar Bye, onetime writer, paid no heed. An instinct of his life, one he had thoughtsuppressed, a necessity imperative as hunger, was gathering upon himstrongly--the overwhelming instinct to portray the unusual. Under its guidance, as in a maze, he made his way into the rough, unplastered shanty. Automatically he found a pencil and collected somescraps of coarse wrapping paper. Already the opening words of the talehe had to tell were in his mind, and sitting down by the greasypine-board table, he began to write. Hours passed. Over the sun the haze thickened. The whole sky grewsodden, the earth a corresponding grayish hue. Now and anon puffs ofwind, like sudden breaths, stirred the dull air, and the shortbuffalo grass trembled in anticipation. The puffs increased untiltheir direction became definite, and at last here and there big, irregular feathers of snow drifted languidly to earth. Within the shanty the man wrote unceasingly. Many fragments he coveredand deposited, an irregular heap, at his right hand. At his left anadolescent mound of cigarette stumps grew steadily larger. A cloud oftobacco smoke over his head, driven here and there by vagrant currentsof air, gathered denser and denser. As the light failed, the writer unconsciously moved the rough tablenearer and nearer the window until, blocked, it could go no farther. To one less preoccupied the grating over the uneven floor would havebeen startling. Once just outside the door the waiting pony neighedwarningly--and again. Upon the ledge beneath the window-pane a tinymound of snowflakes began to take form; around the shanty the risingwind mourned dismally. The light failed by degrees, until the paper was scarcely visible, and, brought to consciousness, the man rose to light a lamp. One lookabout and he passed his hand over his forehead, absently. Striding tothe door, he flung it wide open. "Hell!" he muttered in complex apostrophe. To put on hat and top-coat was the act of a moment. To release thetethered pony the work of another; then swift as a great brown shadow, out across the whitening prairie to the spot he remembered last tohave seen the herd, the delinquent urged the willing broncho--only tofind emptiness; not even the suggestion of a trail. Back and forth, through miles and miles of country, in semi-circlesever widening, through a storm ever increasing and with daylightsteadily diminishing, Calmar Bye searched doggedly for the departedherd; searched until at last even he, ignorant of the supreme terrorsof a South Dakota blizzard, dared not remain out longer. That he found his way back to the ranch yard was almost a miracle. Asit was, groping at last in utter darkness, blinded by a sleet whichcut like dull knives, and buffeted by a wind like a hurricane, moredead than alive he stumbled upon the home shanty and opening the doordrew the weary broncho in after him. Man and beast were brothers onsuch a night. Of the hours which followed, of moaning wind and drifting sleet, nature kindly gave him oblivion. Dead tired, he slept. And morning, crisp, smiling, cloudless, was about him when he awoke. Rising, and scarcely stopping for a lunch, the man again sallied forthupon his search, wading through drifts blown almost firm enough tobear the pony's weight and alternate spots wind-swept bare as a floor;while all about, gorgeous as multiple rainbows, flashed mocking brightthe shifting sparkle from innumerable frost crystals. All the morning he searched, farther and farther away, until thecountry grew rougher and he was full ten miles from home. At last, stopping upon a small hill to reconnoitre, the searcher heard far inthe distance a sound he recognized and which sent his cheek pale--thefaint dying wail of a wounded steer. It came from a deep draw betweentwo low hills, one cut into a steep ravine by converged floods andhidden by the tall surrounding weeds. Bye knew the place well and thesignificance of the sound he heard. In a cattle country, after asudden blizzard, it could have but one meaning, and that the terror ofall time to animals wild or domestic--the end of a stampede. Only too soon thereafter the searcher found his herd. Upon thebrow of a hill overlooking the ravine he stopped. Below him, bellowing, groaning, struggling, wounded, dying, and dead--a greatmass of heavy bodies, mixed indiscriminately--bruised, broken, segmented, blood-covered, horrible, lay the observer's trust, thewealth of his employer, his own hope of regeneration, worse now thanworthless carrion. And the cause of it all, the sole excuse forthis delinquency, lay back there upon a greasy table in theshanty--a short scrawling tale scribbled upon a handful of scrappaper! III "Yes, I'm back, Bob. " The tall, thin Calmar Bye leaned back in his chair and lookedlistlessly about the familiar _café_, without a suggestion of emotion. It seemed to him hardly credible that he had been away from it all fora year and more. Nothing was changed. Across the room the same mirrorsrepeated the reflections he had observed so many times before. Nearbywere the same booths and from within them came the same laughter andchatter and suppressed song. Opposite the tiny table the same man withthe broad, good-natured face was making critical, smiling observation, as of yore. As ever, the look recalled the visionary to the present. "Back for good, Bob, " he repeated slowly. The speaker's attitude was far from being that of a conquering heroreturned; the sympathies of the easy-going Robert, ever responsive, were roused. "What's the matter, old man?" he queried tentatively. "Weren't you asuccess as a broncho-buster?" "A success!" Calmar Bye stroked a long, thin face with a long, thinhand. "A success!" he repeated. "I couldn't have been a worsefailure, Bob. " He paused a moment, smoothing the table-cloth absentlywith his finger tips. "Success!" once more, bitterly. "I'm not even a mediocre at anythingunless it is at what I'm doing now, dangling and helping spend themoney some one else has worked all day to earn. " He looked hisastonished friend fair in the eyes. "You don't know what an idiot, a worse than idiot, I've made ofmyself, " and he began the story of the past year. Monotonously, unemotionally he told the tale, omitting nothing, addingnothing; while about him the sounds of the restaurant, the tinkling ofglassware, the ring of silver, the familiar muffled pop of extractedcorks, played a soft accompaniment. Occasionally Bob would make acomment or ask explanation of something to him entirely new; but thatwas all until near the end, --where the delinquent herder, comingswiftly to the brow of the hill, looked down upon the scene in theravine below. Then Bob, the care-free, the pleasure-seeking, raised ahand in swift protest. "Don't describe it, please, old man, " he requested. "I'd rather nothear. " The speaker's voice ceased; over his thin features fell the light of aqueer little half-smile which, instead of declaring itself, onlyprovoked Bob Wilson's curiosity. In the silence Bye, with a handunaccustomed to the exercise, made the familiar gesture that broughtone of the busy attendants to his side. "And the story you wrote--?" suggested Wilson while they waited. For answer Calmar Bye drew an envelope from his pocket and tossed itacross the table to his friend. Wilson first noted that it bore thereturn address of one of the country's foremost magazines; he thenunfolded the letter and read aloud: "DEAR MR. BYE:-- "The receipt of your two stories, 'Storm and Stampede' and 'The Lonely Grave, ' has settled a troublesome question for us, namely: What has become of Mr. Calmar Bye? "No doubt you will recall that our criticisms of the material which you have submitted from time to time in the past, were directed chiefly against faults arising out of your unfamiliarity with your subjects. The present manuscripts bear the best testimony that you have been gathering your material at first hand. We have the feeling, as we read, that every sentence flows straight from the heart. "Now we want just such vivid, gripping, red-blooded cross-sections of life as these, your two latest accomplishments; in fact, we can't get enough of them. Therefore, instead of making you a cash offer for these two stories, we suggest that you first call at our office at your earliest convenience. If agreeable, we should like to arrange for a series of Western stories and articles, the evolving of which should keep you engaged for some time to come. "Cordially, "------" The hands of the two friends clasped across the table. No worddisturbed the silence until the forgotten waiter broke in impatiently: "Yo' o'der, sahs?" "Champagne"--this time it was Calmar Bye who gave it--"a quart. Andbe lively about it, too. " "Well, well!" Bob Wilson's admiration burst forth. "It is worth awhole herd of steers. " THE STUFF OF HEROES Springtime on the prairies of South Dakota. It is early morning, the sun is not yet up, but all is light and even and soft andall-surrounding, so that there are no shadows. In every directionthe gently rolling country is dotted brown and white from theincomplete melting of winter's snows. In the low places tinystreams of snow-water, melted yesterday, sing low under thelattice-work blanket the frost has built in the night. Nearby and inthe distance prairie-chickens are calling, lonely, uncertain. Wildducks in confused masses, mere specks in the distance, follow lowover the winding curves of the river. High overhead, flocks of geesein regular black wedges, and brant, are flying northward, and thebreezy sound of flapping wings and of voices calling, mingle in thesweetest of all music to those who know the prairies--Nature'smorning song of springtime. "What a country! Look there!" The big man in the front seat of therough, low wagon pointed east where the sun rose slowly from the lapof the prairie. The other men cleared their throats as if to speak, but said nothing. "And I've lived sixty years without knowing, " continued the firstvoice, musingly. "I've never been West before, either, " admitted De Young, simply. They drove on, the trickling of snow-water sounding around the wagonwheels. The third man, Clark, pointed back in the direction they had come. "Did any one back there inquire what we were doing?" he asked. "A fellow 'lowed, ' with a rising inflection, that we were huntingducks, " said De Young. "I temporized; made him forget that I hadn'tanswered. You know what will happen once the curiosity of the nativesis aroused. " "I wasn't approached, " Morris joined in, without turning. The cornersof the big man's mouth twitched, as the suggested picture formedswiftly in his mind. After a pause, De Young spoke again. "I gave the postmaster a specially good tip to see that we got ourmail out promptly. " "So did I, " Clark admitted. The face of the serious man lighted; and, their eyes meeting, thethree friends smiled all together. The sun rose higher, without a breath of wind from over the prairies, and one after another the men removed their top-coats. The horses'hoofs splashed at each step in slush and running water, sending dropsagainst the dashboard with a sound like rain. The trail which they were following could now scarcely be seen, exceptat intervals on higher ground, where hoof-prints and the tracks ofwheels were scored in the soft mud, and with each mile these marksgrew deeper and broader as the partly frozen earth softened. The air of solemnity which had hung about the men for days, and whichlifted from time to time only temporarily, now silenced them again. Indeed, had there been anybody present to observe, he doubtless wouldhave been impressed most of all with the unwonted soberness of thewagon's occupants, a gravity strangely at variance with the rampant, fecund season. And the object of their journeying into this unknown world was in alltruth a matter for silence rather than speech; its influence wastoward deep and earnest meditation, to which the joyous, awakeningworld could do no more than chant in a minor key a melancholyaccompaniment. Never did a soldier advancing upon a breach in theenemy's breastworks more certainly confront the grinning face ofDeath, than did this trio in their progress across the singingprairie; but where the plaudits of the world spelled glory for theone, the three in the wagon knew that for them Death meant oblivion, extinction, a blotting out that must needs be utter and inevitable. The thoughts of each dwelt upon some aspect of two scenes which hadhappened only a brief fortnight previously. There had been a notableconvention of physicians in a city many miles to the east. Onedelegate, a man young, slender, firm of jaw, his face shining withzeal and the spirit which courts self-immolation, had addressed thebody. His speech had made a profound impression--after its firsteffect of sensation had subsided--upon the hundreds gathered there, who hearkened amazedly; but of those hundreds only two had been movedto lay aside the tools of their calling and follow him. And whither was he leading them? Into the Outer Darkness, each firmlybelieved. For them the future was spelled _nihil_; for the world, salvation--perhaps. The inspired voice still rang in memory. "Gentlemen, I repeat, it is a challenge. .. . The flag of the enemy ishung up boldly, flauntingly, in every public place. .. . Are we topermit this? Are we to sit idle and acknowledge ourselves beaten inthe great struggle against Death? No, no, no! The Nation--yea, thewhole civilized world--shrinks and shudders in terror before the soundof one dread word--_tuberculosis_! "Our professional honor--our personal honor as well, gentlemen--is atstake. A solemn charge is laid upon us. .. . We must die if need be;but we must conquer this monstrous scourge, which is the single causeof more than one death in every ten. " And then, the deep silence which had marked the closing words: "Gentlemen, I can cure consumption, " came the simple declaration. "Ifthere are those among you who value Science more than gain; who arewilling to dare with me, willing to pay the extreme price, ifnecessary--if there are any such among you, and I believe there are, meet with me in my rooms this evening. " To the eight who accepted that invitation, Dr. De Young disclosed thedetails of his Great Experiment. It included, among many other thingswhich no one but a physician can appreciate, the lending of theirbodies to the Experiment's exemplification. Of the eight, two hadagreed to follow him to the end. Each of the three had placed hishouse in order, and here they were, nearing that end, whatever it wasto be. An hour passed, and now ahead in the distance a rough shanty came intoview. It was the only house in sight, and the three men knew it wasto be theirs. In silence they drew up where the men were unpackingtheir goods. "Good morning for ducks--saw a big flock of mallards back here in apond, " observed the man who took their team. The three doctors alighted without answering, and watching them, theman stroked a stubby red whisker in meditation. "Lord, they're a frost!" he commented. * * * * * Night had come, and the stars shone early from a sky yet light andwarm. In the low places the waters sang louder than before, with theincrease of a day's thawing. Looking away, the white spots weresmaller and the brown patches larger; otherwise, all was the same, theprairie of yesterday, of to-day, and to-morrow. Tired with a day of settling, the three men stood in the doorway andfor the first time viewed the country at night. They were not talkersat best, and now the immensity of the broad prairies held them silent. The daily struggle of life, the activity and rivalry and ambitionwhich before to-night had seemed so great to these city-bred men, herealone with Nature and Nature's God, where none other might see, assumed their true worth. The tangled web of life loosened and manyforeign things caught and held therein, fell out. Man, introspecting, saw himself at his real worth, and was not proud. The absolute quiet, so unusual, made them wakeful, and though tired, they sat long in the doorway, smoking, thinking. Small talk seemed tothem profanation, and of that which was uppermost in each man's mind, none cared first to speak. A subtle understanding, called telepathy, was making of their several minds a thing united. "No, not to-night, it's too beautiful, " said De Young at length, andthe protesting voice sounded to his own ears as that of a stranger. The men started at the sound, and the glowing tips of three cigarsdescribed partial arcs in the half light as they turned each to each. No one answered. They were face to face with fundamentals at last. Minutes, an hour, passed. The cigars burned out, and as the pleasantodor of tobacco died away, there came the chill night air of theprairie. The two older men rose stiffly, and with a low good-night, stumbled into the darkness of the shanty. De Young sat alone in the doorway. He realized that it was the supremehour of his life. In his mind, memory of past and hope of future meton the battlefield of the present, and meeting, mingled in chaos. Thoughts came crowding upon each other thick--the thoughts which cometo few more than once in life, to multitudes, never; the thoughtswhich writers in every language, during all time, have sought words toexpress, and in vain. Everywhere the snow-streams sang lower and lower. A fog, dense, penetrating, born of early morning, wrapped all things about, unitingand at the same time setting apart. Shivering, he shut the door on thenight and the damp, and as by instinct crept into bed. Listening inthe darkness, the sound of the sleepers soothed him. Happier thoughtscame, thoughts which made his heart beat more swiftly and his eyesgrow tender; for he was yet young, and love untold ever dwelleth nearheaven. Thus he fell asleep with a smile. "Choose, please. We'll take our turns in the order of length, " said DeYoung, holding up the ends of three paper strips. Each man drew, andin the silence that followed, without a word Morris turned away, preparing swiftly for the operation. "Give me chloroform, " he said, stretching himself horizontally, --addingas the others bent over him, "Inoculate deep, please. Let's notwaste time. " Swiftly, with the precision of absolute knowledge, the two physiciansdid their work. A mist was over their eyes, so that all the roomlooked dim, as to old men; and hands which had not known a tremor foryears, shook as they emptied the contents of the little syringe, teeming with tiny, unseen, living rods. Clark's forehead was damp witha perspiration that physical pain could not have brought, and on DeYoung's face, time marked those minutes as months. It was all done with the habit of years. The two doctors carefullysterilized their instruments and replaced them in cases, then, silently, drawn nearer together than ever before, the two friendswatched the return of consciousness. And Morris awakening, thingsreal and of dreamland still confused to his senses, heard the softvoice which a legion of patients had thus heard and blessed, sayingcheerily, "Wake up! wake up, my friend!" Thus the day passed. In turn, the men, hours apart, with activebrains, and eyes wide open, sent their challenges to Death--each manhis own messenger. The months slipped by. Suns became torrid hot, and cooled until itseemed there was light but not heat on earth. Days grew longer, and inunison, earth waxed greener; then in descending scale, both togetherwaned. Migratory wings fluttering at night, and passing voices callingin the darkness--most lonely sounds of earth--gave place to singers ofthe day. The robin, the meadow-lark, the ubiquitous catbird, all bornof prairie and of summer, came and went. Blackbirds in countlessflocks followed. Again the calling of prairie-chickens was heard ateve and morning, and anon frost glistened in the air. At last throughout the land no sound of animal voice was heard, forwinter bound all things firm and white. Another cycle was complete;yet, almost ere the record could be made, there appeared, moving farin the distance, a black triangle. Passing swiftly, with the sound ofwings and calling voices, there sprang anew in all things animate amixed feeling of gladness and unrest, which was the spirit of returnedspring. Thus twice the cycle of the seasons passed, and again the sun of earlyspring, shining bright, set the tiny snow-streams singing. Itglistened over the prairie on snow-drift and frost; it lit up the fewscattered shingled roofs of settlers newly come; and shone in at theopen door of a rough cabin we know, touching without pity the faces ofthe two men who watched its rise. Shining low, even with the prairie, it touched in vivid contrast an oblong mound of fresh earth, heaped uptarget distance from the cabin door. The mound had not been there long; neither snow or rain had yettouched it; it was still strange to the men in the doorway, who saw itvividly now, at time of sunrise. Though thus early, each man sat idlysmoking, an open book reversed on the knee. De Young first broke the silence. "We must do something, or else decide to do nothing about Clark'smail. " He shifted in his seat, looking away from the open door. "I don't know--whether--it would be kinder to tell them or not. " A coughing fit shook Morris, and answering, a twitch as of paintightened the corners of his companion's eyes. Minutes passed, andMorris sat limply in his chair, before he answered, "I thought at first we'd better write; now it seems different. Let'swait until we go back. " Neither of the men looked at the other. They seldom did now; itwas useless pain. Filled with the incomparable optimism of theconsumptive, neither man realized his own condition, but marked thedays of his friend. Morris, unbelieving, spoke of his friend'sreturn; yet, growing weaker each day himself, spoke in all hope andconviction of his future work, recording each day his mode ofsuccessful treatment, despite interruptions of coughing which lefthim breathless and trembling for minutes. De Young saw, and inpity marvelled; yet, seeing, and as a physician knowing, he not for amoment applied the gauge to himself. Nature, in sportive mood, commands the Angel of Death, who withmatchless legerdemain, keeps the mirror of illusion, unsuspected, before the consumptive's eyes; and, seeing, in derision the satiristsmiles. Unavoidably acting parts, the two friends found a barrier ofartificiality separating them, making each happier when alone. Thusday after day, monotonous, unchanging, went by. Not another personentered their door. From the little town a man at periods broughtprovisions and their mail, but the house was acquiring an uncannyreputation. They were not understood, and such are ever foreign. Withthe passage of time and the coming of the mound in the dooryard, thefeeling had developed into positive fear, and travellers avoided theplace as though warned by a scarlet placard. Morris grew weaker daily. At last the disillusionment that precedesdeath came to him. The artificial slipped from both men and anearness like that of brothers, joined them. They spoke not of thefuture but of the past. Years slipped aside and left them back in themidst of active, brain-satisfying practice. Over again they performedoperations, where life and death were separated but by a hair's width. Again, with eyes that brightened and breath that came more quickly, they lived their successes, and hand in hand, as children in the dark, told of their failures, and the tale was long, for they were but men. The end came quietly. A hemorrhage, a big spot of blood on the cover, a firm hand pressure, and Morris's parting words, "Save my notes. " That night De Young knew no sleep. "I must finish the work, " he said, in lame excuse. Well he knew there could be no rest for him thatnight. He did his task thoroughly, making record of things that hadpassed, with the precision of a physician who knows a patient but asmaterial. A tramp, who, unknowing, had taken shelter in an outbuilding, wakingin the night, saw the light. Moved by curiosity, he crawled up softlyin the darkness, and peeped in at the window. In the half light he sawon the bed a thin, white face motionless in the expression which evenhe knew was death; and at the table, writing rapidly with manuscriptall about, a man whose eyes shone with the brilliancy of disease, andwith a face as pale as the face on the pillow. In the blank, unreasoning terror of superstition, he fled until Nature rebelled andwould carry him no farther. Next day to all he saw, he told the taleof supernatural things which lingers yet around a prairie ruin, inwhose dooryard are mounds built of man. The mail carrier calling next day saw a man with spots of scarletheightening the contrast of a face pale as death, digging in thedooryard. The man worked slowly, for he coughed often and must rest. In kindness the carrier offered help, but was refused with words thatbrought to the listener's eyes a moisture unknown since boyhood, andthe thought of which in days that followed, kept him silent concerningwhat he had seen. Summer, with the breath of warm life and the odor of growing things;with days made dreamy and thoughtful by the purring of the soft windand the droning of insects; and nights when all was good; with starsabove and crickets singing below--summer had come and was passing. De Young could no longer deceive himself. The personal faith that hadupheld him so long--when friends had failed--could fight theinevitable no longer. With eyes wide open, he saw at last clearly, and, seeing, realized the end. He cared not for death; he was toostrong for that; but it must needs be that, now, with the shadow ofdefeat lying dark over the future, the problem of motive, the great"why, " should come uppermost in his mind demanding an answer. Once before, at the time when other men read from their lives, hecaught glimpses of something beyond. Now again the mood returned, andhe knew why he was as he was; that with him love was, and had been, stronger than Science and all else beside. He knew that whatever hemight have done, the entering into his life of The Woman, and theknowledge that followed her coming, had inspired the supreme motivethat thenceforth drove him forward. With this realization came a newlife, a happier and a sadder life, in which all things underwentreadjustment. Regret came as sadness, regret that he had not told this womanall; that in his blind confidence he had not written, but hadwaited--waited for this. He would wait no longer. He would tellher now. A thousand new thoughts came to his mind; a thousand newfeelings surged over him as a flood, and he poured them out on paper. The man himself, not the physician, was unfolded for the first time inhis life, and the writing of that letter which told all, his life, his love, that ended with a good-bye which was forever, was thesweetest labor of his life. He sealed the letter and sat for hourslooking at it, dreaming. It was summer and the nights were short, so that with the writing andthe dreams, morning had come. He could scarce wait that day for thecarrier; time to him had become suddenly a thing most precious; andwhen at last the man appeared. De Young twice exacted the promisethat the letter should be mailed special delivery. The reaction was on and all the world was dark. Fool that he was, twoyears had passed since he had heard from her. She also was aconsumptive; might not--? The very thought was torture; perspiration started at every pore, andwith the little strength that was left he paced up and down the roomlike a caged animal. A fit of coughing, such as he had never knownbefore, seized him, and he dropped full length upon the bed. The limit was reached; he slept. As he had worked one night before to forget, so he spent the followingdays. It was the end, and he knew it; but he no longer cared. Hisfuture was centred on one event--the coming of a letter. Beyond thatall was shadow, and he cared not to explore. He worked all that Naturewould allow, carrying to completion his observations, admitting hismistake with a candor which now caused no personal pain. He spent muchtime at his journal, writing needless things: his actions, his verythoughts, --things which could not have been wrung from him before;but he was lonely and desperate. He must not think--'t was madness. Sohe wrote and wrote and wrote. He watched for the carrier all the daylight hours. His mail was light, and the coming infrequent. There had been time for an answer, and thewatcher could no longer compose himself to write. All day he sat inthe doorway, looking across the two mounds, down the road whence thecarrier would come. And at last he came. Far down the road toward town one morning afamiliar moving figure grew distinct. De Young watched as thoughfascinated. He wanted to shout, to laugh, to cry. With an effort thatsent his finger nails deep into his palms, he kept quiet, waiting. A letter was in the carrier's hand. Struck by the look on De Young'sface, the postman did not turn, but stood near by watching. The exile, once the immovable, seized the missive feverishly, then paused toexamine. It was a man's writing he held, and he winced as at a blow, but with a hand that was nerved too high to tremble, he tore open theenvelope. He read the few words, and read again; then in a motion ofweariness and hopelessness indescribable, hands and paper dropped. "My God! And she never knew, " he whispered. When next the carrier came, he shaped the third mound. ARCADIA IN AVERNUS "_For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind. _" CHAPTER I--PRELUDE Silence, the silence of double doors and of padded walls was upon theprivate room of the down-town office. Across the littered, ink-staineddesk a man and a woman faced each other. Threads of gray lightened thehair of each. Faint lines, delicate as pencillings, marked theforehead of the woman and radiated from the angles of her eyes. A deepfissure unequally separated the brows of the man, and on his shavenface another furrow added firmness to the mouth. Their eyes metsquarely, without a motion from faces imperturbable in middle age andknowledge of life. The man broke silence slowly. "You mean, " he hesitated, "what that would seem to mean?" "Why not?" A shade of resentment was in the answering voice. "But you're a woman--" "Well--" "And married--" The note of resentment became positive. "What difference does thatmake?" "It ought to. " The man spoke almost mechanically. "You took oathbefore man and higher than man--" The woman interrupted him shortly. "Another took oath with me and broke it. " She leaned gracefullyforward in the big chair until their eyes met. "I'm no longer bound. " "But I--" "I love you!" she interjected. The man's eyebrows lifted. "Love?" he inflected. "Yes, love. What is love but good friendship--and sex?" The man was silent. A strong white hand slid under the woman's chin and her elbow met thedesk. "I meant what you thought, " she completed slowly. "But I cannot--" "Why?" "It destroys all my ideas of things. Your promise to another--" "I say he's broken his promise to me. " "But your being a woman--" "Why do you expect more of me because I'm a woman? Haven't I feelings, rights, as well as you who are a man?" She waited until he looked up. "I ask you again, won't you come?" The man arose and walked slowly back and forth across the narrow room. At length he stopped by her chair. "I cannot. " In swift motion his companion stood up facing him. "Don't you wish to?" she challenged. The hand of the man dropped in outward motion of deprecation. "The question is useless. I'm human. " "Why shouldn't we do what pleases us, then?" The voice was insistent. "What is life for if not for pleasure?" "Would it be pleasure, though? Wouldn't the future hold for us moreof pain than of pleasure?" "No, never. " The words came with a slowness that meant finality. "Whyneed to-morrow or a year from now be different from to-day unless wemake it so?" "But it would change unconsciously. We'd think and hate ourselves. " "For what reason? Isn't it Nature that attracts us to each other andcan Nature be wrong?" "We can't always depend upon Nature, " commented the man absently. "That's an artificial argument, and you know it. " A reprimand was inher voice. "If you can't depend upon Nature to tell you what is right, what other authority can you consult?" "But Nature has been perverted, " he evaded. "Isn't it possible your judgment instead is at fault?" "It can't be at fault, here. " The voice was neutral as before. "Something tells us both it would be wrong--to do--as we want todo. " Once more they sat down facing each other, the desk between them as atfirst. "Artificial convention, I tell you again. " In motion graceful asnature the woman extended her hand, palm upward, on the polished desktop. "How could we be other than right? What do we mean by right, anyway? Is there any judge higher than our individual selves, anddon't they tell us pleasure is the chief aim of life and as such mustbe right?" The muscles at the angle of the man's jaw tightened involuntarily. "But pleasure is not the chief end of life. " "What is, then?" "Development--evolution. " "Evolution to what?" she insisted. "That we cannot answer as yet. Future generations must and will giveanswer. " "It's for this then that you deny yourself?" A shade almost ofcontempt was in the questioning voice. The taunt brought no change of expression to the man's face. "Yes. " The woman walked over to a bookcase, and, drawing out a volume, turned the pages absently. Without reading a word, she came back andlooked the man squarely in the face. "Will denying yourself help the world to evolve?" "I think so. " "How?" "My determination makes me a positive force. It is my Karma for good, that makes my child stronger to do things. " "But you have no child, "--swiftly. Their eyes met again without faltering. "I shall have--sometime. " Silence fell upon them. "Where were you a century ago?" digressed the woman. "I wasn't born. " "Where will your child be a hundred years from now?" "Dead likewise, probably; but the force for good, the Karma of thelife, will be passed on and remain in the world. " Unconsciously they both rose to their feet. "Was man always on the earth?" she asked. The question was answered almost before spoken. "No. " "Will he always be here?" "Science says 'no. '" The woman came a step forward until they almost touched. "What then becomes of your life of denial?" she challenged. "You make it hard for me, " said the man, simply. "But am I not right?" She came toward him passionately. "I come nearyou, and you start. " She laid her hand on his. "I touch you, and youreyes grow warm. Both our hearts beat more quickly. Look at thesunshine! It's brighter when we're so close together. What of life?It's soon gone--and then? What of convention that says 'no'? It's buta farce that gives the same thing we ask--at the price of a few wordsof mummery. Our strongest instincts of nature call for each other. Whyshouldn't we obey them when we wish?" She hesitated, and her voicebecame tender. "We would be very happy together. Won't you come?" The man broke away almost roughly. "Don't you know, " he demanded, "it's madness for us to be talking likethis? We'll be taking it seriously, and then--" The woman made a swift gesture of protest. "Don't. Let's be honest--with each other, at least. I'm tired ofpretending to be other than I am. Why did you say 'being true to myhusband'? You know it's mockery. Is it being true to live with a man Ihate because man's law demands it, rather than true to you whomNature's law sanctions? Don't speak to me of society's right andwrong! I despise it. There is no other tribunal than Nature, andNature says 'Come. '" The man sat down slowly and dropped his head wearily into his hands. "I say again, I cannot. I respect you too much. We're intoxicated nowbeing together. In an hour, after we're separate--" She broke in on him passionately. "Do you think a woman says what I have said on the spur of the moment?Do you think I merely happened to see you to-day, merely happened tosay what I've said? You know better. This has been coming for months. I fought it hard at first; with convention, with your idea of rightand wrong. Now I laugh at them both. Life is life, and short, andbeyond is darkness. Think what atoms we are; and we struggle so hard. Our life that seems to us so short--and so long! A thousand, perhapsten thousand such, end to end, and we have the life of a world. Andwhat is that? A cycle! A thing self-created, self-destructive: then ofhuman life--nothingness. Oh, it's humorous! Our life, a ten thousandthpart of that nothingness; and so full of tiny--great struggles andworries!" She was silent a moment, her throat trembling, a multitudeof expressions shifting swiftly on her face. "Do you believe in God?" she questioned suddenly. "I hardly know. There must be--" "Don't you suppose, then, He's laughing at us now?" She hesitatedagain and then went on, almost unconsciously. "I had a dream a fewnights ago. " The voice was low and very soft. "It seemed I was alonein a desert place, and partial darkness was about me. I was consciousonly of listening and wondering, for out of the shadow came sounds ofhuman suffering. I waited with my heart beating strangely. Graduallythe voices grew louder, until I caught the meaning of occasional wordsand distinctly saw coming toward me the figure of a man and a womanbearing a great burden, a load so great that both together bentbeneath the weight and sweat stood thick upon their brows. The edgesof the burden were very sharp so that the hands of the man and thewoman bled from the wounds and their shoulders were torn grievouslywhere the load had shifted: those of the woman more than the man, forshe bore more of the weight. I marvelled at the sight. "Suddenly an intense brightness fell about me and I saw, near andafar, other figures each bearing similar burdens. The light passedaway, and I drew near the man and questioned him. "'What rough load is that you carry?' I asked. "'The burden of conventionality, ' answered the man, wearily and with anote of surprise in his voice. "'Why do you bear it needlessly?' I remonstrated. "'We dare not drop it, ' said the woman, hopelessly, 'lest that light, which is the searchlight of public opinion, return, showing usdifferent from the others. ' "Even as she spoke the illumination again fell upon us, and by itsbrightness I saw a drop of blood gather slowly from the wounds on thewoman's hand and fall into the dust at her feet. " A silence fell upon the inmates of the tiny muffled office. "But the burden isn't useless, " said the man, gently. "The condemnationof society is an hourly reality. From the patronage of others we live. The sun burns us, but we submit, for in return it gives life. " The woman arose with an abrupt movement, and looked down at himcoldly. "Are you a man, and use those arguments?" An expression akin tocontempt formed about her mouth. "Are you afraid of a united voice theindividuals of which you despise?" The first hint of restrained passion was in the answering voice. "You taunt me in safety, for you know I love you. " He looked up at herunhesitatingly. "Man's law is artificial, that I know; but it's madefor conditions which are artificial, and for such it's right. Were weas in the beginning, Nature's law, which beside the law of man is nolaw, would be right; but we're of the world as it is now. Things areas they are, and we must conform or pay the price. " He hesitated. Hisface settled back into a mask. "And that price of non-conformity istoo high, " he completed steadily. The eyes of the woman blazed and her hands tightened convulsively. "Oh, you're frozen--fossilized, man! I called you man! You're not aman at all, but a nineteenth century machine! You're run like a motor, from a power house; by the force of conventional thought, over wiresof red tape. Fie on you! I thought to meet a human being, not alifeless thing. " She looked at him steadily, her chin in the air, aworld of scorn in her face. "Go on sweating beneath the useless load!Go on building your structure of artificiality that ends centuriesfrom now in nothingness! Here's happiness to you in your empty life ofself-effacement, with your machine prompted acts, years considered!"Without looking at him, one hand made scornful motion of dismissal. "Good-bye, ghost of man; I wash my hands of you. " "Wait, Eleanor!" The man sprang to his feet, the mask lifting from hisface, and there stood revealed a multitude of emotions, unseen of theworld, that flashed from the depths of his brown eyes and quivered inthe angles of his mouth. He came quickly over and took her handbetween his own. "I'm proud of you, "--a world of tenderness was in his voice--"unspeakablyproud--for I love you. I've done my best to keep us apart, yet all thetime I believed with you. Nature is higher than man, and no power onearth can prove it otherwise. " He looked into the softest of browneyes, and his voice trembled. "Beside you the world is nothing. Itsapproval or its condemnation are things to be laughed at. With you Ichallenge conventionality--society--everything. " He bent over her handalmost reverently and touched it softly with his lips. "Farewell--until I come, " he said. CHAPTER II--THE LEAP A man and a woman emerged from the dilapidated day-car as it drew upbefore the tiny, sanded station which marked the terminus of therailway. The man was tall, clean-shaven, quick of step and of glance. The woman was likewise tall, well-gloved, and, strange phenomenon at acountry station, carried no parcels. Though easily the centre of attention, the couple were far from beingalone. On the contrary, the car and platform fairly swarmed withhumanity. Men mostly composed the throng that alighted--big, weather-stained fellows in rough jeans and denims. In the background, as spectators moved or lounged a sprinkling of others: thinner, lighter, enveloped in felt, woollen and buckskin, a fringe of heavyhair peeping out at their backs beneath the broad hat-brims. A fewwomen were intermingled. Coarsely gowned, sun-browned, they stood;themselves like suns, but each the centre of a system of bleach-hairedminor satellites. It was into this heterogeneous mass that the tallman elbowed his way, a neat grip in either hand; the woman followingclosely in his wake, her skirts carefully lifted. Clear of the out-flowing stream the man put down the satchels, andlooked over the heads of the motley crowd into the still more motleystreet beyond. Two short rows of one-story buildings, distinctive bythe brightness of new lumber on their sheltered side, bordered anarrow street, half clogged by the teams of visiting farmers. Not thefaintest clue to a hostelry was visible, and the eyes of the manwandered back, interrupting by the way another pair of eyes franklyinquisitive. The curious one was short; by comparison his face was still shorter, and round. From his chin a tiny tuft of whiskers protruded, like thehandle of a gourd. Never was countenance more unmistakably labelledgood-humored, Americanized German. The eyes of the tall man stopped. "Is there a hotel in this"--he groped for a classification--"thiscity?" he asked. A rattling sound, startlingly akin to the agitated contents ofover-ripe vegetables, came from somewhere in the internal mechanism ofthe small man. Inferentially, the inquiry was amusing to thequestioned, likewise the immediately surrounding listeners who becamesuddenly silent, gazing at the stranger with the wonder of youngcalves. At length the innate spirit of courtesy in the German triumphed overhis amusement. "Hans Becher up by the postoffice takes folks in. " The inwardcommotion showed indications of resumption. "I never heard, though, that he called his place a hotel!" "Thank you, " and the circle of silence widened. The man and the woman walked up the street. Beneath their feet thecottonwood sidewalk, despite its newness, was warped in agony undersun and storm. Big puddles of water from a recent rain stood in thehollows of the roadway, side by side with tufts of native grassesfighting bravely for life against the intruder--Man. A fresh, indescribable odor was in their nostrils; an odor which puzzled themthen, but which later they learned to recognize and never forgot--thepungent scent of buffalo grass. A stillness, deeper than of Sabbath, unbelievable to urban ears, wrapped all things, and united with anabsence of broken sky line, to produce an all-pervading sense ofloneliness. Hans Becher did not belie his name. He was very German. Likewise thelittle woman who courtesied at his side. Ditto the choice assortmentof inquisitive tow-heads, who stared wide-eyed from various corners. He shook hands at the door with each of his guests, --which action alsowas unmistakably German. "You would in my house--put up, you call it?" he inquired in laboredEnglish, while the little woman polished two speckless chairs with herapron, and with instinctive photographic art placed them stiffly sideby side for the visitors. "Yes, we'd like to stay with you for a time, " corroborated the tallman. The little German ran his fingers uncertainly through his hair for amoment; then his round face beamed. "We should then become to each other known. Is it not so?" Withoutpausing for an answer, he put out a big hand to each in turn. "I amHans Becher, and this"--with elaborate indications--"this my wifeis--Minna. " Minna courtesied dutifully, lower than before. The little Bechers werenot classified, but their connection was apparent. They calmly suckedtheir thumbs. The lords of creation obviously held the rostrum. It was the tall manwho responded. "My name is Maurice, Ichabod Maurice. " He looked at the woman, hiscompanion, from the corner of his eye. "Allow me, Camilla, to presentMr. Becher. " Then turning to his hosts, "Camilla Maurice: Mr. And Mrs. Becher. " The tall lady shook hands with each. "Pleased to meet you, " she said, and smiled a moment into their eyes. Thus Camilla Maurice made friends. There were a few low-spoken words in German and Minna vanished. "She will dinner make ready, " Hans explained. The visitors sat down in their chairs, with Hans opposite studyingthem narrowly; singly and together. "The town is very new, " suggested Ichabod. "One year ago it was not. " The German's short legs crossed each othernervously and their owner seized the opportunity to make furtherinspection. "It is very new, " he repeated absently. Camilla Maurice stood up. "Might we wash, Mr. Becher?" she asked. The ultimate predicament was all at once staring the little man in theface. "To be sure. .. . I might have known. .. . You will a room--desire. " . .. He ran his fingers through his hair, and inspiration came. "Mr. Maurice, " he motioned, "might I a moment with you--speak?" "Certainly, Mr. Becher. " The German saw light, and fairly beamed as he sought the safeseclusion of the doorway. "She is your sister or cousin--_nein_?" he asked. There was the faintest suggestion of a smile in the corners ofIchabod's mouth. "No, she is neither my sister nor my cousin, Mr. Becher. " Hans heaved a sigh of relief: it had been a close corner. "She is your wife. One must know, " and he mopped his brow. "Certainly--one must know, " very soberly. Alone together in the little unfinished room under the rafters, thewoman sat down on the corner of the bed, physical discomfort forgottenin feminine curiosity. "Those names--where did you get them?" she queried. "They came to me--at the moment, " smiled the man. "But the cold-blooded horror of them!. .. Ichabod!" "The glory has departed. " His companion started, and the smile left the man's face. "And Camilla?"--slowly. "Attendant at a sacrifice. " Of a sudden the room became very still. Ichabod, exploring, discovered a tiny wash basin and a bucket ofwater. "You wished to wash, Camilla?" The woman did not move. "They were very kind"--she looked through the window with the tinypanes: "have we any right to--lie to them?" "We have not lied. " "Tacitly. " "No. I'm Ichabod Maurice and you're Camilla Maurice. We have notlied. " "But--" "The past is dead, dead!" The woman's face dropped into her hands. Woman ever weeps instinctivelyfor the dead. "You are sorry that it is--so?" There was no bitterness in the man'svoice, but he did not look at her, and Camilla misunderstood. "Sorry!" She came close, and a soft warm face pressed tightly againsthis face. "Sorry!" Her arms were around him. "Sorry!" again repeated. "No! No! No! No, without end! I'm not sorry. I'm Camilla Maurice, thehappiest woman in the world!" Later they utilized the tin basin and the mirror with a crack acrossits centre. Dinner was waiting when they went below. To a casual observer, Hans had been very idle while they were gone. Hesat absently on the doorstep, watching the grass that grew almostvisibly in the warm spring sun. Occasionally he tapped his foreheadwith his finger tips. It helped him to think, and just now he sadlyneeded assistance. "Who were these people, anyway?" he wondered. Not farmers, certainly. Farmers did not have hands that dented when you pressed them, andfarmers' wives did not lift their skirts daintily from behind. Hanshad been very observant as his visitors came up the muddy street. No, that was not the way of farmers' wives: they took hold at the sideswith both hands, and splashed right through on their heels. Hans pulled the yellow tuft on his chin. What could they be, then? Notsummer boarders. It was only early spring; and, besides, although thelittle German was an optimist, even he could not imagine any oneselecting a Dakota prairie for an outing. Yet . .. No, they could notbe summer boarders. But what then? In his intensity Hans actually forgot the grass and, unfailing producer of inspiration, ran his fingers frantically throughhis mane. "Ah--at last--of course!" The round face beamed and a hard hand smotea harder knee, joyously. That he had not remembered at once! It wasthe new banker, to be sure. He would tell Minna, quite as a matter offact, for there could be no mistake. Hank Judge, the machine agent, and Eli Stevens, the proprietor of the corner store, had said onlyyesterday there was to be a bank. Looking up the street the little manspied a familiar figure, and sprang to his feet as though released bya spring, his hand already in the air. There was Hank Judge, now, andhe didn't know-- "Dinner, Hans, " announced Minna at his elbow. Holding the child of his brain hard in both hands lest it shouldescape prematurely, the little German went inside to preside over arepast, the distinctively German incense of which ascended mostappetizingly. Hans, junior, in a childish treble, spoke an honest little Germanblessing, beginning "_Mein Vater von Himmel_, " and emphasized by theraps of Hans senior's knuckles on certain other small heads to keeptheir owners quiet. "Fresh lettuce and radishes!" commented Camilla, joyously. "Raised in our own garden _hinein_, " bobbed Minna, in ecstasy. "And sauerkraut--" began Ichabod. "From cabbages so large, " completed Hans, spreading his arms todesignate an imaginary vegetable of heroic proportions. "They must have grown very fast to be so large in May, " commentedCamilla. Hans and Minna exchanged glances--pitying, superior glances--such aswe give behind the backs of the infirm, or the very old; and thesubject of vegetables dropped. "A great country for a bank, this, " commented Mr. Becher, withinfinite _finesse_ and between intermittent puffs at a hot potato. "Is that so?" Hans nodded violent confirmation, then words, English words, beingvaluable to him, he came quickly to the test. "You will build for the bank yourself, is it not so?" It was not the German and Minna who exchanged glances this time. "No, I shall not build for the bank myself, Mr. Becher. " "You will rent, perhaps?" Hans's faith was beautiful. "No, I shall not rent. " The German's face fell. To have wasted all that thought; for after allit was not the banker! Minna, senior, stared in surprise, and her attention being diverted, Minna the younger seized the opportunity to inundate herself with acup of hot coffee. The spell was broken. "I'm going to take a homestead, " explained Ichabod. Hans's fork paused in mid-air and his mouth forgot to close. At thepoint where the German struck, the earth was very hard. "So?" he interrogated, weakly. At this juncture the difference between the two Minnas, which had beentransferred from the table to the kitchen, was resumed; and althoughIchabod ate the remaining kraut to the last shred, and Camilla talkedto Hans of the _Vaterland_ in his native German, each knew theoccasion was a failure. An ideal had been raised, the ideal of aNapoleon of finance, a banker; and that ideal materializing, lo therestood forth a farmer! _Ach Gott von Himmel!_ After dinner Hans stood in the doorway and pointed out the land-office. Ichabod thanked him, and under the impulse of habit felt in hispocket for a cigar. None was there, and all at once he rememberedIchabod Maurice did not smoke. Strange he should have such anabominable inclination to do so just then; but nevertheless the factremained. Ichabod Maurice never had smoked. He started up the street. A small man, with very high boots and a very long moustache, sattipped back in the sun in front of the land-office. He was telling astory; a good one, judging from the attention of the row of listeners. He grasped the chair tightly with his left hand while his right, holding a cob pipe, gesticulated actively. The story halted abruptlyas Ichabod came up. "Howdy!" greeted the little man. Maurice nodded. "Don't let me interrupt you, " he temporized. "Not at all, " courtesied the teller of stories, as he led the wayinside. "I've told that one until I'm tired of it, anyway. " He tappedthe ashes from his pipe-bowl, meditatively. "A fellow has to kill thetime some way, though, you know. " "Yes, I know, " acquiesced Ichabod. The agent took a chair behind the battered pine desk, and pointed toanother opposite. "Any way I can help you?" he suggested. "Yes, " answered Maurice. "I'm thinking of taking a homestead. " The agent looked his visitor up and down and back again; then, beingnative born, his surprise broke forth in idiom. "Well, I'm jiggered!" he avowed. It was Ichabod's turn to make observation. "I believe you; you look it, " he corroborated at length. Again the little man stared; and in the silence following, ahungry-looking bird-dog thrust his thin muzzle in at the door, andsniffed. "Get out, " shouted the owner at the intruder, adding in extenuation:"I'm busy. " He certainly was "jiggered. " Ichabod came to the rescue. "I called to learn how one goes at it to take a claim, " he explained. "The _modus operandi_ isn't exactly clear in my mind. " The agent braced up in his chair. "I suppose you'll say it's none of my business, " he commented, "but asa speculation you'd do a lot better to buy up the claims of poorcusses who have to relinquish, than to settle yourself. " "I'm not speculating. I expect to build a house, and live here. " "As a friend, then, let me tell you you'll never stand it. " A stubbythumb made motion up the narrow street. "You see this town. I won'tsay what it is--you realize for yourself; but bad as it is, it'sadvanced civilization alongside of the country. You'll have to go tenmiles out to get any land that's not taken. " He stopped and lit hispipe. "Do you know what it means to live alone ten miles out on theprairie?" "I've never lived in the country. " "I'll tell you, then, what it means. " He put down his pipe and lookedout at the open door. His face changed; became softer, milder, younger. His voice, when he spoke, added to the impression ofreminiscence, bearing an almost forgotten tone of years ago. "The prairie!" he apostrophized. "It means the loneliest place onGod's earth. It means that living there, in life you bury yourself, your hopes, your ambitions. It means you work ever to forget thepast--and fail. It means self, always; morning, noon, night; until thevery solitude becomes an incubus. It means that in time you die, or, from being a man, become as the cattle. " The speaker turned for thefirst time to the tall man before him, his big blue eyes wide open andround, his voice an entreaty. "Don't move into it, man. It's death and worse than death to such asyou! You're too old to begin. One must be born to the life; mustnever have known another. Don't do it, I say. " Ichabod Maurice, listening, read in that appeal, beneath the words, the wild, unsatisfied tale of a disappointed human life. "You are dissatisfied, lonesome--There was a time years agoperhaps--" "I don't know. " The glow had passed and the face was old again, andheavy. "I remember nothing. I'm dead, dead. " He drew a rough map fromhis pocket and spread it out before him. "If you'll move close, please, I'll show you the open lands. " For an hour he explained homesteads, preemptions and tree claims, andthe method of filing and proving up. At parting, Ichabod held out hishand. "I thank you for your advice, " he said. The man behind the desk puffed stolidly. "But don't intend to follow it, " he completed. Instinctively, metaphor sprang to the lips of Ichabod Maurice. "A small speck of circumstance, which is near, obliterates much thatis in the distance. " He turned toward the door. "I shall not bealone. " The little agent smoked on in silence for some minutes, gazingmotionless at the doorway through which Ichabod had passed out. Againthe lean bird-dog thrust in an apologetic head, dutifully awaitingrecognition. At length the man shook his pipe clean, and leaned backin soliloquy. "Man, woman, human nature; habit, solitude, the prairie. " He spokeeach word slowly, and with a shake of his head. "He's mad, mad; but Ipity him"--a pause--"for I know. " The dog whined an interruption from the doorway, and the man lookedup. "Come in, boy, " he said, in recognition. CHAPTER III--THE WONDER OF PRAIRIE Ichabod and Camilla selected their claim together. A fair day's driveit was from the little town; a half-mile from the nearest neighbor, aNorwegian, without two-score English words in his vocabulary. Level itwas, as the surface of a lake or the plane of a railroad bed. Together, too, they chose the spot for their home. Camilla sobbed overthe word; but she was soon dry-eyed and smiling again. Afterwards, side by side, they did much journeying to and from the nearestsawmill--each trip through a day and a night--thirty odd miles away. The mill was a small, primitive affair, almost lost in the stragglingbox-elders and soft maples that bordered the muddy Missouri, producing, amid noisy protestations, the most despisable of all lumberon the face of the globe--twisting, creeping, crawling cottonwood. Having the material on the spot, Ichabod built the house himself, after a plan never before seen of man; joint product of his andCamilla's brains. It took a month to complete; and in the meantime, each night they threw their tired bodies on the brown earth, indifferent to the thin canvas, which alone was spread between themand the stars. Too utterly weary for immediate sleep, they listened to the sounds ofanimal life--wholly unfamiliar to ears urban trained--as they stoodout distinct by contrast with a silence otherwise absolute as thegrave. . .. The sharp bark of the coyote, near or far away; soft as an echo, the gently cadenced tremolo of the prairie owl. To these, the mereopening numbers of the nightly concerts, the two exotics would listenwonderingly; then, of a sudden, typical, indescribable, lonely asdeath, there would boom the cry which, as often as it was repeated, recalled to Ichabod's mind the words of the little man in theland-office, "loneliest sound on earth"--the sound which, once heard, remains forever vivid--the night call of the prairie rooster. Evennow, new and fascinating as it all was, at the last wailing cry thetwo occupants of the tent would reach out in the darkness until theirhands met. Not till then would they sleep. In May, they finished and moved their few belongings into the oddlittle two-room house. True to instinct, Ichabod had built afireplace, though looking in any direction until the earth met thesky, not a tree was visible; and Camilla had added a cozy readingcorner, which soon developed into a sleeping corner, --out-of-dooroccupations in sun and wind being insurmountable obstacles to mentaleffort. But what matter! One straggling little folio, the local newspaper, made its way into the corner each week--and that was all. They had cutthemselves off from the world, deliberately, irrevocably. It was butnatural that they should sleep. All dead things sleep! Month after month slipped by, and the first ripple of local excitementand curiosity born of their advent subsided. Ichabod knew nothing offarming, but to learn was simple. It needed only that he watch whathis neighbors were doing, and proceed to do likewise. He learned soonto hold a breaking-plough in the tough prairie sod, and to swearmightily when it balked at an unusually tough root. As well, he cameto know the oily feel of flax as he scattered it by hand over thebrown breaking. Later he learned the smell of buckwheat blossoms, andthe delicate green coloring of sod corn, greener by contrast with itsdark background. Nor was Camilla idle. The dresses she had brought with her, daintycreations of foreign make, soon gave way to domestic productions ofgingham and print. In these, the long brown hands neatly gloved, shestruggled with a tiny garden, becoming in ratio as passed the weeks, warmer, browner, and healthier. "Are you happy?" asked Ichabod, one day, observing her thus amid thefruits of her hands. Camilla hesitated. Catching her hand, Ichabod lifted her chin so thattheir eyes met. "Tell me, are you happy?" he repeated. Another pause, though her eyes did not falter. "Happier than I ever thought to be. " She touched his sleeve tenderly. "But not completely so, for--" she was not looking at him now, --"forI love you, and--and--I'm a woman. " They said no more; and though Ichabod went back to his team, it wasnot to work. For many minutes he stood motionless, a new problem ofright and wrong throbbing in his brain. Fall came slowly, bringing the drowsy, hazy days of so-called IndianSummer. It was the season of threshing, and all day long to the drowseof the air was added, near and afar, all-pervading through thestillness, the sleepy hum of the separator. Typical voice of theprairie was that busy drone, penetrating to the ears as the ubiquitousodor of the buffalo grass to the nostril, again bearing resemblance inthat, once heard, memory would reproduce the sound until recollectionwas no more. Winter followed, and they, who had thought the earth quiet before, found it still now indeed. Even the voice of the prairie-chicken washushed; only the sharp knife-like cutting of spread wings told of aflock's passage at night. The level country, mottled white withoccasional drifts, and brown from spots blown bare by the wind, stretched out seemingly interminable, until the line of earth and skymet. Idle perforce, the two exotics would stand for hours in the sunshineof their open doorway, shading their eyes from the glare and lookingout, out into the distance that was as yet only a name--and that theborrowed name of an Indian tribe. "What a country!" Camilla would say, struck each time anew with anever-ending wonder. "Yes, what a country, " Ichabod would echo, unconscious that he hadrepeated the same words in the same way a score of times before. In January, a blizzard settled upon them, and for two days and nightsthey took turns keeping the big kitchen stove red hot. The West knowsno such storms, now. Man has not only changed the face of the earth, but, in so doing, has annihilated that terror of the past--the Dakotablizzard. In those days, though, it was very real, as Ichabod learned. He hadprepared for winter, by hauling a huge pile of cordwood and stackingit, as a protection to windward, the full length of the little cabin, thinking the spot always accessible; but he had builded in ignorance. The snow first commenced falling in the afternoon. By the next morningthe tiny house was buried to the window sashes. Looking out, therecould be seen but an indistinct slanting white wall, scarcely ten feetaway: a screen through which the sunlight filtered dimly, like thesolemn haze of a church. The earth was not silent, now. The falling ofthe sleet and snow was as the striking of fine shot, and the sound ofthe wind a steady unceasing moan, resembling the sigh of a big dynamoat a distance. Slowly, inch by inch, during that day the snow crept up the windowpanes until, before the coming of darkness without, it fell within. Banked though they were on three sides, on the fourth side, unprotected, the cold penetrated bitterly, --a cold no living thingcould withstand without shelter. Then it was that Ichabod and Camillafeared to sleep, and that the long vigil began. By the next morning there was no light from the windows. The snow haddrifted level with the eaves. Ichabod stood in the narrow windowframe, and, lowering the glass from the top, beat a hole upward with apole to admit air. Through the tunnel thus formed there filtered thedull gray light of day: and at its end, obstructing, there stoodrevealed a slanting drab wall, --a condensed milky way. The storm was yet on, and he closed the window. To get outside forfuel that day was impossible, so with an axe Ichabod chopped a holethrough the wall into the big pile, and on wood thus secured sawedsteadily in the tiny kitchen, while the kerosene lamp at his sidesputtered, and the fire crackled in a silence, like that surrounding ahunted animal in its den. Many usual events had occurred in the lives of the wandering Ichabodand Camilla, which had been forgotten; but the memory of that day, theoverwhelming, incontestible knowledge of the impotency of wee, restless, inconsequent man, they were never to forget. "Tiny, tiny, mortal!" laughed the storm. "To think you would combatNature, would defy her, the power of which I am but one of many, manymanifestations!" And it laughed again. The two prisoners, listening, their ears to the tunnel, heard the sound, and felt to the full itsbiting mockery. Next day the siege was raised, and the sun smiled as only the sun cansmile upon miles and miles of dazzling snow crystals. Ichabod climbedout--by way of the window route--and worked for hours with a shovelbefore he had a channel from the tiny, submerged shanty to the lightof day beyond. Then together he and Camilla stood side by side in thedoorway, as they had done so many times before, looking about them atthe boundless prairie, drifted in waves of snow like the sea: thewonder of it all, ever new, creeping over them. "What a country!" voiced Camilla. "What a country, indeed, " echoed Ichabod. "Lonely and mysterious as Death. " "Yes, as Death or--Life. " CHAPTER IV--A REVELATION Time, unchanging automaton, moved on until late spring. Paradox ofnature, the warm brown tints of chilly days gave place under the heatof slanting suns to the cool green of summer. All at once, sudden asthough autochthonal, there appeared meadow-larks and blackbirds: deadweeds or man-erected posts serving in lieu of trees as vantage pointsfrom which to sing. Ground squirrels whistled cheerily from newlybroken fields and roadways. Coveys of quail, tame as barn-yard fowls, played about the beaten paths, and ran pattering in the dust ahead ofeach passing team. Again, from its winter's rest, lonely, uncertain asto distance, came the low, booming call of the prairie rooster. Naturehad awakened, and the joy of that awakening was upon the land. Of a morning in May the faded, dust-covered day-coach drew in at thetiny prairie village. A little man alighted. He stood a moment on theplatform, his hands deep in his pockets, a big black cigar between histeeth, and looked out over the town. The coloring of the shortstraggling street was more weather-stained than a year ago, yet stillvery new, and the newcomer smiled as he looked; a big broad smile thatplayed about his lips, turning up the corners of his brown moustache, showing a flash of white teeth, and lighting a pair of big blue eyeswhich lay, like a woman's, beneath heavy lashes. In youth, that smilewould have been a grin; but it was no grin now. The man was far fromyouth, and about the mouth and eyes were deep lines, which told of onewho knew of the world. Slowly the smile disappeared, and as it faded the little man puffedharder at the cigar. Evidently something he particularly wished toexplain would not become clear to his mind. "Of all places, " he soliloquized, "to have chosen--this!" He started up the street, over the irregular warping sidewalk. "Hotel, sir-r?" The formula was American, the trilling r's distinctlyGerman. The traveller turned at the sound, to make acquaintance with HansBecher; for it was Hans Becher, very much metamorphosed from theretiring German of a year ago. He made the train regularly now. The small man nodded and held out his grip; together they walked upthe street. In front of the hotel they stopped, and the strangerpulled out his watch. "Is there a livery here?" he asked. "Yes; at the street end--the side to the left hand. " "Thanks. I'll be back with you this evening. " Hans Becher stared, open-mouthed, as the man moved off. "You will not to dinner return?" The little man stopped, and smiled without apparent reason. "No. Keep the grip. I expect to lunch, " again he smiled withoutprovocation, "elsewhere. By the way, " he added, as an afterthought, "can you tell me where Mr. Maurice--Ichabod Maurice--lives?" The German nodded violent confirmation of a direction indicated by hisfree hand. "Straight out, eight miles. Little house with _paint_"--strongemphasis on the last--"_white_ paint. " "Thanks. " Hans saw the escape of an opportunity. "They are friends of yours, perhaps?"--he grasped at it. The little man did not turn, but the smile that seemed almost a habit, sprang to his face. "Yes, they're--friends of mine, " he corroborated. Hans, personification of knowledge, stood bobbing on the doorstep, until the trail of smoke vanished from sight, then brought the satchelinside and set it down hard. "Her brother has come, " he announced to the wide-eyed Minna. "_Wessen Bruder?_" Minna was obviously excited, as attested by thelapse from English. "Are we not now Americans naturalized?" rebuked Hans, icily. Suddenlyhe thawed. "Whose brother! The brother of Camilla Maurice, to besure. " Minna scrutinized the bag, curiously. "Did he so--inform you?" she questioned unadvisedly. "It was not necessary. I have eyes. " Offended masculine dignity clumped noisily toward the door;instinctive feminine diplomacy sprang to the rescue. "You are so wise, Hans!" And Peace, sweet Peace, returned to the household of Becher. Meanwhile the little man had secured a buggy, and was jogging out intothe country. He drove very leisurely, looking about him curiously. Ofa sudden he threw down his cigar, and sniffed at the air. "Buffalo grass, I'll wager! I've heard of it, " and in the instinctiveaction of every newcomer he sniffed again. Camilla Maurice sat in front of her tiny house, the late morning sunwarm about her; one hand supported a book, slanted carefully to avoidthe light, the other held the crank of a barrel-churn. As she read, she turned steadily, the monotonous _chug!_ _chug!_ of the tumblingcream drowning all other sounds. Suddenly the shadow of a horse passed her and a rough livery buggystopped at her side. She looked up. Instinctively her hand dropped thecrank, and her face turned white; then equally involuntarily shereturned to her work, and the _chug!_ _chug!_ continued. "Does Ichabod Maurice, " drawling emphasis on the name, "live here?"asked a voice. "He does. " Camilla's chin was trembling; her answer halted abruptly. The man looked down at her, genuine amusement depicted upon his face. "Won't you please stop your work for a moment, Camilla?" With the name, one hand made swift movement of deprecation. "Pardon ifI mistake, but I take it you're Camilla Maurice?" "Yes, I'm Camilla Maurice. " "Quite so! You see, Ichabod and I were old chums together incollege--all that sort of thing; consequently I've always wanted tomeet--" The woman stood up. Her face still was very white, but her chin didnot tremble now. "Let's stop this farce, " she insisted. "What is it you wish?" The man in the buggy again made a motion of deprecation. "I was just about to say, that happening to be in town, andincidentally hearing the name, I wondered if it were possible. .. . But, pardon, I haven't introduced myself. Allow me--" and he bowedelaborately. "Arnold, Asa Arnold. .. . You've heard Ichabod mention myname, perhaps?" The woman held up her hand. "Again I ask, what do you wish?" "Since you insist, first of all I'd like to speak a moment withIchabod. " His face changed suddenly. "For Heaven's sake, Eleanor, ifhe must alter his name, why did he choose such a barbaric substituteas Ichabod?" "Were he here"--evenly--"he'd doubtless explain that himself. " "He's not here, then?" No banter in the voice now. "Never fear"--quickly--"he'll return. " A moment they looked into each other's eyes; challengingly, as theyhad looked unnumbered times before. "As you suggest, Eleanor, " said the man, slowly, "this farce has gonefar enough. Where may I tie this horse? I wish to speak with you. " Camilla pointed to a post, and silently went toward the house. Soonthe man followed her, stopping a moment to take a final puff at hiscigar before throwing it away. Within the tiny kitchen they sat opposite, a narrow band of warmspring sunshine creeping in at the open door separating them. Thewoman looked out over the broad prairie, her color a trifle higherthan usual, the lids of her eyes a shade nearer together--that wasall. The man crossed his legs and waited, looking so small that heseemed almost boyish. In the silence, the drone of feeding poultrycame from the back-yard, and the sleepy breathing of the big collie onthe steps sounded plainly through the room. A minute passed. Neither spoke. Then, with a shade of annoyance, theman shifted in his chair. "I thought, perhaps, you'd have something you wished to say. If not, however--" He paused meaningly. "You said a moment ago, you wished to speak to _me_. " "As usual, you make everything as difficult as possible. " The shade ofannoyance became positive. "Such being the case, we may as well cometo the point. How soon do you contemplate bringing this--this incidentto a close?" "The answer to that question concerns me alone. " An ordinary man would have laughed; but Asa Arnold was not an ordinaryman--not at this time. "As your husband, I can't agree with you. " Camilla Maurice took up his words, quickly. "You mistake. You're the husband of Eleanor Owen. I'm not she. " The man went on calmly, as though there had been no interruption. "I don't want to be hard on you, Eleanor. I don't think I have beenhard on you. A year has passed, and I've known you were here from thefirst day. But this sort of thing can't go on indefinitely; there's alimit, even to good nature. I ask you again, when are you comingback?" The woman looked at her companion, for the first time steadily. Evenshe, who knew him so well, felt a shade of wonder at the man who couldadjust all the affairs of his life in the same voice with which heordered his dinner. Before, she had always thought this attitude ofhis pure affectation. Now she knew better, knew it mirrored the manhimself. He had done this thing. Knowing her whereabouts all the time, he had allotted her the past year, as an employer would grant aholiday to an assistant. Now he asked her to return to the old life, as calmly as one returns in the fall to the city home after an outing!Only one man in the world could have done that thing, and that man wasbefore her--her husband by law--Asa Arnold! The wonder of it all crept into her voice. "I'm not coming back, can't you understand? I'm never coming back, "she repeated. The man arose and stood in the doorway. "Don't say that, " he said very quietly. "Not yet. I won't begin, now, after all these years to make protestations of love. The thing calledLove we've discussed too often already, and without result. Anyway, that's not the point. We never pretended to be lovers, even when wewere married. We were simply useful, very useful to each other. " Camilla started to interrupt him, but, preventing, he held up hishand. "We talked over a certain possibility--one now a reality--before wewere married. " He caught the look upon her face. "I don't say it wasideal. It simply _was_, " he digressed slowly in answer, then hurriedon: "That was only five years ago, Eleanor, and we were far fromyoung. " He looked at her, searchingly. "You've not forgotten thecontract we drew up, that stood above the marriage obligation, aboveeverything, supreme law for you and me?" Instinctively his hand wentto an inner pocket, where the rustle of a paper answered his touch. "Remember; it's not a favor I ask of you, but the fulfilment of yourown word. Think a moment before you say you'll never return. " Camilla Maurice found an answer very difficult. Had he been angry, orabusive, it would have been easy; but as it was-- "You overlook the fact of change. A lifetime isn't required forthat. " "I overlook nothing. " The man went back to his chair. "You remember, as well as I, that we considered the problem of change--and laughed atit. I repeat, we're no longer in swaddling clothes. " "Be that as it may, I tell you the whole world looks different to menow. " The speaker struggled bravely, but the ghastliness of such adiscussion wore on her nerves, and her face twitched. "No power onearth could make me keep that contract since I've changed. " The suggestion of a smile played about the man's mouth. "You've succeeded, perhaps, in finding that for which we searched solong in vain, an æsthetic, non-corporeal love?" "I refuse to answer a question which was intended as an insult. " The words out of her mouth, the woman regretted them. "Though quick yourself to take offence, you seem at no great pains toavoid giving affront to another. " The man voiced the reprimandwithout the twitch of an eyelid, and finished with another question:"Have you any reason for doing as you've done, other than the one yougave?" "Reason! Reason!" Camilla Maurice stared again. "Isn't it reasonenough that I love him, and don't love you? Isn't it sufficient reasonto one who has lived until middle life in darkness that a ray of lightis in sight? Of all people in the world, you're the one who shouldunderstand the reason best!" "Would any of those arguments be sufficient to break anothercontract?" "No, but one I didn't mention would. Even when I lived with you, I wasof no more importance than a half-dozen other women. " "You didn't protest at time of the agreement. You knew then my beliefand, " Arnold paused meaningly, "your own. " A memory of the past came to the woman; the dark, lonely past, which, even yet, after so many years, came to her like a nightmare; the timewhen she was a stranger in a strange town, without joy of past or hopeof future; most lonely being on God's earth, a woman with anambition--and without friends. "I was mad--I see it now--lonely mad. I met you. Our work was alike, and we were very useful to each other. " One white hand made motion ofrepugnance at the thought. "I was mad, I say. " "Is that your excuse for ignoring a solemn obligation?" Arnold lookedher through. "Is that your excuse for leaving me for another, withouta word of explanation, or even the conventional form of a divorce?" "It was just that explanation--this--I wished to avoid. It's hard forus both, and useless. " "Useless!" The man quickly picked up the word. "Useless! I don't likethe suggestion of that word. It hints of death, and old age, andhateful things. It has no place with the living. " He drew a paper from his pocket, slowly, and spread it on his knee. "Pardon me for again recalling past history, Eleanor; but to usea word that is dead!. .. You must have forgotten--" The writing, a dainty, feminine hand, was turned toward her, tauntingly, compellingly. The man waited for some response; but Camilla Maurice was silent. Thatbit of paper, the shadow of a seemingly impossible past, made her, forthe time, question her identity, almost doubt it. Five years ago, almost to the day, high up in a city building, in adainty little room, half office, half _atelier_, a man and a woman hadcopied an agreement, each for the other, and had sworn an oath ever toremain true to that solemn bond. .. . She had brought nothing to him, but herself; not even affection. He, on the other hand, had saved herfrom a life of drudgery by elevating her to a position where, free ofthe necessity of struggling for a bare existence, she might hope toconsummate the fruition of at least a part of her dreams. On herpart. .. . "_Witnesseth: The said Eleanor Owen is at liberty to follow her owninclinations as she may see fit; she is to remain free of any and allresponsibilities and restrictions such as customarily attach to thesupervision of a household, excepting as she may elect to exercise herwifely prerogatives; being absolutely free to pursue whatsoeveroccupation or devices she may desire or choose, the same as if shewere yet a spinster. .. . _ "_In Consideration of Which: The said Eleanor Owen agrees never so tocomport herself that by word or conduct will she bring ridicule. .. . Dishonor upon the name. .. . _" Recollection of it all came to her with a rush; but the words rantogether and swam in a maddening blur--the roar from the street below, dull with distance; the hum of the big building, with its faintconcussions of closing doors; the air from the open window, not likethe sweet prairie air of to-day, but heavy, smoky, typical breath ofthe town, yet pregnant with the indescribable throb of spring, impossible to efface or to disguise! The compelling intimacy andirrevocability of that memory overwhelmed her, now; a dark, evil floodthat blotted out the sunshine of the present. The paper rustled, as the man smoothed it flat with his hand. "Shall I read?" he asked. The woman's face stood clear--cruelly clear--in the sunlight; abouther mouth and eyes there was an expression which, from repetition, wehave learned to associate with the circle surrounding a new-madegrave: an expression hopelessly desperate, desperately hopeless. Of a sudden her chin trembled and her face dropped into her hands. "Read, if you wish"; and the smooth brown head, with its thread ofgray, trembled uncontrollably. "Eleanor!" with a sudden vibration of tenderness in his voice. "Eleanor, " he repeated. But the woman made no response. The man had taken a step forward; now he sat down again, lookingthrough the open doorway at the stretch of green prairie, with theroad, a narrow ribbon of brown, dividing it fair in the middle. In thedistance a farmer's wagon was rumbling toward town, a trail of finedust, like smoke, suspended in the air behind. It rattled past, andthe big collie on the step woke to give furious chase in its wake, then returned slowly, a little conscious under the stranger's eye, tosleep as before. Asa Arnold sat through it all, still as onedevitalized; an expression on his face no man had ever seen before;one hopeless, lonely, akin to that of the woman. "Read, if you wish, " repeated Camilla, bitterly. For a long minute her companion made no motion. "It's unnecessary, " he intoned at last. "You know as well as I thatneither of us will ever forget one word it contains. " He hesitated andhis voice grew gentle. "Eleanor, you know I didn't come here toinsult you, or to hurt you needlessly;--but I'm human. You seem toforget this. You brand me less than a man, and then ask of me theunselfishness of a God!" Camilla's white face lifted from her hands. "I ask nothing except that you leave me alone. " For the first time the little man showed his teeth. "At last you mention the point I came here to arrange. Were youalone, rest assured I shouldn't trouble you. " "You mean--" "I mean just this. I wouldn't be human if I did what you ask--if Icondoned what you've done and are still doing. " He was fairly startednow, and words came crowding each other; reproachful, tempestuous. "Didn't you ever stop to think of the past--think what you've done, Eleanor?" He paused without giving her an opportunity to answer. "Letme tell you, then. You've broken every manner of faith between man andwoman. If you believe in God, you've broken faith with Him as well. Don't think for a moment I ever had respect for marriage as a divineinstitution, but I did have respect for you, and at your wish weconformed. You're my wife now, by your own choosing. Don't interruptme, please. I repeat, God has no more to do with ceremonial marriagenow than he had at the time of the Old Testament and polygamy. It's aman-made bond, but an obligation nevertheless, and as such, at thefoundation of all good faith between man and woman. It's this goodfaith you've broken. " A look of bitterness flashed over his face. "Still, I could excuse this and release you at the asking, remainingyour friend, your best friend as before; but to be thrown asidewithout even a 'by your leave, ' and that for another man--" Hehesitated and finished slowly: "You know me well enough, Eleanor, to realize that I'm in earnest whenI say that while I live the man has yet to be born who can takesomething of mine away from me. " Camilla gestured passionately. "In other words: while growling hard at the dog who approached yourbone, you have no hesitation in stealing from another!" Theaccumulated bitterness of years of repression spoke in the taunt. Across the little man's face there fell an impenetrable mask, like thearmor which dropped about an ancient ship of war before the shock ofbattle. "I'm not on trial. I've not changed my name--" he nodded significantlytoward the view beyond the open door, --"and sought seclusion. " Again the bitterness of memory prompted Camilla to speak the harshestwords of her life. "No, you hadn't the decency. It was more pleasure to thrust your shamedaily in my face. " Arnold's color paled above the dark beard line; but the woman took noheed. "Why did you wait a year, " continued the bitter voice, "to endin--this? If it must have been--why not before?" "I repeat, I'm not on trial. If you've anything to say, I'll listen. " Something new in the man's face caught Camilla's attention, softenedthe tone of her voice. "I've only this to say. You've asked for an explanation and a promise;but I can give you neither. If there ever comes a time when I feelthey're due you, and I'm able to comply, I'll give them both gladly. "The absent look of the past returned to her eyes. "Even if I wished, Icouldn't give you an explanation now. I can't make myself understandthe contradiction. Somehow, knowing you so long, your beliefs creptinsistently into my loneliness. It seems hideous now, but I was honestthen. I believed them, too. I don't blame you; I only pity you. Youwere the embodiment of protest against the established, of thenon-responsibility of the individual, of skepticism in everything. Your eternal 'why' covered my horizon. Every familiar thing came tobear a question I couldn't answer. My whole life seemed one eternaldoubt. One thing I'd never known, and I questioned it most of all; theone thing I know now to be the truth, --the greatest truth in theworld. " For an instant the present crowded the past from Camilla'smind, but only for an instant. "Whatever I was at the time, you'd mademe--with your deathless 'why. ' When I signed the obligation of thatday, I believed it was of my own free will; but I know now it was youwho wrote it for both of us--you, with your perpetual interrogation. Idon't accuse you of doing this deliberately, maliciously. We were bothdeceived; but none the less the fact remains. " A shadow, almost ofhorror, passed over her face. "Time passed, and though you didn't know, I was in Hell. Reason toldme I was right. Instinct, something, called me a drag. I tried tocompromise, and we were married. Then, for the first time, camerealization. We were the best of friends, --but only friends. " "You wonder how I knew. I didn't tell you then. I couldn't. I couldonly feel, and that not clearly. The shadow of your 'why' was stilldark upon me. What I vaguely felt then, though, I know now; as Irecognize light or cold or pain. " Her voice assumed the tone of onewho speaks of mysteries; slow, vibrant. "In every woman's mind thematernal instinct should be uppermost; before everything, beforeGod, --unashamed, inevitable. It's unmistakably the distinction of agood woman from a bad. The choosing of the father of her child is awoman's unfailing test of love. " The face of the man before her dropped into his hands, but she did notnotice. "Gropingly I felt this, and the knowledge came almost as aninspiration. It gave a clue to--" "Stop!" The man's eyes blazed, as he leaped from his chair. "Stop!" He took a step forward, his hand before him, his face twitchinguncontrollably. The collie on the step awoke, and seeing his mistressthreatened, growled ominously. "Stop, I tell you!" Arnold choked for words. This the man of "why, "whom nothing before could shake! Camilla paled as her companion arose, and the dog, bristling, cameinside the room. "Get out!" blazed the man, with a threatening step, and the colliefled. The interruption loosed words which came tumbling forth in a torrent, as Arnold returned to face her. "You think I'm human, and yet tell me that to my face?" His voice wasterrible. "You women brand men cruel! No man on earth would speak asyou have spoken to a woman he'd lived with for four years!" Thesentences crowded over each other, like water over a fall--his eyesflashing like a spray. "I told you before, I'm not on trial; that it was not my place todefend. I don't do so now; but since you've spoken, I'll answer yourquestion. You ask why I didn't come a year ago, hinting that I wantedto be more cruel. God! the blindness and injustice of you women!Because we men don't show--Bah!. .. I was paying my own price. Weweren't living by the marriage vow; it was but a farce. Our owncontract was the vital thing, and it had said--But I won't repeat. God, it was bitter! But I thought you'd come back. I loved you still. "He paused for words, breathing hard. "You say, I'll never know what love is. Blind! I've always loved youuntil this moment, when you killed my love. You say I was untrue. It'sfalse. I swear it before--you, as you were once, --when you were mygod. Had you trusted me, as I trusted you, there'd have been nothought of unfaithfulness in your mind. " The woman sank back in the chair, her face covered, her whole bodytrembling; but Asa Arnold went on like the storm. "Yes, I was ever true to you. From the first moment we met, andagainst my own beliefs. You didn't see. You expected me to protest itdaily: to repeat the tale as a child repeats its lesson for a comfit. Blind, I say, blind! You'll charge that I never told you that I lovedyou. You wouldn't have believed me, even had I done so. Besides, Ididn't realize that you doubted, until the time when you werelearning--" he walked jerkily across the room and took up hishat, --"learning the thing you threw in my face. " He started to leave, but stopped in the doorway, without looking back. "You tell me you'vesuffered. For the first time in my life I say to another human being:I hope so. " He turned, unsteadily, down the steps. "Wait, " pleaded the woman. "Wait!" The man did not stop, or turn. Camilla Maurice sank back in the chair, weak as one sick unto death, her mind a throbbing, whirling chaos, --as of a patient under ananæsthetic. Something she knew she ought to do, intended doing, andcould not. She groped desperately, but overwhelming, insistent, therehad developed in her a sudden, preventing tumult--in paradox, aconfusion in rhythm--like the beating of a great hammer on an anvil, only incredibly more swift than blows from human hands. Over and overagain she repeated to herself the one word: "wait, " "wait, " "wait, "but mechanically now, without thought as to the reason. Then, all atonce, soft, all-enfolding, kindly Nature wrapped her in darkness. She awoke with the big collie licking her hand, and a numbness ofcramped limbs that was positive pain. A long-necked pullet wasstanding in the doorway, with her mouth open; others stood wondering, beyond. The sun had moved until it no longer shone in at the tinysouth windows, and the shadow of the house had begun to lengthen. Camilla stood up in the doorway; uncertain, dazed. A great lump was onher forehead, which she stroked absently, without surprise at itspresence. She looked about the yard, and, her breath coming morequickly, at the prairie. A broad green plain, parted by the roadsquarely in the centre, smiled at her in the sunlight. That was all. She stepped outside and shaded her eyes with her hand. Not a wagon nora human being was in sight. Again the weakness and the blackness came stealing over her; she sankdown on the doorstep. "O God, what have I done!" she wailed. The hens returned to their search for bugs; but the big collie stayedby her side, whimpering and fondling her hand. CHAPTER V--THE DOMINANCE OF THE EVOLVED The keen joy of life was warmly flooding Ichabod Maurice thisspring day. Not life for the sake of an ambition or a duty, butdelight in the mere animal pleasure of existence. He had risenearly, and, a neighbor with him, they had driven forth: stars allabout, perpendicular, horizontal, save in the reddening east, upontheir long day's drive to the sawmill. The two teams plodded alongsteadily, their footfall muffled in the soft prairie loam; theearth elsewhere soundless, with a silence which even yet was amarvel to the city man. The majesty of it held him silent until day dawned, and with thecoming of the sun there woke in unison the chorus of joyous animallife. Then Ichabod, his long legs dangling over the dashboard, liftedup a voice untrained as the note of a loon, and sang lustily, untilhis companion on the wagon ahead, --boy-faced, man-bodied, --grinnedperilously. The long-visaged man was near happiness that morning, --unbelievablynear. By nature unsocial, by habit, city inbred, artificiallytaciturn, there came with the primitive happiness of the momentthe concomitant primitive desire for companionship. He smiledself-tolerantly when, obeying an instinct, he wound the lines aroundthe seat, and went ahead to the man, who grinned companionably ashe made room beside him. "God's country, this. " Ichabod's hand made an all-including gesture, as he seated himself comfortably, his hat low over his eyes. "Yes, sir, " and the grin was repeated. The tall man reflected. Sunburned, roughly dressed, unshaven as he, Maurice, was, this boy-man never failed the word of respect. Ichabodexamined him curiously out of his shaded lids. Big brown hands; bodystrong as a bull; powerful shoulders; neck turned like a model; a softchin under a soft, light beard; gentle blue eyes--all in all, a faceso open that its very legibility seemed a mark. It reddened now, under the scrutiny. "Pardon, " said Ichabod. "I was thinking how happy you are. " "Yes, sir. " And the face reddened again. Ichabod smiled. "When is it to be, Ole?" The big body wriggled in blissful embarrassment. "As soon as the house is built, "--confusedly. "You're building very fast, eh?" The Swede grinned confirmation. Words were of value to Ole. "I see the question was superfluous, " and Ichabod likewise smiled ingenial comradery. A moment later, however, the smile vanished. "You're very content as it is, Ole, " he digressed, equivocally;"but--supposing--Minna were already the wife of a friend?" The Swede stared in breathless astonishment. "She isn't, though" he gasped at length in startled protest. "But supposing--" "It would be so. I couldn't help it. " "You'd do nothing?" rank anarchy in the suggestion. "What would there be to do?" Ichabod temporized. "Supposing again, she loved you, and didn't love her husband?" Olescratched his head, seeing very devious passages beyond. "That wouldbe different, " and he crossed his legs. Ichabod smiled. The world over, human nature is fashioned from onemould. "Supposing, once more, it's a year from now, --five years from now. You've married Minna, but you're not happy. She's grown to hateyou, --to love another man?" Ole's faith was beautiful. "It's not to be thought of. It's impossible!" "But supposing, " urged Ichabod. The boy-man was silent for a very long minute; then his face darkened, and the soft jaw grew hard. "I don't know--" he said slowly, --"I don't know, but I think I killthat man. " Ichabod did not smile this time. "We're all much alike, Ole. I think you would. " They drove on; far past the town, now; the sun high in the sky; dewsparkling like prisms innumerable; the prairie colorings soft as arug--its varied greens of groundwork blending with the narrow line offresh breaking rolling at their feet. "You were born in this country?" asked Ichabod suddenly. "In Iowa. It's much like this--only rougher. " "You'll live here, always?" The Swede shook his head and the boy's face grew older. "No; some day, we're going to the city--Minna and I. We've planned. " Ichabod was thoughtful a minute. "I'm a friend of yours, Ole. " "A very good friend, " repeated the mystified Swede. "Then, listen, and don't forget. " The voice was vibrant, low, but theboy heard it clearly above the noise of the wagon. "Don't do it, Ole;in God's name, don't do it! Stay here, you'll be happy. " He looked theopen-mouthed listener deep in the eyes. "If you ever say a prayer, let it be the old one, even though it be an insult to a justGod:--'Lead us not into temptation. ' Avoid, as you would avoid death, the love of money, the fever of unrest, the desire to become greaterthan your fellows, the thirst to know and to taste all things, whichis the spirit of the city. Live close to Nature, where all is equaland all is good; where sleep comes in the time of sleep, and work whenit is day. Do that labor which comes to you at the moment, leavingto-morrow to Nature. " He crossed his long legs, and pressed his hatdown over his eyes. "Accept life as Nature gives it, day by day. Don'tquestion, and you'll find it good. " He repeated himself slowly. "That's the secret. Don't doubt, or question anything. " In the Swede's throat there was a rattling, which presaged speech, butit died away. "Do you love children, Ole?" asked Ichabod, suddenly. The boy face flushed. Ole was very young. "I--" he lagged. "Of course you do. Every living human being does. It's the one goodinstinct, which even the lust of gain doesn't down. It's the tie thatbinds, --the badge of brotherhood which makes the world one. " He gentlylaid his hand on the broad shoulder beside him. "Don't be ashamed to say you love children, boy, though the rest ofthe world laugh, --for they're laughing at a lie. They'll tell you theparental instinct is dying out with the advance of civilization; thatthe time will come when man will educate himself to his ownextinction. It's false, I tell you, absolutely false. " Ichabod hadforgotten himself, and he rushed on, far above the head of the gapingSwede. "There's one instinct in the world, the instinct of parenthood, which advances eternal, stronger, infinitely, as man's mind growsstronger. So unvarying the rule that it's almost an index ofcivilization itself, advancing from a crude instinct of thebody-base and animal--until it reaches the realm of the mind: thehighest, the holiest of man's desires: yet stronger immeasurably, aswith the educated, things of the mind are stronger than things ofthe body. Those who deny this are fools, or imposters, --I know notwhich. To do so is to strike at the very foundation of humannature, --but impotently, --for in fundamentals, human nature isgood. " Unconsciously, a smile flashed over the long face. "Talk about depopulating the earth! All the wars of primitive man wereinadequate. The vices of civilization have likewise failed. Even man'smightiest weapon, legislation, couldn't stay the tide for a moment, ifit would. While man is man, and woman is woman, that long, abovegovernment, religion, --life and death itself, --will reign supreme theeternal instinct of parenthood. " Ichabod caught himself in his own period and stopped, a little ashamedof his earnestness. He sat up in the seat preparatory to returning tohis own wagon, then dropped his hand once more on the boy's shoulder. "I'm old enough to be your father, boy, and have done, in all things, the reverse of what I advised you. Therefore, I know I was wrong. Wemay sneer and speak of poetry when the words proceed from another, myboy; but, as inevitable as death, there comes to every man theknowledge that he stands accursed of Nature, who hasn't heard thevoice of his own child call 'father!'" He clambered down, leaving the speechless Ole sprawling on thewagon-seat. Back in his own wagon, he smiled broadly to himself. "Strange, how easily the apple falls when it's ripe, " he soliloquized. They drove on clear to the mill without another word; without even agrin from the broad-faced Ole, who sat in ponderous thought in thewagon ahead. To a nature such as his the infrequency of a new ideagives it the force of a cataclysm; during its presence, obliteratingeverything else. It was nearly noon when they reached the narrow fringe of trees andunderbrush--deciduous and wind-tortured all--which bordered the big, muddy, low-lying Missouri; and soon they could hear the throb of theengine at the mill, and the swish of the saw through the green lumber;a sound that heard near by, inevitably carries the suggestion ofscalpel and living flesh. Nothing but green timber was sawedthereabout in those days. The country was settling rapidly, lumberwas imperative, and available timber very, very limited. Returning, the heavy loads grumbled slowly along, so slowly that itwas nearly evening, and their shadows preceded them by rods when theyreached the little prairie town. They stopped to water their teams;and Ole, true to the instincts of his plebeian ancestry, went insearch of a glass of beer. He returned, quickly, his face very red. "A fellow in there is talking about--about Mrs. Maurice, " he blurted. "In the saloon, Ole?" The Swede repeated the story, watching the tall man from the corner ofhis eye. A man, very drunk, was standing by the bar, and telling how, in comingto town, he had seen a buggy drive away from the Maurice home veryfast. He had thought it was the doctor's buggy and had stopped in tosee if any one was sick. The fellow had grinned here and drank some more, before finishing thestory; the surrounding audience winking at each other meanwhile, anddrinking in company. Then he went on to tell how Camilla Maurice had sat just inside thedoorway, her face in her hands, sobbing, --so hard she hadn't noticedhim; and--and--it wasn't the doctor who had been there at all! Ichabod had been holding a pail of water so that a horse might drink. At the end he motioned Ole very quietly, to take his place. "Finish watering them, and--wait for me, please. " It was far from what the Swede had expected; but he accepted the task, obediently. The only saloon of the town stood almost exactly opposite HansBecher's place, flush with the street. A long, low building, communicating with the outer world by one door--sans glass--its singlewindow in front and at the rear lit it but imperfectly at midday, andnow at early evening made faces almost indistinguishable, and castkindly shadow over the fly specks and smoke stains of a low roof. Anarrow pine bar, redolent of tribute absorbed from innumerable passing"schooners, " stretched the entire length of the room at one side; andback of it, in shirt sleeves and stained apron, presided the typicalbar-keeper of the frontier. All this Ichabod saw as he stepped inside;then, himself in shadow, he studied the group before him. Railroad and cattle men, mostly, made up the gathering, with a scantsprinkling of farmers and others unclassified. A big, ill-dressedfellow was repeating the tale of scandal for the benefit of anewcomer; the narrative moving jerkily over hiccoughs, like hurdles. "--I drew up to th' house quick, an' went up th' path quietlike, "--he tapped thunderously on the bar with a heavy glass forsilence--"quiet--sh-h--like; an' when I come t' th' door, ther' 'twas open, an'--as I hope--hope t' die, . .. Drink on me, b'ys, allery'--set 'm up, Barney ol' b'y, m' treat, . .. Hope t' die, ther' shesat, like this--" He looked around mistily for a chair, but none wasconvenient, and he slid flat to the floor in their midst, his facein his hands, blubbering dismally in imitation. .. . "Sat (hic) likethis; rockin' an' moanin' n' callin' his name: Asa--Asa--Asa--(hic)Arnold--'shure 's I'm a sinner she--" He did not finish. Very suddenly the surrounding group had scattered, and he peered up through maudlin tears to learn the cause. One manalone stood above him. The room had grown still as a church. The drunken one blinked his watery eyes and showed his yellow teeth ina convivial grin. "G'd evnin', pard. .. . Serve th'--th' gem'n, Barney; m' treat. " Againthe teeth obtruded. "Was jes'--" "Get up!" He of the story winked harder than before. "Bless m'--" He paused for an expletive, hiccoughed, and forgettingwhat had caused the halt, stumbled on:--"Didn' rec'gniz' y'b'fore. Shake, ol' boy. S--sh-sorry for y'. " Tears rose copiously. "Tough--when feller's wife--" Interrupting suddenly a muffled sound like the distant exhaust of abig engine--the meeting of a heavy boot with an obstacle on the floor. "Get up!" A very mountain of human brawn resolved itself upward; a hand on itships; a curse on its lips. [Illustration: "You'll apologize. "] "You damned lantern-faced--" No hiccough now, but a pause from purephysical impotence, pending a doubtful struggle against a half-dozenmen. "Order, gentlemen!" demanded the bar-keeper, adding emphasis byhammering a heavy bottle on the bar. "Let him go, " commanded Ichabod very quietly; but they all heardthrough the confusion. "Let him go. " The country was by no means the wild West of the story-papers, but itwas primitive, and no man thought, then, of preventing the obviouslyinevitable. Ichabod held up his hand, suggestively, imperatively, and the crowdfell back, silent, --leaving him facing the big man. "You'll apologize!" The thin jaw showed clear, through the shade ofbrown stubble on Ichabod's face. For answer, the big man leaning on the bar exhibited his discoloredteeth and breathed hard. "How shall it be?" asked Ichabod. A grimy hand twitched toward a grimier hip. "You've seen the likes of this--" Ichabod turned toward the spectators. "Will any man lend me--" "Here--" "Here--" "And give us a little light. " "Outside, " suggested the saloon-keeper. "We're not advertising patent medicine, " blazed Ichabod, and the lampswere lit immediately. Once more the long-visaged man appealed to the group lined up nowagainst the bar. "Gentlemen--I never carried a revolver a half-hour in my life. Is itany more than fair that I name the details?" "Name 'm and be quick, " acquiesced his big opponent before the otherscould speak. "Thanks, Mr. Duggin, " with equal swiftness. "These, then, are theconditions. " For three seconds, that seemed a minute, Ichabod lookedsteadily between his adversary's bushy eyebrows. "The conditions, " herepeated, "are, that starting from opposite ends of the room, we don'tfire until our toes touch in the middle line. " "Good!" commended a voice; but it was not big Duggin who spoke. "I'll see that it's done, too, "--added a listening cattleman, graspingIchabod by the hand. "And I. " The building had been designed as a bowling-alley and was built theentire length of the lot. With an alacrity born of experience, thelong space opposite the bar was cleared, and the belligerentsstationed one at either end, their faces toward the wall. Midwaybetween them a heavy line had been drawn with chalk, and beside itstood a half-dozen grim men, their hands resting suggestively on theirhips. The room was again very quiet, and from out-of-doors penetratedthe shrill sound of a schoolboy whistling "Annie Laurie" with originalvariations. So exotic seemed the entire scene in its prairie setting, that it might have been transferred bodily from the stage of a distanttheatre and set down here, --by mistake. "Now, " directed a voice. "You understand, men. You're to face and walkto the line. When your feet touch--fire; and, " warningly--"remember, not before. Ready, gentlemen. Turn. " Ichabod faced about, the cocked revolver in his hand, the name AsaArnold singing in his ears. A terrible cold-white anger was in hisheart against the man opposite, who had publicly caused theresurrection of this hated, buried thing. For a moment it blottedout all other sensations; then, rushing, crowding came otherthoughts, --vision from boyhood down. In the space of seconds, fadedscenes of the dead past took on sudden color and as suddenlyvanished. Faces, he had forgotten for years, flashed instantaneouslyinto view. Voices long hushed in oblivion, re-embodied, spoke inaccents as familiar as his own. Inwardly he was seething with themyriad shifting pictures of a drowning man. Outwardly he walkedthose half-score steps to the line, unflinchingly; came to certaindeath, --and waited: personification of all that is cool anddeliberate--of the sudden abundant nerve in emergencies which comesonly to the highly evolved. Duggin, the big man, turned likewise at the word and came part wayswiftly; then stopped, his face very pale. Another step he took, withanother pause, and with great drops of perspiration gathering on hisface, and on the backs of his hands. Yet another start, and he camevery near; so near that he gazed into the blue of Ichabod's eyes. Theyseemed to him now devil's eyes, and he halted, looking at them, fingering the weapon in his hand, his courage oozing at every pore. Out of those eyes and that long, thin face stared death; not hot, sudden death, but nihility, cool, deliberate, that waited for one! Thebig beads on his forehead gathered in drops and ran down his cheeks. He tried to move on, but his legs only trembled beneath him. Thehopeless, unreasoning terror of the frightened animal, the rawrecruit, the superstitious negro, was upon him. The last fragment ofself-respect, of bravado even, was in tatters. No object on earth, nofear of hereafter, could have made him face death in that way, withthose eyes looking into his. The weapon shook from Duggin's hand to the floor, --with a sound likethe first clatter of gravel on a coffin lid; and in abasementabsolute he dropped his head; his hands nerveless, his jawtrembling. "I beg your pardon--and your wife's, " he faltered. "It was all a lie? You were drunk?" Ichabod crossed the line, standingover him. A rustle and a great snort of contempt went around the room; butDuggin still felt those terrible eyes upon him. "I was very drunk. It was all a lie. " Without another word Ichabod turned away, and almost immediately theother men followed, the door closing behind them. Only the bar-keeperstood impassive, watching. That instant the red heat of the liquor returned to the big man'sbrain and he picked up the revolver. Muttering, he staggered over tothe bar. "D--n him--the hide-faced--" he cursed. "Gimme a drink, Barney. Whiskey, straight. " "Not a drop. " "What?" "Never another drop in my place so long as I live. " "Barney, damn you!" "Get out! You coward!" "But, Barney--" "Not another word. Go. " Again Duggin was sober as he stumbled out into the evening. * * * * * Ichabod moved slowly up the street, months aged in those last fewminutes. Reaction was inevitable, and with it the future instead ofthe present, stared him in the face. He had crowded the lie down theman's throat, but well he knew it had been useless. The story wastrue, and it would spread; no power of his could prevent. He could notdeceive himself, even. That name! Again the white anger born ofmemory, flooded him. Curses on the name and on the man who had spokenit! Why must the fellow have turned coward at the last moment? Hadthey but touched feet over the line-- Suddenly Ichabod stopped, his hands pressed to his head. Camilla, home--alone! And he had forgotten! He hurried back to the waitingSwede, an anathema that was not directed at another, hot on hislips. "All ready, Ole, " he announced, clambering to the seat. The boy handed up the lines lingeringly. "Here, sir. " Then uncontrollable, long-repressed curiosity broke thebounds of deference. "You--heard him, sir?" "Yes. " Ole edged toward his own wagon. "It wasn't so?" "Duggin swore it was a lie. " "He--" "He swore it was false, I say. " They drove out into the prairie and the night; the stars looking down, smiling, as in the morning which was so long ago, the man hadsmiled, --looking upward. "Tiny, tiny mortal, " they twinkled, each to the other. "So small andhot, and rebellious. Tiny, tiny, mortal!" But the man covered his face with his hands, shutting them out. CHAPTER VI--BY A CANDLE'S FLAME Asa Arnold sat in the small upstairs room at the hotel of Hans Becher. It was the same room that Ichabod and Camilla had occupied when theyfirst arrived; but he did not know that. Even had he known, however, it would have made slight difference; nothing could have kept themmore constantly in his mind than they were at this time. He had notslept any the night before; a fact which would have spoken loudly toone who knew him well; and this morning he was very tired. He loungedlow in the oak chair, his feet on the bed, the usual big cigar in hismouth. This morning, the perspective of the little man was anything butnormal. Worse than that, he could not reduce it to the normal, try ashe might. His meeting with Camilla yesterday had produced a deep and abidingshock; for either of them to have been so moved signified thestirring of dangerous forces. They--and especially himself--who hadalways accepted life, even crises, so calmly; who had heretoforelaughed at all display of emotion--for them to have acted as they had, for them to have spoken to each other the things they had spoken, thethings they could not forget, that he never could forgive--it wasunbelievable! It upset all the established order of things! His anger of yesterday against Camilla had died out. She was not toblame; she was a woman, and women were all alike. He had thoughtdifferently before; that she was an exception; but now he knew better. One and all they were mere puppets of emotion, and fickle. In a measure, though, as he had excused Camilla he had incriminatedIchabod. Ichabod was the guilty one, and a man. Ichabod had filchedfrom him his possession of most value; and without even the form of aby-your-leave. The incident of last evening at the saloon (for he hadheard of it in the hour, as had every one in the little town) had butserved to make more implacable his resentment. By the satire ofcircumstances it had come about that he again, Asa Arnold, had beenthe cause of another's defending the honor of his own wife, --for shewas his wife as yet, --and that other, the defender, was IchabodMaurice! The little man's face did not change at the thought. He only smokedharder, until the room was blue; but though he did not put the feelingin words even to himself, he knew in the depths of his own mind thatthe price of that last day was death. Whether it was his own death, orthe death of Ichabod, he did not know; he did not care; but that oneof them must die was inevitable. Horrible as was the thought, it hadno terror for him, now. He wondered that it did not have; but, on thecontrary, it seemed to him very ordinary, even logical--as one ordersa dinner when he is hungry. He lit another cigar, calmly. It was this very imperturbability of thelittle man which made him terrible. Like a great movement of Nature, it was awful from its very resistlessness; its imperviability toappeal. Steadily, as he had lit the cigar, he smoked until the airbecame bluer than before. In a ghastly way, he was trying to decidewhose death it should be, --as one decides a winter's flitting, whetherto Florida or California; only now the question was: should it besuicide, or, --as in the saloon yesterday, --leave the decision toChance? For the time the personal equation was eliminated; the manweighed the evidence as impartially as though he were deciding thefate of another. He sat long and very still; until even in the daylight the redcigar-end grew redder in the haze. Without being conscious of thefact, he was probably doing the most unselfish thinking of his life. What the result of that thought would have been no man will ever know, for of a sudden, interrupting, Hans Becher's round face appeared inthe doorway. "Ichabod Maurice to see you, " coughed the German, obscured in thecloud of smoke which passed out like steam through the opening. It cannot be said that Asa Arnold's face grew impassive; it was thatalready. Certain it was, though, that behind the mask there occurred, at that moment, a revolution. Born of it, the old mocking smile sprangto his lips. "The devil fights for his own, " he soliloquized. "I really believeI, "--again the smile, --"I was about to make a sacrifice. " "Sir?" "Thank you, Hans. " The German's jaw dropped in inexpressible surprise. "Sir?" he repeated. "You made a decision for me, then. Thank you. " "I do not you understand. " "Tell Mr. Maurice I shall be pleased to see him. " The round face disappeared from the door. "_Donnerwetter!_" commented the little landlord in the safe seclusionof the stairway. Later, in relating the incident to Minna, he tappedhis forehead, suggestively. Ichabod climbed the stair alone. "To your old room, " Hans had said;and Ichabod knew the place well. He knocked on the panel, a voiceanswered: "Come, " and he opened the door. Arnold had thrown away hiscigar and opened the window. The room was clearing rapidly. Ichabod stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him. Afew seconds he stood holding it, then swung it open quickly andglanced down the hallway. Answering, there was a sudden, scuttlingsound, not unlike the escape of frightened rats, as Hans Becherprecipitately disappeared. The tall man came back and for the secondtime slowly closed the door. Asa Arnold had neither moved nor spoken since that first word, --"come";and the self-invited visitor read the inaction correctly. No man, withthe knowledge Ichabod possessed, could have misunderstood the challengein that impassive face. No man, a year ago, would have accepted thatchallenge more quickly. Now--But God only knew whether or no hewould forget, --now. For a minute, which to an onlooker would have seemed interminable, thetwo men faced each other. Up from the street came the ring of a heavyhammer on a sweet-voiced anvil, as Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, sharpened anew the breaking ploughs which were battling the prairiesod for bread. In the street below, a group of farmers were swappingyarns, an occasional chorus of guffaws interrupting to punctuate thenarrative. The combatants heard it all, as one hears the drone of thecicada on a sleepy summer day; at the moment, as a mere colorlessbackground which later, Time, the greater adjuster, utilizes toharmonize the whole memory. Ichabod had been standing; now he sat down upon the bed, his long legsstretched out before him. "It would be useless for us to temporize, " he initiated. "I'veintruded my presence in order to ask you a question. " The long fingerslocked slowly over his knees. "What is your object here?" The innate spirit of mockery sprang to the little man's face. "You're mistaken, " he smiled; "so far mistaken, that instead of yourvisit being an intrusion, I expected you"--an amending memory came tohim--"although I wasn't looking for you quite so soon, perhaps. " Hepaused for an instant, and the smile left his lips. "As to the statement of object. I think"--slowly--"a disinterestedobserver would have put the question you ask into my mouth. " Hestared his tall visitor up and down critically, menacingly. Of asudden, irresistibly, a very convulsion shot over his face. "God, man, you're brazen!" he commented cumulatively. Ichabod had gambled with this man in the past, and had seen him losehalf he possessed without the twitch of an eyelid. A force which nowcould cause that sudden change of expression--no man on earth knew, better than Ichabod, its intensity. Perhaps a shade of the samefeeling crept into his own answering voice. "We'll quarrel later, if you wish, "--swiftly. "Neither of us canafford to do so now. I ask you again, what are your intentions?" "And I repeat, the question is by right mine. It's not I who'vechanged my name and--and in other things emulated the hero of theyellow-back. " Ichabod's face turned a shade paler, though his answer was calm. "We've known each other too well for either to attempt explanation orcondemnation. You wish me to testify first. " The long fingersunclasped from over his knee. "You know the story of the past year:it's the key to the future. " A smile, sardonic, distinctive, lifted the tips of Arnold's bigmoustaches. "Your faith in your protecting gods is certainly beautiful. " Ichabod nursed a callous spot on one palm. "I understand, "--very slowly. "At least, you'll answer my questionnow, perhaps, " he suggested. "With pleasure. You intimate the future will be but a repetition ofthe past. It'll be my endeavor to give that statement the lie. " "You insist on quarrelling?" "I insist on but one thing, "--swiftly. "That you never again come intomy sight, or into the sight of my wife. " One of Ichabod's long hands extended in gesture. "And I insist you shall never again use the name of Camilla Maurice asyour wife. " The old mocking smile sprang to Asa Arnold's face. "Unconsciously, you're amusing, " he derided. "The old story of themouse who forbids the cat. .. . You forget, man, she is my wife. " Ichabod stood up, seemingly longer and gaunter than ever before. "Good God, Arnold, " he flashed, "haven't you the faintest element ofpride, or of consistency in your make-up? Is it necessary for a womanto tell you more than once that she hates you? By your own statementyour marriage, even at first, was merely of convenience; but even ifthis weren't so, every principle of the belief you hold releases her. Before God, or man, you haven't the slightest claim, and you knowit. " "And you--" "I love her. " Asa Arnold did not stir, but the pupils of his eyes grew wider, untilthe whole eye seemed black. "You fool!" he accented slowly. "You brazen egoist! Did it never occurto you that others than yourself could love?" Score for the little man. Ichabod had been pinked first. "You dare tell me to my face you loved her?" "I do. " "You lie!" blazed Ichabod. "Every word and action of your life givesyou the lie!" Not five minutes had passed since he came in and already he hadforgotten! Asa Arnold likewise was upon his feet and they two faced eachother, --a bed length between; in their minds the past and future ablank, the present with its primitive animal hate blazing in theireyes. "You know what it means to tell me that. " Arnold's voice was a fullnote higher than usual. "You'll apologize?" "Never. It's true. You lied, and you know you lied. " The surrounding world turned dark to the little man, and the dry-goodsbox with the tin dipper on its top, danced before his eyes. For thefirst time in his memory he felt himself losing self-control, and bymain force of will he turned away to the window. For the instant allthe savage of his nature was on the surface, and he could fairly feelhis fingers gripping at the tall man's throat. A moment he stood in the narrow south window, full in the smilingirony of Nature's sunshine; but only a moment. Then the mocking smilethat had become an instinctive part of his nature spread over hisface. "I see but one way to settle this difficulty, " he intimated. A taunt sprang to Ichabod's tongue, but was as quickly repressed. "There is but one, unless--" with meaning pause. "I repeat, there is but one. " Ichabod's long face held like wood. "Consider yourself, then, the challenged party. " They were both very calm, now; the immediate exciting cause in themind of neither. It seemed as if they had been expecting this time foryears, had been preparing for it. "Perhaps, as yesterday, in the saloon?" The points of the bigmoustaches twitched ironically. "I promise you there'll be noprocrastination as--at certain cases recorded. " The mockery, malice inspired, was cleverly turned, and Ichabod's bigchin protruded ominously, as he came over and fairly towered above thesmall man. "Most assuredly it'll not be as yesterday. If we're going to reversecivilization, we may as well roll it away back. We'll settle it alone, and here. " Asa Arnold smiled up into the blue eyes. "You'd prefer to make the adjustment with your hands, too, perhaps?There'd be less risk, considering--" He stopped at the look on theface above his. No man _vis-à-vis_ with Ichabod Maurice ever madeaccusation of cowardice. Instead, instinctive sarcasm leaped to hislips. "Not being of the West, I don't ordinarily carry an arsenal with me, in anticipation of such incidents as these. If you're prepared, however, --" and he paused again. Ichabod turned away; a terrible weariness and disgust of it all--oflife, himself, the little man, --in his face. A tragedy would not be sobad, but this lingering comedy of death--One thing alone was in hismind: to have it over, and quickly. "I didn't expect--this, either. We'll find another way. " He glanced about the room. A bed, the improvised commode, a chair, asmall table with a book upon it, and a tallow candle--an idea came tohim, and his search terminated. "I may--suggest--" he hesitated. "Go on. " Ichabod took up the candle, and, with his pocket-knife, cut it downuntil it was a mere stub in the socket, then lit a match and held theflame to the wick, until the tallow sputtered into burning. "You can estimate when that light will go out?" he intimatedimpassively. Asa Arnold watched the tall man, steadily, as the latter returned thecandle to the table and drew out his watch. "I think so, " _sotto voce_. Ichabod returned to his seat on the bed. "You are not afraid, perhaps, to go into the dark alone?" "No. " "By your own hand?" "No, " again, very slowly. Arnold understood now. "You swear?" Ichabod flashed a glance with the question. "I swear. " "And I. " A moment they both studied the sputtering candle. "It'll be within fifteen minutes, " randomed Ichabod. Arnold drew out his watch slowly. "It'll be longer. " That was all. Each had made his choice; a trivial matter of one secondin the candle's life would decide which of these two men would die byhis own hand. For a minute there was no sound. They could not even hear theirbreathing. Then Arnold cleared his throat. "You didn't say when the loser must pay his debt, " he suggested. Ichabod's voice in answer was a trifle husky. "It won't be necessary. " A vision of the future flashed, sinister, inevitable. "The man who loses won't care to face the necessitylong. " Five minutes more passed. Down the street the blacksmith was hammeringsteadily. Beneath the window the group of farmers had separated; theirdeparting footsteps tapping into distance and silence. Minna went to the street door, calling loudly for Hans, Jr. , who hadstrayed, --and both men started at the sound. The quick catch of theirbreathing was now plainly audible. Arnold shifted in his chair. "You swear--" his voice rang unnaturally sharp, and he paused tomoisten his throat, --"you swear before God you'll abide by this?" "I swear before God, " repeated Ichabod slowly. A second, and the little man followed in echo. "And I--I swear, I, too, will abide. " Neither man remembered that one of this twain, who gave oath beforethe Deity, was an agnostic, the other an atheist! A lonely south wind was rising, and above the tinkle of theblacksmith's hammer there sounded the tap of the light shade asit flapped in the wind against the window-pane. Low, drowsy, moaning, --typical breath of prairie, --it droned through theloosely built house, with sound louder, but not unlike the perpetualroar of a great sea-shell. Ten minutes passed, and the men sat very still. Both their faces werewhite, and in the angle of the jaw of each the muscles were lockedhard. Ichabod was leaning near the candle. It sputtered and a tinyglobule of hot tallow struck his face. He winced and wiped the dropoff quickly. Observing, Arnold smiled and opened his lips as if tomake comment; then closed them suddenly, and the smile passed. Two minutes more the watches ticked off; very, very slowly. Neither ofthe men had thought, beforehand, of this time of waiting. Big drops ofsweat were forming on both their faces, and in the ears of each theblood sang madly. A haze, as from the dropping of a shade, seemed tohave formed and hung over the room, and in unison sounds from withoutacquired a certain faintness, like that born of distance. Through itall the two men sat motionless, watching the candle and the time, asthe fascinated bird watches its charmer; as the subject watches thehypnotist, --as if the passive exercise were the one imperative thingin the world. "Thirteen minutes. " Unconsciously, Arnold was counting aloud. The flame was very low, now, and he started to move his chair closer, then sank back, a smile, almost ghastly, upon his lips. The blaze had reached the level of thesocket, and was growing smaller and smaller. Two minutes yet to burn!He had lost. He tried to turn his eyes away, but they seemed fastened to the spot, and he powerless. It was as though death, from staring him in theface, had suddenly gripped him hard. The panorama of his past lifeflashed through his mind. The thoughts of the drowning man, of theminer who hears the rumble of crumbling earth, of the prisonerhelpless and hopeless who feels the first touch of flame, --commonthought of all these were his; and in a space of time which, thoughseeming to him endless, was in reality but seconds. Then came the duller reaction and the events of the last few minutesrepeated themselves, impersonally, spectacularly, --as though theywere the actions of another man; one for whom he felt very sorry. Heeven went into the future and saw this same man lying down with a tinybottle in his hand, preparing for the sleep from which there would beno awakening, --the sleep which, in anticipation, seemed so pleasant. Concomitant with this thought the visionary shaded into the real, andthere came the determination to act at once, this very afternoon, assoon as Ichabod had gone. He even felt a little relief at thedecision. After all, it was so much simpler than if he had won, forthen--then--He laughed gratingly at the thought. Cursed if he wouldhave known what to have done, then! The sound roused him and he looked at his watch. A minute had passed, fourteen from the first and the flame still sputtered. Was it possibleafter all--after he had decided--that he was not to lose, that thedecision was unnecessary? There was not in his mind the slightestfeeling of personal elation at the prospect, but rather a sense ofinjury that such a scurvy trick should be foisted off upon him. Itwas like going to a funeral and being confronted, suddenly, with thegrinning head of the supposed dead projecting through the coffin lid. It was unseemly! Only a minute more: a half now--yes, he would win. For the first timehe felt that his forehead was wet, and he mopped his face with hishandkerchief jerkily; then sank back in the chair, instinctivelyshooting forward his cuffs in motion habitual. "Fifteen seconds. " There could be no question now of the result; andthe outside world, banished for the once, returned. The blacksmith washammering again, the strokes two seconds apart, and the fancy seizedthe little man to finish counting by the ring of the anvil. "Twelve, ten, eight, " he counted slowly. "Six" was forming on the tipof the tongue when of a sudden the tiny flame veered far over towardthe holder, sputtered and went out. For the first time in thoseinterminable minutes, Arnold looked at his companion. Ichabod's facewas within a foot of the table, and in line with the direction theflame had veered. Swift as thought the small man was on his feet, white anger in his face. "You blew that candle!" he challenged. Ichabod's head dropped into his hands. An awful horror of himself fellcrushingly upon him; an abhorrence of the selfishness that could haveforgotten--what he forgot; and for so long, --almost irrevocably long. Mingled with this feeling was a sudden thanksgiving for the boon ofwhich he was unworthy; the memory at the eleventh hour, in time to doas he had done before his word was passed. Arnold strode across theroom, his breath coming fast, his eyes flashing fire. He shook thetall man by the shoulder roughly. "You blew that flame, I say!" Ichabod looked up at the furious, dark face almost in surprise. "Yes, I blew it, " he corroborated absently. "It would have burned longer. " "Perhaps--I don't know. " Arnold moved back a step and the old smile, mocking, maddening, spreadover his face; tilting, perpendicular, the tips of the bigmoustaches. "After all--" very slowly--"after all, then, you're a coward. " The tall man stood up; six-feet-two, long, bony, immovable: Ichabodhimself again. "You know that's a lie. " "You'll meet me again, --another way, then?" "No, never!" "I repeat, you're a cursed coward. " "I'd be a coward if I did meet you, " quickly. Something in Ichabod's voice caught the little man's ear and held himsilent, as, for a long half-minute, the last time in their lives, thetwo men looked into each other's eyes. "You'll perhaps explain. " Arnold's voice was cold as death. "You havea reason?" Ichabod walked slowly over to the window and leaned against the frame. Standing there, the spring sunshine fell full upon his face, drawingclear the furrows at the angles of his eyes and the gray threads ofhis hair. He paused a moment, looking out over the broad prairieshimmering indistinctly in the heat, and the calm of it all took holdof him, shone in his face. "I've a reason, " very measuredly, "but it's not that I fear death, oryou. " He took up his hat and smoothed it absently. "In future I shallneither seek, nor avoid you. Do what you wish--and God judge us both. "Without a glance at the other man, he turned toward the door. Arnold moved a step, as if to prevent him going. "I repeat, it's my right to know why you refuse. " His feet shifteduneasily upon the floor. "Is it because of another--Eleanor?" Ichabod paused. "Yes, " very slowly. "It's because of Eleanor--_and_ another. " The tall man's hand was upon the knob, but this time there was nointerruption. An instant he hesitated; then absently, slowly, the dooropened and closed. A moment later indistinct, descending steps soundedon the stairway. Alone, Asa Arnold stood immovable, looking blindly at the closed door, listening until the tapping feet had passed into silence. Then, in amotion indescribable, of pain and of abandon, he sank back into thesingle chair. His dearest enemy would have pitied the little man at that moment! CHAPTER VII--THE PRICE OF THE LEAP In the chronology of the little town, day followed day, as monotonouslyas ticks the tall clock on the wall. Only in multiple they mergedinto the seasons which glided so smoothly, one into the other, thatthe change was unnoticed, until it had taken place. Thus three months passed by, and man's work for the year was nearlydone. The face of the prairie had become one of many colors; eternalbadge of civilization as opposed to Nature, who paints each seasonwith its own hue. Beside the roadways great, rank sunflowers turnedtheir glaring yellow faces to the light. In every direction stretchedbroad fields of flax; unequally ripening, their color scheme rangingfrom sky blue of blossoms to warm browns of maturity. Blotches of sodcorn added here and there a dash of green to the picture. Surroundingall, a setting for all, the unbroken virgin prairie, mottled green andbrown, stretched, smiling, harmonious, beneficent; a land of promiseand of plenty for generations yet unborn. All through the long, hot summer Asa Arnold had stayed in town, smoking a big pipe in front of the hotel of Hans Becher. Indolent, abnormally indolent, a stranger seeing him thus would have commented;but, save Hans the confiding, none other of the many interestedobservers were deceived. No man merely indolent sleeps neither bynight nor by day; and it seemed the little man never slept. No manmerely indolent sits wide-eyed hour after hour, gazing blankly at theearth beneath his feet--and uttering never a word. Brooding, notdreaming, was Asa Arnold; brooding over the eternal problem of rightand wrong. And, as passed the slow weeks, he moved back--back on thetrail of civilization, back until Passion and not Reason was the godenthroned; back until one thought alone was with him morning, noon, and night, --and that thought preponderant, overmastering, deadlyhate. Observant Curtis, the doctor, shrugged his shoulders. "The old, old trail, " he satirized. It was to Bud Evans, the little agent, that he made the observation. "Which has no ending, " completed the latter. The doctor shrugged afresh. "That has one inevitable termination, " he refuted. "Which is--" "Madness--sheer madness. " The agent was silent a moment. "And the end of that?" he suggested. Curtis pursed his lips. "Tragedy, or a strait-jacket. The former, in this instance. " Evans was silent longer than before. "Do you really mean that?" he queried at last, significantly. "I've warned Maurice, "--sententiously. "I can do no more. " "And he?" quickly. "Thanked me. " "That was all?" "That was all. " The two friends looked at each other, steadily; yet, though they saidno more, each knew the thought of the other, each knew that in futureno move of Asa Arnold's would pass unnoticed, unchallenged. Again, weeks, a month, passed without incident. It was well along inthe fall and of an early evening that a vague rumor of the unusualpassed swiftly, by word of mouth, throughout the tiny town. Only arumor it was, but sufficient to set every man within hearing inmotion. On this night Hans Becher had eaten his supper and returned to thehotel office, as was his wont, for an evening smoke, when, withoutapparent reason, Bud Evans and Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, camequietly in and sat down. "Evening, " they nodded, and looked about them. A minute later Dr. Curtis and Hank Judge, the machine man, droppedunostentatiously into chairs. They likewise muttered "Evening, " andmade observation from under their hat-brims. Others followed rapidly, until the room was full and dark figures waited outside. At lastCurtis spoke. "Your boarder, Asa Arnold, where is he, Hans?" The unsuspecting German blew a cloud of smoke. "He a while ago went out. " Then, as an afterthought: "He will returnsoon. " Silence once more for a time, and a steadily thickening haze of smokein the room. "Did he have supper, Hans?" queried Bud Evans, impatiently. Again the German's face expressed surprise. "No, it is waiting for him. He went to shoot a rabbit he saw. " The men were on their feet. "He took a gun, Hans?" "A rifle, to be sure. " The mild brown eyes glanced up reproachfully. "A man does not go hunting without--. .. What is this!" he completed inconsternation, as, finding himself suddenly alone, he hurried outsideand stood confusedly scratching his bushy poll, in the block of lightsurrounding the open doorway. The yard was deserted. As one snuffs a candle, the men had vanished. Hans' pipe had gone out and he went inside for a match. Though thestars fell, the German must needs smoke. Only a minute he was gone, but during that time a group of horsemen had gathered in the street. Others were coming across lots, and still others were emerging fromthe darkness of alleys. Some were mounted; some led by the rein, wirylittle bronchos. Watching, it almost seemed to the German that theysprang from the ground. "Are you all ready?" called a voice, Bud Evans' voice. "Here--" "Here--" "All ready?" "Yes--" "We're off, then. " There was a sudden, confused trampling, as of cattle in stampede; amusical creaking of heavy saddles; a knife-like swish of many quirtsthrough the air; a chorus of dull, chesty groans as the rowels of longspurs bit the flanks of the mustangs, and they were gone--down thenarrow street, out upon the prairie, their hoof beats pattering_diminuendo_ into silence; a cloud of dust, grayish in the starlight, marking the way they had taken. Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came running excitedly up from a sidestreet. He stopped in front of the hotel, breathlessly. Holding hissides, he followed with his eyes the trail of dust leading out intothe night. "Have they gone?" he panted. "I can't find another horse in town. " "Where is it to?" sputtered the German. "Have they gone, I say?" Hans gasped. "Yes, to be sure. " "They'll never make it. " The blacksmith mopped his brow withconviction. "He has an hour's start. " Hans grasped the big man by the coat. "Who is too late?" he emphasized. "Where are they going?" Jim Donovan turned about, great pity for such density in his eyes. "Is it possible you don't understand? It's to Ichabod Maurice'sthey're going, to tell him of Arnold. " The speaker mopped his faceanew. "It's useless though. They're too late, " he completed. "But Arnold is not there, " protested the German. "He went for arabbit, out on the breaking. He so told me. " "He lied to you. He's mad. I tell you they're too late, " repeated thesmith, obstinately. Hans clung tenaciously to the collar. "Some one knew and told them?" He pointed in the direction the dustindicated. "Yes, Bud Evans; but they wouldn't believe him at first, and"--bitterly--"and waited. " Donovan shook himself free, and starteddown the walk. "I'm going to bed, " he announced conclusively. Meanwhile the cloud of dust was moving out over the prairie like thewind. The pace was terrific, and the tough little ponies were soonpuffing steadily. Small game, roused from its sleep by the roadside, sprang winging into the night. Once a coyote, surprised, ran adistance confusedly ahead in the roadway; then, an indistinct blackball, it vanished amongst the tall grass. Well out on the prairie, Bud Evans, the leader, raised in his stirrupsand looked ahead. There was no light beyond where the little cottageshould be. The rowels of his spur dug anew at the flank of his pony ashe turned a voice like a fog-horn back over his shoulder. "The place is dark, boys, " he called. "Hurry. " Answering, a muttering sound, not unlike an approaching storm, passedalong the line, and in accompaniment the quirts cut the air anew. Silent as the grave was the little farmstead when, forty odd minutesfrom the time of starting, they steamed up at the high fence boundingthe yard. One of Ichabod's farm horses whinnied a lone greeting fromthe barn as they hastily dismounted and swarmed within the inclosure. "We're too late, " prophesied a voice. "I'm glad my name's not Arnold, if we are, " responded another, threateningly. Hurrying up the path in advance, the little land-agent stumbled over asoft, dark object, and a curse fell from his lips as he recognized thedead body of the big collie. "Yes, we're too late, " he echoed. The door of the house swung ajar, creaking upon its hinges; and, aspenetrates the advance wave of a flood, the men swarmed through thedoorway inside, until the narrow room was blocked. Simultaneously, like torches, lighted matches appeared aloft in their hands, and thetiny whitewashed room flashed into light. As simultaneously theresprang from the mouth of each man an oath, and another, and another. Waiting outside, not a listener but knew the meaning of that sound;and big, hairy faces crowded tightly to the one small window. For a moment not a man in the line stirred. Death was to them nostranger; but death such as this-- In more than one hand the match burned down until it left a mark likecharcoal, and without calling attention. One and all they stoodspellbound, their eyes on the floor, their lips unconsciously utteringthe speech universal of anger and of horror, the instinctive languageof anathema. On the floor, sprawling, as falls a lifeless body, lay the longIchabod. On his forehead, almost geometrically near the centre, was atiny, black spot, around it a lighter red blotch; his face otherwisevery white; his hair, on the side toward which he leaned, a littlematted; that was all. Prostrate across him, in an attitude of utter abandon, reposed thebody of a woman, soft, graceful, motionless now as that of the man:the body of Camilla Maurice. One hand had held his head and wasstained dark. On her lips was another stain, but lighter. The meaningof that last mark came as a flash to the spectators, and the room grewstill as the figures on the floor. Suddenly in the silence the men caught their breath, with the quickguttural note that announces the unexpected. That there was noremaining life they had taken for granted--and Camilla's lips hadmoved! They stared as at sight of a ghost; all except Curtis, thephysician. "A lamp, men, " he demanded, pressing his ear to Camilla's chest. "Help me here, Evans, " he continued without turning. "I think she'sfainted is all, " and together they carried their burden into the tinysleeping-room, closing the door behind. That instant Ole, the Swede, thrust a curious head in at the outerdoorway. He had noticed the light and the gathering, and came toascertain their meaning. Wondering, his big eyes passed aroundthe waiting group and from them to the floor. With that lookself-consciousness left him; he crowded to the front, bendingover the tall man and speaking his name. "Mr. Maurice, " he called. "Mr. Maurice. " He snatched off his own coat, rolling it under Ichabod's head, andwith his handkerchief touched the dark spot on the forehead. It wasclotted already and hardening, and realization came to the boy Swede. He stood up, facing the men, the big veins in his throat throbbing. "Who did this?" he thundered, crouching for a spring like a great dog. "Who did this, I say?" It was the call to action. In the sudden horror of the tragedy the bigfellows had momentarily forgotten their own grim epilogue. Now, at thewords, they turned toward the door. But the Swede was in advance, blocking the passage. "Tell me first who did this thing, " he challenged, threateningly. A hand was laid gently upon his shoulder. "Asa Arnold, my boy, " answered a quiet voice, which continued, inresponse to a sudden thought, "You live near here; have you seen himto-night?" The Swede dropped the bar. "The little man who stays with Hans Becher?" The questioner nodded. "Yes, a half-hour ago. " The boy-man understood now. "He stopped at myhouse, and--" "Which direction did he go?" Ole stepped outside, his arm stretched over the prairie, white now inthe moonlight. "That way, " he indicated. "East. " As there had been quiescence before, now there was action. No chargeof cavalry was ever more swift than their sudden departure. "East, toward Schooner's ranch, " was called and repeated as they madetheir way back to the road; and, following, the wiry little bronchosgroaned in unison as the back cinch to each one of the heavy saddles, was, with one accord, drawn tight. Then, widening out upon thereflected whiteness of prairie, there spread a great black crescent. Amoment later came silence, broken only by the quivering call of a lonecoyote. Ole watched them out of sight, then turned back to the door; the moodof the heroic passed, once more the timid, retiring Swede. But now hewas not alone. Bud Evans was quietly working over the body on thefloor, laying it out decently as the quick ever lay out the dead. "Evans, " called the doctor from the bedroom. As the agent responded, Ole heard the smothered cry of a woman in pain. The big boy hesitated, then sat down on the doorstep. There wasnothing now for him to do, and suddenly he felt very tired. His headdropped listlessly into his hands; like a great dog, he waited, watching. Minutes passed. On the table the oil lamp sputtered and burned lower. Out in the stable the horse repeated its former challenging whinny. Once again through the partition the listener caught the choking wailof pain, and the muffled sound of the doctor's voice in answer. At last Bud Evans came to the door, his face very white. "Water, " herequested, and Ole ran to the well and back. Then, impassive, he satdown again to wait. Time passed, so long a time it seemed to the watcher that the ridersmust soon be returning. Finally Evans emerged from the side room, walking absently, his face gray in the lamplight. The Swede stood up. "Camilla Maurice, is she hurt?" he asked. The little agent busied himself making a fire. "She's dead, " he answered slowly. "Dead, you say?" "Yes, dead, "--very quietly. The fire blazed up and lit the room, shining unpityingly upon the faceof the man on the floor. Evans noticed, and drawing off his own coat spread it over the faceand hands, covering them from sight; then, uncertain, he returned andsat down, mechanically holding his palms to the blaze. A moment later Dr. Curtis appeared at the tiny bedroom entrance; and, emerging as the little man had done before him, he closed the doorsoftly behind. In his arms he carried a blanket, carefully rolled. From the depths of its folds, as he slowly crossed the room toward thestove, there escaped a sudden cry, muffled, unmistakable. The doctor sank down wearily in a chair. Ole, the boy-faced, without aquestion brought in fresh wood, laying it down on the floor very, verysoftly. "Will he--live?" asked Bud Evans, suddenly, with an uncertain glanceat the obscuring blanket; and hearing the query, the Swede paused inhis work to listen. The big doctor hesitated, and cleared his throat. "I think so; though--God forgive me--I hope not. " And he cleared histhroat again. JOURNEY'S END I "Steve!" It was the girl who spoke, but the man did not seem to hear. He was staring through the window, unseeingly, into the heart of hisbitter foe, Winter. He sat silent, helpless. "Steve!" At last he awoke. "Mollie!--girlie!" An hour had passed since he left the doctor's office to reel andstagger drunkenly through the slush and the sleet, and the icy blasts, which bit cruelly into his very vitals. Now he and Mollie were alone in the tiny library. Babcock had beenwarmed, washed, fed. Seemingly without volition on his part, he wasbefore the hard-coal blaze, his feet on the fender, the lightcarefully shaded from his eyes. Once upon a time-- But Steve Babcock, master mechanic, had not lost his nerve--once upona time. "Steve"--the voice was as soft as the wide brown eyes, as the daintyoval chin--"Steve, tell me what it is. " The man's hand, palm outward, dropped wearily, eloquently. That wasall. "But tell me, " the girl's chair came closer, so that she might havetouched him, "you went to see the doctor?" "Yes. " "And he--?" Again the silent, hopeless gesture, more fear-inspiring than words. "Don't keep me in suspense, please. " A small hand was on the man'sknee, now, frankly unashamed. "Tell me what he said. " For an instant there was silence, then Babcock shrugged awkwardly, inan effort at nonchalance. "He said I was--was--" in spite of himself, the speaker paused tomoisten his lips--"a dead man. " "Steve!" Not a word this time; not even a shrug. "Steve, you--you're not--not joking with me?" Lower and lower, still in silence, dropped the man's chin. "Steve, " in a steadier voice, "please answer me. You're not joking?" "Joking!" At last the query had pierced the fear-dulled brain. "Joking! God, no! It's real, real, deadly real, that's what . .. Oh, Mollie--!" Instinctively, as a child, the man's head had gone to thegirl's lap. Though never before had they spoken of love or ofmarriage, neither noted the incongruity now. "It's all over. We'llnever be married, never again get out into the country together, nevereven see the green grass next Spring--at least I won't--never. .. . Oh, Mollie, Mollie!" The man's back rose and fell spasmodically. His voicebroke. "Mollie, make me forget; I can't bear to think of it. Can't!Can't!" Not a muscle of the girl's body stirred; she made no sound. No one inadvance would have believed it possible, but it was true. Five minutespassed. The man became quiet. "Steve, " the voice was very even, "what else did the doctor say?" "Eh?" It was the doddering query of an old man. The girl repeated the question, slowly, with infinite patience, asthough she were speaking to a child. "What else did the doctor say?" Her tranquillity in a measure calmed the man. "Oh, he said a lot of things; but that's all I remember--what I toldyou. It was the last thing, and he kind of tilted back in his chair. The spring needed oil; it fairly screamed. I can hear it now. "'Steve Babcock, ' said he, 'you've got to go some place where it'sdrier, where the air's pure and clean and sweet the year round. Mexico's the spot for you, or somewhere in the Far West where you canspend all your time in the open--under the roof of Heaven. ' "He leaned forward, and again that cursed spring interrupted. "'If you don't go, and go right away, ' he said, 'as sure as I'mtalking to you, you're a dead man. '" Babcock straightened, and, leaden-eyed, looked dully into the blaze. "Those, " he whispered, "were his last words. " "And if you do go?"--very quietly. "He said I had a chance--a fighting chance. " Once more the hopeless, deprecatory gesture. "But what's the use? You know, as well as I, that I haven't a hundreddollars to my name. He might just as well have told me to go to themoon. "We poor folks are like rats in a trap when they turn the wateron--helpless. We--" Babcock had wandered on, forgetting, for the moment, that it was hisown case he was analyzing. Now of a sudden it recurred to him, cumulatively, crushingly and, as before, his head instinctively soughtrefuge. "We can't do anything but take our medicine, Mollie--just take ourmedicine. " _Patter_, _patter_ sounded the sleet against the window-panes, mingling with the roar of the wind in the chimney, with the short, quick breaths of the man. In silence he reached out, took one of thegirl's hands captive, and held it against his cheek. For a minute--five minutes--she did not stir, did not utter a sound;only the soft oval face tightened until its gentle outlines grewsharp, and the brown skin almost white. All at once her lips compressed; she had reached a decision. "Steve, sit up, please; I can talk to you better so. " Pityingly, protectingly, she placed an arm around him and drew him close; not asman to maid, but--ah, the pity of it!--as a feeble child to itsmother. "Listen to what I say. To-day is Thursday. Next Monday you are goingWest, as the doctor orders. " "What--what did you say, Mollie?" "Next Monday you go West. " "You mean, after all, I'm to have a chance? I'm not going to dielike--like a rat?" For a moment, a swiftly passing moment, it was the old vital Steve whospoke; the Babcock of a year ago; then, in quick recession, the moodpassed. "You don't know what you're talking about, girl. I can't go, I tellyou. I haven't the money. " "I'll see that you have the money, Steve. " "You?" "I've been teaching for eight years, and living at home all thewhile. " The man, surprised out of his self centredness, looked wonderingly, unbelievingly, at her. "You never told me, Mollie. " "No, I never saw the need before. " The man's look of wonder passed. Another--fearful, dependent, the lookof a child in the dark--took its place. "But--alone, Mollie! A strange land, a strange people, a strangetongue! Oh, I hate myself, girl, hate myself! I've lost my nerve. Ican't go alone. I can't. " "You're not going alone, Steve. " There was a triumphant note in hervoice that thrilled the man through and through. She continued: "Only this morning--I don't know why I did it; it seems now likeProvidence pointing the way--I read in the paper about the rich farmlands in South Dakota that are open for settlement. I thought of youat the time, Steve; how such a life might restore your health; but itseemed so impossible, so impracticable, that I soon forgot about it. "But--Steve--we can each take up a quarter-section--three hundred andtwenty acres, altogether. Think of it! We'll soon be rich. There youwill have just the sort of outdoor life the doctor says you need. " He looked at her, marvelling. "Mollie--you don't mean it--now, when I'm--this way!" He arose, hisbreath coming quick, a deep blot of red in the centre of each cheek. "It can't be true when--when you'd never let me say anything before. " "Yes, Steve, it's true. " She was so calm, so self-possessed and withal so determined, that theman was incredulous. "That you'll marry me? Say it, Mollie!" "Yes, I'll marry you. " "Mollie!" He took a step forward, then of a sudden, abruptly halted. "But your parents, " in swift trepidation. "Mollie, they--" "Don't let's speak of them, "--sharply. Then in quick contrition, hervoice softened; once more it struck the maternal note. "Pardon me, I'm very tired. Come. We have a spare room; you mustn't gohome to-night. " The man stopped, coughed, advanced a step, then stopped again. "Mollie, I can't thank you; can't ever repay you--" "You mustn't talk of repaying me, " she said shyly, her dark facecoloring. It was the first time during the interview that she hadshown a trace of embarrassment. "Come, " she said, meeting his look again, her hand on the door; "it'sgetting late. You must not venture out. " A moment longer the man hesitated, then obeyed. Not until he wasvery near, so near that he could touch her, did a vestige of hisformer manhood appear. He paused, and their eyes were locked in asoul-searching look. Then all at once his arm was round her waist, hisface beside her face. "Mollie, girl, won't you--just once?" "No, no--not that! Don't ask it. " Passionately the brown hands flewto the brown cheeks, covering them protectingly. But at once camethought, the spirit of sacrifice, and contrition for the involuntaryrepulse. "Forgive me, Steve; I'm unaccountable to-night. " Her voice, her mannerwere constrained, subdued. She accepted his injured look withoutcomment, without further defence. She saw the perplexed look on histhin face; then she reached forward--up--and her two soft handsbrought his face down to the level of her own. Deliberately, voluntarily, she kissed him fair upon the lips. II The sun was just peering over the rim of the prairie, when Mrs. Warrenturned in from the dusty road, picked her way among the browning weedsto the plain, unpainted, shanty-like structure which marked thepresence of a homesteader. Except to the east, where stood the tentsand shacks of the new railroad's construction gang, not another humanhabitation broke the dull, monotonous rolling sea of prairie. Mrs. Warren pounded vigorously upon the rough boards of the door. A full half-minute she waited; then she glared petulantly at theunresponsive barrier, and pounded upon it again. Ordinarily she would have waited patiently, for the multitude ofduties of one day often found Mrs. Babcock still weary with thedawning of the next--especially since Steve had allied himself withJack Warren's engineering corps. Funds had run low, and the two valetudinarians had reached the stageof desperation where they were driven to acknowledge failure, whenJack Warren happened along, in the van of the new railroad. The work of home-building, from the raw material, had been too muchfor Steve's enfeebled physique; so it happened that Mollie performedmost of his share, as well as all of her own. Yet Steve toiled to thelimit of his endurance, and each day, at sundown, flung himself uponhis blanket, spread beneath the stars, dog-tired, fairly tremblingwith weariness. But he soon developed a prodigious appetite, and, after the first few weeks, slept each night like a dead man, untilsunrise. This morning Annie Warren was too full of her errand to pause aninstant. She stood a moment listening, one ear to the splintery, unfinished boards, then-- "Mollie, " she ventured, "are you awake?" No answer. "Mollie"--more insistent, "wake up and let me in. " Still no response. "Mollie, " for the third time, "it is I, Annie; may I enter?" "Come. " The voice was barely audible. Within the uncomfortably low, dim room the visitor impetuously crossedthe earthen floor half-way to a rude bunk built against the wall, thenpaused, her round, childlike face soberly lengthening. "Mollie, you have been crying!" she charged, resentfully, as if theact constituted a personal offence. "You can't deceive me. The pillowis soaked, and your eyes are red. " She came forward, impulsively, andthrew herself on the bed, her arm about the other. "What is it? Tell me--your friend--Annie. " Beneath the light coverlet, Mollie Babcock made a motion ofdeprecation, almost of repugnance. "It is nothing. Please don't pay any attention to me. " "But it _is_ something. Am I not your friend?" For a moment neither spoke. Annie Warren all at once became consciousthat the other woman was looking at her in a way she had never donebefore. "Assuredly you are my friend, Annie. But just the same, it's nothing. "The look altered until it became a smile. "Tell me, instead, why you are here, " Mollie went on. "It is not usualat this time of day. " Annie Warren felt the rebuff, and she was hurt. "It is nothing. " The visitor was on her feet, her voice againresentful; her chin was held high, while her long lashes drooped. "Pardon me for intruding, for--" "Annie!" No answer save the quiver of a sensitive red lip. "Annie, child, pardon me. I wouldn't for the world hurt you; but it isso hard, what you ask. " Mollie Babcock rose, now, likewise. "However, if you wish--" "No, no!" The storm was clearing. "It was all my fault. I know you'drather not. " She had grasped Mollie's arms, and was forcing herbackward, toward the bunk, gently, smilingly. "Be still. I'vesomething to tell you. Are you quite ready to listen?" "Yes, I'm quite ready. " "You haven't the slightest idea what it is? You couldn't even guess?" "No, I couldn't even guess. " "I'll tell you, then. " The plump Annie was bubbling like a childbefore a well-filled Christmas stocking. "It's Jack: he's coming thisvery day. A big, fierce Indian brought the letter this morning. " Shesat down tailor fashion on the end of the bunk. "He nearly ate upSusie--Jack christened her Susie because she's a Sioux--because shewouldn't let him put the letter right into my own hand. That's whyI'm up so early. " She looked slyly at the woman on the bed. "Who do you suppose is coming with him?" she asked. "I'm sure I don't know, " in a tone of not caring, either. "Guess, Mollie!" "Steve?" "Of course--Steve. You knew all the time, only you wouldn't admit it. Oh, I'm so glad! I want to hug some one. Isn't it fine?" "Yes, fine indeed. But you don't mean that you want to hug Steve?" "No, goose. You know I meant Jack; but I--" She regarded her frienddoubtfully. But Mollie Babcock was dressing rapidly, and her face wasaverted. "And Mollie, I didn't tell you all--almost the best. We're going home, Jack says; going right away; this very week, maybe. " For a moment the dressing halted. "I am very glad--for you, " saidMollie, in an even voice. "Glad, for me!" mimickingly, baitingly. "Mollie Babcock, if I didn'tknow you better, I'd say you were envious. " Mollie said nothing. "Or weren't glad your husband is coming. " Still no word. "Or--or--Mollie, what have I done?" Annie cried in dismay. "Don't cryso; I was only joking. Of course you know that I didn't mean that youenvied our good luck, or that you wouldn't be crazy to see Steve. " "But it's so. God help me, it's so!" "Mollie!" Mrs. Warren was aghast. "Forgive me! I'm ashamed ofmyself!" "There's nothing to forgive; it's so. " "Please don't. " The two were very close, very tense, but not touching. "Don't say any more. I didn't hear--" "You did hear. And you suspected, or you wouldn't have suggested!" "Mollie, I never dreamed. I--" Of a sudden the older woman faced about. Seizing the other by theshoulders, she held her prisoner. She fixed the frightened woman'seyes with a stern look. "Will you swear that you never knew--that it was mere chance--what yousaid?" "Yes. " "You swear you didn't?"--the grip tightened--"you swear it?" "I swear--oh, you're hurting me!" Mollie Babcock let her hands drop. "I believe you"--wearily. "It seemed that everybody knew. God helpme!" She sank to the bed, her face in her hands. "I believe I'm goingmad!" "Mollie--Mollie Babcock! You mustn't talk so--you mustn't!" Theseconds ticked away. Save for the quick catch of suppressed sobs, nota sound was heard in the mean, austere little room; not an echopenetrated from the outside world. Then suddenly the brown head lifted from the pillow, and Mollie facedalmost fiercely about. "You think I am--am mad already. " Then, feverishly: "Don't you?" Helpless at a crisis, Annie Warren could only stand silent, the pink, childish under-lip held tight between her teeth to prevent a quiver. Her fingers played nervously with the filmy lace shawl about hershoulders. Mollie advanced a step. "Don't you?" Annie found her voice. "No, no, no! Oh, Mollie, no, of course not! You--Mollie--" Instinctall at once came to her rescue. With a sudden movement she gatheredthe woman in her arms, her tender heart quivering in her voice andglistening in her eyes. "Mollie, I can't bear to have you so! I loveyou, Mollie. Tell me what it is--me--your friend, Annie. " Mollie's lips worked without speech, and Annie became insistent. "Tell me, Mollie. Let me share the ache at your heart. I love you!" Here was the crushing straw to one very, very heartsick and veryweary. For the first time in her solitary life, Mollie Babcock threwreticence to the winds, and admitted another human being into thesecret places of her confidence. "If you don't think me already mad, you will before I'm through. " Likea caged wild thing that can not be still, she was once more on herfeet, vibrating back and forth like a shuttle. "I'm afraid of myselfat times, afraid of the future. It's like the garret used to be afterdark, when we were children: it holds only horrors. "Child, child!" She paused, her arms folded across her breast, herthroat a-throb. "You can't understand--thank God, you never willunderstand--what the future holds for me. You are going back home;back to your own people, your own life. You've been here but a fewmonths. To you it has been a lark, an outing, an experience. In a fewshort weeks it will be but a memory, stowed away in its own niche, thepleasant features alone remaining vivid. "Even, while here, you've never known the life itself. You've hadJack, the novelty of a strange environment, your anticipation of surerelease. You are merely like a sightseer, locked for a minute in aprison-cell, for the sake of a new sensation. "You can't understand, I say. You are this, and I--I am thelife-prisoner in the cell beyond, peering at you through the bars, viewing you and your mock imprisonment. " Once more the speaker was in motion, to and fro, to and fro, in theshuttle-trail. "The chief difference is, that the life-prisoner has ahope of pardon; I have none--absolutely none. " "Mollie"--pleadingly, "you mustn't. I'll ask Jack to give Steve aplace at home, and you can go--" "Go!" The bitterness of her heart welled up and vibrated in the word. "Go! We can't go, now or ever. It's death to Steve if we leave. I'vegot to stay here, month after month, year after year, dragging my lifeout until I grow gray-haired--until I die!" She halted, her armstensely folded, her breath coming quick. Only the intensity of heremotion saved the attitude from being histrionic. In a suddenoutburst, she fiercely apostrophized: "Oh, Dakota! I hate you, I hate you! Because I am a woman, I hate you!Because I would live in a house, and not in this endless dreary wasteof a dead world, I hate you! Because your very emptiness and solitudeare worse than a prison, because the calls of the living things thatcreep and fly over your endless bosom are more mournful than deathitself, I hate you! Because I would be free, because I respect sex, because of the disdain for womanhood that dwells in your crushingsilence, I hate--oh, my God, how I hate you!" She threw her arms wide, in a frantic gesture of rebellion. "I want but this, " she cried passionately: "to be free; free, as I wasat home, in God's country. And I can never be so here--never, never, never! Oh, Annie, I'm homesick--desperately, miserably homesick! Iwish to Heaven I were dead!" Annie Warren, child-woman that she was, was helpless, when face toface with the unusual. Her senses were numbed, paralyzed. One thoughtalone suggested itself. "But"--haltingly--"for Steve's sake--certainly, for him--" "Stop! As you love me, stop!" Again no suggestion of the histrionic inthe passionate voice. "Don't say that now. I can't stand it. I--oh, Idon't mean that! Forget that I said it. I'm not responsible thismorning. Please leave me. " She was prostrate on the bed at last, her whole body a-tremble. "But--Mollie--" "Go--go!" cried Mollie, wildly. "Please go!" Awed to silence, Annie Warren stared helplessly a moment, thengathered her shawl about her shoulders, and slipped silently away. III Mollie Babcock was listlessly going about some imperative domestictask, behind the mean structure which represented home for her, whenSteve came upon her. She was not looking for him. He had been gone so long, out theresomewhere, in that abomination of desolation, building a railroad, that the morbid fancy had come to dwell with her that the prairie hadswallowed him, and that she would never see him more. So he came uponher unawares. The buffalo grass rustled with the passage of her skirts. His eyeslighted, the man seemed to grow in stature--six feet of sun-blessed, primitive health. Now was the time-- "Mollie!" There was a sudden gasp from the woman. With a hand to her throat, shewheeled swiftly round, confronting him. "I'm back at last. Aren't you glad to see me?" She was as pallid as an Easter-lily; pallid, despite the fact that shehad decided, and had nerved herself for his coming. Steve was puzzled. "Mollie, girl"--he did not advance, merely stood ashe was--"aren't you glad to see me? Won't you--come?" There was a long space of silence; the woman did not stir. Then astrange, inarticulate cry was smothered in her throat. Swiftly, allbut desperately, she stumbled blindly forward, although her eyes wereshining with the enchantment of his presence; close to him she came, flung her arms around his broad chest, and strained him to her withthe abandon of a wild creature. "Steve!" tensely, "how could you? Glad? You know I'm glad--oh, soglad! You startled me, that was all. " "Mollie, girlie"--he lifted her at arms' length, joying in thistestimony of his renewed strength and manhood--"I rode all last nightto get here--to see you. Are you happy, girlie, happy?" "Yes, Steve"--her voice was chastened to a murmur--"I--I'm veryhappy. " "That completes my happiness. " Drawing her tenderly to him, he kissedher again and again--hungrily, passionately; then, abruptly, he fellto scrutinizing her, with a meaning that she was quick to interpret. "Isn't there something you've forgotten, Mollie?" "No, I've not forgotten, Steve. " She drew the bearded face down to herown. Had Steve been observant he would have noticed that the lips sonear his own were trembling; but he was not observant, this SteveBabcock. Once, twice and again she kissed him. "I think I'll never forget, Steve, man--never!" With one hand sheindicated the prairie that billowed away to the skyline. "This is ourhome, and I love it because it is ours. I shall always have you--Iknow now, Steve. And I'm the happiest, most contented woman in allthe wide world. " She drew away with a sudden movement, her face aglow with love andhappiness. She was pulling at his arm with all her might. "Where are you going?" he asked, surprised. "Over to the camp--to Journey's End. I must tell Annie Warren just assoon as ever I can find her. " A PRAIRIE IDYL A beautiful moonlight night early in September, the kind of night oneremembers for years, when the air is not too cold to be pleasant, andyet has a suggestion of the frost that is to come. A kind of air thatmakes one think thoughts which cannot be put into words, that calls upsensations one cannot describe; an air which breeds restless energy;an air through which Mother Nature seems to speak, saying--"Hasten, children; life is short and you have much to do. " It was nearing ten o'clock, and a full moon lit up the rolling prairiecountry of South Dakota for miles, when the first team of a littletrain of six moved slowly out of the dark shadow blots thrown by thetrees at the edge of the Big Sioux, advancing along a dim trailtowards the main road. From the first wagon sounded the suggestiverattle of tin cooking-utensils, and the clatter of covers on an oldcook stove. Next behind was a load piled high with a compound heap oftents, tennis nets, old carpets, hammocks, and the manifoldunclassified paraphernalia which twenty young people will collect fora three weeks' outing. These wagons told their own story. "Camp Eden, " the fanciful namegiven to the quiet, shady spot where the low chain of hills met theriver; the spot where the very waters seemed to lose themselves intheir own cool depths, and depart sighing through the shallowsbeyond, --Camp Eden was deserted, and a score of very tired camperswere reluctantly returning to home and work. Last in the line and steadily losing ground, came a single trapcarrying two people. One of them, a young man with the face of adreamer, was speaking. The spell of the night was upon him. "So this is the last of our good time--and now for work. " He stoppedthe horse and stood up in the wagon. "Good-bye, little Camp Eden. Though I won't be here, yet whenever I see the moon a-shining so--andthe air feeling frosty and warm and restless--and the corn stalkswhitening, and the young prairie chickens calling--you'll come back tome, and I'll think of you--and of the Big Sioux--and of--" His eyesdropped to a smooth brown head, every coil of the walnut hairglistening. It made him think of the many boat rides they two had taken togetherin the past two weeks, when he had watched the moonlight shimmering onrippling, running water, and compared the play of light upon it andupon that same brown head--and had forgotten all else in thecomparison. He forgot all else now. He sat down, and the horsestarted. The noisy wagons ahead had passed out of hearing. The pairwere alone. He was silent a moment, looking sideways at the girl. The moonlightfell full upon her face, drawing clear the line of cheek and chin;bringing out the curve of the drooping mouth and the shadow from thelong lashes. She seemed to the sensitive lad more than human. He hadloved her for years, with the pure silent love known only to such anature as his--and never had he loved her so wildly as now. He was the sport of a multitude of passions; love and ambition werethe strongest, and they were fighting a death struggle with eachother. How could he leave her for years--perhaps never see heragain--and yet how could he ask her to be the wife of such as he wasnow--a mere laborer? And again, his college course, his cherishedambition for years--how could he give it up; and yet he felt--he knewshe loved him, and trusted him. He had been looking squarely at her. She turned, and their eyes met. Each knew the thought of the other, and each turned away. He hesitatedno longer; he would tell her all, and she should judge. His voicetrembled a little as he said: "I want to tell you a story, and ask youa question--may I?" She looked at him quickly, then answered with a smile: "I'm alwaysglad to hear stories--and at the worst one can always decline toanswer questions. " He looked out over the prairie, and saw the lights of the littletown--her home--in the distance. "It isn't a short story, and I have only so long"--he pointed alongthe road ahead to the village beyond--"to tell it in. " He settledback in the seat, and began speaking. His voice was low and soft, likethe prairie night-wind. "Part of the story you know; part of it I think you have guessed; alittle of it will be new. For the sake of that little, I will tellall. " "Thirteen years ago, what is now a little prairie town--then a verylittle town indeed--gained a new citizen--a boy of nine. A party offarmers found him one day, sleeping in a pile of hay, in the marketcorner. He lay so they could see how his face was bruised--and how, though asleep, he tossed in pain. He awoke, and, getting up, walkedwith a limp. Where he came from no one knew, and he would not tell;but his appearance told its own story. He had run away from somewhere. What had happened they could easily imagine. "It was harvest-time and boys, even though minus a pedigree, were indemand; so he was promptly put on a farm. Though only a child, he hadno one to care for him--and he was made to work ceaselessly. "Years passed and brought a marked change in the boy. How he lived wasa marvel. It was a country of large families, and no one cared toadopt him. Summers, he would work for his board and clothes, and inwinter, by the irony of Nature, for his board only; yet, perhapsbecause it was the warmest place he knew, he managed to attenddistrict school. "When a lad of fifteen he began to receive wages--and life's horizonseemed to change. He dressed neatly, and in winter came to school inthe little prairie town. He was put in the lower grades with boys often, and even here his blunders made him a laughing-stock; but not forlong, for he worked--worked always--and next year was put in the highschool. "There he established a precedent--doing four years' work intwo--and graduated at eighteen. How he did it no one but he himselfknew--studying Sundays, holidays, and evenings, when he was so tiredthat he had to walk the floor to keep awake--but he did it. " The speaker stopped a moment to look at his companion. "Is this abore? Somehow I can't help talking to-night. " "No, please go on, " said the girl quickly. "Well, the boy graduated--but not alone. For two years he had workedside by side with a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl. From the time hehad first seen her she was his ideal--his divinity. And she had neverspoken with him five minutes in her life. After graduation, the girlwent away to a big university. Her parents were wealthy, and her everywish was gratified. " Again the speaker hesitated. When he went on his face was hard, hisvoice bitter. "And the boy--he was poor and he went back to the farm. He was thebest hand in the country; for the work he received good wages. If hehad worked hard before, he worked now like a demon. He thought of thegirl away at college, and tried at first to crowd her from hismemory--but in vain. Then he worked in self-defence--and to forget. "He saw years slipping by--and himself still a farmhand. The thoughtmaddened him, because he knew he was worthy of something better. "Gradually, his whole life centred upon one object--to save money forcollege. Other boys called him close and cold; but he did not care. Heseldom went anywhere, so intent was he upon his one object. On hotsummer nights, tired and drowsy he would read until Nature rebelled, and he would fall asleep to dream of a girl--a girl with brown eyesthat made one forget--everything. In winter, he had more time--and thelittle lamp in his room became a sort of landmark: it burned for hoursafter every other light in the valley had ceased shining. "Four years passed, and at last the boy had won. In a month he wouldpass from the prairie to university life. He had no home, fewfriends--who spoke; those who did not were safely packed at the bottomof his trunk. His going from the little town would excite no morecomment than had his coming. He was all ready, and for the first timein his life set apart a month--the last--as a vacation. He feltpositively gay. He had fought a hard fight--and had won. He saw thedawning of a great light--saw the future as a battle-ground where hewould fight; not as he was then, but fully equipped for thestruggle. .. . But no matter what air-castles he built; they were suchas young men will build to the end of time. " The speaker's voice lowered--stopped. He looked straight out over theprairie, his eyes glistening. "If so far the boy's life had been an inferno, he was to be repaid. The girl--she of the brown eyes--was home once more, and they metagain as members of a camping party. " He half-turned in his seat tolook at her, but she sat with face averted, so quiet, so motionless, that he wondered if she heard. "Are you listening?" he asked. "Listening!" Her voice carried conviction, so the lad continued. "For a fortnight he lived a dream--and that dream was Paradise. Heforgot the past, ignored the future, and lived solely for themoment--with the joy of Nature's own child. It was the pure love ofthe idealist and the dreamer--it was divine. "Then came the reaction. One day he awoke--saw things as theywere--saw again the satire of Fate. At the very time he left forcollege, she returned--a graduate. She was young, beautiful, accomplished. He was a mere farmhand, without money or education, homeless, obscure. The thought was maddening, and one day he suddenlydisappeared from camp. He didn't say good-bye to any one; he felt hehad no apology that he could offer. But he had to go, for he felt thenecessity for work, longed for it, as a drunkard longs for liquor. " "Oh!" The exclamation came from the lips of the girl beside him. "I--we--all wondered why--. " "Well, that was why. "He fell in with a threshing-crew, and asked to work for his board. They thought him queer, but accepted his offer. For two days he stayedwith them, doing the work of two men. It seemed as if he couldn't doenough--he couldn't become tired. He wanted to think it all out, andhe couldn't with the fever in his blood. "At night he couldn't sleep--Nature was pitiless. He would walk theroad for miles until morning. "With the third day came relief. All at once he felt fearfully tired, and fell asleep where he stood. Several of the crew carried him to adarkened room, and there he slept as a dumb animal sleeps. When heawoke, he was himself again; his mind was clear and cool. He lookedthe future squarely in the face, now, and clearly, as if a fingerpointed, he saw the path that was marked for him. He must go hisway--and she must go hers. Perhaps, after four years or more--but thefuture was God's. " The boy paused. The lights of the town were nearing, now; but he stilllooked out over the moon-kissed prairie. "The rest you know. The dreamer returned. The party scarcely knew him, for he seemed years older. There were but a few days more of camplife, and he spent most of the time with the girl. Like a malefactorout on bail, he was painting a picture for the future. He thought hehad conquered himself--but he hadn't. It was the same old struggle. Was not love more than ambition or wealth? Had he not earned theright to speak? But something held him back. If justice to himself, was it justice to the girl? Conscience said 'No. ' It was hard--no oneknows how hard--but he said nothing. " Once more he turned to his companion, in his voice the tenderness of alife-long passion. "This is the story: did the boy do right?" A life's work--greater thana life itself, hung on the answer to that question. The girl understood it all. She had always known that she liked him;but now--now--As he had told his story, she had felt, first, pity, andthen something else; something incomparably sweeter; something thatmade her heart beat wildly, that seemed almost to choke her with itsecstasy. He loved her--had loved her all these years! He belonged to her--andhis future lay in her hands. His future! The thought fell upon her new-found happiness with thesuddenness of a blow. She could keep him, but had she the right to doso? She saw in him something that he did not suspect--and thatsomething was genius. She knew he had the ability to make for himselfa name that would stand among the great names of the earth. Then, did his life really belong to her? Did it not rather belong tohimself and to the world? She experienced a struggle, fierce as he himself had fought. And theboy sat silent, tense, waiting for her answer. Yes, she must give him up; she would be brave. She started to speak, but the words would not come. Suddenly she buried her face in herhands, while the glistening brown head trembled with her sobs. It was the last drop to the cup overflowing. A second, and then, hisarms were around her. The touch was electrifying--it was oblivion--itwas heaven--it was--but only a young lover knows what. "You have answered, " said the boy. "God forgive me--but I can't goaway now. " Thus Fate sported with two lives. THE MADNESS OF WHISTLING WINGS CHAPTER I--SANDFORD THE EXEMPLARY Ordinarily Sandford is sane--undeniably so. Barring the seventh, uponany other day of the week, fifty-one weeks in the year, from nineo'clock in the morning until six at night--omitting again a scanthalf-hour at noon for lunch--he may be found in his tight little boxof an office on the fifth floor of the Exchange Building, at thecorner of Main Avenue and Thirteenth Street, where the elevated makesits loop. No dog chained beside his kennel is more invariably present, no cagedsongster more incontestably anchored. If you need his services, youhave but to seek his address between the hours mentioned. You may doso with the same assurance of finding him on duty that you would feel, if you left a jug of water out of doors over night in a blizzard, that the jug, as a jug, would be no longer of value in the morning. Hewas, and is, routine impersonate, exponent of sound businesspersonified; a living sermon against sloth and improvidence, and easyderelictions of the flesh. That is to say, he is such fifty-one weeks out of the fifty-two. Allthrough the frigid winter season, despite the lure of Californialimiteds or Havana liners, he holds hard in that den of his, with itsfloor and walls of sanitary tiling and its ceiling of white enamel, and hews--or grinds rather, for Sandford is a dental surgeon--close tothe line. All through the heat of summer, doggedly superior to the call ofColorado or the Adirondacks or the Thousand Islands, he comes anddeparts by the tick of the clock. Base-ball fans find him adamant;turf devotees, marble; golf enthusiasts, cold as the tiles beneath hisfeet. Even in early June, when Dalton, whose suburban home is next door, returns, tanned and clear-eyed from a week-end at _the_ lake--there isbut one lake to Dalton--and calls him mysteriously back to the rearof the house, where, with a flourish, the cover is removed from a boxthe expressman has just delivered, to disclose a shining five-poundbass reposing upon its bed of packed ice--even then, hands in pockets, Sandford merely surveys and expresses polite congratulation. Certainlyit is a fine fish, a noble fish, even; but for the sake of one likeit--or, yes, granted a dozen such--to leave the office, thesanitary-tiled office, deserted for four whole days (especially whenDr. Corliss on the floor below is watching like a hawk)--such a crazyproceeding is not to be thought of. Certainly he will not go along the next week end--or the next, either. The suggestion simply is unthinkable. Such digressions may be allright for the leisure class or for invalids; but for adults, liveones, strong and playing the game? A shrug and a tolerant smile endthe discussion, as, hands still in his pockets, an after-dinner cigarfirm between his teeth, Sandford saunters back across the dozen feetof sod separating his own domicile from that of his fallen andmisguided neighbor. "Dalton's got the fever again, bad, " he comments to the little womanupon his own domain, whom he calls "Polly, " or "Mrs. Sandford, " asoccasion dictates. She has been watching the preceding incident withinscrutable eyes. "Yes?" Polly acknowledges, with the air of harkening to a familiarharangue while casting ahead, in anticipation of what was to comenext. "Curious about Dalton; peculiar twist to his mental machinerysomewhere. " Sandford blows a cloud of smoke and eyes it meditatively. "Leaving business that way, chopping it all to pieces in fact; andjust for a fish! Curious!" "Harry's got something back there that'll probably interest you, " hecalls out to me as I chug by in my last year's motor; "better stop andsee. " "Yes, " I acknowledge simply; and though Polly's eyes and mine meet wenever smile, or twitch an eyelid, or turn a hair; for Sandford isobserving--and this is only June. So much for Dr. Jekyll Sandford, the Sandford of fifty-one weeks inthe year. Then, as inevitably as time rolls by, comes that final week; periodof mania, of abandon; and in the mere sorcerous passage of a pairof whirring wings, Dr. Jekyll, the exemplary, is no more. In hisplace, wearing his shoes, audaciously signing his name even tochecks, is that other being, Hyde: one absolutely the reverse ofthe reputable Jekyll; repudiating with scorn that gentleman'sengagements; with brazen effrontery denying him utterly, and all thesane conventionality for which the name has become a synonyme. Worst of all, rank blasphemy, he not only refuses to set foot in thatmodern sanitary office of enamel and tiling, at the corner ofThirteenth and Main, below which, by day and by night, the "L" trainsgo thundering, but deliberately holds it up to ridicule and derisionand insult. CHAPTER II--THE PRESAGE OF THE WINGS And I, the observer--worse, the accessory--know, in advance, when themetamorphosis will transpire. When, on my desk-pad calendar the month recorded is October, and theday begins with a twenty, there comes the first premonition of winter;not the reality, but a premonition; when, at noon the sun is burninghot, and, in the morning, frost glistens on the pavements; when theleaves are falling steadily in the parks, and not a bird save theubiquitous sparrow is seen, I begin to suspect. But when at last, of an afternoon, the wind switches with a greatflurry from south to dead north, and on the flag-pole atop of thegovernment building there goes up this signal: [Transcriber's Note:signal flag image here]; and when later, just before retiring, Isurreptitiously slip out of doors, and, listening breathlessly, hearafter a moment despite the clatter of the wind, high up in thedarkness overhead that muffled _honk!_ _honk!_ _honk!_ of theCanada-goose winging on its southern journey in advance of the comingstorm--then I _know_. So well do I know, that I do not retire--not just yet. Instead, on apretext, any pretext, I knock out the ashes from my old pipe, fill itafresh, and wait. I wait patiently, because, inevitable as Fate, inevitable as that call from out the dark void of the sky, I knowthere will come a trill of the telephone on the desk at my elbow; myown Polly--whose name happens to be Mary--is watching as I take downthe receiver to reply. CHAPTER III--THE OTHER MAN It is useless to dissimulate longer, then. I am discovered, and I knowI am discovered. "Hello, Sandford, " I greet without preface. "Sandford!" (I am repeating in whispers what he says for my Polly'sbenefit. ) "Sandford! How the deuce did you know?" "Know?" With the Hyde-like change comes another, and I feel positivelyfacetious. "Why I know your ring of course, the same as I know yourhandwriting on a telegram. What is it? I'm busy. " "I'm busy, too. Don't swell up. " (Imagine "swell up" from Sandford, the repressed and decorous!) "I just wanted to tell you that thehonkers are coming. " "No! You're imagining, or you dreamed it!. .. Anyway, what of it? Itell you I'm busy. " "Cut it out!" I'm almost scared myself, the voice is positivelyferocious. "I heard them not five minutes ago, and besides, the stormsignal is up. I'm getting my traps together now. Our train goes atthree-ten in the morning, you know. " "Our-train-goes-at-three-ten--in-the-morning!" "I said so. " "_Our_ train?" "Our train: the one which is to take us out to Rush Lake. Am I clear?I'll wire Johnson to meet us with the buckboard. " "Clear, yes; but go in the morning--Why, man, you're crazy! I haveengagements for all day to-morrow. " "So have I. " "And the next day. " "Yes. " "And the next. " "A whole week with me. What of it?" "What of it! Why, business--" "Confound business! I tell you they're coming; I heard them. I haven'tany more time to waste talking, either. I've got to get ready. Meetyou at three-ten, remember. " "But--" "Number, please, " requests Central, wearily. CHAPTER IV--CAPITULATION Thus it comes to pass that I go; as I know from the first I shall go, and Sandford knows that I will go; and, most of all, as Mary knowsthat I will go. In fact, she is packing for me already; not saying a word, but simplypacking; and I--I go out-doors again, sidling into a jog beside thebow-window, to diminish the din of the wind in my ears, listeningopen-mouthed until-- Yes, there it sounds again; faint, but distinct; mellow, sonorous, vibrant. _Honk!_ _honk!_ _honk!_ and again _honk!_ _honk!_ _honk!_ Itwafts downward from some place, up above where the stars should be andare not; up above the artificial illumination of the city; up wherethere are freedom, and space infinite, and abandon absolute. With an effort, I force myself back into the house. I take down andoil my old double-barrel, lovingly, and try the locks to see that allis in order. I lay out my wrinkled and battered duck suit handy forthe morning, after carefully storing away in an inner pocket, wherethey will keep dry, the bundle of postcards Mary brings me--firstexacting a promise to report on one each day, when I know I shall befive miles from the nearest postoffice, and that I shall bring themall back unused. And, last of all, I slip to bed, and to dreams of gigantic honkersserene in the blue above; of whirring, whistling wings that cut theair like myriad knife blades; until I wake up with a start at therattle of the telephone beside my bed, and I know that, though dark asa pit of pitch, it is morning, and that Sandford is already astir. CHAPTER V--ANTICIPATION In the smoking-car forward I find Sandford. He is a mostdisreputable-looking specimen. Garbed in weather-stained corduroys, and dried-grass sweater, and great calfskin boots, he sprawls amonggun-cases and shell-carriers--no sportsman will entrust theseessentials to the questionable ministrations of a baggage-man--and theair about him is blue from the big cigar he is puffing soecstatically. He nods and proffers me its mate. "Going to be a great day, " he announces succinctly, and despite arigorous censorship there is a suggestion of excitement in the voice. "The wind's dead north, and it's cloudy and damp. Rain, maybe, aboutdaylight. " "Yes. " I am lighting up stolidly, although my nerves are atingle. "We're going to hit it right, just right. The flight's on. I heardthem going over all night. The lake will be black with the bigfellows, the Canada boys. " "Yes, " I repeat; then conscience gives a last dig. "I ought not to doit, though. I didn't have time to break a single engagement"--I'm adental surgeon, too, by the way, with likewise an office of tile andenamel--"or explain at all. And the muss there'll be at the shopwhen--" "Forget it, you confounded old dollar-grubber!" A fresh torrent ofsmoke belches forth, so that I see Sandford's face but dimly throughthe haze. "If you mention teeth again, until we're back--merelymention them--I'll throttle you!" The train is in motion now, and the arc-lights at the corners, enshrouded each by a zone of mist, are flitting by. "Yes, " he repeats, and again his voice has that minor strain ofsuppressed excitement, "we're hitting it just right. There'll be rain, or a flurry of snow, maybe, and the paddle feet will be down in theclouds. " CHAPTER VI--"MARK THE RIGHT, SANDFORD!" And they are. Almost before we have stumbled off at the desertedstation into the surrounding darkness, Johnson's familiar bass isheralding the fact. "Millions of 'em, boys, " he assures us, "billions! Couldn't sleep lastnight for the racket they made on the lake. Never saw anything like itin the twenty years I've lived on the bank. You sure have struck itthis time. Right this way, " he is staggering under the load of ourparaphernalia; "rig's all ready and Molly's got the kettle on at home, waiting breakfast for you. .. . Just as fat as you were last year, ain'tye?" a time-proven joke, for I weigh one hundred and eight pounds. "Try to pull you out, though; try to. " And his great laugh drowns theroar of the retreating train. At another time, that five-mile drive in the denser darkness, justpreceding dawn, would have been long perhaps, the springs of thatantiquated buckboard inadequate, the chill of that damp October airpiercing; but now--we notice nothing, feel nothing uncomfortable. Myteeth chatter a bit now and then, when I am off guard, to be sure; butit is not from cold, and the vehicle might be a Pullman coach foraught I am conscious. For we have reached the border of the marsh, now, and are skirting itsedge, and--Yes, those are ducks, really; that black mass, packed intothe cove at the lee of those clustering rushes, protected from thewind, the whole just distinguishable from the lighter shadow of thewater: ducks and brant; dots of white, like the first scatteredsnowflakes on a sooty city roof! "Mark the right, Sandford, " I whisper in oblivion. "Mark the right!" And, breaking the spell, Johnson laughs. CHAPTER VII--THE BACON WHAT AM! When is bacon bacon, and eggs eggs? When is coffee coffee, and thedespised pickerel, fresh from the cold water of the shaded lake, aglorious brown food, fit for the gods? Answer, while Molly (whose real name is Aunt Martha) serves them tous, forty-five minutes later. Oh, if we only had time to eat, as that breakfast deserves to beeaten! If we only had time! But we haven't; no; Sandford says so, in a voice that leaves no roomfor argument. The sky is beginning to redden in the east; the surfaceof the water reflects the glow, like a mirror; and, seen through thetiny-paned windows, black specks, singly and in groups, appear anddisappear, in shifting patterns, against the lightening background. "No more now, Aunt Martha--no. Wait until noon; just wait--and _then_watch us! Ready, Ed?" "Waiting for you, Sam. " It's been a year since I called him by hisChristian name; but I never notice, nor does he. "All ready. " "Better try the point this morning; don't you think, Johnson?" "Yes, if you've your eye with ye. Won't wait while y' sprinkle salt ontheir tails, them red-heads and canvas boys. No, sir-ree. " CHAPTER VIII--FEATHERED BULLETS The breath of us is whistling through our nostrils, like the muffledexhaust of a gasoline engine, and our hearts are thumping two-steps onour ribs from the exertion, when we reach the end of the rock-bestrewnpoint which, like a long index finger, is thrust out into the bosom ofthe lake. The wind, still dead north, and laden with tiny drops ofmoisture, like spray from a giant atomizer, buffets us steadily; butthereof we are sublimely unconscious. For at last we are there, there; precisely where we were yesterday--no, a year ago--and the light is strong enough now, so that when ourgun-barrels stand out against the sky, we can see the sights, and-- Down! Down, behind the nearest stunted willow tree; behindanything--quick!--for they're coming: a great dim wedge, with the apextoward us, coming swiftly on wings that propel two miles to theminute, when backed by a wind that makes a mile in one. Coming--no; arrived. Fair overhead are the white of breasts, of plumpbodies flashing through the mist, the swishing hiss of many wingscutting the air, the rhythmic _pat_, _pat_--"_Bang!_ _Bang!_" Was it Sandford's gun, or was it mine? Who knows? The reports weresimultaneous. And then--_splash!_ and a second later, --_splash!_ as two dots leavethe hurtling wedge and, with folded wings, pitch at an angle, following their own momentum, against the dull brown surface of therippling water. Through the intervening branches and dead sunflower stalks, I look atSandford--to find that Sandford is looking at me. "Good work, old man!" I say, and notice that my voice is a littlehigher than normal. "Good work, yourself, "--generously. "I missed clean, both barrels. Dobetter next time, though, perhaps. .. . _Down!_ Mark north! Take theleader, you. " From out the mist, dead ahead, just skimming the surface of the water, and coming straight at us, like a mathematically arranged triangle ofcannon balls, taking definite form and magnitude oh, so swiftly, unbelievably swift; coming--yes--directly overhead, as before, thepulsing, echoing din in our ears. "_Ready!_" Again the four reports that sounded as two; and they are past; nolonger a regular formation, but scattered erratically by the alarm, individual vanishing and dissolving dots, speedily swallowed up by thegray of the mist. But this time there was no echoing splash, as a hurtling body struckthe water, nor tense spoken word of congratulation following--nothing. For ten seconds, which is long under the circumstances, not a word isspoken; only the metallic click of opened locks, as they spring home, breaks the steady purr of the wind; then: "Safe from me when they come like that, " admits Sandford, "unless Ihave a ten-foot pole, and they happen to run into it. " "And from me, " I echo. "Lord, how they come! They just simply materialize before your eyes, like an impression by flash-light; and then--vanish. " "Yes. " "Seems as though they'd take fire, like meteorites, from thefriction. " "I'm looking for the smoke, myself--_Down!_ Mark your left!" _Pat!_ _pat!_ _pat!_ Swifter than spoken words, swift as the strokesof an electric fan, the wings beat the air. _Swish-h-h!_ long-drawnout, _crescendo_, yet _crescendo_ as, razor-keen, irresistible, thosesame invisible wings cut it through and through; while, answering theprimitive challenge, responding to the stimulus of the game, the hottingle of excitement speeds up and down our spines. Nearer, nearer, mounting, perpendicular-- The third battalion of that seemingly inexhaustible army has come andgone; and, mechanically, we are thrusting fresh shells into thefaintly smoking gun-barrels. "Got mine that time, both of them. " No repression, nor politeself-abnegation from Sandford this time; just plain, frank exultationand pride of achievement. "Led 'em a yard--two, maybe; but I got 'emclean. Did you see?" "Yes, good work, " I echo in the formula. "Canvas-backs, every one; nothing but canvas-backs. " Again the oldmarvel, the old palliation that makes the seemingly unequal game fair. "But, Lord, how they do go; how anything alive can go so--and bestopped!" "Mark to windward! Straight ahead! _Down!_" CHAPTER IX--OBLIVION This, the morning. Then, almost before we mark the change, swift-passingtime has moved on; the lowering mist has lifted; the occasionalpattering rain-drops have ceased; the wind, in sympathy, is diminished. And of a sudden, arousing us to a consciousness of time and place, thesun peeps forth through a rift in the scattering clouds, and at apoint a bit south of the zenith. "Noon!" comments Sandford, intensely surprised. Somehow, we are alwaysastonished that noon should follow so swiftly upon sunrise. "Well, whowould have thought it!" That instant I am conscious, for the first time, of a certain violentaching void making insistent demand. "I wouldn't have done so before, but now that you mention it, I dothink it emphatically. " This is a pitiful effort at a jest, but itpasses unpunished. "There comes Johnson to bring in the birds. " After dinner--and oh, what a dinner! for, having adequate time to doit justice, we drag it on and on, until even Aunt Martha issatisfied--we curl up in the sunshine, undimmed and gloriously warm;we light our briers, and, too lazily, nervelessly content to eventalk, lay looking out over the blue water that melts and merges in thedistance with the bluer sky above. After a bit, our pipes burndead and our eyelids drop, and with a last memory of sunlightdancing on a myriad tiny wavelets, and a blessed peace and abandonsoaking into our very souls we doze, then sleep, sleep as we neversleep in the city; as we had fancied a short day before never tosleep again; dreamlessly, childishly, as Mother Nature intended herchildren to sleep. Then, from without the pale of utter oblivion, a familiar voice breaksslowly upon our consciousness: the voice of Johnson, the vigilant. "Got your blind all built, boys, and the decoys is out--four dozen ofthem, " he admonishes, sympathetically. "Days are getting short, now, so you'd better move lively, if you get your limit before dark. " CHAPTER X--UPON "WIPING THE EYE" "To poets and epicures, perhaps, the lordly canvas-back--though brownfrom the oven, I challenge the supercilious _gourmet_ to distinguishbetween his favorite, and a fat American coot. But for me theloud-voiced mallard, with his bottle-green head and audaciouslycurling tail; for he will decoy. " I am quoting Sandford. Be that as it may, we are there, amidfrost-browned rushes that rustle softly in the wind: a patch ofshallow open water, perhaps an acre in extent, to the leeward of us, where the decoys, heading all to windward, bob gently with the slightswell. "Now this is something like sport, " adds my companion, settling backcomfortably in the slough-grass blind, built high to the north to cutout the wind, and low to the south to let in the sun. "On the point, there, this morning you scored on me, I admit it; but this is where Ishine: real shooting; one, or a pair at most, at a time; noscratches; no excuses. Lead on, MacDuff, and if you miss, all's fairto the second gun. " "All right, Sam. " "No small birds, either, understand: no teal, or widgeon, orshovellers. This is a mallard hole. Nothing but mallards goes. " "All right, Sam. " "Now is your chance, then. .. . _Now!_" He's right. Now is my chance, indeed. Over the sea of rushes, straight toward us, is coming a pair, a singlepair; and, yes, they are unmistakably mallards. It is feeding time, orresting time, and they are flying lazily, long necks extended, searching here and there for the promised lands. Our guns indubitablycover it; and though I freeze still and motionless, my nerves stretchtight in anticipation, until they tingle all but painfully. On the great birds come; on and still on, until in another second-- That instant they see the decoys, and, warned simultaneously by anancestral suspicion, they swing outward in a great circle, withoutapparent effort on their part, to reconnoitre. Though I do not stir, I hear the _pat!_ _pat!_ of their wings, as theypass by at the side, just out of gunshot. Then, _pat!_ _pat!_ back ofme, then, _pat!_ _pat!_ on the other side, until once again I seethem, from the tail of my eye, merge into view ahead. All is well--very well--and, suspicions wholly allayed at last, theywhirl for the second oncoming; just above the rushes, now; wingsspread wide and motionless; sailing nearer, nearer-- "_Now!_" whispers Sandford, "_now!_" Out of our nest suddenly peeps my gun barrel; and, simultaneously, thewings, a second before motionless, begin to beat the air in franticretreat. But it is too late. _Bang!_ What! not a feather drops?. .. _Bang!_ Quack! Quack! _Bang!__Bang!_. .. Splash!. .. Quack! Quack! Quack! That is the story--all except for Sandford's derisive laugh. "What'd I tell you?" he exults. "Wiped your eye for you that time, didn't I?" "How in the world I missed--" It is all that I can say. "They lookedas big as--as suspended tubs. " "Buck-fever, " explains Sandford, laconically. "That's all right. " I feel my fighting-blood rising, and I swear witha mighty wordless oath that I'll be avenged for that laugh. "The dayis young yet. If, before night, I don't wipe both your eyes, and wipethem good--" "I know you will, old man. " Sandford is smiling understandingly, andin a flash I return the smile with equal understanding. "And when youdo, laugh at me, laugh long and loud. " CHAPTER XI--THE COLD GRAY DAWN At a quarter of twelve o'clock a week later, I slip out of my officesheepishly, and, walking a half-block, take the elevator to the fifthfloor of the Exchange Building, on the corner. The white enamel ofSandford's tiny box of an office glistens, as I enter the door, andthe tiling looks fresh and clean, as though scrubbed an hour before. "Doctor's back in the laboratory, " smiles the white-uniformedattendant, as she grasps my identity. On a tall stool, beside the laboratory lathe, sits Sandford, hard atwork. He acknowledges my presence with a nod--and that is all. "Noon, Sandford, " I announce. "Is it?" laconically. "Thought I'd drop over to the club for lunch, and a little smokeafterward. Want to go along?" "Can't. " The whirr of the electric lathe never ceases. "Got to finishthis bridge before one o'clock. Sorry, old man. " "Harry just 'phoned and asked me to come and bring you. " I throw thebait with studied nicety. "He's getting up a party to go out toJohnson's, and wants to talk things over a bit in advance. " "Harry!" Irony fairly drips from the voice. "He's always goingsomewhere. Mustn't have much else to do. Anyway, can't possibly meethim this noon. " "To-night, then. " I suggest tentatively. "He can wait until then, I'msure. " "Got to work to-night, too. Things are all piled up on me. " Sandfordapplies a fresh layer of pumice to the swiftly moving polishing wheel, with practised accuracy. "Tell Harry I'm sorry; but business isbusiness, you know. " "_Purr-r-r!_" drones on the lathe, "_purr-r-r!_" I hear it as Isilently slip away. Yes, Sandford is sane; and will be for fifty-one weeks. A FRONTIER ROMANCE: A TALE OF JUMEL MANSION I A new settlement in a new country: no contemporary mind can conceivethe possibilities of future greatness that lie in the fulfilment ofits prophecy. A long, irregular quadrangle has been hewn from the woods borderingthe north bank of the Ohio River. Scattered through the clearing arerude houses, built of the forest logs. Bounding the space upon threesides, and so close that its storm music sounds plain in every ear, isthe forest itself. On the fourth side flows the wide river, coverednow, firm and silent, with a thick ice blanket. Across the river onthe Kentucky shore, softened by the blue haze of distance, anotherforest crowds down to the very water's edge. It is night, and of the cabins in the clearing each reflects, in oneway or another, the character of its builder. Here a broad pencil oflight writes "Careless!" on the black sheet of the forest; there amere thread escaping tells of patient carpentry. At one end of the clearing, so near the forest that the top of afalling tree would have touched it, stood a cabin, individual in itscomplete darkness except for a dull ruddy glow at one end, where awindow extended as high as the eaves. An open fire within gnawed atthe half-green logs, sending smoke and steam up the cavernous chimney, and casting about the room an uncertain, fitful light--now bright, again shadowy. It was a bare room that the flickering firelight revealed, bare alikeas to its furnishings and the freshness of its peeled logs, the spacesbetween which had been "chinked" with clay from the river-bank. Scarcely a thing built of man was in sight which had not been designedto kill; scarcely a product of Nature which had not been gathered atcost of animal life. Guns of English make, stretched horizontallyalong the walls upon pegs driven into the logs; in the end oppositethe wide fireplace, home-made cooking utensils dangled from the endof a rough table, itself a product of the same factory. In front ofthe fire, just beyond the blaze and the coals and ashes, were heapedthe pelts of various animals; black bear and cinnamon rested side byside with the rough, shaggy fur of the buffalo, brought by Indiansfrom the far western land of the Dakotas. Upon the heap, dressed in the picturesque utility garb of buckskin, homespun, and "hickory" which stamped the pioneer of his day, a bigman lay at full length: a large man even here, where the law of thefittest reigned supreme. A stubbly growth of beard covered his face, giving it the heavy expression common to those accustomed to silentplaces, and dim forest trails. Aside from his size, there was nothing striking or handsome about thisbackwoods giant, neither of face nor of form; yet, sleeping or waking, working or at leisure, he would be noticed--and remembered. In hisevery feature, every action, was the absolute unconsciousness of self, which cannot be mistaken; whether active or passive, there was abouthim an insinuation of reserve force, subtly felt, of a strong, determined character, impossible to sway or bend. He lay, now, motionless, staring with wide-open eyes into the fire and breathingslowly, deeply, like one in sleep. There was a hammering upon the door; another, louder; then a rattlingthat made the walls vibrate. "Come!" called the man, rousing and rolling away from the fire. A heavy shoulder struck the door hard, and the screaming wooden hingescovered the sound of the entering footfall. He who came was also of the type: homespun and buckskin, hair long andface unshaven. He straightened from a passage which was not low, thenturning pushed the unwieldy door shut. It closed reluctantly, with aloud shrilling of its frost-bound hinges and frame. In a moment hedropped his hands and impatiently kicked the stubborn offender home, the suction drawing a puff of smoke from the fireplace into the room, and sending the ashes spinning in miniature whirlwinds upon thehearth. The man on the floor contemplated the entry with indifference; but anew light entered his eyes as he recognized his visitor, though hisface held like wood. "Evenin', Clayton, " he greeted, nodding toward a stool by the hearth. "Come over 'n sit down to the entertainment. " A whimsical smilestruggled through the heavy whiskers. "I've been seeing all sorts ofthings in there"--a thoughtful nod toward the fire. "Guess, though, afellow generally does see what he's looking for in this world. " "See here, Bud, " the visitor bluntly broke in, coming into the lightand slurring a dialect of no nationality pure, "y' can't stop methataway. There ain't no use talkin' about the weather, neither. " Amotion of impatience; then swifter, with a shade of menace: "You know what I came over fer. It's actin' the fool, I know, we fewfamilies out here weeks away from ev'rybody, but this clearin' can'thold us both. " The menace suddenly left the voice, unconsciously giving place to anote of tenderness and of vague self-fear. "I love that girl better 'n you er life er anything else, Bud; I tellye this square to yer face. I can't stand it. I followed ye last nightclean home from the party--an' I had a knife. I jest couldn't help it. Every time I know nex' time it'll happen. I don't ask ye to give herup, Bud, but to settle it with me now, fair an' open, 'fore I dosomething I can't help. " He strode swiftly to and fro across the room as he spoke, hisskin-shod feet tapping muffled upon the bare floor, like the pads ofan animal. The fur of his leggings, rubbing together as he walked, generated static sparks which snapped audibly. He halted presently bythe fireplace, and looked down at the man lying there. "It's 'tween us, Bud, " he said, passion quivering in his voice. Minutes passed before Bud Ellis spoke, then he shifted his head, quickly, and for the first time squarely met Clayton's eyes. "You say it's between you and me, " he initiated slowly: "how do youpropose to settle it?" The other man hesitated, then his face grew red. "Ye make it hard for me, Bud, 's though I was a boy talkin' to ye bighere; but it's true, as I told ye: I ain't myself when I see yesettin' close to 'Liz'beth, er dancin' with your arm touchin' hern. Iain't no coward, Bud; an' I can't give her up--to you ner nobodyelse. "I hate it. We've always been like brothers afore, an' it 'pearskinder dreamy 'n foolish 'n unnatural us settin' here talkin' 'boutit; but there ain't no other way I can see. I give ye yer choice, Bud:I'll fight ye fair any way y' want. " Ellis's attitude remained unchanged: one big hand supported his chinwhile he gazed silently into the fire. Clayton stood contemplating hima moment, then sat down. By and by Ellis's head moved a little, a very little, and their eyesagain met. A minute passed, and in those seconds the civilization ofeach man moved back generations. The strain was beyond Clayton; he bounded to his feet with a motionthat sent the stool spinning. "God A'mighty! Are y' wood er are y' a coward? Y' seem to think I'mpractisin' speech-makin'. D'ye know what it means fer me to come uphere like this to you?" He waited, but there was no response. "I tell ye fer the last time, I love that girl, an' if it warn't feryou--fer you, Bud Ellis--she'd marry me. Can ye understand that? Nowwill ye fight?--or won't ye?" A movement, swift and easy, like a released spring, the unconscioustrick of a born athlete, and Ellis was upon his feet. Involuntarily, Clayton squared himself, as if an attack were imminent. "No, I won't fight you, " said the big man, slowly. Without the leasthesitation, he advanced and laid a hand upon the other man's shoulder, facing him at arm's length and speaking deliberately. "It isn't that I'm afraid of you, either, Bert Clayton; you knowit. You say you love her; I believe you. I love her, too. AndElizabeth--you have tried, and I have tried--and she told us boththe same. "God, man! I know how you feel. I've expected something like this along time. " He drew his hand across his eyes, and turned away. "I'vehad murder in my heart when I saw you, and hated myself. It's only insuch places as this, where nothing happens to divert one's mind, thatpeople get like you and me, Bert. We brood and brood, and it's loveand insanity and a good deal of the animal mixed. Yes, you're right. It's between you and me, Bert, --but not to fight. One of us has got toleave--" "It won't be me, " Clayton quickly broke in. "I tell ye, I'd ratherdie, than leave. " For a full minute Ellis steadily returned the other man's fiery look, then went on as though there had been no interruption: "--and the sooner we go the better. How do you want to settleit--shall we draw straws?" "No, we'll not draw straws. Go ef you're afraid; but I won't stir astep. I came to warn ye, or to fight ye if y' wanted. Seein' y'won't--good-night. " Ellis stepped quickly in front of the door, and with the motionClayton's hand went to his knife. "Sit down, man, " demanded Ellis, sternly. "We're not savages. Let'ssettle this matter in civilized fashion. " They confronted each other for a moment, the muscles of Clayton's facetwitching an accompaniment to the nervous fingering of the buckhornhilt; then he stepped up until they could have touched. "What d' y' mean anyway?" he blazed. "Get out o' my road. " Ellis leaned against the door-bar without a word. The fire had burneddown, and in the shadow his face had again the same expression ofheaviness. The breathing of Clayton, swift and short, like one whostruggles physically, painfully intensified the silence of that dimlylighted, log-bound room. With his right hand Clayton drew his knife; he laid his left on thebroad half-circle of wood that answered as a door handle. "Open that door, " he demanded huskily, "or by God, I'll stab ye!" In the half-light the men faced each other, so near their breathsmingled. Twice Clayton tried to strike. The eyes of the other man heldhim powerless, and to save his life--even to satisfy a new, fiercehate--he could not stir. He stood a moment thus, then an animal-likefrenzy, irresistible but impotent, seized him. He darted his headforward and spat in the heavy face so close to his own. The unspeakable contempt of the insult shattered Bud Ellis'sself-control. Prompted by blind fury, the great fist of the man shotout, hammer-like, and Clayton crumpled at his feet. It was a blow thatwould have felled the proverbial ox; it was the counterpart of manyother blows, plus berserker rage, that had split pine boards for sheerjoy in the ability to do so. These thoughts came sluggishly to theinflamed brain, and Ellis all at once dropped to his knees beside thelimp, prostrate figure. He bent over Clayton, he who had once been his friend. He was scarcelyapprehensive at first, and he called his name brusquely; then, as grimconviction grew, his appeals became frantic. At last Ellis shrank away from the Thing upon the floor. He stareduntil his eyeballs burnt like fire. It would never, while time lasted, move again. Horror unutterable fell upon him. II In the year 1807 there were confined in a common Western jail, amid aswarm of wretches of every degree of baseness, two men as unlike asstorm and sunshine. One was charged with treason, the other withmurder; conviction, in either case, meant death. One was a man of middle age, an aristocrat born; a college graduateand a son of a college graduate; a man handsome of appearance, passionate and ambitious, who knew men's natures as he knew theirnames. He had fought bravely for his country, and his counsels hadhelped mould the foundations of the new republic. Honored by hisfellow-men, he had served brilliantly in such exalted positions asthat of United States Senator, and Attorney General for the State ofNew York. On one occasion, only a single vote stood between him andthe presidency. His name was Aaron Burr. The other was a big backwoodsman of twenty, whose life had been asobscure as that of a domestic animal. He was rough of manner and slowof speech, and just now, owing to a combination of physicalconfinement and mental torture altogether unlovely in disposition. This man was Bud Ellis. The other prisoners--a motley lot of frontier reprobates--atetogether, slept together, and quarrelled together. Looking constantlyfor trouble, and thrown into actual contact with an object asconvenient as Aaron Burr, it was inevitable that he should be made thebutt of their coarse gibes and foul witticisms; and when these couldnot penetrate his calm, superior self-possession, it was just asinevitable that taunts should extend even to worse indignities. Burr was not the man to be stirred against his calm judgment; but oneday his passionate nature broke loose, and he and the offender came toblows. There were a dozen prisoners in the single ill-lighted, log-boundroom, and almost to a man they attacked him. The fight would not havelasted long had not the inequality appealed to Ellis on the second. Moreover, with him, the incident was to the moment opportune. If evera man was in the mood for war, it was the big, square-jawed pioneer. He was reckless and desperate for the first time in his life, and hejoined with Burr against the room, with the abandon of a madman. For minutes they fought. Elbows and knees, fists and feet, teeth andtough-skulled heads; every hard spot and every sharp angle bored andjabbed at the crushing mass which swiftly closed them in. Theystruggled like cats against numbers, and held the wall until the soundof battle brought the negligent guard running, and the muzzle of acarbine peeped through the grating. Burr and Ellis came out withscarce a rag and with many bruises, but with the new-born lust ofbattle hot within them. Ellis glowered at the enemy, and having of thetwo the more breath, fired the parting shot. "How I'd like to take you fellows out, one at a time, " he said. From that day the two men were kept apart from the others, and thefriendship grew. When Burr chose, neither man nor woman could resisthim. He chose now and Ellis, by habit and by nature silent, told ofhis life and of his thoughts. It was a new tale to Burr, these dreamproducts of a strong man, and of solitude; and so, listening, heforgot his own trouble. The hard look that had formed over his face inthe three years past vanished, leaving him again the natural, fascinating man who had first taken the drawing-room of the rare oldJumel mansion by storm. It was genuine, this tale that Ellis told; itwas strong, with the savor of Mother Nature and of wild things, andfascinating with the beauty of unconscious telling. "And the girl?" asked Burr after Ellis finished a passionate accountof the last year. Unintentionally, he touched flame to tinder. "Don't ask me about her. I'm not fit. She was coming to see me, but Iwouldn't let her. She's good and innocent; she never imagined we werenot as strong as she, and it's killing her. There's no question whatwill happen to me; everything is against me, and I'll be convicted. "No one understands--she can't herself; but she feels responsible forone of us, already, and will feel the same for me when it's over. Anyway, I'd never see her again. I feel different toward her now, andalways would. I'd never live over again days like I have in the pastyear: days I hated a friend I'd known all my life--because we bothloved the same woman. If the Almighty sent love of woman into theworld to be bought at the price I paid, it's wrong, and He's made amistake. It's contrary to Nature, because Nature is kind. "Last summer I'd sit out of doors at night and watch the stars comeout thick, like old friends, till I'd catch the mood and be content. The wind would blow up from the south, softly, like some one fanningme, and the frogs and crickets would sing even and sleepy, and I'dthink of her and be as nearly happy as it was possible for me to be. "Then, somehow, he'd drift into the picture, and it grated. I'd wonderwhy this love of woman, which ought to make one feel the best ofeverything there is in life; which ought to make one kinder andtenderer to every one, should make me hate him, my best friend. Thenight would be spoiled, and from then on the crickets would sing outof tune. I'd go to bed, where, instead of sleeping, I would try tofind out, and couldn't. "And at last, that night--and the end! Oh, it's horrible, horrible! Iwish to God they'd try me quick, and end it. It makes me hate thatgirl to think she's the cause. And that makes me hate myself, for Iknow she's innocent. Oh, it's tangled--tangled--" Of the trial which followed, the world knows. How Burr pleaded his owncase, and of the brilliancy of the pleading, history makes record atlength. 'T was said long before, when the name of Burr was proud onthe Nation's tongue--years before that fatal morning on WeekawkenHeights--that no judge could decide against him. Though reviled byhalf the nation, it would seem it were yet true. Another trial followed; but of this history is silent, though AaronBurr pleaded this case as well. It was a trial for manslaughter, andevery circumstance, even the prisoner's word, declared guilt. To showthat a person may be guilty in act, and at the same time, in reality, innocent, calls for a master mind--the mind of a Burr. To tell ofpassion, one must have felt passion, and of such Burr had known hisfull share. No lawyer for the defence was ever better prepared thanBurr, and he did his best. In court he told the jury a tale of motive, of circumstance, and of primitive love, such as had never been heardin that county before; such that the twelve men, without leaving theirseats, brought a verdict of "Not guilty. " "I can't thank you right, " said the big man, with a catch in hisvoice, wringing Burr's hand. "Don't try, " interrupted Burr, quickly. "You did as much for me. " Andeven Burr did not attempt to say any more just then. III The two men went East together, travelling days where now hours wouldsuffice. Why Burr took the countryman home with him, knowing, as hedid, the incongruity of such a step, he himself could not have told. It puzzled Ellis still more. He had intended going far away to someindefinite place; but this opportunity of being virtually thrust intothe position where he most wished to be, was unusual; it was areversal of all precedent; and so why demur? [Illustration: The two men went East together. ] On the way, Burr told much of his life--probably more than he had toldbefore in years. He knew that the sympathy of Ellis was sincere, and adisinterested motive was with him a new thing, a key to confidence. A woman was at this time, and had been for years, foremost in Burr'smind. He was going to see her now; beyond that his plans were dim. During a career of politics, there had crept into the man's life muchthat was hard and worldly; but this attachment was from ambition farapart--his most sacred thing. She was a brilliant woman, this friend of Burr's; one whom manysought; but it was not this which influenced him. She had been hisbest friend, and had taken him into her own home during the darkesthour of his life, when condemnation was everywhere. Gossip hadfluttered, but to no avail. Burr never forgot a friend, and in thiscase it was more than friendship: it was a genuine love that lasted;for years later, in his old age and hers as well, old Jumel mansionmade gay at their wedding. "What do you expect to do?" asked Burr of Ellis. "Anything just now that will make me forget, " answered the countryman, quickly. "So there's enough of it is all that I ask. I'm going to geta little more education first. Sometime I'll study law--that is, ifI'm here 'sometime. ' I've got to be where there's life and action. I'll never end by being common. " He paused a moment, and on his facethere formed the peculiar heavy look that had confronted Clayton; amask that hid a determination, which nothing of earth could shake. Hefinished slowly: "I'll either be something, or nothing. " Biographers leave the impression that at this time Burr was devoid ofprestige on earth. Politically, this is true; but respecting hisstanding with the legal fraternity, it is wholly false. He hadinfluence, and he used it, securing the stranger a place in a New Yorkoffice, where his risk depended only upon himself. More than this, hegave Ellis money. "You can pay me any interest you wish, " said he when the latterprotested. Ellis had been settled a week. One evening he sat in the back room ofthe city office, fighting the demon of homesickness with work, and thelight of an open fire. It was late, and he had studied till Naturerebelled; now he sat in his own peculiar position, gazing into theglow, motionless and wide-eyed. He started at a tap on the door, and the past came back in a rush. "Come in, " he called. Burr entered, and closed the door carefully behind him. Ellis motionedto a chair. "No, I won't sit down, " said Burr. "I'm only going to stay a moment. " He came over to the blaze, looking down on the other man's head. Finally he laid a hand on Ellis's shoulder. "Lonesome, eh?" he inquired. The student nodded silent assent. "So am I, " said Burr, beginning to pace up and down the narrow room. "Do you know, " he burst out at last, "this town is like hell to me. Every hand is against me. There's not one man here, beside you, whomI can trust. I can't stand it. I'm going to leave the country. Someday I'll come back; but now it's too much. " There was the accumulatedbitterness of months in his voice. "My God!" he interjected, "you'dthink these people never did anything wrong in their lives. " Hestopped and laid his hand again on the other man's shoulder. "But enough of this--I didn't come to make you more lonesome. I wantyou to meet my friends before I go. You'll go out with me to-morrowafternoon?" There was silence for a moment. "If you wish. You know what I am, " said Ellis. Burr's hand rested a moment longer. "Good-night, " he said simply. Some eight or ten miles north of the beach, on the island ofManhattan, stood Jumel home; a fine, white house, surrounded by asplendid lawn and gardens. A generation had already passed since itserection, and the city was slowly creeping near. It was a statelyspecimen of Colonial domestic architecture, built on simple, restfullines, and distinguished by the noble columns of its Grecian front. Destined to be diminished, the grounds had already begun to shrink;but from its commanding position it had a view that was magnificent, overlooking as it did, the Hudson, the Harlem, the East River, theSound, and upon every side, miles upon miles of undulating land. On the way, and again upon the grounds, Burr related the history ofthe old landmark, telling much with the fascination of personalknowledge. The tale of the Morrises, of Washington and of MaryPhilipse was yet upon his tongue, as he led Ellis through the broadpillared entrance, into the great hall. Things moved swiftly, very swiftly and very dreamily, to thecountryman in the next few hours. Nothing but the lack of abilityprevented his vanishing at the sound of approaching skirts; nothingbut physical timidity prevented his answering the greeting of thehostess; nothing but conscious awkwardness prompted the crude bow thatanswered the courtesy of the girl with the small hands, and the darkeyes who accompanied her--the first courtesy from powdered maid offashion that he had ever known. Her name, Mary Philipse, coming sosoon after Burr's story, staggered him, and, open-mouthed, he stoodlooking at her. Remembrance came to Burr simultaneously, and hetouched Ellis on the arm. "Don't worry, my friend, " he laughed; "she's not the one. " Ellis grew red to the ears. "We'll leave you to Mary, " said Burr retreating with a smile; "she'lltell you the rest--from where I left off. " The girl with the big brown eyes was still smiling in an amused sortof way, but Ellis showed no resentment. He knew that to her he was astrange animal--very new and very peculiar. He did not do as a lesserman would have done, pretend knowledge of things unknown, but lookedthe girl frankly in the eyes. "Pardon me, but it was all rather sudden, " he explained. The red hadleft his face now. "I've only known a few women--and they were not--ofyour class. This is Mr. Burr's joke, not mine. " The smile faded from the girl's face. She met him on his own ground, and they were friends. "Don't take it that way, " she protested, quickly. "I see, he's beentelling you of Washington's Mary Philipse. It merely happens that myname is the same. I'm simply a friend visiting here. Can't I show youthe house? It's rather interesting. " If Ellis was a novelty to the woman, she was equally so to him. Unconventionality reigned in that house, and they were together anhour. Never before in his life had Ellis learned so much, nor caughtso many glimpses of things beyond, in an equal length of time. Hisidea of woman had been trite, a little vague. He had no ideal; he hadsimply accepted, without question, the one specimen he had knownwell. In an uncertain sort of way he had thought of the sex as beinginvariably creatures of unquestioned virtue, but of mind somewhatdefective; who were to be respected and protected, loved perhaps withthe love animals know; but of such an one as this he had noconception. Here was a woman, younger than he, whose unconscious familiarity withthings, which to him lay hidden in the dark land of ignorance, affected him like a stimulant. A woman who had read and travelled andthought and felt; whose mind met him even in the unhesitatingconfidence of knowledge--it is no wonder that he was in a dream. Itturned his little world upside down: so brief a time had elapsed sincehe had cursed woman for bringing crime into his life, in thenarrowness of his ignorance thinking them all alike. He was in thepresence of a superior, and his own smallness came over him like aflood. He mentally swore, then and there, with a tightening of his jaw thatmeant finality, that he would raise himself to her plane. The girl sawthe look, and wondered at it. That night, at parting, the eyes of the two met. A moment passed--andanother, and neither spoke a word. Then a smile broke over the face ofMary Philipse, and it was answered on the face of the man. Equals hadmet equals. At last the girl held out her hand. "Call again, please, " she requested. "Good-night. " Years passed. Burr had gone and returned again, and Jumel mansion hadwaxed festive to honor his home-coming. Then he opened an office inthe city, and drab-colored routine fell upon him--to remain. Meanwhile Time had done much for Ellis--rather, it had allowed him todo much for himself. He had passed through all the stages oftransition--confusion, homesickness, despondency; but incentive to dowas ever with him. At first he had worked to forget, and, in self-defence; but Nature hadbeen kind, and with years memory touched him softly, as though it werethe past of another. Then a new incentive came to him: an incentive more potent than theformer, and which grew so slowly he did not recognize it, until he metit unmistakably face to face. Again into his life and against his willhad crept a woman, and this woman's name was Mary Philipse. He met hernow on her own ground, but still, as of old, with honors even. She hadchanged little since he first saw her. As often as he called, he metthe same frank smile, and the brown eyes still regarded him with thesame old candid, unreserved interest. Ellis was, as the town would have said, successful. He had risen froma man-of-all-work to the State bar, and an office of his own. He hadpassed the decisive line and his rise was simply a question of time. He was in a position where he could do as he chose. He appreciatedthat Mary Philipse was the incentive that had put him where he was. She appealed to the best there was in his nature. She caused him to dobetter work, to think better thoughts. He unselfishly wished her thebest there was of life. Just how much more he felt he did not know--atleast this was sufficient. He would ask her to marry him. It was not the mad, dazzling passion ofwhich poets sing; but he was wiser than of yore. Of Mary he wasuncertain. That he was not the only man who went often to old Jumelmansion he was well aware, and with the determination to learncertainties, there came a tenderer regard than he had yet known. * * * * * Jumel was gay that night. There would be few more such scenes, for theowner was no longer young; but of this the throng in brocade andbroadcloth and powder, who filled the spacious mansion, werethoughtless. Everywhere was an atmosphere of welcome; from the steadylight of lanterns festooned on facade and lawn, to the sparkle ofcountless candles within. It was that night that Ellis drew Mary Philipse aside and told her thetale that grew passionate in the telling. Fortune was kind, for hetold it to the soft accompaniment of wine glasses ringing, and theslow music of the stately minuet. Mary Philipse heard him through without a word, an expression on herface he had never seen before. Then their eyes met in the same frankway they had hundreds of times before, and she gave him her answer. "I've expected this, and I've tried to be ready; but I'm not. I can'tsay no, and I can't say yes. I wouldn't try to explain to any oneelse, but I think you'll understand. Forgive me if I analyze you alittle, and don't interrupt, please. " She passed her hand over her face slowly, a shade wearily. "There are times when I come near loving you: for what you are, notfor what you are to me. You are natural, you're strong; but you lacksomething I feel to be necessary to make life completely happy--theability to forget all and enjoy the moment. I have watched you foryears. It has been so in the past, and will be so in the future. Othermen who see me, men born to the plane, have the quality--call itbutterfly if you will--to enjoy the 'now. ' It appeals to me--I am oftheir manner born. " Their eyes met and she finished slowly, "It'sinjustice to you, I know; but I can't answer--now. " They sat a moment side by side in silence. The dancers were movingmore swiftly to the sound of the Virginia reel. Ellis reached over and took her hand, then bent and touched it softlywith his lips. "I will wait--and abide, " he said. THE CUP THAT O'ERFLOWED: AN OUTLINE I In a room, half-lighted by the red rays of a harvest moon, a woman layin the shadow; face downward, on the bed. It was not the figure ofyouth: the full lines of waist and hip spoke maturity. She was sobbingaloud and bitterly, so that her whole body trembled. The clock struck the hour, the half, again the hour; and yet she laythere, but quiet, with face turned toward the window and the big, redharvest moon. It was not a handsome face; besides, now it wastear-stained and hard with the reflection of a bitter battle fought. A light foot tapped down the hallway and stopped in front of the door. There was gentle accompaniment on the panel to the query, "Are youasleep?" The woman on the bed opened her eyes wider, without a word. The step in the hall tapped away into silence. The firm, round arm inits black elbow-sleeve setting, white, beautiful, made a motion ofimpatience and of weariness; then slowly, so slowly that one couldscarce mark its coming, the blank stupor that comes as Nature'spanacea to those whom she has tortured to the limit, crept over thewoman, and the big brown eyes closed. The moon passed over and thenight-wind, murmuring lower and lower, became still. In the darknessand silence the woman sobbed as she slept. In the lonely, uncertain time between night and morning she awoke; herface and the pillow were damp with the tears of sleep. She was numbfrom the drawing of tight clothing, and with a great mental pain and aconfused sense of sadness, that weighed on her like a tangible thing. Her mind groped uncertainly for a moment; then, with a great rush, thepast night and the things before it returned to her. "Oh, God, Thy injustice to us women!" she moaned. The words roused her; and, craving companionship, she rose and lit thegas. Back and forth she crossed the room, avoiding the furniture as byinstinct--one moment smiling, bitter; the next with face moving, uncontrollable, and eyes damp: all the moods, the passions of awoman's soul showing here where none other might see. Tired out, atlast, she stopped and disrobed, swiftly, without a glance at her ownreflection, and returned to bed. Nature will not be forced. Sleep will not come again. She can onlythink, and thoughts are madness. She gets up and moves to her desk. Aimlessly at first, as a respite, she begins to write. Her thoughtstake words as she writes, and a great determination, an impulse of themoment, comes to her. She takes up fresh paper and writes sheet aftersheet, swiftly. Passion sways the hand that writes, and shines warmlyfrom the big, brown eyes. The first light of morning stains the eastas she collects the scattered sheets, and writes a name on theenvelope, a name which brings a tenderness to her eyes. Stealthily shetiptoes down the stairs and places the letter where the servant willsee, and mail it in the early morning. A glad light, the light ofrelief, is in her face as she steals back slowly and creeps into bed. "If it is wrong I couldn't help it, " she whispers low. She turns herface to the pillow and covers it with a soft, white arm. One ear aloneshows, a rosy spot against the white. II Nine o'clock at a down-town medical office. A man who walks rapidly, but quietly, enters and takes up the morning mail. A number ofbusiness letters he finds and a dainty envelope, with writing which heknows at sight. He steps to the light and looks at the postmark. "Good-morning, " says his partner, entering. The man nods absently, and, tearing open the envelope, takes out thisletter: "MY FRIEND:-- "I don't know what you will think of me after this; anyway, I cannot help telling you what to-night lies heavy on my heart and mind. I've tried to keep still; God knows I've tried, and so hard; but Nature is Nature, and I am a woman. Oh, if you men only knew what that means, you'd forgive us much, and pity! You have so much in life and we so little, and you torture us so with that little, which to us is so great, our all; leading us on against our will, against our better judgment, until we love you, not realizing at first the madness of unrequited love. Oh, the cruelty of it, and but for a pastime. "But I do not mean to charge you. You are not as other men; you are not wrong. Besides, why should I not say it? I love you. Yes, you; a man who knows not the meaning of the word; who meant to be but a friend, my best friend. Oh, you have been blind, blind all the years since first I knew you; since first you began telling me of yourself and of your hopes. You did not know what it meant to such as I to live in the ambition of another, to hope through another's hope, to exult in another's success. I am confessing, for the first time--and the last time. Know, man, all the time I loved you. Forgive me that I tell you. I cannot help it. I am a woman, and love in a woman's life is stronger than will, stronger than all else together. "I ask nothing. I expect nothing. I could not keep quiet longer. It was killing me, and you never saw. I did not mean to tell you anything, till this moment--least of all, in this way. But it is done, and I'm glad--yes, happier than I have been for weeks. It is our woman's nature; a nature we do not ourselves understand. "My friend, I cannot see you again. Things cannot go on as they were. It was torture--you know not what torture--and life is short. If you would be kind, avoid me. The town is wide, and we have each our work. Time will pass. Remember, you have done nothing wrong. If there be one at fault it is Nature, for only half doing her work. You are good and noble. Good-bye. I trust you, for, God bless you, I love you. " The letter dropped, and the man stood looking out with unseeing eyes, on the shifting street. A patient came in and sat down, waiting. He had read as in a dream. Now with a rush came thought, --the past, the present, mingled; and as by a great light he saw clearly the yearsof comradery, thoughtless on his part, filled as his life had beenwith work and with thought of the future. It all came home to him now, and the coming was of brightness. The coldness melted from his face;the very squareness of the jaw seemed softer; the knowledge that isjoy and that comes but once in a lifetime, swept over him, warm, andhis heart beat swift. All things seemed beautiful. Without a word he took up his hat, and walked rapidly toward theelevator. A smile was in the frank blue eyes, and to all whom he met, whether stranger or friend, he gave greeting. The patient, waiting for his return, grew tired and left, and leaving, slammed the office door behind him. UNJUDGED The source of this manuscript lies in tragedy. My possession of it ispurely adventitious. That I have had it long you may know, for it cameto me at an inland prairie town, far removed from water or mountain, while for ten years or more my name, above the big-lettered dentistsign, has stood here on my office window in this city by the lake. Ihave waited, hoping some one would come as claimant; but my hair isturning white and I can wait no longer. As now I write of the past, the time of the manuscript's coming stands clear amid a host of hazy, half-forgotten things. It was after regular hours, of the day I write, that a man camehurriedly into my office, complaining of a fiercely aching tooth. Against my advice he insisted on an immediate extraction, and the useof an anæsthetic. I telephoned for a physician, and while awaiting hiscoming my patient placed in my keeping an expansible leather-coveredbook of a large pocket size. "Should anything go wrong, " he said, "there are instructions inside. " The request is common from those unused to an operation, and Iaccepted without other comment than to assure him he need fear nodanger. Upon arriving, the physician made the customary examination andproceeded to administer chloroform. The patient was visibly excited, but neither of us attached any importance to that under thecircumstances. Almost before the effect of the anæsthetic wasnoticeable, however, there began a series of violent muscular spasmsand contractions. The inhaler was removed and all restoratives knownto the profession used, but without avail. He died in a few moments, and without regaining consciousness. The symptoms were suspicious, entirely foreign to any caused by the anæsthetic, and at the inquestthe cause came to light. In the man's stomach was a large quantity ofstrychnine. That he knew something of medicine is certain, for theaction of the alkaloid varies little, and he had the timing to anicety. The man was, I should judge, thirty years of age, smooth of face andslightly built. Nerve was in every line of face and body. He wasfaultlessly dressed and perfectly groomed. He wore no jewelry, noteven a watch; but within the pocket of his vest was found a smalljewel-case containing two beautiful white diamonds, each of more thana carat weight. One was unset, the other mounted in a lady's ring. There was money in plenty upon his person, but not an article thatwould give the slightest clue to his identity. One peculiar thing about him I noticed, and could not account for:upon the palm of each hand was a row of irregular abrasions, butslightly healed, and which looked as though made by some dullinstrument. The book with which he entrusted me had begun as a journal, but withthe passage of events it had outgrown its original plan. Beingexpansible, fresh sheets had been added as it grew, and at the back ofthe book, on one of these blanks, had been hastily scratched, inpencil, the message of which he spoke: "You will find sufficient money in my pockets to cover all expenses. Do not take my trinkets, please! Associations make them dear to me. Any attempt to discover my friends will be useless. " Notwithstanding the last sentence the body was embalmed and the deathadvertised; but no response came, and after three days the body andthe tokens he loved were quietly buried here in the city. Meantime I had read the book, beginning from a sense of duty that grewinto a passing interest, and ended by making me unaware of both timeand place. I give you the journal as it stands, word for word and datefor date. Would that I could show you the handwriting in the originalas well. No printed page can tell the story of mood as can the linesof this journal. There were moments of passion when words slurred andovertook each other, as thought moved more rapidly than the characterswhich recorded; and again, periods of uncertainty when the handtarried and busied itself with forming meaningless figures, while theconscious mind roamed far away. * * * * * _March 17. _ Why do I begin a journal now, a thing I have never donebefore? Had another asked the question, I could have turned it offwith a laugh, but with myself it will not do. I must answer it, andhonestly. Know then, my ego who catechises, I have things to tell, feelings to describe that are new to me and which I cannot tell toanother. The excuse sounds childish; but listen: I speak it softly: Ilove, and he who loves is ever as a child. I smile at myself formaking the admission. I, a man whose hair is thinning and silvering, who has written of love all his life, and laughed at it. Oh, it'shumorous, deliciously humorous. To think that I have become, inreality, the fool I pictured others in fancy! _April 2. _ Gods, she was beautiful to-night!--the way she came to meetme: the long skirt that hung so gracefully, and that fluffy, white, sleeveless thing that fitted her so perfectly and showed her whitearms and the curves of her throat. I forgot to rise, and I fear Istared at her. I can yet see the smile that crept through the longlashes as she looked at me, and as I stumbled an apology she wassmiling all the time. How I came away I swear I don't know. Instinct, I suppose; for now at last I have an incentive. I must work mightily, and earn a name--for her. _April 4. _ He says it is a strong plot and that he will help me. Thatmeans the book will succeed. I wonder how a man feels who can dothings, not merely dream them. I expected he would laugh when I toldhim the plot, especially when I told whom the woman was; but he didn'tsay a word. He thinks, as I do, that it would be better to leave thestory's connection with her a surprise until the book is published. Heis coming up here to work to-morrow. "Keep a plot warm, " he says:"especially one with a love in it. " He looked at me out of the cornerof his eye as he spoke, so peculiarly I hardly knew whether he waslaughing at me or not. I suppose, just now, my state of mind is ratherobvious and amusing. _May 3. _ As I expected, the reaction is on. What a price we have topay for our happy moments in this world! I'm tired to-night and alittle discouraged, for I worked hard all day, and did not accomplishmuch. "Lack of inspiration, " he said. "The heroine is becoming atrifle dim. Hadn't you better go and enthuse a little to-night?" I was not in a mood to be chaffed; I told him shortly: "No, you hadbetter go yourself. " He smiled and thanked me. "With your permission, " he said, "I will. " Nature certainly has been kind to him, for he is handsome andfascinating beyond any man I ever knew. I wanted to use him in thestory, but he positively refused. He said that I would do better. Sowe finally compromised on a combination. "The man" has his hair and myeyes, his nose and my mouth. Over the chin we each smiled a littlegrimly, for it is stubborn--square, and fits us both. After all, it isnot a bad _ensemble_. The character has his weak points, but, all inall, he is not bad to look upon. _June 10. _ We went driving this evening, she and I, far out into thecountry, going and coming slowly. The night was perfect, with a fullmoon and a soft south wind. Nature's music makers were all busy. Onthe high places, the crickets sang loudly their lonesome song to thenight, while from the distant river and lowlands there came theuncertain minor of countless frogs in chorus. For two hours I tasted happiness, divine happiness, happiness socomplete that I forgot time. I have known many beautiful women, women splendid as animals aresplendid, but never before one whose intense womanliness made meforget that she was beautiful. I can't explain; it is too subtle andholy a thing. I sat by her side, so near that we touched, andworshipped as I never worshipped at church. If but for this nightalone, my life is worth the living. _June 12. _ It seems peculiar that he should be working with me at thisstory; strange that he should care to know me at all. Perhaps I standa little in awe of the successful man; I think we all do. At least, heis the example _par excellence_. I have seen him go into a room filledwith total strangers, and though he never spoke a word, have heard thequestion all about, --"Who is he?" Years ago, when he as well as I wasan unknown writer, we each submitted a story to the same editor, bythe same mail. Both were returned. I can still see the expression onhis face as he opened his envelope, and thrust the manuscript into hispocket. He did not say a word, but his manner of donning his top-coatand hat, and the crash of the front door behind him betrayed hisdisappointment. His work was afterwards published at his own risk. Theink on my story is fading, but I have it still. _July 2. _ She is going to the coast for the season, and I calledto-night to say _au revoir_. I could see her only a few minutes as hercarriage was already waiting; something, I believe, in honor of herlast night in town. She was in evening dress, and beautiful--I cannotdescribe. Think of the most beautiful woman you have ever known, andthen--but it is useless, for you have not known her. I was intoxicated; happy as a boy; happy as a god. I filled the fewmoments I had, full to overflowing. I told her what every man tellssome woman some time in his life. For once I felt the power of amaster, and I spoke well. She did not answer; I asked her not to. I could not tell her all, andI would have no reply before. Her face was turned from me as I spoke, but her ears turned pink and her breath came quickly. I looked at herand the magnitude of my presumption held me dumb; yet a warm happyglow was upon me, and the tapping of feet on the pavement belowsounded as sweetest music. As I watched her she turned, her eyes glistening and her throat alla-tremble. She held out her hand to say good-bye. I took it in mine;and at the touch my resolution and all other things of earth wereforgotten, and I did that which I had come hoping to do. Gently, Islipped a ring with a single setting over her finger, then bendinglow, I touched the hand with my lips--whitest, softest, dearest handin God's world. Then I heard her breath break in a sob, and felt uponmy hair the falling of a tear. _August 5. _ I am homesick to-night and tired. It is ten-thirty, and, Ihave just gotten dinner. I forgot all about it before. The story ismoving swiftly. It is nearly finished now, moreover it is good; Iknow it. I sent a big roll of manuscript to him to-day. He is at thecoast, and polishes the rough draft as fast as I send it in. Hetells me he has secured a publisher, and that the book will be outin a few months. I can hardly wait to finish, for then I, too, canleave town. I will not go before; I have work to do, and can do itbetter here. He tells me he has seen her several times. God! a manwho writes novels and can mention her incidentally, as thoughspeaking of a dinner-party! _August 30. _ I finished to-day and expressed him the last scrap ofcopy. I wanted to sing, I was so happy. Then I bethought me, it is herbirthday. I went down town and picked out a stone that pleased me. Their messenger will deliver it, and she can choose her own setting. How I'd like to carry it myself, but I have a little more work to dobefore I go. Only two more days, and then-- I have been counting the time since she left: almost two months; itseems incredible when I think of it. How I have worked! Next time I write, my journal confessor, I willhave something to tell: I will have seen her--she who wears myring. .. . Ah! here comes my man for orders. A few of my bachelorfriends help me celebrate here to-night. I have not told them it isthe last time. _September 5. _ Let me think; I am confused. This hotel is vile, abominable, but there is no other. That cursed odor of stale tobacco, and of cookery! The landlord says they were here yesterday and went West. It's easy totrace them--everybody notices. A tall man, dark, with a firm jaw; themost beautiful woman they have ever seen--they all say the same. MyGod! and I'm hung up here, inactive a whole day! But I'll find them, they can't escape; and then they'll laugh at me, probably. What can I do? I don't know. I can't think. I must find them first . .. That cursed odor again! Oh, what a child, a worse than fool I have been! To sit there in townpouring the best work of my life into his hands! I must have thatbook, I will have it. To think how I trusted her--waited until my hairbegan to turn--for this! But I must stop. This is useless, it's madness. _September 9. _ It is a beautiful night. I have just come in from along walk, how long I don't know. I went to the suburbs and throughthe parks, watching the young people sitting, two and two, in theshadow. I smiled at the sight, for in fancy I could hear what theywere saying. Then I wandered over to the lakefront and stood a longtime, with the waves lapping musically against the rocks below, andthe moonlight glistening on a million reflectors. The great stretch ofwater in front, and the great city behind me sang low in concord, while the stars looked down smiling at the refrain. "Be calm, littlemortal, be calm, " they said; "calm, tiny mortal, calm, " repeatedendlessly, until the mood took hold of me, and in sympathy I smiled inreturn. Was it yesterday? It seems a month since I found them. Was it I whowas so hot and angry? I hold up my hand; it is as steady as mymother's when, years ago, as a boy, she laid it on my forehead withher good-night. The murmur of this big hotel speaks soothingly, likethe voice of an old friend. The purr of the elevator is a voice Iknow. It all seems incredible. To-day is so commonplace and real, andyesterday so remote and fantastic. He was lounging in the lobby, a hand in either pocket, when I touchedhim on the shoulder. He turned, but neither hands nor face failed himby a motion. "I presume you would prefer to talk in private?" I said, "Will youcome to my room?" A smile formed slowly over his lips. "I don't wish to deprive my--" He paused, and his eyes met mine, "--mywife of a pleasant chat with an old friend. I would suggest that youcome with us to our suite. " I nodded. In silence we went up the elevator; in equal silence, heleading, we passed along the corridor over carpets that gave out notelltale sound. She was standing by the window when we entered. Her profile stood outclear in the shaded room, and in spite of myself a great heart-throbpassed over me. She did not move at first, but at last turning she sawhim and me. Then I could see her tremble; she started quickly toleave, but he barred the way. The smile was still upon his face. "Pardon me, my dear, " he protested, "but certainly you recognize anold friend. " She grew white to the lips, and her eyes blazed. Her hands pressedtogether so tightly that the fingers became blue at the nails. Shelooked at him; such scorn I had never seen before. Before it, thesmile slowly left his face. "Were you the fraction of a man, " she voiced slowly, icily, "you wouldhave stopped short of--this. " She made a motion of her hand, so slight one could scarce see it, and without a word he stepped aside. She turned toward me and, instinctively, I bent in courtesy, my eyes on the floor and a greattumult in my heart. She hesitated at passing me; without lookingup I knew it; then, slowly, moved away down the corridor. I advanced inside, closing the door behind me and snapping the lock. Neither of us said a word; no word was needed. The fighting-blood ofeach was up, and on each the square jaw that marked us both was sethard. I stepped up within a yard of him and looked him square in theeye. I pray God I may never be so angry again. "What explanation have you to offer?" I asked. His eye never wavered, though the blood left his face and lip; eventhen I admired his nerve. When he spoke his voice was even andnatural. "Nothing, " he sneered. "You have lost; that's all. " Quick as thought, I threw back the taunt. "Lost the woman, yes, thank God; the book, never. I came for that, notfor her. I demand that you turn over the copy. " Again the cool smile and the steady voice. "You're a trifle late. I haven't a sheet; it is all gone. " "You lie!" I flung the hot words fair in his teeth. A smile, mocking, maddening, formed upon his face. "I told you before you had lost. The book is copyrighted"--a pause, while the smile broadened--"copyrighted in my name, and sold. " The instinct of battle, primitive, uncontrollable, came over me andthe room turned dark. I fought it, until my hands grew greasy from thewounds where the nails bit my palms, then I lost control; of whatfollows all is confused. I dimly see myself leaping at him like a wild animal; I feel thetightening of the big neck muscles as my fingers closed on his throat;I feel a soft breath of night air as we neared the open window; thenin my hands a sudden lightness, and in my ears a cry of terror. I awoke at a pounding on the door. It seemed hours later, though itmust have been but seconds. I arose--and was alone. The window waswide open; in the street below, a crowd was gathering on the run, while a policeman's shrill whistle rang out on the night. A hundredfaces were turned toward me as I looked down and I dimly wonderedthereat. The knocking on the door became more insistent. I turned the lock, slowly, and a woman rushed into the room. Something about her seemedfamiliar to me. I passed my hand over my forehead--but it was useless. I bowed low and started to walk out, but she seized me by the arm, calling my name, pleadingly. Her soft brown hair was all loose andhanging, and her big eyes swimming; her whole body trembled so thatshe could scarcely speak. The grip of the white hand on my arm tightened. "Oh! You must not go, " she cried; "you cannot. " I tried gently to shake her off, but she clung more closely thanbefore. "You must let me explain, " she wailed. "I call God to witness, I wasnot to blame. " She drew a case from the bosom of her dress. "Here are those stones; I never wore them. I wanted to, God knows, butI couldn't. Take them, I beg of you. " She thrust the case into mypocket. "He made me take them, you understand; made me do everythingfrom the first. I loved him once, long ago, and since then I couldn'tget away. I can't explain. " She was pleading as I never heard womanplead before. "Forgive me--tell me you forgive me--speak to me. " Thegrip on my arm loosened and her voice dropped. "Oh! God, to have brought this on you when I loved you!" The words sounded in my ears, but made no impression. It all seemedvery, very strange. Why should she say such things to me? She must bemistaken--must take me for another. I broke away from her grasp, and groped staggeringly toward the door. A weariness intense was upon me and I wanted to be home alone. As Imoved away, I heard behind me a swift step as though she would follow, and my name called softly, then another movement, away. Mechanically I turned at the sound, and saw her profile standing clearin the open window-frame. Realization came to me with a mighty rush, and with a cry that was a great sob I sprang toward her. Suddenly the window became clear again, and through the blackness thatformed about me I dimly heard a great wail of horror arise from thestreet below. * * * * * There was no other entry save the hasty scrawl in pencil. THE TOUCH HUMAN "Good-night. " A lingering of finger tips that touched, as by accident;a bared head; the regular tap of shoes on cement, as a man walked downthe path. "Good-night--and God bless thee, " he repeated softly, tenderly, underhis breath, that none but he might hear: words of faith spokenreverently, and by one who believes not in the God known of the herd. "Good-night--and God bless thee, " whispered the woman slowly; and thesouth wind, murmuring northward, took the words and carried themgently away as sacred things. The woman stood thinking, dreaming, her color mounting, her eyesdimming, as she read deep the mystery of her own heart. They had sat side by side the entire evening, and had talked of lifeand of its hidden things; or else had remained silent in the unspokenconverse that is even sweeter to those who understand each other. She had said of a mutual friend: "He is a man I admire; he has anideal. " "A thing but few of earth possess. " "No; I think you are wrong. I believe all people have ideals. Theymust; life would not be life without. " "You mean object rather than ideal. Does not an ideal mean somethingbeautiful--something beyond--something we'd give our all for? Not ourworking hours alone, but our hours of pleasure and our times ofthought. An ideal is an intangible thing--having much of thesupernatural in its make-up; 'tis a fetish for which we'd sacrificelife--or the strongest passion of life, --love. " "Is this an ideal, though? Could anything be beautiful to us afterwe'd sacrificed much of life, and all of love in its attainment? Isnot everything that is opposed to love also opposed to the ideal? Isnot an ideal, when all is told, nothing but a great love--the greatpersonal love of each individual?" He turned to the woman, and there was that in his face which causedher eyes to drop, and her breath to come more quickly. "I don't know. I'm miserable, and lonely, and tired. I've thought Ihad an ideal, and I followed it, working for it faithfully and for italone. I've shown it to myself, glowing, splendid, when I became wearyand ready to yield. I've sacrificed, in attempting its attainment, youth and pleasure--self, continually. Still, I'm afar off--and stillthe light beckons me on. I work day after day, and night after night, as ever; but the faith within me is growing weaker. Might not theideal I worshipped after all be an earth-born thing, an ambition whosebrightness is not of pure gold, but of tinsel? That which I havesought, speaks always to me so loudly that there may be no mistake inhearing. "'I am thy god, ' it says; 'worship me--and me alone. Sacrifice--sacrifice--sacrifice--thyself--thy love. Thus shalt thouattain me. ' "One day I stopped my work to think; hid myself solitary that I mightquestion. 'What shall I have when I attain thee?' I asked. "'Fame--fame--the plaudits of the people--a pedestal apart. ' "'Yes, ' whispered my soul to me, 'and a great envy always surrounding;a great fight always to hold thy small pedestal secure. ' "Of such as this are ideals made? No. 'Twas a mistake. I have soughtnot an ideal, but an ambition--a worthless thing. An ideal issomething beautiful--a great love. 'Tis not yet too late to correct myfault; to seek this ideal--this beautiful thing--this love. " He reached over to the woman and their fingers, as by chance, touching, lingered together. His eyes shone, and when he spoke hisvoice trembled. "_You_ know the ideal--the beautiful thing--the love I seek. " Side by side they sat, each bosom throbbing; not with the wild passionof youth, but with the deeper, more spiritual love of middle-life. Overhead, the night wind murmured; all about, the crickets sang. Turning, she met him face to face, frankly, earnestly. "Let us think. " She rose, in her eyes the look men worship and, worshipping, findoblivion. A moment they stood together. "Good-night, " she whispered. "Good-night, " his lips silently answered, pressing upon hers. A DARK HORSE Iowa City is not large, nor are the prospects for metropolitangreatness at all flattering. Even her most zealous citizen, theancient of the market corner, admits that "there ain't been muchstirrin' for quite a spell back, " and among the broad fraternity ofcommercial travellers, the town is a standing joke. Yet, throughoutthe entire State, no community of equal size is so well known. It isthe home of the State University. In the year '90-something-or-other, there was enrolled in the juniorclass of the university, one Walter R. Chester, but it is doubtfulwhether five other students in the same classic seat of learning couldhave told you his given name. Away back in his freshman year he hadbeen dubbed "Lord" Chester. And as "Lord" Chester alone is his namestill preserved, and revered in university annals. The reasons lying back of this exaltation to the peerage were not verycomplex, but quite as adequate as those usually inspiring collegenicknames. He was known to be country-bred, and the average freshwaterschool defines the "country" as a region of dense mental darkness, commencing where the campus ends and extending thence in everydirection, throughout the unchartered realms of space. Each Friday afternoon, "Lord" Chester would carefully lock his roomand disappear upon a bicycle; this much was plainly visible toeverybody. On Monday he would reappear. The hiatus afforded a peg fromwhich much unprofitable speculation was suspended. The argument mostplausible was that he went home, while one romantic youth suggested agirl. The accusation was never repeated. What? The "Lord" a ladies'man? Tut! One would as soon expect a statue to drill a minstrel show. Thus Chester's personal affairs remained a mystery. He never talkedreflexively--rare attribute in a college man--and, moreover, curiositynever throve well in his presence. It utterly failed to bear fruit. Another peculiarity distinguished him from all the rest of thestudent body: he roomed by himself. Although invariably courteous andpolite to visitors, he was never known to extend an invitation for asecond visit. He quite obviously wanted to be left alone, and the"fellows" met him more than half-way. But what, more than anything else, probably helped to designate him"Lord, " was the scrupulous way in which he dressed. There was no hintof the pastoral in his sartorial accomplishments, and it was his oneextravagance. Though from the country and therefore presumably poor, no swell son of the Western _haute monde_ made an equally smartappearance. We have been viewing the youth from the standpoint of his fellow-students. As a matter of fact, they never saw the real man, the man behind theclosed door, at all. He was a terrific worker. When he decided to do athing, he did it. Night was as day at such times, and meals were unthoughtof. He literally plunged out of sight into his work, and as yet he hadnever failed. One reason for this uniform success lay in the fact that he was ableto define his limitations, and never attempted the impossible. Hewas, indeed, poor; that is, relatively so. His earliest recollectionswere associated with corn rows and grilling suns; which accounted forthe present cheerfulness with which he tackled any task, and for hisappetite for hard work. When tired, he would think of the weight of ahoe in a boy's hand at six o'clock in the afternoon, and proceed withrenewed vigor. Such was "Lord" Chester: product of work and solitude; a man who knewmore about the ideal than the real; a man who would never forget afriend nor forgive an injury; who would fight to the bitter end anddie game--hero of "_the_" Marathon, whose exciting history isimpossible to avoid in Iowa City. By nature, Chester was an athlete, and by way of exercise he wasaccustomed to indulge in a few turns daily upon the cinder path. Oneevening in early spring he was jogging along at a steady brisk pace, when two men in training-suits caught up with him. They were puffingwhen they fell in beside him. Presently they dropped behind, and one, a tall important youth, of the name of Richards, called out: "I say, me lud, aren't you going to clear the trail?" Quick as a shot Chester halted and faced around. "What's that?" he asked quietly. The other two nearly bumped into him, but managed to come to astandstill, before precipitating that catastrophe. They lurched backupon their heels, nearly toppling backwards, too surprised for themoment to speak. Chester did not stir. "Jiminy crickets!" Richards' companion exclaimed in a moment. "You'redeuced sudden, Chester, I must say. " And Richards' manner promptly grew conciliatory. "Old man, " he said, smiling, "you really ought to train. You've gotform--by George, you have! Besides, you wouldn't have any oppositionto speak of, you know. " Richards was still smiling; but a smile, however warmly encouragedfrom within, is apt to take cold in a frost. The casual glance withwhich Chester took in the young man, from his light sprinting-pumps tohis eyes, may be accurately described as frigid. Not until he had heldthe other's embarrassed look for an appreciable pause did he deign tospeak. "There really ought to be, " he said without emotion, "at least one manin the field. I think I shall train. " Thus it came about that "Lord" Chester decided to enter athletics. Five minutes previously even the thought had not occurred to him; buthe wasn't the man to quail before a bluff. The track management of this particular university was an oligarchy;was governed by a few absolute individuals. Perhaps such a conditionis not as rare as might be supposed. However that may be, it was herea case of being either "in" or "out. " Chester was unpopular, and fromthe first had been out. There were only four entries for the running events, the same namesappearing in all; so he could not be kept from the field. But he wellknew that various ways existed by which favoritism could be shown, andthat these preferences, too trifling in themselves to warrantcomplaint, might prove a serious handicap in a close contest. He knewthat, however honors might lie among the other entries, they wouldhesitate at nothing to prevent him from taking a place. In fact, Richards openly boasted that he would pocket "'is ludship" at thefinish. So Chester shaped his plans accordingly. He had never aimed at theimpossible, nor did he now. He withdrew from all short-distance runsand yard dashes, and concentrated his mind upon the Marathon--thusdignified, although the faculty would permit nothing more arduous thantwo miles. In saying trained, everything is meant that the word can be made toimply: the sort of hour in, hour out, to-the-limit-of-endurancetraining which either makes or kills. A fortnight before Field DayChester was in perfect condition, and had his capabilities gauged to anicety. He was now entered only in the Marathon; they virtually hadforced him from the half-mile, and they should be made to pay thepenalty. One day before the race Chester went to the bank and inquired theamount of his balance. It was shown him: one hundred and six dollarsand some odd cents. He drew a cheque for the amount, and thrust thebills into his pocket. From the bank he walked straight up Main Streetfor three blocks, then turned in at a well-kept brick house. "Mr. Richards in?" he asked of the servant-girl. "Yes, sir. Right upstairs--second door to the left. He's got companynow. " The junior nevertheless resolutely mounted the stairs and knocked uponthe door. The noise inside resembled a pocket-edition of the ChicagoBoard of Trade, so Chester hammered again, louder. "Come!" some one yelled, and the noise subsided. He opened the door and stepped inside. A half-dozen young fellows werescattered about, but as he knew none of them, except by name, heignored their presence and walked directly up to Richards. "I've come on business, " he said; "can I speak with you a moment?" "Sure!" Richards removed his feet from a chair, kicking it at thesame time toward his visitor. "These fellows know more about mybusiness now than I do myself, so get it off of your chest, Chester. " The company laughed, but Chester remained wholly unmoved. "All right, " said he, calmly. "You're in the Marathon: want to riskanything on it?" Up went Richards' feet once more, this time to a table. He winkedbroadly at his friends, and replied with an air of vast carelessness, "Why--yes; I don't mind. Guess I can cover you. " "How much?" demanded Chester. "Odds even, mind. " "I said I'd cover you, didn't I?" with some warmth. Richards fumbledin his trousers pockets, extracting therefrom a handful of loosechange. Chester advanced to the table. At sight of his roll of bills a suddensilence fell. All eyes were glued upon them while he counted. "Five--ten--fifteen"--and so on, up to one hundred. He stowed theremaining five back in his pocket, pushed the pile into the middle ofthe table and looked coolly down at his host. Said he, "One hundred, even, that I win the Marathon. Cover, or show thesefellows the sort of piker you are. " And Richards came very near to showing them. His face was a study. Hehadn't ten dollars to his name; he was painfully aware of the fact, and here were these six boys who would know it too in about twoseconds. He was rattled, and sat looking at the pile of bills asthough charmed. He racked his brain for some way out of thepredicament, but the only thing he could think of was to wonderwhether the portrait on the top note was that of Hendricks or RufusChoate. "It can't be Choate, " suddenly occurred to him. "But thenit--" There was a laugh in the back of the room. Richards stood up. A dozenfire alarms would not have recalled him so quickly. Whatever elsemight be said of the man he was game, and now his gameness showed. "Give me an hour; I'll meet you then in front of the postoffice. "While speaking he had gotten into his coat; now he walked toward thedoor. "Amuse yourselves while I'm gone, fellows, " he said, anddisappeared down the stairway. Chester replaced the notes in his pocket, nodded gravely to thecompany and followed. Not a boy spoke, but all sat staring blankly at the doorway. An hour later, both Richards and Chester appeared at the postoffice. The former, by dint of much persistent circulation among his fellowathletes, had found enough of them who were willing to pool theirfunds in order to secure the necessary amount. The two young men hadwitnesses, the wager was properly closed and the money deposited. Neither spoke an unnecessary word during the meeting, but when Chesterstarted to leave, Richards turned facetiously to his friends. "'Is bloomin' ludship will start training Friday; bet he has his wheelin soak. " To which remark Chester paid not the slightest attention. Whatever may be said to the contrary, six boys can no more retain asecret than can six girls, and inside of an hour the story of the bigbet had spread over the town. In due course it penetrated to the city:one day a reporter appeared and interviewed the principals, and on thefollowing Sunday their photographs adorned the pink section of a greatdaily. This was nuts for the university--but it is getting ahead ofour own story somewhat. Chester, naturally, was the centre of curiosity. He had not pawned his"bike, " as was demonstrated when Friday rolled around; but had it beenknown that the last cent he owned in the world had been staked uponthe issue, no doubt the interest would have been greater. Field Day opened bright and clear, and early in the afternoon AthleticPark began to fill. A rumor had gone abroad that the two principalcompetitors had actually come to blows, and that each had sworn to dierather than lose the race. Long before the opening event the inclosurewas crowded with spectators, all eagerly discussing the Marathon, tothe exclusion of every other contest. The opinion was freely expressedthat Richards would "put a crimp in that chesty Chester, " and that hewould "win in a walk. " They made no bones about playing favorites. It was a still, hot day, and if there is any advantage in atmosphericconditions each contestant should have been inspired with thatabsolute confidence of winning, without which the fastest race is buta tame affair. At two o'clock the band commenced playing. The judgestried to follow the programme, but the cries of "Marathon! Marathon!"grew so insistent and clamorous that they finally yielded, and theevent was called. Richards responded first. He was popular, and the grandstand gave himan ovation as he took his position under the wire. It seemed as thoughthe handkerchief of every girl present was in the air. The twofigureheads, friends of Richards, came next, and last of all Chester. A feeble attempt at applause marked his passage in front of thegrandstand; but he never looked up, and for any indication he gave tothe contrary, he might have been the only person on the grounds. Histrack suit was hidden by a long black door curtain, in lieu of abath-robe, and a pretty girl on the front row remarked audibly, "He'sall ready for the funeral. " "Sure thing, " answered her companion. "He knows his obsequies areabout to take place. " "Peels well, " a man by the rail critically commented. "But--rats!--Richards has pocketed this event ever since he's beenhere; you can't make the pace for him with anything slower than anauto. " The runners were in line at last, crouching low, tense, finger-tipsupon the ground, the starting-pistol above their heads. "Starters ready?" floated in a sing-song voice from the judges' stand. "Timers r-r-read-y-y?" A sharp crack from the pistol, and they wereoff. Then a queer thing happened. Instead of dawdling along behind, asevery one expected, Chester, without an instant's hesitation, pushedto the front and set the pace. And what a pace! It was literally a race from the word go. Chestertook the inside and faced the music, Richards and the others close inbehind. Sympathy in the grandstand was beginning to turn; everybodyappreciates pluck. The spectators, however, knew him to be a novice, and many supposed that he had lost his head; so when he passed thegrandstand on the first lap, any amount of contradictory advice wasshouted noisily. "Let them set the pace!" "You're killing yourself!" "Oh, you ballyLord!--go it, kid!" "Don't let 'em nose you out, Chester, old scout!""Save your air, old top, you'll need it!" and much more of a like kindwas hurled at him, which reached his ears through the veil of singingwind, like the roar of distant breakers upon the seashore. He kept his own counsel. He had followed that pace every day duringthe last two weeks of his training, and he knew precisely what hecould do. Besides the air was quiet, and the disadvantage of beingpace-maker was not so great as people thought. In this formation they came round the half-mile oval the second time, each man working with the nice regularity of well-oiled machinery. Nota sound now from the grandstand; only the soft _pat_ of the runners'feet could be heard. The crowd had caught Chester's idea: but couldhe hold out? They had passed the three-quarter pole on the third lap when a yellwent up, and everybody rose excitedly to their feet. Space was growingrapidly between the leaders and those behind; it was now resolved to aduel between the principals. As they dashed past, the crowd examined them closely, scores offield-glasses being trained upon them like so many guns. Chester was still erect, his head well back, chest forward, armsworking piston-like, close down at his sides, while his long, regulartread was as light and springy as an Indian's. His jaw was set grimly, but it was manifest that he was still breathing deep and regularlythrough his nostrils. It was equally manifest that his opponent was in distress. The last ofhis strength and determination was dying away in a desperate effort tokeep his pace; his face was colorless, eyes staring, his stepirregular. Worst of all, his mouth was open, and his chest could beseen to vibrate as he panted. [Illustration: He heard a voice . .. And glanced back. ] "By Jove!" muttered the man at the rail, as amazed as though the bluecanopy of heaven had suddenly fallen, "Chester'll take it, I dobelieve!" And the crowd was beginning to believe the same. The rivals maintained their relative positions until, on the last lap, the three-quarter pole was once more reached. The two figureheads haddropped out and mounted a fence where they would not be too far awayfrom the finish. Every eye was trained upon the racers, the excitement was tense. Chester was pounding grimly away; sweat was pouring down his faceuntil it glistened in the sun; his legs ached as though in a boot oftorture. But he had no thought of allowing Richards to close the gapbetween them by an inch. He was counting the _pat-pat-pat!_ of hisfeet upon the track. "Seventy-three more, and it's won, old boy, " hemuttered. He could hear Richards' every breath. "One, two, three, --"he counted. He heard a voice, so broken that the words could hardly be distinguished, and he glanced back. "For God's--sake, Chester--hold--up!" gasped Richards. "I--can'tlose--this race--now. " He was a pitiable figure, his white face drawn in lines of pain, hisbody swaying uncertainly, as he pressed despairingly on. For one moment Chester's heart felt a throb of pity. Then he thoughtof his work in sun and rain; of Richards' contempt in the past; of thecheers for his rival and the open ridicule of his own pretensions; andlast of all, but far from being the least consideration, the twohundred dollars absolutely necessary to carry him through his finalyear to graduation. Ah, nobody knew about that two hundred dollars, save himself and onelittle girl, who had driven into town early in the afternoon, and whohad slipped timidly into as good a seat as she could find in thestand. She showed one dot of pink among hundreds of fluffy whitegowns; Chester was ignorant of her presence, but as he sped round andround the track, her eyes never once left him, nor did she ceasepraying silently that he might win! Only for an instant did he hesitate; then his face settled into anexpression not pleasant to look upon. He forgot that he was tired, that a grandstand full of howling maniacs was ahead of him. He thoughtonly of the girl in pink--and made his spurt. Richards tried to follow, but a haze was forming over his eyes. Hisheart was pounding until he believed that he must suffocate. Then hereeled suddenly, lost his balance and fell into darkness. "So this is victory!" murmured Chester to himself a moment later, ashe swayed unsteadily upon the shoulders of a howling mob. He wasthinking of poor Richards lying back there upon the track. But justthen he espied the transfigured face of the girl in pink. "It is! It is!" he shouted joyfully. THE WORTH OF THE PRICE Nobody in a normal humor would dispute the fact that Clementine Williswas a strikingly handsome girl. One might even be moved, by a burst ofenthusiasm, to declare her beautiful. There was about her that subtle, elusive charm of perfection in minute detail, possible only to thewealthy who can discriminate between art and that which is artificial, and who can take advantage of all of art's magic resources, withoutimparting the slightest suggestion of artificiality. Her hair and eyes were dark--very dark; her skin bore the matchless, transparent tint of ivory; every line of her high-bred face, and ofher hands and her slender, arched feet, bespoke the ultimate degree ofrefinement. She was the sort of girl, in short, that a full-blooded man must needsstare at, perhaps furtively, but with no thought of boldness. Stupid, indeed, must be he who would attempt anything even remotelyapproaching familiarity with Miss Willis. Her smart brougham waits in front of a new and resplendent down-townoffice building on a certain afternoon, while Miss Willis ascendsin one of the elevators to the tenth floor. She proceeds withassurance, but leisurely--mayhap she is a trifle bored--to a doorwhich somehow manages to convey an impression of prosperity beyond. It bears upon its frosted glass the name of Dr. Leonard, a renownedspecialist in diseases of the throat, besides the names of ahalf-dozen assistants--in much smaller lettering--who, doubtless, are in the ferment of struggling for positions of equal renown. The door opening discloses a neat, uniformed maid and a large andrichly furnished reception-room. Five ladies, of various ages and allhandsomely gowned, are seated here and there, manifestly forcingpatience to relieve the _ennui_ which would have been tolerated withno other detail of the day's routine. This cursory survey is sufficient, it is hoped, to demonstrate thatDr. Leonard's practice is confined among a class of which most otherpractitioners might be pardonably envious. The white-aproned, white-capped maid smiled a polite recognition ofthe newest arrival. A bit flustered by the calmly impersonal scrutinywith which her greeting was received, she addressed Miss Willis in asubdued voice. "I was to tell you, Miss Willis, that there is no occasion for Dr. Leonard to see you himself to-day. If you please, Dr. Carter will fillyour engagement. " Miss Willis did not please. It was quite clear that she regarded thisarrangement with considerable disfavor. "You may inform Dr. Leonard that I shall not wait, " she said coldly. "If I am so far improved that I do not require his personal attention, I shall not come again. " With that, she turned decisively to leave. The maid followed her, hesitantly, to the door, and Miss Willis could not repress a smile atthe girl's consternation. The situation had ended in an altogetherunexpected manner. And then, in the next instant, it became manifestthat, however absolute Dr. Leonard might be, it was not a part of themaid's duties to discourage those who would seek his services. She wasemboldened to protest. "Just try him, please, Miss Willis, " in a nervous murmur;"he--truly--he's--" The assurance was left unfinished; but the speaker's flurry revealedher predicament, and Miss Willis smiled encouragement. "Very well, " she returned graciously. The maid gave her a grateful look and conducted her though severalrooms, all in accord with the sumptuous reception-room, to a tinyprivate office, where she opened the door and stood respectfully onone side. The visitor's submissive mood all at once vanished. She staredresentfully at the cramped quarters, and entered reluctantly, as ifwith a feeling of being thrust willy-nilly into a labelled pill-box. Aman was writing at a desk in a corner, and he continued writing. "Take a chair, please, " he said crisply, without looking up. And thiswas the only sign to indicate that he was aware that his privacy hadbeen invaded. Miss Willis's dark eyes flashed. She seemed about to make an indignantrejoinder, but thought better of it. She ignored the invitation to sitdown, however, and by and by the circumstance caught the writer'sattention; he bent a quick, surprised look round at her--thenproceeded with his writing. He did not repeat the request. He presently finished his task, noted the time, and made an entry upona tabulated sheet beside him; he then filed the memorandum upon ahook, and swung round in his chair, facing the intruder--for such thegirl felt herself to be. Fortunately Miss Willis was not without a sense of humor, and she wasable to perceive an amusing quality in her reception to-day. Suchsupreme indifference to her very existence was so wholly foreign toanything in her past experience, that she was acutely sensible of itsfreshness and novelty. But now the man became all at once impressed with the circumstancethat she was still standing, and he bounded guiltily to his feet. "Pardon me!" he exclaimed in confusion. "I was--was very busy when youcame in. Won't you please have this chair?" He awkwardly shoved oneforward. The man was young; Miss Willis was unable to determine whether he wasgood-looking, or ugly; whether he was the right sort, or impossible;so she accepted the proffered chair. He resumed his own seat, and leaned one arm wearily upon the desk. Already he had forgotten his momentary embarrassment, and he was nowregarding the girl simply as a patient. "Dr. Leonard has given me the history of your case, " he informed herin a matter of fact way. "He requests that I continue with it--unless, of course, you prefer that he treat you himself. " He got up as hespoke, and Miss Willis decided that he was good-looking and young, andthat he was tall and of a figure to appeal to the feminine eye. Then she was guilty of a most reprehensible act of slyness. She turnedfull upon him the batteries of her lustrous dark eyes, and smileddazzlingly, bewitchingly. "I came to see Dr. Leonard, " she said in a tone that made one thinkof dripping honey. "And I object to being turned over to anassistant--at least before consulting me. " Utterly at variance with all precedent, the bewitching look producedno effect whatever. The man bowed gravely, pressed a bell-button, andthen went over to where Miss Willis was sitting. Before he couldspeak--if he had any such intention--a girl in starched cap and apronappeared in answer to his ring. "Miss Willis has concluded not to remain, " he informed the maid. "ShowNumber Twenty-seven into Room Four. Inform her that I will see her intwo minutes. " Producing his watch, he deliberately marked the time. He turned to Miss Willis in a moment, with an air which said asplainly as words could have said it: "It's a terrible waste ofprecious time, but if necessary I'll sacrifice the two minutes tohumoring any further caprices you may develop. " This was too much for the young lady's tranquillity: she laughed, andlaughed frankly. "Pray tell me, " she managed to say, "what _my_ number is. " Without the slightest alteration in his serious mien, he consulted alist hanging beside his desk. "Seven, " he announced at length. "Oh!" "Why?" quickly. "Has there been some mistake?" "No--oh, no"; Miss Willis was now perfectly composed. "I had afeeling, though, that it must have been nearer seven thousand. " "It would be impossible, you know, " the man patiently explained, "tosee that many patients in a day. " "Indeed? How interesting!" Her irony was unnoticed, and once more shelaughed. To tell the truth, if anybody could associate such afrivolity with Miss Willis's dignity, she giggled. She contemplated the man with undisguised curiosity. Naturally enoughshe had met more men than she could even remember, but never oneanything like this particular specimen. To add to her quickenedinterest, he was not only positively good-looking, but every line ofhis face, the poise of his well-proportioned, upstanding figure, thetilt of his head and the squareness of his chin, all spoke ofstrength; of elemental strength, and of a purposeful, resolutecharacter. And, too, she told herself that he had nice eyes. The niceeyes never wavered in their respectful regard of her. He spoke again: "I can assure you that Dr. Leonard meant no discourtesy. The newarrangement means nothing further than that your trouble is moredistinctively within my province. It is his custom, once he hasthoroughly diagnosed a case, to assign it to the one of his assistantsbest qualified to treat it. Dr. Leonard is a very busy man; he can'tbe expected to do more than supervise his aides. " And now he was actually rebuking her! He bowed once more, and moved toward the door. His hand was upon theknob, when an imperious command brought him to a standstill. "Wait, " said Miss Willis. "Dr. Carter, if I remain here--" He coolly interrupted. "Pardon me, Miss Willis, but my patient iswaiting. I shall be at liberty in ten minutes, then I shall return. " This time he was gone. Number Four must have been an adjoining room, for the next instantshe could hear Dr. Carter's voice through the thin board partition. His speech was as unemotional and businesslike as when addressing her. She could not make up her mind whether to go or wait, and so satpondering and presently forgot to go. Here was a man such as she had never dreamed of as existing; oneabsolutely disinterested, who treated people--even people likeClementine Willis--as abstractly as a master mechanic goes aboutrepairing a worn-out engine. Perhaps it was a characteristicallyfeminine decision at which she presently arrived, but anyway she madeup her mind, then and there, to know more of this man. After a while Miss Willis fell to surveying the room; with anundefined hope, perhaps, that it would throw some further light uponthe young doctor's character. It was essentially the home of a busyman. Every article had a use and a definite one. The spirit of theplace was contagious, and presently she began to have a feeling thatshe was the one useless thing there. In one corner of the room was the desk where he had been writing, upon which was a pile of loose manuscript. Reference books werescattered all about, some with improvised bookmarks, but mostly facedownward, just as they had been left. The environment was that of onewho seeks to overtake and outstrip Time, rather than to forget him. Dr. Carter returned at last, entering quickly but quietly. "Pardon my leaving you so abruptly, " he apologized, the impersonalnote again in his voice, and an inquiry as well. He seemed surprisedthat she had not departed. The girl was manifestly at a loss for words; this was such anextraordinary predicament for her to find herself in that shedetermined to say something at any cost. "Dr. Carter, " she faltered, "I--have changed my mind; I--I--wish youto continue my treatment--if you will. " It was not at all what she hadintended saying, and she was chagrined to feel her cheeks growsuddenly hot; she knew that they must be rosy. It was likely that young Dr. Carter was unused to smiling; butsuddenly his eyes were alight. He spoke, and the dry, impersonal notewas gone. "I'm glad, " he said. "We hard-working doctors can stand almostanything--without caring a snap of our fingers, too--but when it comesto doubting or questioning--not _our_ methods, but those that havebeen tried and proven, and of which we merely avail ourselves, --why, we can't be expected to waste much sympathy on the scoffers. " He rang the inevitable bell, and gave word to the maid: "Tell Dr. Leonard that Miss Willis has decided to continue her treatment withme. " Now, in the light of the foregoing experience, it was strange thatduring the next week Miss Willis's throat should require considerablymore attention than it ever had under the celebrated specialist'spersonal ministrations. She made five visits to Dr. Carter, but itcould not be said that he had advanced an inch toward the opening shehad made. His voice and manner were a bit more sympathetic--and thatwas all. Miss Willis seemed to find a keen delight in the fact that heridentity, for the time being, was erased by a number; during eachvisit she made it a point to learn what this number was, treating thematter in a sportive spirit, unbending her wit to ridicule a practicewhich failed to discriminate among the host of patients who came tosee Dr. Leonard. "For our purposes, " Dr. Carter tolerantly explained, "a number moreconveniently identifies our patients; their differences are onlypathological. A name is easily forgotten, Miss Willis, unless there issome unusual circumstance associated with it, to impress it upon themind. " She was curious to learn what unusual circumstance had caused him toretain her name, but lacked the temerity to ask. She would have beenamazed, unbelieving, had he told her that it was her beauty; that hewas clinging rather desperately to the unlovely number, which had noindividuality and whose features were altogether neutral andnegative. The change in his manner, when it came, almost took away her breath. It was on the occasion of her last visit. After the familiarpreliminary examination, instead of proceeding at once with thetreatment, as had been his invariable custom, Dr. Carter walked overto his desk and sat down. For a space he soberly regarded her. "Miss Willis, " said he, presently, "there is nothing whatever thematter with your throat. " She gasped. This calm statement brought confusingly to her mind thecircumstance that she had forgotten her throat and its ailment, when, of all considerations, the afflicted member should have been uppermostin her mind. Dr. Carter had not, however, and he must be wondering whyshe continued to come after the occasion to do so no longer existed. He at once relieved her embarrassment, though. "I suppose, " he said, and she felt a thrill at the note of regret inhis voice, "that you will be glad to escape from this hive?" "No, I shan't, " she said, with unnecessary warmth. This involuntarydenial surprised even herself, and she blushed. The smile left Dr. Carter's lips, but he said nothing--merely satlooking at her in his grave way. Here was to be another period, which Miss Willis could look back uponas one of temporary inability to find words. She started to leave, furious with herself for her inaptness, and instead of going shepaused and turned back. Dr. Carter had risen; he was standing as she had left him. She drew acard from her cardcase. "You may think what you please of me, Dr. Carter, " she said withsudden impulse, extending the card and meeting his look steadily, "butI would be glad if you were to call. " It seemed to take him a long time to read the address. All at once hishands were trembling, and when he looked up the expression in the grayeyes brought a swift tide of color to the girl's face, where itdeepened, and deepened, until she tingled from head to foot, and amist obscured her vision. "Nothing in all this world would give me more pleasure, " said theman. The girl turned and fled. That very evening Dr. Carter availed himself of the invitation. Singularly enough, since she had been hoping all the afternoon that hewould come, Clementine Willis was frightened when his name wasannounced. Her hand was shaking when he took it in his; but there wasnot a trace of expression on his face. Miss Willis realized, for the first time, that she had been horriblybrazen--or, at least, she told herself that she had been--and as aconsequence, she was wretchedly ill at ease. Her distress was inmarked contrast with the man's self-possession, which amounted almostto indifference. There was no spark visible of the fire which hadflashed earlier in the day. It was as though he had steeled himself toremain invulnerable throughout the call. And the usually composed girl prattled aimlessly, voicing platitudes, conventionalities, banalities, inanities--anything to gain time and tocover her embarrassment: to all of which the man listened in sobersilence, watching her steadily. Abruptly, Miss Willis grew angry with herself, and stopped. When angryshe was collected. Dr. Carter's face lit up humorously. "You have no idea, " he said, "how you have relieved my mind. " The girl looked a question. "I supposed I was the embarrassed individual, " he laughed. "If you had only given me a hint, " suggested the girl, reproachfully. She was now amazed that she had ever lost her grip upon herself, andwondered why she had. "A hint!" he exclaimed. "I was dumb; I thought you'd see. " The tension was off, and they laughed together. From then on, bothremained natural. In the midst of a lull, Dr. Carter suddenly said: "You'll think me a barbarian, Miss Willis, but I have a request tomake. I am in the mood to-night to be unconventional"--the corners ofhis serious mouth lifted humorously--"to be what I really am, " heilluminated, "and to meet you in the same spirit. " He paused with alittle shrug. "It is a disappointing reversion to the primitive, Imust admit. " He glanced up whimsically. "May I ask you a question--anyquestion?" "Do you think it possible, " the girl evaded, "for a modern woman tomeet you--the way you say--naturally?" He seemed to question her seriousness. "I have seen little of women for a number of years, " he returned, "butI'd hate to think it impossible. " "Little of women!" was the surprised comment. "You misunderstand, " he quickly corrected. "I go out so seldom thatthe woman I see is not the real woman at all; not the woman ofhome. " His hand made a little motion of forbearance. "In hisconsultation-room the patients of a physician are--sexless. " "I think that a woman--that I--can still be natural, Dr. Carter, " saidMiss Willis, slowly, her eyes downcast. "What did you wish to ask?" It was his turn to hesitate. "I hardly know how to put it, now that I have permission, " heapologized, with a deprecatory little laugh. "We seldom do things in this world, " he went on at once, "unless wewant to, or unless the alternative of not doing them is moreunpleasant. " He merged generalities into a more specific assertion. "There was no alternative in your requesting me to call. Candidly, whydo I interest you?" His voice was alive, and the woman, now thoroughly mistress ofherself, gazed into the frankest of frank gray eyes. "I scarcely know, " she said, weighing her answer. "Perhaps it was thenovel experience of being considered--sexless; of being classified bya number, like a beetle in a case. Let me answer with anotherquestion: Why did I interest you sufficiently to come?" He sat in the big chair with his chin in his hand, looking nowsteadily past and beyond her, one foot restlessly tapping the rug. "I can't answer without it seeming so hopelessly egotistical. " Thehalf-whimsical, half-serious smile returned to his eyes. "Don't let meimpose upon your leniency, please; I may wish to make a requestsometime again. " "I will accept the responsibility, " she insisted. "On your head, then, the consequences. " He spoke lightly, but with anote of restlessness and rebellion. "To me you are attractive, Miss Willis, because you are everythingthat I am not. With you there is no necessity higher than the present;no responsibility beyond the chance thought of the moment. You chooseyour surroundings, your thoughts. Your life is what you make it: it islife. " "You certainly would not charge me with being more independent thanyou?" protested the girl. "Independent!" he flashed upon her, and she knew she had stirredsomething lying close to his soul. His voice grew soft, and he repeatedthe word, musingly, more to himself than to her: "Independent!" "Yes, " with abrupt feeling, "with the sort of independence thatchooses its own manner of absolute dependence; with the independencethat gives you only so much of my time, so that the remainder may goto another; with the independence of imperative impartiality; the sortof independence that is never through working and planning forothers--that's the independence I know. " "But there are breathing-spells, " interrupted Miss Willis, smilingly. "To-night, for example, you are not working for somebody else. " "You compel me to incriminate myself, " he rejoined, the whimsical, half-serious smile again lighting his gray eyes. "I should be workingnow, and I will have to make up the lost time when I go home. " Hebowed gallantly. "The pleasure is double with me, you observe; I donot think twice about paying a double price for it. " He spoke lightly, almost mockingly; but beneath the surface there waseven the bitter ring of revolt, and constantly before the girl werethe little gestures, intense, impatient, that conveyed a meaning hedid not voice. She could feel in it all the insistent atmosphere ofthe town, where time is counted by seconds. She wondered that he feltas he did, ignorant that the disquiet had come into his life onlyduring the past week. To her, the glimpse of activity was fascinatingsimply because it was in sharp contrast with her life of comparative, dull emptiness. He caught the wistful look on her face. "You wonder that I rebel, " he said, with an odd little throaty laugh. "I couldn't well appear any more unsophisticated: I might as well tellyou. It's not the work itself, but the lack of anything else but workthat makes the lives of such as I so bare. We are constantly holding astop-watch on time itself, fearful of losing a second; the scratch ofa pen sealing the life of a Nation, commuting a death-sentence, defining the difference between a man's success and ruin can all beaccomplished in a second. If we let that second get away from us, wehave been deaf to Opportunity's knock. We stop at times to think; andthen the object for which we give our all appears so petty andinadequate, and what we are losing, so great. We laugh at our work atsuch times, and for the moment hate it. " But he laughed lightly, andfinished with a deprecating little minor. "You see, I'm relaxing to-night--and thinking. " "But, " Miss Willis protested, "I don't see why you should have onlythe one thing in your life. It is certainly unnecessary, unless youchoose. " He smiled indulgently. "You have no conception of what it means to shape your life to yourincome. I am poor, and I know. Years ago I had to choose betweenmediocrity and"--he looked at her peculiarly--"and love, oradvancement alone. I had to choose, and fixing my choice upon thehigher aim, I had to put everything else out of my life. The thoughtis intolerable that my name should always be under another's upon someoffice-door. You know what I chose: you know nothing of the constantstruggle which alone keeps me, mind, soul, and body, centred upon myideal, nor how readily I respond to a temptation to turn aside. "This, " he completed listlessly, "is one of the nights when the priceseems too large; in spite of me, regret will creep in. " "But, " persisted the girl, "when you succeed--it will not be--toolate?" There was a plaintive inquiry in the words; the tragedy of theman's life had awakened pity. He spoke with a sudden passion that startled her. "It is too late already; my work has refashioned my life. I amdesperately restless except when doing something that counts;something visible; and doing it intensely. I'll never"--his voice wasbitter with regret--"never conform--now. " The girl answered, almost unconsciously. "I think you can, " she hesitated, "and will. " For a long, long moment they searched each other's eyes. "And this price you are paying, " said the girl at last, "is it worthit?" The man drew a long breath. "Ah, I wonder! To-night doubt has undermined my resolution. " "If you question yourself so seriously, " she said very softly, "thensurely you can find but one answer. " "Again I wonder. I have wondered and--and hoped--God help me!--sincethe moment I looked into your eyes. " Suddenly he was out of his chair and coming toward her. Her heartleaped, her eyes shone; she extended her hands in welcome. "Then you will come again, " she whispered, as they drew together. "If you will let me. I couldn't stay away now. " THE END