A CERTAIN RICH MAN

by

WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE

Author of "Stratagems and Spoils, ""The Court of Boyville, " etc. 

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A Certain Rich Man

New YorkThe MacMillan Company1909All rights reservedCopyright, 1909, By The MacMillan Company. Set up and electrotyped. Published July, 1909. Norwood PressJ. S. Cushing Co. --Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass. , U. S. A. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I 1CHAPTER II 15CHAPTER III 30CHAPTER IV 51CHAPTER V 59CHAPTER VI 72CHAPTER VII 84CHAPTER VIII 95CHAPTER IX 105CHAPTER X 118CHAPTER XI 135CHAPTER XII 150CHAPTER XIII 165CHAPTER XIV 176CHAPTER XV 193CHAPTER XVI 206CHAPTER XVII 227CHAPTER XVIII 243CHAPTER XIX 262CHAPTER XX 275CHAPTER XXI 294CHAPTER XXII 304CHAPTER XXIII 319CHAPTER XXIV 334CHAPTER XXV 339CHAPTER XXVI 355CHAPTER XXVII 365CHAPTER XXVIII 382CHAPTER XXIX 405CHAPTER XXX 428

BOOK I

A CERTAIN RICH MAN

CHAPTER I

The woods were as the Indians had left them, but the boys who wereplaying there did not realize, until many years afterwards, that theyhad moved in as the Indians moved out. Perhaps, if these boys hadknown that they were the first white boys to use the Indians'playgrounds, the realization might have added zest to the make-believeof their games; but probably boys between seven and fourteen, whenthey play at all, play with their fancies strained, and very likelythese little boys, keeping their stick-horse livery-stable in awild-grape arbour in the thicket, needed no verisimilitude. The longstraight hickory switches--which served as horses--were arrangedwith their butts on a rotting log, whereon some grass was spread fortheir feed. Their string bridles hung loosely over the log. Thehorsemen swinging in the vines above, or in the elm tree near by, werepreparing a raid on the stables of other boys, either in the nativelumber town a rifle-shot away or in distant parts of the woods. Whenthe youngsters climbed down, they straddled their hickory steeds andgalloped friskily away to the creek and drank; this was part of therites, for tradition in the town of their elders said that whoeverdrank of Sycamore Creek water immediately turned horse thief. Havingdrunk their fill at the ford, they waded it and left the stumpy road, plunging into the underbrush, snorting and puffing and giggling andfussing and complaining--the big ones at the little ones and thelittle ones at the big ones--after the manner of mankind. 

When they had gone perhaps a half-mile from the ford, one of thelittle boys, feeling the rag on his sore heel slipping and letting therough woods grass scratch his raw flesh, stopped to tie up the rag. Hewas far in the rear of the pack when he stopped, and the boys, notheeding his blat, rushed on and left him at the edge of a thicket neara deep-rutted road. His cry became a whimper and his whimper a sniffleas he worked with the rag; but the little fingers were clumsy, and aheel is a hard place to cover, and the sun was hot on his back; so hetook the rag in one hand and his bridle in the other, and limped onhis stick horse into the thick shade of a lone oak tree that stoodbeside the wide dusty road. His sore did not bother him, and he satwith his back against the tree for a while, flipping the rag andmaking figures in the dust with the pronged tail of his horse. Thenhis hands were still, and as he ran from tune to tune with improvisedinterludes, he droned a song of his prowess. Sometimes he sang wordsand sometimes he sang thoughts. He sank farther and farther down andlooked up into the tree and ceased his song, chirping instead astuttering falsetto trill, not unlike a cricket's, holding his breathas long as he could to draw it out to its finest strand; and thus withhis head on his arm and his arm on the tree root, he fell asleep. 

The noon sun was on his legs when he awoke, and a strange dog wassniffing at him. As he started up, he heard the clatter of a horse'sfeet in the road, and saw an Indian woman trotting toward him on apony. In an instant he was a-wing with terror, scooting toward thethick of the woods. He screamed as he ran, for his head was full ofIndian stories, and he knew that the only use Indians had for littleboys was to steal them and adopt them into the tribe. He heard thebrush crackling behind him, and he knew that the woman had turned offthe road to follow him. A hundred yards is a long way for aterror-stricken little boy to run through tangled underbrush, and whenhe had come to the high bank of the stream, he slipped down among thetree roots and tried to hide. His little heart beat so fast that hecould not keep from panting, and the sound of breaking brush camenearer and then stopped, and in a moment he looked up and saw thesquaw leaning over the bank, holding to the tree above him. She smiledkindly at him and said:--

"Come on, boy--I won't hurt you. I as scared of you as you are ofme. "

She bent over and took him by the arm and lifted him to her. She goton her pony and put him on before her and soothed his fright, as theyrode slowly through the wood to the road, where they came to a greatband of Indians, all riding ponies. 

It seemed to the boy that he had never imagined there were so manypeople in the whole world; there was some parley among them, and theband set out on the road again, with the squaw in advance. They werebut a few yards from the forks of the road, and as they came to it shesaid:--

"Boy--which way to town?"

He pointed the way and she turned into it, and the band followed. Theycrossed the ford, climbed the steep red clay bank of the creek, andfiled up the hill into the unpainted group of cabins and shantiescluttered around a well that men, in 1857, knew as Sycamore Ridge. TheIndians filled the dusty area between the two rows of gray houses oneither side of the street, and the town flocked from its ten frontdoors before half the train had arrived. The last door of them all toopen was in a slab house, nearly half a mile from the street. Awashing fluttered on the clothes-line, and the woman who came out ofthe door carried a round-bottomed hickory-bark basket, such as mighthold clothes-pins. Seeing the invasion, she hurried across theprairie, toward the town. She was a tall thin woman, not yet thirty, brown and tanned, with a strong masculine face, and as she came nearerone could see that she had a square firm jaw, and great kind gray eyesthat lighted her countenance from a serene soul. Her sleeves rolledfar above her elbows revealed arms used to rough hard work, and herhands were red from the wash-tub. As she came into the street, she sawthe little boy sitting on the horse in front of the squaw. Walking tothem quickly, and lifting her arms, as she neared the squaw's pony, the white woman said:--

"Why, Johnnie Barclay, where have you been?"

The boy climbed from the pony, and the two women smiled at each other, but exchanged no words. And as his feet touched the ground, he becameconscious of the rag in his hand, of his bleeding heel, of his crampedlegs being "asleep"--all in one instant, and went limping and whiningtoward home with his mother, while the Indians traded in the store andtried to steal from the other houses, and in a score of peaceful waysdiverted the town's attention from the departing figures down thepath. 

That was the first adventure that impressed itself upon the memory ofJohn Barclay. All his life he remembered the covered wagon in whichthe Barclays crossed the Mississippi; but it is only a curious memoryof seeing the posts of the bed, lying flat beside him in the wagon, and of fingering the palm leaves cut in the wood. He was four yearsold then, and as a man he remembered only as a tale that is told thefight at Westport Landing, where his father was killed for preachingan abolition sermon from the wagon tongue. The man remembered nothingof the long ride that the child and the mother took with the father'sbody to Lawrence, where they buried it in a free-state cemetery. Buthe always remembered something of their westward ride, after thefuneral of his father. The boy carried a child's memory of theprairie--probably his first sight of the prairie, with the vacanthorizon circling around and around him, and the monotonous rattle ofthe wagon on the level prairie road, for hours keeping the same rhythmand fitting the same tune. Then there was a mottled memory of thewoods--woods with sunshine in them, and of a prairie flooded withsunshine on which he played, now picking flowers, now playing houseunder the limestone ledges, now, after a rain, following little riversdown rocky draws, and finding sunfish and silversides in the deeperpools. But always his memory was of the sunshine, and the open sky, orthe deep wide woods all unexplored, save by himself. 

The great road that widened to make the prairie street, and wormedover the hill into the sunset, always seemed dusty to the boy, andalthough in after years he followed that road, over the hills and faraway, when it was rutty and full of clods, as a child he recalled itonly as a great bed of dust, wherein he and other boys played, nowbattling with handfuls of dust, and now running races on some levelstretch of it, and now standing beside the road while a passingmovers' wagon delayed their play. The movers' wagon was never absentfrom the boy's picture of that time and place. Either thecanvas-covered wagon was coming from the ford of Sycamore Creek, ordisappearing over the hill beyond the town, or was passing in front ofthe boys as they stopped their play. Being a boy, he could not know, nor would he care if he did know, that he was seeing one of God'smiracles--the migration of a people, blind but instinctive as that ofbirds or buffalo, from old pastures into new ones. All over the plainsin those days, on a hundred roads like that which ran through SycamoreRidge, men and women were moving from east to west, and, as often hashappened since the beginning of time, when men have migrated, a greatethical principle was stirring in them. The pioneers do not go to thewilderness always in lust of land, but sometimes they go to satisfytheir souls. The spirit of God moves in the hearts of men as it moveson the face of the waters. 

Something of this moving spirit was in John Barclay's mother. Foroften she paused at her work, looking up from her wash-tub toward thehighway, when a prairie schooner sailed by, and lifting her faceskyward for an instant, as her lips moved in silence. As a man the boyknew she was thinking of her long journey, of the tragedy that came ofit, and praying for those who passed into the West. Then she wouldbend to her work again; and the washerwoman's child who took theclothes she washed in his little wagon with the cottonwood log wheels, across the commons into the town, was not made to feel an inferiorplace in the social system until he was in his early teens. For allthe Sycamore Ridge women worked hard in those days. But there wereSundays when the boy and his mother walked over the wide prairiestogether, and she told him stories of Haverhill--of the wonderfulpeople who lived there, of the great college, of the beautiful womenand wise men, and best of all of his father, who was a student in thecollege, and they dreamed together--mother and child--about how hewould board at Uncle Union's and work in the store for UncleAbner--when the boy went back to Haverhill to school when he grew up. 

On these excursions the mother sometimes tried to interest him in Mr. Beecher's sermons which she read to him, but his eyes followed thebees and the birds and the butterflies and the shadows trailing acrossthe hillside; so the seed fell on stony ground. One fine fall day theywent up the ridge far above the town where the court-house stands now, and there under a lone elm tree just above a limestone ledge, theyspread their lunch, and the mother sat on the hillside, almost hiddenby the rippling prairie grass, reading the first number of the_Atlantic Monthly_, while the boy cleared out a spring that bubbledfrom beneath a rock in the shade, and after running for a few feetsank under a great stone and did not appear again. As the mother read, the afternoon waned, and when she looked up, she was astonished to seeJohn standing beside the rock, waist deep in a hole, trying to backdown into it. His face was covered with dirt, and his clothes were wetfrom the falling water of the spring that was flowing into the hole hehad opened. In a jiffy she pulled him out, and looking into the hole, saw by the failing sunlight which shone directly into the place thatthe child had uncovered the opening of a cave. But they did notexplore it, for the mother was afraid, and the two came down the hill, the child's head full of visions of a pirate's treasure, and themother's full of the whims of the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 

The next day school began in Sycamore Ridge, --for the school and thechurch came with the newspaper, _Freedom's Banner_, --and a new worldopened to the boy, and he forgot the cave, and became interested inWebster's blue-backed speller. And thus another grown-up person, "MissLucy, " came into his world. For with children, men and womengenerically are of another order of beings. But Miss Lucy, being JohnBarclay's teacher, grew into his daily life on an equality with hisdog and the Hendricks boys, and took a place somewhat lower than hismother in his list of saints. For Miss Lucy came from Sangamon County, Illinois, and her father had fought the Indians, and she told theschool as many strange and wonderful things about Illinois as John hadlearned from his mother about Haverhill. But his allegiance to theteacher was only lip service. For at night when he sat digging thegravel and dirt from the holes in the heels of his copper-toed boots, that he might wad them with paper to be ready for his skates on themorrow, or when he sat by the wide fireplace oiling the runners withthe steel curly-cues curving over the toes, or filing a groove in theblades, the boy's greatest joy was with his mother. Sometimes as sheironed she told him stories of his father, or when the child was sickand nervous, as a special favour, on his promise to take the medicineand not ask for a drink, she would bring her guitar from under the bedand tune it up and play with a curious little mouse-like touch. And onrare occasions she would sing to her own shy maidenly accompaniment, her voice rising scarcely higher than the wind in the sycamore at thespring outside. The boy remembered only one line of an old song shesometimes tried to sing: "Sleeping, I dream, love, dream, love, ofthee, " but what the rest of it was, and what it was all about, henever knew; for when she got that far, she always stopped and came tothe bed and lay beside him, and they both cried, though as a child hedid not know why. 

So the winter of 1857 wore away at Sycamore Ridge, and with the comingof the spring of '58, when the town was formally incorporated, even intothe boy world there came the murmurs of strife and alarms. The games theboys played were war games. They had battles in the woods, between thefree-state and the pro-slavery men, and once--twice--three times theremarched by on the road real soldiers, and it was no unusual thing to seea dragoon dismount at the town well and water his horse. The big boys inschool affected spurs, and Miss Lucy brought to school with her onemorning a long bundle, which, when it was unwrapped, disclosed the swordof her father, Captain Barnes, presented to him by his admiring soldiersat the close of the "Black Hawk War. " John traded for a tin fife andlearned to play "Jaybird" upon it, though he preferred the jew's-harp, and had a more varied repertory with it. Was it an era of music, or ischildhood the period of music? Perhaps this land of ours was youngerthan it is now and sang more lustily, if not with great precision; forto the man who harks back over the years, those were days of song. Allthe world seemed singing--men in their stores and shops, women at theirwork, and children in their schools. And a freckled, barefooted littleboy with sunburned curly hair, in home-made clothes, and with brown barelegs showing through the rips in his trousers, used to sit alone in thewoods breathing his soul into a mouth-organ--a priceless treasure forwhich he had traded two raccoons, an owl, and a prairie dog. But hemastered the mouth-organ, --it was called a French harp in thosedays, --and before he had put on his first collar, Watts McHurdie hadtaught the boy to play the accordion. The great heavy bellows was halfas large as he was, but the little chap would sit in McHurdie's harnessshop of a summer afternoon and swing the instrument up and down as themelody swelled or died, and sway his body with the time and the tune, asWatts McHurdie, who owned the accordion, swayed and gyrated when heplayed. Mrs. Barclay, hearing her son, smiled and shook her head andknew him for a Thatcher; "No Barclay, " she said, "ever could carry atune. " So the mother brought out from the bottom of the trunk heryellow-covered book, "Winner's Instructor on the Guitar, " and taught thechild what she could of notes. Thus music found its way out of the boy'ssoul. 

One day in the summer of 1860, as he and his fellows were filing downthe crooked dusty path that led from the swimming hole through the drywoods to the main road, they came upon a group of horsemen scanningthe dry ford of the Sycamore. That was the first time that JohnBarclay met the famous Captain Lee. He was a great hulk of a man who, John thought, looked like a pirate. The boys led the men and theirhorses up the dry limestone bed of the stream to the swimming hole--adeep pool in the creek. The coming of the soldiers made a stir in thetown. For they were not "regulars"; they were known as the Red Legs, but called themselves "The Army of the Border. " Under Captain J. LordLee--whose life afterwards touched Barclay's sometimes--"The Army ofthe Border, " being about forty in number, came to Sycamore Ridge thatnight, and greatly to the scandal of the decent village, thereappeared with the men two women in short skirts and red leggins, whowere introduced at Schnitzler's saloon as Happy Hally and Lady Lee. "The Army of the Border, " under J. Lord and Lady Lee, --as they wereknown, --proceeded to get bawling drunk, whereupon they introduced tothe town the song which for the moment was the national hymn ofKansas:--

 "Am I a soldier of the boss, A follower of Jim Lane? Then should I fear to steal a hoss, Or blush to ride the same. "

As the night deepened and Henry Schnitzler's supply of liquor seemedexhaustless, the Army of the Border went from song to war and wanderedabout banging doors and demanding to know if any white-liveredMissourian in the town was man enough to come out and fight. Athalf-past one the Army of the Border had either gone back to camp, orpropped itself up against the sides of the buildings in peacefulsleep, when the screech of the brakes on the wheels of the stage washeard half a mile away as it lumbered down the steep bank of theSycamore, and then the town woke up. As the stage rolled down MainStreet, the male portion of Sycamore Ridge lined up before the ThayerHouse to see who would get out and to learn the news from thegathering storm in the world outside. As the crowd stood there, andwhile the driver was climbing from his box, little John Barclay, white-faced, clad in his night drawers, came flying into the crowdfrom behind a building. 

"Mother--" he gasped, "mother--says--come--mother says some onecome quick--there's a man there--trying to break in!" And findingthat he had made himself understood, the boy darted back across thecommon toward home. The little white figure kept ahead of the men, andwhen they arrived, they found Mrs. Barclay standing in the door of herhouse, with a lantern in one hand and a carbine in the crook of herarm. In the dark, somewhere over toward the highway, but in thedirection of the river, the sound of a man running over the ploughedground might be heard as he stumbled and grunted and panted in fear. She shook her head reassuringly as the men from the town came into theradius of the light from her lantern, and as they stepped on the hardclean-swept earth of her doorway, she said, smiling:

"He won't come back. I'm sorry I bothered you. Only--I was frighteneda little at first--when I sent Johnnie out of the back door. " Shepaused a moment, and answered some one's question about the man, andwent on, "He was just drunk. He meant no harm. It was Lige Bemis--"

"Oh, yes, " said Watts McHurdie, "you know--the old gang that used tobe here before the town started. He's with the Red Legs now. "

"Well, " continued Mrs. Barclay, "he said he wanted to come over andvisit the sycamore tree by the spring. "

The crowd knew Lige and laughed and turned away. The men trudgedslowly back to the cluster of lights that marked the town, and thewoman closed her door, and she and the child went to bed. Instead ofsleeping, they talked over their adventure. He sat up in bed, big-eyedwith excitement, while his mother told him that the drunken visitorwas Lige Bemis, who had come to revisit a cave, a horse thief's cave, he had said, back of the big rock that seemed to have slipped downfrom the ledge behind the house, right by the spring. She told the boythat Bemis had said that the cave contained a room wherein they usedto keep their stolen horses, and that he tried to move the great slabdoor of stone and, being drunk, could not do so. 

When the men of Sycamore Ridge who left the stage without waiting tosee what human seed it would shuck out arrived at Main Street, thestage was in the barn, the driver was eating his supper, and thepassenger was in bed at the Thayer House. But his name was on thedog-eared hotel register, and it gave the town something to talk aboutas Martin Culpepper was distributing the mail. For the name on thebook was Philemon R. Ward, and the town after his name, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Every man and woman and most of the children inSycamore Ridge knew who Philemon Ward was. He had been driven out ofGeorgia in '58 for editing an abolition newspaper; he had been mobbedin Ohio for delivering abolition lectures; he had been led out ofMissouri with a rope around his neck, and a reward was on his head ina half-dozen Southern states for inciting slaves to rebellion. Hispicture had been in _Harper's Weekly_ as a General Passenger Agent ofthe Underground Railway. Naturally to Sycamore Ridge, where more thanone night the town had sat up all night waiting for the stage to bringthe _New York Tribune_, Philemon R. Ward was a hero, and his presencein the town was an event. When the little Barclay boy heard it at thestore that morning before sunrise, he ran down the path toward home totell his mother and had to go back to do the errand on which he wassent. By sunrise every one in town had the news; men were shaken outof their morning naps to hear, "Philemon Ward's in town--wake up, man; did you hear what I say? Philemon Ward came to town last night onthe stage. " And before the last man was awake, the town was startledby the clatter of horses' hoofs on the gravel road over the hill southof town, and Gabriel Carnine and Lycurgus Mason of Minneola camedashing into the street and yelling, "The Missourians are coming, theMissourians are coming!"

The little boy, who had just turned into Main Street for the secondtime, remembered all his life how the news that the Minneola menbrought, thrilled Sycamore Ridge. It seemed to the boy but an instanttill the town was in the street, and then he and a group of boys wererunning to the swimming hole to call the Army of the Border. The horseweeds scratched his face as he plunged through the timber cross-lotswith his message. He was the first boy to reach the camp. What theydid or what he did, he never remembered. He has heard men say manytimes that he whispered his message, grabbed a carbine, and cametearing through the brush back to the town. 

All that is important to know of the battle of Sycamore Ridge is thatPhilemon Ward, called out of bed with the town to fight that summermorning, took command before he had dressed, and when the town wasthreatened with a charge from a second division of the enemy, Bemisand Captain Lee of the Red Legs, Watts McHurdie, Madison Hendricks, Oscar Fernald, and Gabriel Carnine, under the command of PhilemonWard, ran to the top of the high bank of the Sycamore, and there helda deep cut made for the stage road, --held it as a pass against ahalf-hundred horsemen, floundering under the bank, in the underbrushbelow, who dared not file up the pass. 

The little boy standing at the window of his mother's house saw this. But all the firing in the town, all the forming and charging andskirmishing that was done that hot August day in '60, either he didnot see, or if he saw it, the memory faded under the great terror thatgripped his soul when he saw his mother in danger. Ward in hisundershirt was standing by a tree near the stage road above the bank. The firing in the creek bed had stopped. His back was toward the town, and then, out of some place dim in the child's mind--from the troopsouthwest of town perhaps--came a charge of galloping horsemen, riding down on Ward. The others with him had found cover, and he, seeing the enemy before him and behind him, pistol in hand, alonecharged into the advancing horsemen. It was all confused in thechild's mind, though the histories say that the Sycamore Ridge peopledid not know Ward was in danger, and that when he fell they did notunderstand who had fallen. But the boy--John Barclay--saw him fall, and his mother knew who had fallen, and the wife of the Westportmartyr groaned in anguish as she saw Freedom's champion writhing inthe dust of the road like a dying snake, after the troop passed overhim. And even when he was a man, the boy could remember the woe in herface, as she stooped to kiss her child, and then huddling down toavoid the bullets, ran across the field to the wounded man, with dustin his mouth, twitching in the highway. Bullets were spitting in thedust about her as the boy saw his mother roll the bleeding man over, pick him up, get him on her back with his feet trailing on the earthbeside her, and then rising to her full height, stagger under her limpburden back to the house. When she came in the door, her face andshoulders were covered with blood and her skirt ripped with a bullet. 

That is all of the battle that John Barclay ever remembered. Afterthat it seemed to end, though the histories say that it lasted all thelong day, and that the fire of the invaders was so heavy that no onefrom the Ridge dared venture to the Barclay home. The boy saw hismother lay the unconscious man on the floor, while she opened the backdoor, and without saying a word, stepped to the spring, which washidden from the road. She put her knee, her broad chest, and herstrong red hand to the rock and shoved until her back bowed and thecords stood out on her neck; then slowly the rock moved till she couldsee inside the cave, could put her leg in, could squirm her body in. The morning light flooded in after her, and in the instant that shestood there she saw dimly a great room, through which the springtrickled. There were hay inside, and candles and saddles; in anotherminute she had the wounded man in the cave and was washing the dirtfrom him. A bullet had ploughed its way along his scalp, his body waspierced through the shoulder, and his leg was broken by a horse'shoof. She did what she could while the shooting went on outside, andthen slipped out, tugged at the great rock again until it fell back inits place, and knowing that Philemon Ward was safe from theMissourians if they should win the day, she came into the house. Thenas the mocking clouds of the summer drouth rolled up at night, andbelched forth their thunder in a tempest of wind, the besiegers passedas a dream in the night. And in the morning they were not. 

CHAPTER II

And so on the night of the battle of Sycamore Ridge, John Barclayclosed the door of his childhood and became a boy. He did not rememberhow Ward's wounds were dressed, nor how the town made a hero of theman; but he did remember Watts McHurdie and Martin Culpepper and theHendricks boys tramping through the cave that night with torches, andhe was the hero of that occasion because he was the smallest boy thereand they put him up through the crack in the head of the cave, and hesaw the stars under the elm tree far above the town, where he and hismother had spent a Sunday afternoon three years before. He called tothe men below and told them where he was, and slipped down through, the hole again with an elm sprout in his hand to prove that he hadbeen under the elm tree at the spring. But he remembered nothing ofthe night--how the men picketed the town; how he sat up with themalong with the other boys; how the women, under his mother's directionand Miss Lucy's, cared for the wounded man, who lapsed into deliriumas the night wore on, and gibbered of liberty and freedom as anotherman would go over his accounts in his dreams. 

His mother and Miss Lucy took turns nursing Ward night after nightduring the hot dry summer. As the sick man grew better, many men cameto the house, and great plans were afloat. Philemon Ward, sitting upin bed waiting for his leg to heal, talked much of the cave as arefuge for fugitive slaves. There was some kind of a militaryorganization; all the men in town were enlisted, and Ward was theircaptain, drums were rattling and men were drilling; the dust cloudsrose as they marched across the drouth-blighted fields. One night theymarched up to the Barclay home, and Ward with a crutch under his arm, and with Mrs. Barclay and Miss Lucy beside him, stood in the door andmade a speech to the men. And then there were songs. Watts McHurdiethrew back his head and sang "Scots wha ha' wi' Wallace bled, "following it with some words of his own denouncing slavery and callingdown curses upon the slaveholders; so withal it was a martialoccasion, and the boy's heart swelled with patriotic pride. But for avague feeling that Miss Lucy was neglecting him for her patient, Johnwould have begun making a hero of Philemon R. Ward. As it was, the boymerely tolerated the man and silently suspected him of intentions anddesigns. 

But when school opened, Philemon Ward left Sycamore Ridge and JohnBarclay made an important discovery. It was that Ellen Culpepper hadeyes. In Sycamore Ridge with its three hundred souls, only fifteen ofthem were children, and five of them were ten years old, and John hadplayed with those five nearly all his life. But at ten sometimes thescales drop from one's eyes, and a ribbon or a bead or a pair of newred striped yarn stockings or any other of the embellishments whichnature teaches little girls to wear casts a sheen over all the worldfor a boy. The magic bundle that charmed John Barclay was a scarletdress, "made over, " that came in an "aid box" from the Culpeppers inVirginia. And when the other children in Miss Lucy's school made funof John and his _amour_, the boy fought his way through it all--wherefighting was the better part of valour--and made horsehair chains forEllen and cut lockets for her out of coffee beans, and with a red-hotpoker made a ring for her from a rubber button as a return for thesmile he got at the sly twist he gave her hair as he passed her deskon his way to the spelling class. As for Miss Lucy, who saw herselfdisplaced, she wrote to Philemon Ward, and told him of her jilting, and railed at the fickleness and frailty of the sex. 

And by that token an envelope in Ward's handwriting came to Miss Lucyevery week, and Postmaster Martin Culpepper and Mrs. Martin Culpepperand all Sycamore Ridge knew it. And loyal Southerner though he was, Martin Culpepper's interest in the affair between Ward and Miss Lucywas greater than his indignation over the fact that Ward had carriedhis campaign even into Virginia; nothing would have tempted him todisclose to his political friends at home the postmarks of Ward'sletters. That was the year of the great drouth of '60, remembered allover the plains. And as the winter deepened and the people of SycamoreRidge were without crops, and without money to buy food, they bundledup Martin Culpepper and sent him back to Ohio seeking aid. He was ahandsome figure the day he took the stage in his high hat and hisruffled shirt and broad coat tails, a straight lean figure of a man inhis early thirties, with fine black eyes and a shocky head of hair, and when he pictured the sufferings of the Kansas pioneers to thepeople of the East, the state was flooded with beans and flour, andsheeted in white muslin. For Martin Culpepper was an orator, andthough he is in his grave now, the picture he painted of bleedingKansas nearly fifty years ago still hangs in many an old man's memory. And after all, it was only a picture. For they were all young out herethen, and through all the drouth and the hardship that followed--andthe hardship was real--there was always the gayety of youth. Thedances on Deer Creek and at Minneola did not stop for the drouth, andmany's the night that Mrs. Mason, the tall raw-boned wife of Lycurgus, wrapped little Jane in a quilt and came over to the Ridge fromMinneola to take part in some social affair. And while MartinCulpepper was telling of the anguish of the famine, Watts McHurdie andhis accordion and Ezra Lane's fiddle were agitating the heels of thepopulace. And even those pioneers who were moved to come into thewilderness by a great purpose--and they were moved so--to come intothe new territory and make it free, nevertheless capered and rompedthrough the drouth of '60 in the cast-off garments of their kinsmenand were happy; for there were buffalo meat and beans for the needy, the aid room had flour, and God gave them youth. 

Not drouth, nor famine, nor suffering, nor zeal of a great purpose canburn out the sparkle of youth in the heart. Only time can do that, andso John Barclay remembered the famous drouth of '60, not by hismother's tears, which came as she bent over his little clothes, beforethe aid box came from Haverhill, not by the long days of waiting forthe rain that never came, not even by the sun that lapped up theswimming hole before fall, and left no river to freeze for theirwinter's skating, not even by his mother's anguish when she had to goto the aid store for flour and beans, though that must have been asorry day for a Thatcher; but he remembers the great drouth by EllenCulpepper's party, where they had a frosted cake and played kissinggames, and--well, fifty years is along time for two brown eyes toshine in the heart of a boy and a man. It is strange that they shouldglow there, and all memory of the runaway slaves who were sheltered inthe cave by the sycamore tree should fade, and be only as a tale thatis told. Yet, so memory served the boy, and he knew only at secondhand how his mother gave her widow's mite to the cause for which shehad crossed the prairies as of old her "fathers crossed the sea. "

Before the rain came in the spring of '61 Martin Culpepper came backfrom the East an orator of established reputation. The town was proudof him, and he addressed the multitude on various occasions and weptmany tears over the sad state of the country. For in the nation, aswell as in Sycamore Ridge, great things were stirring. Watts McHurdiefilled _Freedom's Banner_ with incendiary verse, always giving thename of the tune at the beginning of each contribution, by which itmight be sung, and the way he clanked Slavery's chains and made loveto Freedom was highly disconcerting; but the town liked it. 

In April Philemon R. Ward came back to Sycamore Ridge, and there was agreat gathering to hear his speech. Ward's soul was aflame with anger. There were no Greek gods and Roman deities in what Ward said, as therewere in Martin Culpepper's addresses. Ward used no figures of speechand exercised no rhetorical charms; but he talked with passion in hisvoice and the frenzy of a cause in his eyes. Martin Culpepper was inthe crowd, and as Ward lashed the South, every heart turned ininterrogation to Culpepper. They knew what his education had been. They understood his sentiments; and yet because he was one of them, because he had endured with them and suffered with them and ministeredto them, the town set him apart from its hatred. And Martin Culpepperwas sensitive enough to feel this. It came over him with a wave ofjoy, and as Ward talked, Culpepper expanded. Ward closed in a lowtone, and his face was white with pent-up zeal as he asked some one topray. There was a silence, and then a woman's voice, trembling andpassionate, arose, and Sycamore Ridge knew that Mrs. Barclay, thewidow of the Westport martyr, was giving sound to a voice that hadlong been still. It was a simple halting prayer, and not all those inthe room heard it clearly. The words were not always fitly chosen; butas the prayer neared its close, --and it was a short prayer at themost, --there came strength and courage into the voice as it asked forgrace for "the brother among us who has shared our sufferings andlightened our burdens, and who has cleaved to us as a brother, butwhose heart is drawn away from us by ties of blood and kinship"; andthen the voice sank lower and lower as though in shame at itsboldness, and hushed in a tremulous Amen. 

No one spoke for a moment, and as Sycamore Ridge looked up from thefloor, its eyes turned instinctively toward Martin Culpepper. He feltthe question that was in the hearts about him, and slowly, to thewonder of all, he rose. He had a beautiful deep purring voice, andwhen he opened his eyes, they seemed to look into every pair of eyesin the throng. There were tears on his face and in his voice as hespoke. "Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from followingafter thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: wherethou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so tome, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. " And then hesank to his chair and hid his face, and for a moment a hundredwet-eyed men were still. 

Though John Barclay was at the meeting, he remembered only hismother's prayer, but in his heart there was always a picture of alittle boy trying to walk home with a little girl, and when he came upwith her she darted ahead or dropped back. At the Culpepper gate shestood waiting fully a minute for him to catch her, and when he came upto her, she laughed, "Huh, Mr. Smarty, you didn't, did you?" and ranup the walk, scooted into the house, and slammed the door. But heunderstood and went leaping down the hill toward home with happinesstingling in his very finger-tips. He seemed to be flying rather thanwalking, and his toes touched the dirt path so lightly that he roundedthe corner and ran plump into Miss Lucy and Philemon Ward standing atthe gate. And what he saw surprised him so that he let out a great"haw-haw-haw" and ran, trying to escape his shame and fear at hisbehaviour. But the next morning Miss Lucy smiled so sweetly at him ashe came into the schoolroom, that he knew he was forgiven, and thatthrill was lost by the thump of joy that startled his heart when hesaw a bunch of dog-tooth violets in his ink bottle, and in hisgeography found a candy heart with a motto on it so fervent that hedid not eat it for three long abstemious days of sheer devotion, inwhich there were eyes and eyes and eyes from the little girl in thescarlet gown. 

It is strange that the boy did not remember how Sycamore Ridge tookthe call to arms for the war between the states. All he remembered ofthe great event in our history as it touched the town was that one dayhe heard there was going to be a war. And then everything seemed tochange. A dread came over the people. It fell upon the school, whereevery child had a father who was going away. 

And it was because Madison Hendricks, the first man to leave for thewar, was father of Bob and Elmer Hendricks that John's firstassociations of the great Civil War go back to the big black-beardedman. For Madison Hendricks, who was a graduate of West Point, and aveteran of the Mexican War, was called to Washington in May, and hisboys acquired a prestige that was not accorded to them by the merefact that their father was president of the town company, and wasaccounted the first citizen of the town. Madison Hendricks, who ownedthe land on which the town was built, Madison Hendricks, scholar andgentleman, veteran of the Mexican War, first mayor of Sycamore Ridgeupon its incorporation, --his sons had no standing. But MadisonHendricks, formally summoned to go to Washington to put down therebellion, and leaving on the stage with appropriate ceremonies, --there was a man who could bequeath to his posterity in the boyworld something of his consequence. 

So in the pall that came upon the school in Sycamore Ridge that springof '61, Bob and Elmer Hendricks were heroes, and their sister--whowas their only guardian in their father's absence--had to put them inher dresses and send them to bed, and punish them in all the shamefulways that she knew to take what she called "the tuck out of them. " Andthe boy of all the boys who gave the Hendricks boys most homage waslittle Johnnie Barclay. There was no dread in his hero-worship. He hadno father to go to the war. But the other children and all the womenwere under a great cloud of foreboding, and for them the time was oneof tension and hoping against hope that the war would soon pass. 

How the years gild our retrospect. It was in 1903 that MartinCulpepper, a man in his seventies, collected and published "TheComplete Poetical and Philosophical Works of Watts McHurdie, togetherwith Notes and a Biographical Appreciation by Martin F. Culpepper. "One of the earlier chapters, which tells of the enlistment of thevolunteer soldiers for the Civil War in '61, devotes some space to therecruiting and enlistment in Sycamore Ridge. The chapter bears theheading "The Large White Plumes, " and in his "introductory remarks"the biographer says, "To him who looks back to those golden days ofheroic deeds only the lines of Keats will paint the picture in hissoul:--

"'Lo, I must tell a tale of chivalry, For large white plumes are dancing in mine eyes. '"

And so the "large white plumes" blinded his eyes to the fear and thedread that were in the hearts of the people, and he tells his readersnothing of the sadness that men felt who put in crops knowing thattheir wives must cultivate and harvest them. He sees only the glory ofit; for we read: "Hail to the spirit of mighty Mars. When he strodethrough our peaceful village, he awoke many a war song in our breasts. As for our hero, Mars, the war god forged iron reeds for his lute, andhe breathed into it the spirit of the age, and all the valour, all thechivalry of a golden day came pouring out of his impassioned reeds. "Such is the magic of those large white plumes on Martin Culpepper'smemory. Although John Barclay in that latter day bought a thousandcopies of the Biography and sent them to public libraries all over theworld, he smiled as he read that paragraph referring to WattsMcHurdie's accordion as the "impassioned reeds. " When he read it, JohnBarclay, grown to a man of fifty-three, sitting at a great mahoganytable, with a tablet of white paper on a green blotting pad beforehim, and a gorgeous rose rising from a tall graceful green vase on theshining table, looked out over a brown wilderness of roofs andchimneys across a broad river into the hills that were green afar off, and there, rising out of yesterday, he saw, not the bent little oldman in the harness shop with steel-rimmed spectacles and greasy cap, whom you may see to-day; but instead, the boy in John Barclay's soullooked through his eyes, and he saw another Watts McHurdie, --a dapperlittle fellow under a wide slouch hat, with a rolling Byronic collar, and fancy yellow waistcoat of the period, in exceedingly tighttrousers. And then, flash! the picture changed, and Barclay saw WattsMcHurdie under his mushroom hat; Martin Culpepper in his long-tailedcoat; Philemon Ward, tall, fair-skinned, blue-eyed, slim, and sturdy;skinny, nervous Lycurgus Mason and husky Gabriel Carnine fromMinneola; Jake Dolan in his shirt sleeves, without adornment of anykind, except the gold horseshoe pinned on his shirt bosom; DanielFrye, the pride of an admiring family, in his best home-made clothes;Henry Schnitzler, Oscar Fernald, and nearly a hundred other men, tothe boy's eyes so familiar then, now forgotten, and all their facesblurred in the crowd that stood about the recruiting officer by thetown pump in Sycamore Ridge that summer day of '61. A score or so ofmen had passed muster. The line on the post at the wooden awning infront of Schnitzler's saloon was marked at five feet six. All hadstood by it with their heads above the line. It was Watts McHurdie'sturn. He wore high-heeled boots for the occasion, but strut as hewould, his roached hair would not touch the stick that came over theline. "Stretch your neck--ye bantam, " laughed Jake Dolan. "Walkturkey fashion, Watts, " cried Henry Schnitzler, rushing up behindWatts and grabbing his waistband. The crowd roared. Watts lookedimploringly at the recruiting officer and blubbered in wrath: "Yes, damn you--yea; that's right. Of course; you won't let me die for mybleedin' country because I ain't nine feet tall. " And the little manturned away trying to choke his tears and raging at his failure. Andbecause the recruiting officer was considerable of a man, WattsMcHurdie's name was written in the muster roll, and he went out. 

Many days must have passed between the time when the men were musteredin and the day they went away to the war. But to the man who saw thosetimes through the memory of the boy in blue jeans forever playingbugle-calls upon his fife, it was all one day. For that crowddissolved, and another picture appeared upon the sensitized plate ofhis memory. There is a crowd in the post-office--mostly men who aregoing away to war. The stage has come in, and a stranger, betterdressed than the men of Sycamore Ridge, is behind the letter-boxes ofthe post-office. The boy is watching his box; for it is the day whenthe _Springfield Republican_ is due. Gradually the hum in front of theboxes quiets, and two loud voices have risen behind the screen. Thenout walks great Martin Culpepper, white of face, with pent-up fury. His left hand is clutched like a talon in the shoulder of thestranger, whom Martin is holding before him. "Gentlemen, yourattention, " demands Culpepper. The stranger swallows his Adam's appleas if to speak; Martin turns to him with, "Don't you say that wordagain, sir, or I'll wring your neck. " Then he proceeds:--

"Gentlemen, this busybody has come all the way from Washington here totell me I'm a thief. I wrote to his damn Yankee government that I wasneeding the money last winter to go East on the aid committee andwould replace it, and now that I'm going out to-morrow to die for hisdamn Yankee government, he has the impertinence to come in here andsay I stole that money. Now what I want to ask you, gentlemen, isthis: Do I go out to-morrow to die on the field of glory for mycountry, or does this here little contemptible whippersnapper take meoff to rot in some Yankee jail? I leave it to you, gentlemen. Settleit for yourselves. " And with that Culpepper throws the man into thecrowd and walks behind the screen in solemn state. 

The boy never knew how it was settled. But Martin Culpepper went to"the field of glory, " and all the boy knew of the incident is hererecorded. However, in the Biography of Watts McHurdie above-mentionedand aforesaid occur these words, in the same chapter--the oneentitled "The Large White Plumes": "Let memory with gentle hand coverwith her black curtain of soft oblivion all that was painful on thatglorious day. Let us not recall the bickerings and the strifes, letthe grass watered by Lethe's sweet spring creep over the scars in thebright prospect which lies under our loving gaze. Let us hold in ourheart the tears in beauty's eyes; the smile that curls her crimsonlips, and the hope that burns upon her brow. Let us fondle the sacredmemory of every warm hand clasp of comrade and take to the silentgrave the ever green garland of love that adorned our hearts that day. For the sordid thorns that pierced our bleeding hearts--what are theybut ashes to-day, blown on the winds of yesterday?"

What indeed, Martin Culpepper--what indeed, smiled John Barclay as hereached for the rose on his broad mahogany desk across forty longyears, and looking through a wide window, saw on the blank wall of agreat hulk of a building half a mile away, the fine strong figure of aman with black shaggy hair on his young leonine head rise and wave hishandkerchief to a woman with tears running down her face and anguishin her eyes, standing in a swarm of children. What indeed are sordidthorns when the "large white plumes are dancing"--what indeed?

That was a busy night in Sycamore Ridge--the night before the menleft for war in the summer of '61. And the busiest man in all the townwas Philemon R. Ward. Every man in the town was going, and most of themen were going who lived in the county--an area as large as a NewEngland state, and yet when they were all gathered in Main Street, there were less than fivescore of them. They had agreed to elect Wardcaptain, Martin Culpepper first lieutenant, Jake Dolan secondlieutenant. It was one of the diversions of the occasion to call out"Hello, Cap, " when Ward hustled by a loitering crowd. But his pridewas in his work, and before sundown he had it done. The Yankee in himgave him industry and method and foresight. At sunset the last of thetwenty teams and wagons he had ordered came rattling down the hillwest of town, driven by Gabriel Carnine of Minneola, with Mrs. Lycurgus Mason sitting like a war goddess on the back seat holdingLycurgus, a spoil of battle, while he held their daughter on his lap, withal a martial family party. Mrs. Barclay and Miss Lucy went to theaid store-room and worked the long night through, getting breakfastfor the men. Mary Murphy and Nellie Logan came from the Thayer Houseto the aid room when the hotel dishes were washed, and helped with thework. And while they were there the Culpeppers walked in, returningfrom a neighbourly visit to Miss Hendricks; John Barclay in an apron, stirring a boiling pot of dried apples, turned his back on the eyesthat charmed him, but when the women sent him for a bucket of water, he shook the handle at Ellen Culpepper and beckoned her with a finger, and they slipped out into the moonlight together. She had hold of thehandle of the bucket with him, and they pulled and hauled and laughedas boy and girl will laugh so long as the world turns round. Thestreet was deserted, and only the bar of light that fell across thesidewalk from Schnitzler's saloon indicated the presence of humanbeings in the little low buildings that pent in the highway. The boyand the girl stood at the pump, and the boy stuck a foot in the horsetrough. He made a wet silhouette of it on the stone beneath him, andreached for the handle of the pump. Then he said, "I got somepin Iwon't tell. "

"Three little niggers in a peanut shell, " replied the girl. 

"All right, Miss Cuteness. All right for you; I was going to tell yousomepin, but I won't now. " He gave the pump-handle a pull. It was limpand did not respond with water. "Ellen--" the boy repeated as heworked the handle, "I got somepin to tell you. Honest I have. "

"I don't care, Mr. Smarty, " the girl replied; she made a motion as ifto walk away, but did not. The boy noticed it and said, "Yes, sir--it's somepin you'd like to know. " The girl did not turn round. The boy, who had been working with the wheezy pump, was holding thehandle up, and water was gurgling down the well. And before she couldanswer he said, "Say, Ellen--don't be mad; honest I got somepin. "

"Who's it about?" she asked over her shoulder. 

"Me. "

"That's not much--who else?"

"Elmer Hendricks!"

"Who else?" The girl was halfway turned around when she spoke. 

"Bob--Bob Hendricks, " replied the boy. 

"Aw--Bob Hendricks--" returned the girl, in contempt. Then she facedthe boy and said, "What is it?"

"Come here 'n' I'll tell you. "

"I'll come this far. " The girl took two steps. 

"I got to whisper it, and you can't hear. "

"Well, 'tain't much. " The girl dangled one bare foot hesitatingly. 

"I'll come halfway, " she added. 

The boy made a mark in the dust of the road a few feet from him withhis toe, and said, "Come to there. "

The girl shook her head, and spoke. "Tell me part--'n' I'll see ifit's good. "

"Me and Elmer an' Bob are goin' to run away!" The girl stepped to thetoe mark and cried, "What?"

"Yes, sir--in the mornin'. " He caught hold of the girl's armawkwardly and swung her around to the opposite side of thepump-handle, and put her hands on it and began to pump. She pumpedwith him as he puffed between the strokes, "Um' huh--we're going tohide in the provision wagons, under some saddles they is there andgo--to--war!" The water was pouring into the bucket by the time hehad got this out. Their hands touched on the pump-handle. It was theboy who drew his hand away. The girl gasped:--

"Why, John Barclay, --it ain't no such thing--does your ma know it?"

He told her that no one knew it but her, and they pumped in silenceuntil the bucket was full, and walking back carrying the bucketbetween them, he told her another secret: that Watts McHurdie hadasked John to get his guitar after midnight, and play an accompanimentto the accordion, and that Watts and Ward and Jake Dolan and GabrielCarnine were going out serenading. Further he told her that Watts wasgoing to serenade Nellie Logan at the Thayer House, and that GabrielCarnine was going to serenade Mary Murphy, and that Philemon Ward wasgoing to serenade Miss Lucy, and that he, John Barclay, had suggestedthat it would be fine to serenade Mrs. Culpepper, because she was sucha nice woman, and they agreed that if he would bring his guitar, theywould!

When the boy and girl returned to the store, Ward and Miss Lucy wentto the Barclay home for the guitar. When they came back, Mrs. Barclaynoted a pink welt on one of Ward's fingers where his cameo ring hadbeen, and she observed that from time to time Miss Lucy kept feelingof her hair as if to smooth it. It was long after midnight before thegirls from the hotel went home, and Miss Lucy and Mrs. Barclay lay onthe counter in the store, trying to sleep. They awoke with the soundof music in their ears, and Miss Lucy said, "It's Captain Ward--andthe other boys, serenading us. " They heard the high tenor voice ofWatts McHurdie and the strong clear voice of Ward rising above theaccordion and guitar:--

 "For her voice is on the breeze, Her spirit comes at will, At midnight on the seas Her bright smile haunts me still. "

And underneath these high voices was the gruff bass voice of GabrielCarnine and the baritone of Jake Dolan. And when Mrs. Barclay heardthe piping treble of her son, and the tinkle of his guitar, her eyesfilled with tears of pride. 

The serenaders waked the chickens, and the crowing roosters rousedMrs. Barclay, and in the hurry of the hour she forgot to look for herson. As "the gray dawn was breaking, " a hundred men came into theroom, and found the smoking breakfast on the table. It was a goodbreakfast as breakfasts go when men are hungry. But they sat insilence that morning. The song was all out of them; the spring ofyouth was crushed under the weight of great events. And as theyrose--they who had been so merry the day before, and had joked of thethings the soldier fears, they were all but mute, and left theirbreakfasts scarcely tasted. 

The women remember this, --the telltale sign of the untouchedbreakfast, --and their memory is better than that of Martin Culpepper, who wrote in that plumy chapter of the Biography, before mentioned:--

"The soldiers left their homes that beautiful August morning as thesun was kissing the tips of the sycamore that gave the magnificentlittle city its name. They had partaken abundantly of a bountifulbreakfast, and as they satisfied their inner man from a table groaningwith good things prepared by the fair hands of the gentler sex, thegallant men rose with song and cheer, and went on their happy waywhere duty and honour called them. "

But the women who scraped the plates that morning knew the truth. Onewonders how much of history would be thrown out as worthless, likeMartin Culpepper's fine writing, if the women who scraped the platesmight testify. For those "large white plumes" do not dance in women'seyes!

After breakfast the men tumbled into the wagons, and as one wagonafter another rattled out of Fernald's feed lot and came down thestreet, the men waved their hats and the women waved their aprons, anda great cloud of dust rose on the highway, and as the wagons duckeddown the bank to the river, only the tall figure of Martin Culpepper, waving his handkerchief, rose above the cloud. At the end of the linewas a provision wagon, and on it rode Philemon Ward--Yankee in hisgreatest moment, scorning the heroic place in the van, and lookingafter the substantials. In the feed lot, just as the reins were in hishands, Ward saw Elmer Hendricks' foot peeping from under a saddle. Ward dragged the boy out, spanking him as he came over the end gate, and noted the sheepish smile on his face. Ten days later, as Ward, marching in the infantry, was going up a hill through the timber atthe battle of Wilson's Creek, that same boy rode by with the cavalry, and seeing Ward, waved a carbine and smiled as he charged the brow ofthe hill. That night, going back under the stars, Ward stumbled over abody, and stooping, saw the smile still on the boy's face, and thecarbine clutched in his hand. But for the hole through the boyishbrow, the eyes might still have been laughing. 

CHAPTER III

A few years ago, in the room of the great mahogany table, with itsclean blotting pad, its writing tablet, and its superb rose risingfrom a green vase in the midst of the shining unlittered expanse, there was a plain, heavy mahogany wainscoting reaching chin-high tothe average man. A few soft-toned pictures adorned the dull gray wallsabove the wainscoting, and directly over a massive desk that never wasseen open hung a framed letter. The letter was written on blue-linedpaper in red pokeberry ink. At the top of the letter was theadvertisement of a hotel, done in quaint, old-fashioned, fancy scriptwith many curly-cues and printers' ornaments. The advertisement setforth that the Thayer House at Sycamore Ridge was "First class inevery particular, " and that "Especial attention was paid to transientcustom. " On a line in the right-hand corner the reader was notifiedthat the tavern was founded by the Emigrant Aid Society, and balancingthis line, in the left-hand corner, were these words: "The onlylivery-stable west of Lawrence. " John Barclay's eyes have read it athousand times, and yet he always smiled when he scanned the letterthat followed the advertisement. The letter read:--

"Dear Ma I am going to war. Doan crye. Iff father was here he wood go;so why should not I. I will be very caerfull not to get hurt & stay byCap Ward all the time. So godby yours truly J. Barclay Jr. "

It was five hours after the soldiers had gone when Mrs. Barclay camehome from her work in the aid room, and the first thing that attractedher attention was her son's letter, lying folded on the table. Whenshe read it, she ran with the open letter across the common to thetown. It was a woman's town that morning, --not a man was left init, --for Ezra Lane, the only old man living in the Ridge, had left_Freedom's Banner_ to shift for itself while he rode to Leavenworthwith the soldiers to bring back the teams; and when Mrs. Barclay cameinto the street, she found some small stir there, made by MissHendricks--the only mother the Hendricks boys remembered--who wasinquiring for her lost boys. Mrs. Barclay displayed her note, and in amoment the whole population of Sycamore Ridge, with hands under itsaprons, was standing in front of the post-office. Then Ellen Culpepperfound her tongue, and Mrs. Barclay began to look for a horse. ElmerHendricks' pony in the pasture was the only horse Ward had left withintwenty miles. When Ellen Culpepper and her little sister Molly cameback from the pasture and announced that Elmer's pony was gone also, the women surmised that he had taken it with him, for they could notknow that after he was spanked from the provision wagon, he hadslipped out to the pasture and ridden by a circuitous route to themain road. 

It was Captain Ward, dismounting from his driver's seat on theprovision wagon at noon, who discovered two boys: a little boy elevenyears old in a dead faint, and a bigger boy panting with the heat. They threw cold spring water on John Barclay's face, and finally hiseyes opened, and he grinned as he whispered, "Hullo, Captain, " to theman bending over him. The man held water to the boy's lips, and hesipped a little and swam out into the blackness again, and then theman reappeared and the boy tried to smile and whispered, "Aw--I'm allright. " They saw he was coming out of his faint, and one by one thecrowd dropped away from him; but Ward stayed, and when the child couldspeak, he replied to Ward's question, "'Cause I wanted to. " And thenagain when the question was repeated, the boy said, "I tell you 'causeI wanted to. " He shook his head feebly and grinned again and tried torise, but the man gently held him down, and kept bathing his templeswith cold water from the spring beside them. Finally, when the manseemed a little harsh in his questions, the boy's eyes brimmed and hesaid: "Whur'd my pa be if he was alive to-day? I just guess I got asmuch right here as you have. " He made a funny little picture lying onthe lush grass by the spring in the woods; his browned face, washedclean on the forehead and temples, showed almost white under the dirt. There were tear-stained rings about the eyes, and his pink shirt andblue trousers were grimy with dust, and the red clay of the Sycamorestill was on the sides of his dust-brown bare feet. Around a big toewas a rag which showed a woman's tying--neat and firm, but red withclay. 

Ward left, and Bob Hendricks came and stood over the prostrate boy. Bob was carrying a bucket of water to the cook as a peace offering. 

"What did they do?" asked the boy on the ground. 

"Just shook me--and then said father'd tend to me for this. " The boysexchanged comments on the situation without words, and then Bob saidas he drew the dripping bucket from the spring, "We're going clear onto Leavenworth, and they say then we've got to come back with EzraLane and the teams. "

The boy on the ground raised himself by rolling over and catching holdof a sapling. He panted a moment, and "I'll bet y' I don't. " The otherboy went away with a weak "Me neither, " thrown over his shoulder. 

During that long afternoon, and all the next day and the next, theboys ran from wagon to wagon, climbing over end gates, wriggling amongthe men, running with the horses through the shady woods, paddling inthe fords, and only refusing to move when the men got out of thewagons and walked up the long clay hills that rise above the KawRiver. At night they camped by the prairie streams, and the men sangand wondered what they were doing at home, and Philemon Ward took JohnBarclay out into the silence of the woods and made him say hisprayers. And Ward would look toward the west and say, "Well, Johnnie, --there's home, " and once they stood in an open place in thetimber, and Ward gazed at a bright star sinking in the west, and said, "I guess that's about over Sycamore Ridge. " They went on, and the boy, looking back to see why the man had stopped, caught him throwing akiss at the star. And they could not know, as they walked backtogether through the woods abashed, that two women sitting before acabin door under a sycamore tree were looking at an eastern star, andone threw kisses at it unashamed while the other wept. And on othernights, many other nights, the two, Miss Lucy and Mrs. Barclay, satlooking at their star while the terror in their hearts made their lipsmute. God makes men brave who stand where bullets fly, yet always theycan run away. But God seems to give no alternative to women at homewho have to wait and dread. 

Forty years later John Barclay took from a box in a safety vault backof his office in the city a newspaper. It was the Sycamore Ridge_Banner_, yellow and creased and pungent with age. "This, " he said toSenator Myton, spreading the wrinkled sheet out on the mahogany table, "this is my enlistment paper. " He smiled as he read aloud:--

"At noon of our first day out we came across two stowaways. Hendricks, aged twelve, son of our well-known and popular Mayor, and J. Barclay, aged eleven, son of Mrs. M. Barclay, who, owing to the suddenness ofthe departure of our troops for the seat of war in Missouri, andcertain business delays made necessary in ye editor's return, wereslipped out with our company rather than left in the rough anduncertain city of Leavenworth. They are called by the boys of 'C'company respectively 'the little sergeant and the little corporal, Good Luck boys. '"

A little farther down the column was this paragraph:

"Aug. 2nd we went into camp on Sugar Creek, and some sport was had bythe men who went in bathing, taking the horses with them. "

"Ever go in swimming with the horses, Senator?" asked Barclay. Thesenator shook his head doubtfully. 

"Well--you haven't. For if you had you'd remember it, " answeredBarclay, and a hundred naked young men and two skinny, bony boyssplashed and yelled and ducked and wrestled and locked their strongwet arms about the necks of the plunging horses and dived under them, and rolled across them and played with them like young satyrs in thecool water under the overhanging elms with the stars twinkling in theshining mahogany as Barclay folded the paper and put it away. Hethrummed the polished surface a moment and looked back into the pastto see Philemon Ward straight, lean, and glistening like a godstanding on a horse ready to dive, and as he huddled, crouched for theleap, Barclay said, "Well, come on, Senator, we must go to lunch now. "

It was late in the afternoon of their third day's journey that the menfrom Sycamore Ridge rode in close order, singing, through the streetsof Leavenworth. Watts McHurdie was playing his accordion, and thepeople turned to look at the uncouth crowd in civilian's clothes thatwent bellowing "O My Darling Nellie Gray, " across the town and out tothe Fort. Ezra Lane promised to call at the Fort for the two boys andwith drivers for the teams early the next morning--but to SycamoreRidge, Leavenworth in those days was the great city with its pitfalls, and when Ezra Lane, grizzled though he was, came to a realizing senseof his responsibilities, the next day was gone and the third waswaning. When he went to the Fort, he found the Sycamore Ridge men hadbeen hurried into Missouri to meet General Price, who was threateningSpringfield, and no word had been left for him about the boys. As heleft the gate at the Fort, a troop of cavalry rode by gaily, and aboy, a big overgrown fourteen-year-old boy in a blue uniform, passedand waved his hand at the befuddled old man, and cried, "Good-by, Mr. Lane, --tell 'em you saw me. " He knew the boy was from Sycamore Ridge, but he knew also that he was not one of the boys who had come with thesoldiers; and being an old man, far removed from the boy world, hecould not place the child in his blue uniform, so he drove awaypuzzled. 

The afternoon the men from Sycamore Ridge came to Leavenworth theywere hurriedly examined again, signed the muster rolls, and were sentaway without uniforms all in twenty-four hours. But not before theyhad found time to have their pictures taken in borrowed regimentals. For twenty years after the war the daguerreotypes of the soldierstaken at Leavenworth that day were the proudest adornments of thecentre-tables of Sycamore Ridge, and even now on Lincoln Avenue, in alittle white cottage with green blinds, that sits in a broad smoothlawn with elm trees on it, stands an easel. On the easel is apicture--an enlarged crayon drawing of a straight, handsome youngfellow in a captain's uniform. One hand is in his coat, and the otherat his hip. His head is thrown back with a fierce determination intothe photographer's iron rest and all together the picture is markedwith the wrinkled front of war. For over one corner of the easel hangsa sword with an ivory handle, and upon it is an inscriptionproclaiming the fact that the sword was presented to Captain PhilemonR. Ward by his company for gallant conduct on the field of battle onthe night of August 4, 1861. Above the easel in the corner hangsanother picture--that of a sweet-faced old man of seventy, beamingrather benignly over his white lawn necktie. The forty-five years thathave passed between the two faces have trimmed the hair away from thetemples and the brow, have softened the mouth, and have put patienceinto the eyes--the patience of a great faith often tried but neverbroken. The five young women of the household know that the crayonportrait on the bamboo easel is highly improper as a parlourornament--for do they not teach school, and do they not take all theeducational journals and the crafty magazines of art? But the handthat put it there was proud of its handiwork, and she who hung thesword upon the easel is gone away, so the girls smile at the fierceyoung boyish face in the picture as they pass it, and throw a kiss atthe face above it, and the easel is not moved. 

And the man, --the tall old man with a slight stoop in his shoulders, the old man who wears the alpaca coat and the white lawn tie seen inthe upper picture, --sometimes he wanders into the stately front roomwith a finger in a census bulletin as a problem in his head creaseshis brow--and the sight of the sword always makes him smile, andsometimes the smile is a chuckle that stirs the cockles of his heart. 

For his mind goes back to that summer night of August 4, 1861, and hesees himself riding on a horse with a little boy behind with his armsin the soldier's belt. It is dusk, and "C" Company on foot is filingdown a Missouri hill. It is a muddy road, and the men are tired anddirty. There is no singing now. A man driving an ox team has turnedout of the road to let the soldiers pass. Some one in the line asksthe man, "Where's Price?"

"Over the hill yonder, " replies the man, pointing with his hickorywhip-stock. The word buzzes up and down the line. The captain on hishorse with the boy clutching at his belt does not hear it. But theline lags and finally halts. The men have been only two days undermilitary discipline. That day last week Phil Ward--who was he, anyway? Henry Schnitzler and Oscar Fernald could have bought him andsold him twice over. So the line halted. Then the captain halted. Thenhe called Second Lieutenant Dolan and asked to know what was thematter. "They say they are going to camp, " responded Dolan, touchinghis cap. Captain Ward's face flushed. He told Dolan to give the orderto march. There were shouts and laughter, and Gabriel Carnine cried, "Say, Phil, this here Missourian we passed says old General Price isover that hill. " The boys laughed again, and Ward saw that trouble wasbefore him. The men stood waiting while he controlled his rage beforehe spoke. Dolan said under his breath from the ground beside thehorse, "They're awful tired, Cap, and they don't want to tacklePrice's army all by their lonelies. " Some one in the company calledout, "We've voted on this thing, Cap. Don't the majority rule in thiscountry?"

A smile twitched at Ward's mouth and the boy in him pricked a twinklein his eyes, for he was only twenty-six, and he laughed--threw hishead back and then leaned over and slapped the horse's neck andfinally straightened up and said, "Gentlemen, I bow to the will of thepeople. "

And so it happened that when they drew their first month's pay, MartinCulpepper and Jake Dolan suggested to the company that they buy Ward asword to commemorate the victory of the people. And Martin Culpeppermade a great presentation speech in which he said that to theinfantry, cavalry, and artillery arms of military service, "C" Companyhad added the "vox populi. " But the night after the presentation OscarFernald and Watts McHurdie crawled under the captain's tent and stolethe sword and pawned it for beer, and there was a sound of revelry bynight. 

When they found the great camp near Springfield, it seemed to JohnBarclay that all the soldiers in the world were gathered. It isdifficult for a boy under a dozen years to remember thingsconsecutively; because boys do not do things consecutively. They flitaround like butterflies, and so the picture that they make of eventsjumps from scene to scene. One film on a roll of John's memory showeda hot August day in the camp of "C" Company; the men are hurryingabout the place. The tents are down; the boys--John and Bob--arekicking around the vacant camp looking for trophies. But there thefilm broke and did not record the fact that Captain Ward put Bob andJohn on a commissary wagon that stood in a side street as the soldiersmoved out. John remembered looking into a street filled with marchingsoldiers. First the regulars and the artillery came swinging down thestreet. At their head the boy saw General Lyon, the commandingofficer, and around him was a bodyguard whose plumed hats, with theleft brim pinned up, caught the boys' eyes. The regulars marched bysilently. It was part of their day's work; but following them came adetachment of Germans singing "Marchen Rote, " and then the battery ofsix guns and then the Kansans. Small wonder Captain Gordon Grangertold Colonel Mitchel that the Kansas soldiers were only an armed mob. They filed out of Springfield, some in rags and some in tags and somein velvet gowns. They carried guns; but they looked like delegates toa convention, and as the boys saw their own company, they waved theirhands, but they were almost ashamed of the shabby clothes of the menfrom Sycamore Ridge; for a boy always notices clothes on others. Whenthe Germans stopped singing "Marchen Rote, " the boys heard WattsMcHurdie's high tenor voice start up "The Dutch Companee, " and thecrowd that was lining the street cheered and cheered. A Missouriregiment followed and more regulars, and then a battery of four gunspassed, and then came more Kansans still going to that everlastingconvention. And a band came roaring by, --with its crashing brass andrumbling drums, --and then after the band had turned the corner, cameIowa in gray blouses and such other garments as the clothes-lines ofthe country afforded. They were singing as they passed--a song theboy had never heard, being all about the "happy land of Canaan. " Andbefore the sun had set again, after that night, hundreds of those whosang of the happy land were there. In the rear were the ambulances andthe ammunition and the hospital vans, and the wagon which held theboys wheeled into the line. After they had passed, the streets wereclogged with carts and drays and wagons of all sorts, for the citizenswere moving to places of safety. 

As a man, the boy's memory did not tell him how the boys fared, but hedoes remember that it was dark in the timber where they camped thatnight, and that they slipped away into the woods to lie down together. The chirping of the birds at dawn wakened them, and as John sat uprubbing his eyes, he heard a rifle's crack. They were at the edge of afield, and half a mile from him, troops were marching by columnsacross a clearing. The rifle-shot was followed by another, andanother, and then by a half-dozen. "Wake up, Bob--wake up--they's abattle, " he cried, and the two boys stumbled to their feet. The shotswere far in front of the marching soldiers, and the boys could notmake out what the firing meant. The line formed and ran up the hill, and the boys saw the morning sun flashing on the guns of the enemy. The battery roared, and the boys were filled with terror. They ranthrough the woods like dogs until they came to the soldiers fromSycamore Ridge. The boys crawled on their bellies to their friends, and lay with their faces all but buried in the ground. The men werelying at the edge of the timber talking, and Watts McHurdie was on hisback. 

"What's the matter with you, Watts?" asked Oscar Fernald. 

"Os, " replied Watts, "I got a presentiment I'm goin' to be shot in therear. It will kill me to be shot in the back, and I've got a notionthat's how I am goin' to die. "

The line laughed. Captain Ward, who was sitting a few paces in therear of the men, went over to Watts, and scuffled the man over withhis foot. A bullet went through Ward's hat before he got back to hisplace. The men were sticking up ramrods and betting on the number ofminutes they would last. No ramrod stood more than ten minutes. MartinCulpepper threw up his hat five times before a bullet hit it; but hewent bareheaded the rest of the day, and John Barclay, in sheer fear, began to dig a hole under him. After he had been on his belly for anhour, Henry Schnitzler got tired and rose. The men begged him to liedown. But his only reply when they told him he was a fool was, "Vell, vot of it?" And when they said he would be shot, he answered again, "Vell, vot of it?" And when Jake Dolan cried, "You pot-guttedDutchman, sit down or there'll be a sauer-kraut shower in hell prettyquick, " Henry shook his fat sides a moment and laughed, "Vell, vot ofdot--altzo!" For an hour, that seemed ten, he moved back and forth onthe line, firing and joking, and then the spell broke and a bullettook part of his jaw. As he dropped to his position, with the bloodgushing from his face, his eyes blazed, and he spat out, "By hell-tam, now I vos mad, " and he fought the day out and died that night. But ashe sank to his place when the bullet hit him, Watts McHurdie sawSchnitzler stagger, and through the smoke, knew that he was wounded. Watts rushed to Schnitzler and bent over him, when a ball hit Wattsand went ripping through the fleshy part of his hip. "Shot in theback--damn it, shot in the back!" he screamed, as he jumped into theair. "What did I tell you, boys, I'm shot in the back. " And he crawledbleeding to the rear. 

All the long forenoon the camp of the enemy continued to belch outmen. The battery mowed them down, and once the Kansans were ordered tocharge the hill, and the boys were left alone. It was there that thetwo were separated. John saw men sink in awful silence, and the bloodooze from their heads. He saw men cramp in agony and choke with blood, and he saw Martin Culpepper, perhaps with the large white plumes stilldancing in his eyes, dash out of the line and pick up a Union bannerthat Sigel's men had lost, and that the enemy was flaunting justbefore the artillery mowed the gray line down. He heard the hoarse mencheer Martin, and as the tall swart figure came running back wavingthe flag, the boy prayed to his father's God to save the man. 

When the battle lulled, the boy found himself parted from "C" Company, and fled back through the woods to the rear. There he came upon asmell that was familiar. He had known it in the slaughter-house athome. It was the smell of fresh blood, and with it came the sickeningdrone of flies. In an instant he stood under a tree where men wereworking smeared with blood. He stumbled over a little pile ofdismembered legs and hands. A man with a bloody knife was bending overa human form stretched on a bloody and, it seemed to the boy, a greasytable. Another was helping the big man. They were cutting the bulletout of Watts McHurdie, who was lying white and unconscious and withflies crawling over him, half naked and blood-smeared, on the table. The boy screamed, and the man turned his head and snarled through hisclenched teeth that held the knife, "Get out of here--no--go get mea bucket of water from the creek. " Some one handed the boy a bucket, and he ran where he was told to go, with the awful sight burned on hisbrain, with the sickening smell in his nose, and with the drone offlies in his ears. When he came back the firing had begun again. Thesurgeon was saying, "Well, that's all that's waiting--now I'm goingfor a minute. " He grabbed a gun standing by the table and ran towardthe front; he did not take off his blood-splotched apron, and the boyfled from the place in terror. In a few moments the firing ceased; butthe boy ran on, hunting for a hiding-place. He saw a troop ofAlabamians plunge over a log in a charge, and roll in an awful, writhing, screaming pile of dying men and horses, and in the heap hesaw the terror-stricken face of a youth, who was shrieking for help;John carried that fear-distorted face in his memory for years, untillong afterwards it appeared in Sycamore Ridge. 

But that day John fled from the death-trap almost mad with fear. Rushing farther into the woods, he came upon General Lyon and hisstaff. The plumed hats of the bodyguard told the boy that thesandy-haired man before him was in command, though the man's face wasbloody from a wound in his head, and though his clothes were stainedwith blood and he was hatless. He sat upright on his horse, and as theboy turned, he heard the voices of Captain Ward and his soldiers, begging to be sent into the fight. It was a clamour fierce andpiteous, and the general had turned his head to the Kansans, whensomething at the left startled him. There was no firing, and a columnof soldiers was approaching. Doubt paralyzed the group around Lyon fora moment. The men wore gray blouses strangely like those the Iowanswore. The men might be Sigel's men, coming back from their artilleryduel. The general plainly was puzzled. He rode out from the bodyguarda few paces. The boy was staring at him, when the bodyguard with theirgay plumed hats came up, and he saw wrath flash into the general'sface as he recognized the enemy. "Shoot them--shoot them--" heshouted. But the gray line vomited its smoke first, and the boy felthis foot afire. The general dropped from his horse, and as the boylooked down, he saw a red blot coming out on his instep. In the sameinstant he saw Captain Ward rush to the falling general, and saw thebodyguard gather about him, and then the blackness came over the childand he fell. He did not see them bear General Lyon's body into thebrush, nor hear Ward moan his sorrow. But when Ward returned from thethicket, he saw the child lying limp on the grass. 

As Ward ran toward the hospital van carrying the limp little body, hecould see that a ball had pierced the boy's foot. Also he saw the menin retreat who had shot Lyon, and all over the field the firing hadceased. As he hurried through the underbrush, Ward ran into BobHendricks hiding in the thicket. Ward took the child's hand and hebegan to sob: "I saw Elmer go up that hill, Captain; I saw him go upwith the horses and he ain't come back. " But Ward did not understandhim, and hurried the little fellow along with John to the surgeon. 

Then Ward left them, and when John Barclay opened his eyes, BobHendricks was sitting beside him. A great lint bandage was aboutJohn's foot, and they were in a wagon jolting over a rutty road. Hedid not speak for a long time, and then he asked, "Did we whip 'em?"

And Bob nodded and said, "Cap says so!"

The children clasped hands and talked of many things that passed fromthe boy's mind. But his mind recorded that the next day in thehospital Martin Culpepper said, "Bob can't come to-day, Johnnie; youknow he's tendin' Elmer's funeral. " The boy must have opened his eyes, for the man said, "Why, Johnnie, I thought you knew; yes; they foundhim dead that night--right under the reb--under the enemies' guns onthe brink of the hill. "

The child's eyes filled with tears, but he did not cry. His emotionwas spent. The two sat together for a time, and the little boy said, "Why didn't you go, Mr. Culpepper?" And the man replied: "Me?Oh--why--Oh, yes, I got a little scratch here in my leg, and theywon't let me out of here. There's Watts over there in the next cot; hegot a little scratch too--didn't you, Watts?" Watts and the boysmiled at each other, but John did not see Bob again for years. MissHendricks came and took him to their father's people in Ohio. 

One day some one came in the hospital where John and Watts and MartinCulpepper were lying, and began to call out mail for the men, and thethird name the corporal called was "Captain Martin Culpepper"; andwhen they brought him a long official envelope with General Frémont'sname on it, Martin Culpepper held it in his hands, looked at theinscription, read the word "captain" again and again, and could notspeak for choked joy. And tears so dimmed his eyes that he could notsee the "large white plumes" of chivalry, but the men in the bedscheered as they heard the words the corporal read. 

With such music as that in his ears, and with his soul stirred by theevents about him, Watts McHurdie, lying in the hospital, wrote thesong that made him famous. They know in Sycamore Ridge that Watts isnot much of a poet, that his rhymes are sometimes bad and his metreworse. But once his heart took fire and burned for a day sheer white, and in that day he wrote words that a nation sang, and now all theworld is singing. And they are proud of him, and when people come toSycamore Ridge on pilgrimages to see the author of the song, men donot smile in wonder; they show the visitors his shop, and point outthe bowed little man bending over his bench, stretching his arms outas he sews, and they point him out with pride. Not even John Barclaywith all his millions, or Bob Hendricks, who once refused a place inthe President's cabinet, are more esteemed in Sycamore Ridge than thelittle harness maker who set the world to singing. 

And curiously enough, John Barclay was with Watts McHurdie when hewrote the song. They brought him an accordion one day while he wasgetting well, and the two sat together. Watts droned along and shuthis eyes and mumbled some words, and then burst out with the chorus. Over and over he sang it and exclaimed between breaths: "Say--ain'tthat fine? I just made it up. " He was exalted with his performance, and some women came loitering down the corridor where the wounded manand the boy were lying. The visitors gazed compassionately atthem--little Watts not much larger than the boy. A woman asked, "Andwhere were you wounded, son?" looking at Watts with his accordion. Hisface flushed up at the thought of his shame, and he could not keepback the tears that always betrayed him when he was deeply moved. "Ten--ten miles from Springfield, madam, ten miles from Springfield. "And to hide his embarrassment he began sawing at his accordion, chanting his famous song. But being only a little boy, John Barclaytittered. 

A few days after the battle Captain Ward wrote to Miss Lucy tellingher that some soldiers slightly wounded would go home on a furlough toLawrence, and that they would take John with them and put him on thestage at Lawrence for Sycamore Ridge. Then Ward's letter continued:"It is all so horrible--this curse of war; sometimes I think it isworse than the curse of slavery. There is no 'pomp and circumstance ofglorious war. ' Men died screaming in agony, or dumb with fear. Theywere covered with dirt, and when they were dead they merged into thelandscape like inanimate things. What vital difference is therebetween a living man and a dead man, that one stands out in a scenebig and obtrusive, and the other begins to fade into the earth as soonas death touches the body? The horror of death is upon me, and Icannot shake it off. It is a fearful thing to see a human soul pass'in any shape, in any mood. ' And I have seen so many deaths--we lostone man out of every three--that I am all unnerved. I saw GeneralLyon die--the only abolitionist in the regular army, they say. Hedied like a soldier--but not as the soldiers die in pictures. He sankoff his horse so limp, and so like an animal with its death wound, andgasped so weakly, 'I'm killed--take care of my body, ' that when wecovered his face and bore him away, we could not realize we werecarrying a man's body. And now, my dear, if I should go as these mengo, I have neither kith nor kin to mourn me--only you, and you mustnot mourn, for I shall be near you always and always, without sign ortoken, and when you feel my presence near, know that it is real, andnot a seeming. For the great force of life that moves events in thisworld has but one symbol, but one vital manifestation, and that islove, and when a soul is touched with that, it is immortal. "

But Martin Culpepper, with his dancing plumes, saw things in anotherlight. Perhaps we always see things in another light when forty yearshave passed over them. But in his chapter "The Shrill Trump, " in theBiography, he writes: "'O you mortal engines, whose rude throats theimmortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, ' O for the 'spirit-stirringdrum, and the ear-splitting fife' 'in these piping times of peace. 'Small wonder it was that with the clang and clank of sabre and artilleryin his ears, with the huzzas of comrades and the sparkle of the wine ofwar in his eyes, our hero wrote the never dying words that made himfamous. How the day comes back with all its pageantry, the caparisonedhorses, the handsome men stepping to the music of inspiring melody, theclarion commands of the officers, and the steady rumble of a thousandfeet upon the battle ground, going careless whether to death orimmortality in deathless fame. "

A curious thing is that deathless fame which Martin speaks of--apassing curious thing; for when word came of Henry Schnitzler's death, Mary Murphy, of the Thayer House, put off Gabriel Carnine's ring, andwept many tears in the stage driver's coffee and wore black in her hatfor a year, and when Gabriel came home, she married him and all wentas merrily as a wedding-bell. What covert tenderness or dream of gauzyromance was in her memory, the town could never know; but theCarnines' first boy was named Henry, and for many years after the war, she was known among the men, who do not understand a woman's heart, asthe "War widow by brevet. " Yet that was Henry's "deathless fame" inSycamore Ridge, for the town has long since forgotten him, and evenhis name means nothing to our children, who see it on the bronzestatue set up by the rich John Barclay to commemorate our soldierdead. 

But John was our first war hero. And when he brought his battle scarshome that September night in '61, for hours before the stage droveacross Sycamore Creek the boy was filled with a nameless dread that hemight be spanked. 

They carried him on a cot to his mother's house, and put him in thegreat carved four-poster bed, and in the morning Miss Lucy came andhovered over him, and they talked of Captain Ward to her heart'scontent, and the boy told Miss Lucy the gossip of the hospital, --thatCaptain Ward was to be made a major, --and she kissed him and pettedhim until he was glad none of the boys was around to see the sickeningspectacle. And then Miss Lucy and Mrs. Barclay told the child of theirplans, --that Miss Lucy was going to war as a nurse, and that Mrs. Barclay was to teach the Sycamore Ridge school during the winter. Andin a few weeks John was out of the hero business, working inCulpepper's store after school, and getting used to a limp that stayedwith him all his life. 

The next spring he traded a carbine that he brought home from the armyfor an Indian pony, and then he began business for himself. He organizedthe cows of the town into a town herd and took them every morning topasture on the prairie. All day he rode in the open air, and the townboys came out to play with him, and they explored the cave by hismother's house, and with their sling-shots killed quails and prairiechickens and cooked them, and they played war through the long summerdays. But John did not grow as the other boys grew; he remainedundersized, and his limp put him at a disadvantage; so he had fewfights, but he learned cunning, and got his way by strategy rather thanby force--but he always had his way. He was strong; the memory of whathe had seen and what he had been that one awful day in the battle madelines on his face; sometimes at night he would wake screaming, when hedreamed he was running away from the surgeon with the bloody knife inhis teeth and that the man was going to throw an arm at him. And when hewished to bring Ellen Culpepper to time he would begin in a lowterrorful voice, "And I saw--the man--take--a--g-r-e-a-t l-o-n-g knifed-r-i-p-p-i-n-g with r-e-d-b-l-o-o-d out of his t-e-e-t-h and go slish, k-slish, " but he never got farther than this, for the girl would beginshaking, and if they were alone, would run to him and grab him and puther hand to his mouth to make him stop. 

And so his twelfth year passed under the open sky in the sunshine insummer and in winter working after school in town where men werewanting, and where a boy could always find work. He grew brown andlean, and as his voice grew squeaky and he sang alto in the school, hebecame more and more crafty and masterful. The fact that his motherwas the teacher, did not give him more rights in school than otherboys, for she was a sensible woman, but it gave him a prestige on theplayground that he was not slow to take. He was a born trader; and hekept what he got and got more. His weakness was music. He kept twocows in his herd in the summer time in return for the use of themelodeon at the Thayer House, and moved it to his own home and put itin the crowded little room, and practised on it at night when theother boys were loafing at the town pump. For a consideration inmarbles he taught Buck Culpepper the chords in "G" on the guitar, andfor further consideration taught him the chords in "D" and "C, " andwith the aid of Jimmy Fernald, aged nine, and Molly Culpepper, agedeleven, one with a triangle and the other with a pumpkin reed pipe, John organized his Band, which he led with his mouth-organ, andexhibited in Culpepper's barn, appropriating to himself as thedirector the pins charged at the door. Forty years afterward, whenMolly called his attention to his failure to divide with the children, John Barclay smiled as he lifted his lame foot to a fat leather chairin front of him and said, "That was what we call the promoter'sprofit. " And then the talk ran to Ellen, and John opened his greatdesk and from a box without a mark on it he brought out a tintypepicture of Ellen at fourteen, a pink-cheeked child in short sleeves, with the fringe of her pantalets showing above her red stripedstockings and beneath her bulging skirts, and with a stringy, stifffeather rising from the front of her narrow-rimmed hat. 

During the time when he was going to school by day and workingevenings and caring for the town herd through the summer, the war wasdragging wearily on. Sometimes a soldier came home on a furlough andthere was news of the Sycamore Ridge men, but oftener it was a seasonof waiting and working. The women and children cared for the farms andthe stores as best they could and lived, heaven only knows how, andopened every newspaper with horror and dread, and glanced down thelong list of names of the dead, the missing and the wounded, fearfulof what they might see. Mrs. Barclay heard from Miss Lucy and throughher kept track of Philemon Ward, who was transferred to anotherregiment after he was made major. And when he was made a colonel atShiloh, there were tear blots on Miss Lucy's letter that told of it, and after Appomattox he was brevetted a general. As for CaptainCulpepper, he came home a colonel, and Jake Dolan came home a firstlieutenant. But Watts McHurdie came home with a letter from Lincolnabout his song, and he was the greatest man of all of them. 

It is odd that Sycamore Ridge grew during the war. Where the peoplecame from, no one could say--yet they came, and young Barclayremembered even during the war of playing in the foundations andrunning over the rafters of new houses. But when the war closed, thegreat caravan that had lagged while the war was raging, began to trailitself steadily in front of Mrs. Barclay's door, through the streetsof Sycamore Ridge and out over the western hills. Soldiers with theirfamilies passed, going to the free homesteads, and the line of movers'wagons began with daybreak and rumbled by far into the night. Buthundreds of wagons stopped in Sycamore Ridge, and the stage camecrowded every night. Brick buildings, the town's mortal pride, beganshowing their fronts on Main Street, and other streets in the townbegan to assert themselves. Mrs. Barclay's school grew from a score ofchildren in 1864 to three rooms full in '65, and in '66 the whole townturned out to welcome General and Mrs. Ward, she that was Miss LucyBarnes, and there was a reunion of "C" Company that night, and acamp-fire in Culpepper Hall, and the next day Lige Bemis was paintinga sign which read "Philemon R. Ward, Attorney-at-Law, Pension MattersPromptly Attended To. " And the first little Ward was born at theThayer House and named Eli Thayer Ward. 

The spring that found John Barclay sixteen years old found him abrowned, gray-eyed, lumpy sort of a boy, big at the wrong places, andstunted at the wrong places, with a curious, uneven sort of aneducation. He knew all about Walden Pond; and he knew hisEmerson--and was mad with passion to see the man; he had travelledover the world with Scott; had crossed the bridge with Cæsar in hisfather's books; had roamed the prairie and the woods with Cooper'sIndians; had gone into the hearts of men with Thackeray and Dickens, holding his mother's hand and listening to her voice; but he knewalgebra only as a name, and rhetoric was a dictionary word with him. Of earthly possessions he had two horses, a bill of sale for hismelodeon, a saddle, a wagon, a set of harness; four mouth-organs, oneeach in "A, " "D, " "E, " and "C, " all carefully rolled in Canton flannelon a shelf above his bed; one concertina, --a sort of Germanaccordion, --five pigs, a cow, and a bull calf. Moreover, there were_two_ rooms in the Barclay home; and the great rock was gone from thedoor of the cave, and a wooden door was in its place and the Barclayswere using it for a spring-house. The boy had a milk route and soldbutter to the hotel. But the chiefest treasure of the household wasJohn's new music book. And while he played on his melodeon, EllenCulpepper's eyes smiled from the pages and her voice moved in themelodies, and his heart began to feel the first vague vibration withthe great harmony of life. And so the pimples on his chin reddened, and the squeak in his voice began to squawk, and his big milky eyesbegan to see visions wherein a man was walking through this vainworld. As for Ellen Culpepper, her shoe tops were tiptoeing to herskirts, and her eyes were full of dreams of the warrior bold, "withspurs of gold, " who "sang merrily his lay. " And rising from thesedreams, she always stepped on her feet. But that was a long time ago, and men and women have been born and loved, and married and broughtchildren into the world since then. For it was a long time ago. 

CHAPTER IV

The changes of time are hard to realize. One knows, of course, thatthe old man once was young. One understands that the tree once was asapling, and conversely we know that the child will be a man and thegaunt sapling stuck in the earth in time will become a great spreadingtree. But the miracle of growth passes not merely our understanding, but our imagination. 

So though men tell us, and grow black in the face with the vehemenceof telling, that the Sycamore Ridge of the sixties--a gray smudge ofunpainted wooden houses bordering the Santa Fe trail, with the streetmerging into the sunflowers a block either way from the pump, --is thetown that now lies hidden in the elm forest, with its thirty miles ofpaving and its scores of acres of wide velvet lawns, with its parkswherein fountains play, guarded by cannon discarded by the pride ofmodern war, with the court-house on the brink of the hill that oncewas far west of the town and with twenty-two thousand people whizzingaround in trolleys, rattling about in buggies or scooting down theshady avenues in motor-cars--whatever the records may show, the realtruth we know; the towns are not the same; the miracle of growthcannot fool us. And yet here is the miracle in the making. Always inJohn Barclay's eyes when he closed them to think of the first yearsthat followed the war between the states, rose visions of yellow pineand red bricks and the litter and debris of building; always in hisears as he remembered those days were the confused noises of wagonswhining and groaning under their heavy loads, of gnawing saws andrattling hammers, of the clink of trowels on stones, of the swish ofmortar in boxes, and of the murmur of the tide of hurrying feet overboard sidewalks, ebbing and flowing night and morning. In those daysnew boys came to town so rapidly that sometimes John met a boy inswimming whom he did not know, and, even in 1866, when Ellen and MollyCulpepper were giving a birthday party for Ellen, she declared thatshe "simply couldn't have all the new people there. "

And so in the sixties the boy and the town went through their raw, gawky, ugly adolescence together. As streets formed in the town, ideastook shape in the boy's mind. As Lincoln Avenue was marked out on thehill, where afterward the quality of the town came to live, so in theboy's heart books that told him of the world outlined vague visions. Boy fashion he wrote to Bob Hendricks once or twice a month or aseason, as the spirit moved him, and measured everything with the eyesof his absent friend. For he came to idealize Bob, who was out in thewonderful world, and their letters in those days were curiouscompositions--full of adventures by field and wood, and awkwardreferences to proper books to read, and cures for cramps and bashfullyexpressed aspirations of the soul. Bob's father had become a general, and when the war closed, he was sent west to fight the Indians, and hetook Lieutenant Jacob Dolan with him, and Bob sent to John news of theIndian fighting that glorified Bob further. 

And when a letter came to the Ridge from Dolan announcing that he andthe Hendricks family were coming back to the Ridge to live, --thegeneral to look after his neglected property, and Dolan to start alivery-stable, --John heard the news with a throb of great joy. When aletter from Bob confirmed the news, John began to count the days. Forthe love of boys is the most unselfish thing in a selfish world. Theymet awkwardly and sheepishly at the stage, and greeted each other withgrunts, and became inseparable. Bob came back tall, lanky, grinny, andrather dumb, and he found John undersized, wiry, masterful, and rathermooney, but strong and purposeful, for a boy. But each accepted theother as perfect in every detail. 

Nothing Bob did changed John's attitude, and nothing John did made Bobwaver in his faith in John. Did the boys come to John with a sickeningstory that Bob's sister made him bring a towel to the swimming hole, John glared at them a moment and then waved them aside with, "Well, you big brutes, --didn't you know what it was for?" When they reportedto John that Bob's father was making him tip his hat to the girls, they got, instead of the outbreak of scorn they expected, "Well--didthe girls tip back?" And when Bob's sister said that the Barclayboy--barefooted, curly-headed, dusty, and sunburned--looked likesomething the old cat had dragged into the house, the boy-was impudentto his sister and took a whipping from his father. 

That fall the children of Sycamore Ridge assembled for the first timein their new seven-room stone schoolhouse, and the two boys were inthe high school. The board hired General Philemon Ward to teach thetwenty high school pupils, and it was then he first began to wear thewhite neckties which he never afterwards abandoned. Ward's first clashwith John Barclay occurred when Ward organized a military company. John's limp kept him out of it, so he broke up the company andorganized a literary society, of which he was president and EllenCulpepper secretary, and a constitution was adopted exempting thepresident and secretary from work in the society. It was naturalenough that Bob Hendricks should be made treasurer, and that thesethree officers should be the programme committee, and then a long lineof vice-presidents and assistant secretaries and treasurers andmonitors was elected by the society. 

So John became the social leader of the group of boys and girls whowere just coming out of kissing games into dances at one another'shomes in the town. John decided who should be in the "crowd" and whomight be invited only when a mixed crowd was expected. Fathersdesiring trade, and mothers faithful to church ties, protested; butJohn Barclay had his way. It was his crowd. They called themselves the"Spring Chickens, " and as John had money saved to spend as he pleased, he dictated many things; but he did not spend his money, he lent it, and his barn was stored with, skates and sleds and broken guns andscrap-iron held as security, while his pockets bulged with knivestaken as interest. 

As the winter waned and the Spring Chickens waxed fat in socialhonours, Bob Hendricks glanced up from his algebra one day, anddiscovered that little Molly Culpepper had two red lips and twopig-tail braids of hair that reached below her waist. Then and therehe shot her deftly with a paper wad, chewed and fired through a canepipe-stem, and waited till she wiped it off her cheek with her apronand made a face at him, before he plunged into the mysteries of _x_2 +2_xy_ + _y_2. And thus another old story began, as new and as fresh aswhen Adam and Eve walked together in the garden. 

John Barclay was so busy during his last year in the Sycamore Ridgeschool that he often fancied afterwards that the houses on LincolnAvenue in Culpepper addition must have come with the grass in thespring, for he has no memory of their building. Neither does heremember when General Madison Hendricks built the brick building onthe corner of Main Street and Fifth Avenue, in which he opened theExchange National Bank of Sycamore Ridge. Yet John remembered that histeam and wagon were going all winter, hauling stone for the foundationof the Hendricks home on the hill--a great brick structure, withsquare towers and square "ells" rambling off on the prairie, andsquare turrets with ornate cornice pikes pricking the sky. For yearsthe two big houses standing side by side--the Hendricks house and theCulpepper house, with its tall white pillars reaching to the roof, itsdouble door and its two white wings spreading over the wide greenlawn--were the show places of Sycamore Ridge, and the town was alwaysdivided in its admiration for them. John's heart was sadly tornbetween them. Yet he was secretly glad to learn from his mother thathis Uncle Union's house in Haverhill had tall columns, green blinds onthe white woodwork, and a wide hall running down the centre. For itmade him feel more at home at the Culpeppers'. But when the Hendricks'piano came, after they moved into the big house, the boy's heart wasopened afresh; and he spent hours with Bob Hendricks at the piano, when he knew he would be welcome at the Culpeppers'. He leased histown herd in the summer to Jimmie Fernald--giving him the right totake the cows to the commons around town upon the payment of fivedollars a month to John for keeping out of the business, and passingJimmie good-will. In the meantime, by day, John worked his team, andhired two others and took contracts for digging cellars. At nights hewent to the country with his concertina and played for dances, makingtwo dollars a night, and General Hendricks for years pointed withpride to the fact that when the Exchange National Bank of SycamoreRidge opened for business the first morning, standing at the head ofthe line of depositors was John Barclay, with his concertina under hisarm, just as he had returned from a country dance at daylight, waitingto be first in line, with $178. 53 in his pocket to deposit. Thatdeposit slip, framed, still hangs over the desk in the office of thepresident of the bank, and when John Barclay became famous, it wasalways a part of the "Art Loan Exhibit, " held by the women in BarclayMemorial Hall. 

That summer of '67 John capitulated to life, held his hands up for theshackles and put on shoes in summer for the first time. Also, he onlywent swimming twice--both times at night, and he bought his first boxof paper collars and his mother tried to make his neckties like thosein Dorman's store; but some way she did not get the hang of it, andJohn bought a Sunday necktie of great pride, and he and his motheragreed that it was off the tail of Joseph's coat of many colours. Buthe wore it only on state occasions. At work, he made an odd figurelimping over the dirt heaps and into the excavations bossing men oldenough to be his father. He wore a serious face in those days, --for aboy, --and his mouth was almost hard, but something burned in his eyesthat was more than ambition, though that lighted his face like aflame, and he was always whistling or singing. At night he and BobHendricks wandered away together, and sometimes they walked out underthe stars and talked as boys will talk of their little world and thebig world about them, or sometimes they sat reading at one or theother's home, and one would walk home with the other, and the otherwalk a piece of the way back. They read poetry and mooned; "LallaRookh" appealed to John because of its music and melody, and both boysdevoured Byron, and gobbled over the "Corsair" and the "Giaour" and"Childe Harold" with the book above the table, and came back from thebarn on Sundays licking their chops after surreptitiously nibbling"Don Juan. " But they had Captain Mayne Reid and Kingsley as anantidote, and they soon got enough of Byron. 

The two boys persuaded each other to go away to school, and John chosethe state university because it was cheap and because he heard hecould get work in Lawrence to carry him through. He did not recollectthat his mother had any influence in the matter; but in those days shealways seemed to be sitting by the lamp in their little home, sewing, with his shirts and underwear strewn about her. She had a permanentplace in the town schools, and the Barclay home had grown to a kitchenand two bedrooms as well as the big room with its fireplace. Hismother's hair was growing gray at the temples, but her clear, firm, unwrinkled skin and strong broad jaw kept youth in her countenance, and as Martin Culpepper wrote in the Biography, where he names thepioneers of Sycamore Ridge whose lives influenced Watts McHurdie's, "the three graces, Faith, Hope, and Charity, were mirrored in hersmile. "

One night when the boy came in tired after his night's ramble, he lefthis mother, as he often did those last nights before he went away toschool, bending over her work, humming a low happy-noted song, eventhough the hour was late. He lay in his bed beside the open windowlooking out into the night, dreaming with open eyes about life. Perhaps he actually dreamed a moment, for he did not hear her comeinto the room; but he felt her bend over him, and a tear dropped onhis face from hers. He turned toward her, and she put her arms abouthis neck. Then she sobbed: "Oh, good-by, my little boy--good-by. I amcoming here to bid you good-by, every night now. " He kissed her hand, and she was silent a moment, and then she spoke: "I know this is thelast of it all, John. You will never come back to me again--not you, but a man. And you will seem strange, and I will seem strange. " Shepaused a moment to let the cramp in her throat leave, then she wenton: "I was going to say so many things--when this time came, butthey're all gone. But oh, my boy, my little tender-hearted boy--be agood man--just be a good man, John. " And then she sobbed for anunrestrained minute: "O God, when you take my boy away, keep himclean, and brave, and kind, and--O God, make him--make him a goodman. " And with a pat and a kiss she rose and said as she left him, "Now good night, Johnnie, go to sleep. "

 * * * * *

In the Sycamore Ridge _Banner_ for September 12, 1867, appeared someverses by Watts McHurdie, beginning:--

 "Hail and farewell to thee, friend of my youth, Pilgrim who seekest the Fountain of Truth, Hail and farewell to thy innocent pranks, No more can I send thee for left-handed cranks. Farewell, and a tear laves the ink on my pen, For ne'er shall I 'noint thee with strap-oil again. "

It was a noble effort, and in his notes to the McHurdie poemsfollowing the Biography published over thirty years after those lineswere written, Colonel Culpepper writes: "This touching, thoughsomewhat humorous, poem was written on the occasion of the departurefor college of one who since has become listed with the world's greatcaptains of finance--none other than Honourable John Barclay, whosefame is too substantial to need encomium in these humble pages. Suffice it to say that between these two men, our hero, the poet, andthe great man of affairs, there has always remained the closestfriendship, and each carries in his bosom, wrapped in the myrrh offond memory, the deathless blossom of friendship, that sweetest flowerin the conservatory of the soul. "

The day before John left for Lawrence he met Lieutenant Jacob Dolan. 

"So ye're going to college--ay, Johnnie?"

"Yes, Mr. Dolan, " replied the boy. 

"Well, they're all givin' you somethin', Johnnie: Watts here has givena bit of a posey in verse; and my friend, General Hendricks, I'm told, has given you a hundred-dollar note; and General Philemon Ward hasgiven you Wendell Phillips' orations; and your sweetheart--God blessher, whoever she is--will be givin' ye the makins' of a broken heart;and your mother'll be givin' you her blessin'--and the saints'prayers go with 'em; and me, havin' known your father before you andthe mother that bore you, and seein' her rub the roses off her cheekstryin' to keep your ornery little soul in your worthless little body, I'll give you this sentiment to put in your pipe and smoke: JohnBarclay, man--if they ever be's a law agin damn fools, the first raidthe officers should make is on the colleges. And now may ye be struckblind before ye get your education and dumb if it makes a fool of ye. "And so slapping the boy on the back, Jake Dolan went down the streetwinding in and out among the brick piles and lumber and mortar boxes, whistling "Tread on the Tail of me Coat. "

For life was all so fine and gay with Lieutenant Dolan in those days. And he whistled and sang, and thought what he pleased, and said whathe pleased, and did what he pleased, and if the world didn't like it, the world could picket its horses and get out of Jacob Dolan's liverybarn. For Mr. Dolan was thinking that from the livery-stable to theoffice of sheriff is but a step in this land of the free and home ofthe brave; so he carried his head back and his chest out and invitedinsult in the fond hope of provoking assault. He was the flower of thetimes, --effulgent, rather gaudy, and mostly red!

CHAPTER V

Good times came to Sycamore Ridge in the autumn. The dam across thecreek was furnishing power for a flour-mill and a furniture factory. The endless worm of wagons that was wriggling through the towncarrying movers to the West, was sloughing many of its scales inSycamore Ridge. Martin Culpepper had been East with circularsdescribing the town and adjacent country. He had brought back threestage loads of settlers, and was selling lots in Culpepper's additionfaster than they could be surveyed. The Frye blacksmith shop hadbecome a wagon shop, and then a hardware store was added; the flagfluttered from the high flagstaff over the Exchange National Bankbuilding, and all day long farmers were going from the mill to thebank. General Philemon Ward gave up school-teaching and went back tohis law office; but he was apt to take sides with President AndrewJohnson too vigorously for his own good, and clients often avoided hisoffice in fear of an argument. Still he was cheerful, and being onlyin his early thirties, looked at the green hills afar from his pastureand was happy. The Thayer House was filled with guests, and theFernalds had money in the bank; Mary Murphy and Gabriel Carnine wereliving happily ever after, and Nellie Logan was clerking in Dorman'sDry Goods store and making Watts McHurdie understand that she had herchoice between a preacher and a drummer. Other girls in the diningroom of the Thayer House were rattling the dinner dishes and singing"Sweet Belle Mahone" and "Do you love me, Molly Darling?" to ensnarethe travelling public that might be tilted back against the veranda ina mood for romance. And as John and Bob that hot September afternoonmade the round of the stores and offices bidding the town good-by, itseemed to them that perhaps they were seizing the shadow and lettingthe substance fade. For it was such a good-natured busy little placethat their hearts were heavy at leaving it. 

But that evening John in his gorgeous necktie, his clean paper collar, his new stiff hat, his first store clothes, wearing proudly hisfather's silver watch and chain, set out to say good-by to EllenCulpepper, and his mother, standing in the doorway of their home, sighed at his limp and laughed at his strut--the first laugh she hadenjoyed in a dozen days. 

John and Bob together went up the stone walk leading across a yard, still littered with the debris of building, to the unboxed steps thatclimbed to the veranda of the Culpepper house. There they met ColonelCulpepper in his shirt-sleeves, walking up and down the verandaadmiring the tall white pillars. When he had greeted the boys, he puthis thumbs in his vest holes and continued his parade in some pomp. The boys were used to this attitude of the colonel's toward themselvesand the pillars. It always followed a hearty meal. So they satrespectfully while he marched before them, pointing occasionally, whenhe took his cigar from his mouth and a hand from his vest, to somefeature of the landscape in the sunset light that needed emphaticattention. 

"Yes, sir, young gentlemen, " expanded the colonel, "you are doing theright and proper thing--the right and proper thing. Of all theavocations of youth, I conceive the pursuit of the sombre goddess oflearning to be the most profitable--entirely the most profitable. Imyself, though a young man, --being still on the right side offorty, --have reaped the richest harvest from my labours in theclassic shades. Twenty years ago, young gentlemen, I, like you, leftmy ancestral estates to sip at the Pierian spring. In point of fact, Iattended the institution founded by Thomas Jefferson, the father ofthe American democracy--yes, sir. " He put his cigar back in his mouthand added, "Yes, sir, you are certainly taking a wise and, I may say, highly necessary step--"

Mrs. Culpepper, small, sprightly, blue-eyed, and calm, entered theveranda, and cut the colonel off with: "Good evening, boys. So you aregoing away. Well--we'll miss you. The girls will be right out. "

But the colonel would not be quenched; his fires were burning deeply. "As I was saying, Mrs. Culpepper, " he went on, "the classic trainingobtained from a liberal education such as it was my fortune--"

Mrs. Culpepper smiled blandly as she put in, "Now, pa, these boysdon't care for that. "

"But, my dear, let me finish. As I started to say: the flowers ofpoetry, Keats and his large white plumes, the contemplation ofnature's secrets, the reflective study of--"

"Yes, --here's your coat now, pa, " said the wife, returning from adive into the hall. "John, how's your ma going to get on without you?And, pa, be sure don't forget the eggs for breakfast. I declare sincewe've moved up here so far from the stores, we nearly starve. "

The colonel waited a second while a glare melted into a smile, andthen backed meekly into the arms stretched high to hold his alpacacoat. As he turned toward the group, he was beaming. "If it were not, "exclaimed the colonel, addressing the young men with a quizzicalsmile, "that there is a lady present--a very important lady in pointof fact, --I might be tempted to say, 'I will certainly be damned!'"And with that the colonel lifted Mrs. Culpepper off her feet andkissed her, then lumbered down the steps and strode away. He paused atthe gate to gaze at the valley and turned to look back at the greatunfinished house, then swung into the street and soon his hatdisappeared under the hill. 

As he went Mrs. Culpepper said, "Let them say what they will aboutMart Culpepper, I always tell the girls if they get as good a man astheir pa, they will be doing mighty well. "

Then the girls appeared bulging in hoops, and ruffles, with elbowsleeves, with a hint of their shoulders showing and with pink ribbonsin their hair. Clearly it was a state occasion. The mother beamed atthem a moment, and walked around Molly, saying, "I told you that wasall right, " and tied Ellen's hair ribbon over, while the young peoplewere chattering, and before the boys knew it, she had faded into thedusk of the hall, and the clattering of dishes came to them from therear of the house. John fancied he felt the heavy step of BuchananCulpepper, and then he heard: "Don't you talk to me, Buck Culpepper, about woman's work. You'll do what I tell you, and if I say wipedishes--" the voice was drowned by the rattle of a passing wagon. Andsoon the young people on the front porch were so busy with theiraffairs that the house behind them and its affairs dropped to anotherworld. They say, who seem to know, that when any group of boys andgirls meet under twenty-five serious years, the recording angel putsdown his pen with, a sigh and takes a needed nap. But when the grouppairs off, then Mr. Recorder pricks up his ears and works with bothhands, one busy taking what the youngsters say, and the other busywith what they would like to say. And shame be it upon the courage ofyouth that what they would like to say fills the larger book. Andmarvel of marvels, often the book that holds what the boys would sayis merely a copy of what the girls would like to hear, and so much ofthe work is saved to the angel. 

It was nine o'clock when the limping boy and the slender girl followedthe tall youth and the plump little girl down the walk from theCulpepper home through the gate and into the main road. And the couplethat walked behind took the opposite direction from that which theytook who walked ahead. Yet when John and Ellen reached the river andwere seated on the mill-dam, where the roar of the falling waterdrowned their voices, Ellen Culpepper spoke first: "That looks likethem over on the bridge. I can see Molly, and Bob's hat about threefeet above her. "

"I guess so, " returned the boy. He was reaching behind him for clodsand pebbles to toss into the white foaming flood below them. The girlreached back and got one, then another, then their hands met, and shepulled hers away and said, "Get me some stones. " He gave her ahandful, and she threw the pebbles away slowly and awkwardly, one at atime. There was a long gap in their talk while they threw the pebbles. The girl closed it with, "Ma made old Buck wipe the dishes. " Then shegiggled, "Poor Buckie. "

John managed to say, "Yes, I heard him. " Then he added, "What doesyour mother think of Bob?"

"Oh, she likes him fine. But she's glad you're all going away. "

The boy asked why and the girl returned, "Watch me hit that log. " Shethrew, and missed the water. 

"Why?" persisted the boy. 

The girl was digging in a crevice for a stone and said, "Can you getthat out?"

John worked at it a moment and handed it to her with, "Why?"

She threw it, standing up to give her arm strength. She sat down andfolded her hands and waited for another "why. " When it came she said, "Oh, you know why. " When he protested she answered, "Ma thinks Molly'stoo young. "

"Too young for what?" demanded the boy, who knew. 

"Too young to be going with boys. "

There was a long pause, then he managed to say it, "She's no youngerthan you were--nor half as old. "

"When?" returned the girl, giving him the broadside of her eyes for asecond, and letting them droop. The eyes bewitched the boy, and hecould not speak. At length the girl shivered, "It's getting cold--Imust go home. "

The boy found voice. "Aw no, Bob and Molly are still up there. "

She started to rise, he caught her hand, but she pulled it away andresigned herself for a moment. Then she looked at him a long secondand said, "Do you remember years ago at the Frye boy's party--when wewere little tots, and I chose you?"

The boy nodded his head and turned full toward her with serious eyes. He devoured her feature by feature with his gaze in the starlight. Themoon was just rising at the end of the mill-dam behind them, and itslight fell on her profile. He cried out, "Yes, Ellen, do you--doyou?"

She nodded her head and spoke quickly, "That was the time you got yourhands stuck in the taffy and had to be soaked out. "

They laughed. John tried to get the moment back. "Do you remember therubber ring I gave you?"

She grew bold and turned to him with her heart in her face:"Yes--yes, John, and the coffee-bean locket. I've got them both in alittle box at home. " Then, scampering back to her reserve, she added, "You know ma says I'm a regular rat to store things away. " She feltthat the sudden reserve chilled him, for in a minute or two she said, looking at the bridge: "They're going now. We mustn't stay but aminute. " She put her hand on the rock between them, and said, "Youremember that night when you went away before?" Before he answered shewent on: "I was counting up this afternoon, and it's six years ago. Wewere just children then. "

Again the boy found his voice: "Ellen Culpepper, we've been goingtogether seven years. Don't you think that's long enough?"

"We were just children then, " she replied. 

The boy leaned awkwardly toward her and their hands met on the rock, and he withdrew his as he asked, "Do you--do you?"

She bent toward him, and looked at him steadily as she nodded her headagain and again. She rose to go, saying, "We mustn't stay here anylonger. "

He caught her hand to stop her, and said, "Ellen--Ellen, promise mejust one thing. " She looked her question. He cried, "That you won'tforget--just that you won't forget. "

She took his hand and stood before him as he sat, hoping to stay her. She answered: "Not as long as I live, John Barclay. Oh, not as long asI live. " Then she exclaimed: "Now--" and her voice changed, "we justmust go, John; Molly's gone, and it's getting late. " She helped himlimp over the rocks and up the steep road, but when they reached thelevel, she dropped his hand, and they walked home slowly, looking backat the moon, so that they might not overtake the other couple. Once ortwice they stopped and sat on lumber piles in the street, talking ofnothing, and it was after ten o'clock when they came to the gate. Thegirl looked anxiously up the walk toward the house. "They've come andgone, " she said. She moved as if to go away. 

"I wish you wouldn't go right in, " he begged. 

"Oh--I ought to, " she replied. They were silent. The roar of thewater over the dam came to them on the evening breeze. She put out herhand. 

"Well, " he sighed as he rested his lame foot, and started, "well--good-by. "

She turned to go, and then swiftly stepped toward him, and kissed him, and ran gasping and laughing up the walk. 

The boy gazed after her a moment, wondering if he should follow her, but while he waited she was gone, and he heard her lock the door afterher. Then he limped down the road in a kind of swoon of joy. Sometimeshe tried to whistle--he tried a bar of Schubert's "Serenade, " butconsciously stopped. Again and again under his breath as loud as hedared, he called the name "Ellen" and stood gazing at the moon, andthen tried to hippety-hop, but his limp stopped that. Then he triedwhistling the "Miserere, " but he pitched it too high, and it ran out, so he sang as he turned across the commons toward home, and thathelped a little; and he opened the door of his home singing, "How canI leave thee--how can I bear to part?" The light was burning in thekitchen, and he went to his mother and kissed her. His face was aglow, and she saw what had happened to him. She put him aside with, "Run onto bed now, sonny; I've got a little work out here. " And he left her. In the sitting room only the moon gave light. He stood at the window amoment, and then turned to his melodeon. His hands fell on the majorchord of "G, " and without knowing what he was playing he began"Largo. " He played his soul into his music, and looking up, whisperedthe name "Ellen" rapturously over and over, and then as the musicmounted to its climax the whole world's mystery, and his personalthought of the meaning of life revelled through his brain, and heplayed on, not stopping at the close but wandering into he knew notwhat mazes of harmony. When his hands dropped, he was playing "TheLong and Weary Day, " and his mother was standing behind him hummingit. When he rose from the bench, she ran her fingers through his hairand spoke the words of the song, "'My lone watch keeping, ' John, 'mylone watch keeping. ' But I think it has been worth while. "

Then she left him and he went to bed, with the moon in his room, andthe murmur of waters lulling him to sleep. But he looked out into thesky a long time before his dream came, and then it slipped in gentlythrough the door of a nameless hope. For he wished to meet her in themoon that night, but when they did meet, the white veil of the fallingwaters of the dam blew across her face and he could not brush it away. For one is bold in dreams. 

A little after sunrise the next morning John rode away from hismother's door, on one of his horses, leading the other one. He wasgoing up the hill to get Bob Hendricks, and the two were to ride toLawrence. He had been promised work, carrying newspapers, and theYankee in him made him believe he could find work for the other horse. As the boy turned into Main Street waving his mother good-by, he sawthe places where he and Ellen Culpepper had stopped the night before, and they looked different some way, and he could not realize that hewas in the same street. 

As he climbed the hill, he passed General Ward, working in his flowergarden, and the man sprang over the fence and came into the road, andput his hand on the horse's bridle, saying, "Stop a minute, John: Ijust wanted to say something. " He hesitated a moment before going on:"You know back where I came from--back in New England--the name ofJohn Barclay stands for a good deal--more than you can realize, John. Your father was one of the first martyrs of our cause. I guess yourmother never has told you, but I'm going to--your father gave up abusiness career for this cause. His father was rich--very rich, andyour grandfather was set on your father going into business. " Johnlooked up the hill toward the Hendricks home, and Ward saw it, andmistook the glance for one of impatience. "Johnnie, " said the man, hisfine thin, features glowing with earnestness, "Johnnie--I wish Icould get to your heart, boy. I want to make you hear what I have tosay with your soul and not with your ears, and I know youth is sodeaf. Your grandfather was angry when your father entered the ministryand came out here. He thought it was folly. The old man offered togive fifty thousand dollars to the Kansas-Nebraska cause, and thatwould have sent a good many men out here. But your father said no. Hesaid money wouldn't win this cause. He said personal sacrifice was allthat would win it. He said men must give up themselves, not theirmoney, to make this cause win--and so he came; and there was aterrible quarrel, and that is why your mother has stayed. She hadfaith in God, too--faith that her life some way in His Providencewould prove worth something. Your father and mother, John, believed inGod--they believed in a God, not a Moloch; your father's faith hasbeen justified. The death he died was worth millions to the cause ofliberty. It stirred the whole North, as the miserable little fiftythousand dollars that Abijah Barclay offered never could have done. But your mother's sacrifice must find its justification in you. Andshe, not your father, made the final decision to give up everythingfor human freedom. She has endured poverty, Johnnie--" the man'svoice was growing tense, and his eyes were ablaze; "you know how sheworked, and if you fail her, if you do not live a consecrated life, John, your mother's life has failed. I don't mean a pious life; Godknows I hate sanctimony. But I mean a life consecrated to somepractical service, to an ideal--to some actual service to yourfellows--not money service, but personal service. Do you understand?"Ward leaned forward and looked into the boy's face. He took hold ofJohn's arm as he pleaded, "Johnnie--boy--Johnnie, do youunderstand?"

The boy answered, "Yes, General--I think I get your meaning. " Hepicked up his bridle, and Ward relaxed his hold on the boy's arm. Theman's hand dropped and he sighed, for he saw only a boy's face, andheard a boy's politeness in the voice that went on, "Thank you, General, give my love to Miss Lucy. " And the youth rode on up thehill. 

In a few minutes the boys were riding down the steep clay bank thatled to the new iron bridge across the ford of the Sycamore, and forhalf an hour they rode chattering through the wood before they cameinto the valley and soon were Climbing the bluff which they had seenthe night before from the Culpepper home. On the brow of the bluff Bobsaid, "Hold on--" He turned his horse and looked back. The sun was onthe town, and across on the opposite hill stood the colonel's bighouse with its proud pillars. No trees were about it in those days, and it and the Hendricks house stood out clearly on the horizon. Buton the top of the Culpepper home were two little figures wavinghandkerchiefs. The boys waved back, and John thought he could tellEllen from her sister, and the night and its joy came back to him, andhe was silent. 

They had ridden half an hour without speaking when Bob Hendricks said, "Awful fine girls--aren't they?"

"That's what I've always told you, " returned John. 

After another quarter of a mile Bob tried it again. "The colonel's afunny old rooster--isn't he?"

"Well, I don't know. That day at the battle of Wilson's Creek when hewalked out in front of a thousand soldiers and got a Union flag andbrought it back to the line, he didn't look very funny. But he's windyall right. "

Again, as they crossed a creek and the horses were drinking, Bob said:"Father thinks General Ward's a crank. He says Ward will keep harpingon about those war bonds, and quarrelling because the soldiers gottheir pay in paper money and the bondholders in gold, until peoplewill think every one in high places is a thief. "

"Oh, Ward's all right, " answered John. "He's just talking; he likes anargument, I guess. He's kind of built that way. "

It was a poor starved-to-death school that the boys found at Lawrencein those days; with half a dozen instructors--most of whom were stillin their twenties; with books lent by the instructors, and withappliances devised by necessity. But John was happy; he was makingmoney with his horses, doing chores for his board, and carrying papersnight and morning besides. The boy's industry was the marvel of thetown. His limp got him sympathy, and he capitalized the sympathy. Indeed, he would have capitalized his soul, if it had been necessary. For his Yankee blood was beginning to come out. Before he had been inschool a year he had swapped, traded, and saved until he had twoteams, and was working them with hired drivers on excavationcontracts. In his summer vacations he went to Topeka and worked histwo teams, and by some sharp practice got the title to a third. He wasrollicking, noisy, good-natured, but under the boyish veneer was ahard indomitable nature. He was becoming a stickler for his rights inevery transaction. 

"John, " said Bob, one day after John had cut a particularly lamentablefigure, gouging a driver in a settlement, "don't you know that yourrights are often others' wrongs?"

John was silent a moment. He looked at the driver moving away, andthen the boy's face set hard and he said: "Well--what's the use ofblubbering over him? If I don't get it, some one else will. I'm nocharitable institution for John Walruff's brewery!" And he snapped therubber band on his wallet viciously, and turned to his books. 

But on the other hand he wrote every other day to his mother and everyother day to Ellen Culpepper with unwavering precision. He told hismother the news, and he told Ellen Culpepper the news plus someEmerson, something more of "Faust, " with such dashes of Longfellow andRuskin as seemed to express his soul. He never wrote to Ellen ofmoney, and so strong was her influence upon him that when he hadwritten to her after his quarrel with the driver, he went out in thenight, hunted the man up, and paid him the disputed wages. Then hemailed Ellen Culpepper's letter, and was a lover living in an etherealworld as he walked home babbling her name in whispers to the stars. Often when this mood was not upon him, and a letter was due to Ellen, he went downstairs in the house where he lived and played the piano tobring her near to him. That never failed to change his face as by amiracle. "When John comes upstairs, " wrote Bob Hendricks to Molly, "heis as one in a dream, with the mists of the music in his eyes. I neverbother him then. He will not speak to me, nor do a thing in the world, until that letter is written, sealed, and stamped. Then he gets up, yawns and smiles sheepishly and perhaps hits me with a book or punchesme with his fist, and then we wrestle over the room and the bed likebear cubs. After the wrestle he comes back to himself. I wonder why?"

And Ellen Culpepper read those letters from John Barclay over andover, and curiously enough she understood them; for there is atelepathy between spirits that meet as these two children's souls hadmet, and in that concord words drop out and only thoughts aremerchandized. Her spirit grew with his, and so "through all the worldshe followed him. "

But there came a gray dawn of a May morning when John Barclay clutchedhis bedfellow and whispered, "Bob, Bob--look, look. " When theawakened one saw nothing, John tried to scream, but could only gasp, "Don't you see Ellen--there--there by the table?" But whatever itwas that startled him fluttered away on a beam of sunrise, and BobHendricks rose with the frightened boy, and went to his work with him. 

Two days later a letter came telling him that Ellen Culpepper wasdead. 

Now death--the vast baffling mystery of death--is Fate's strongestlever to pry men from their philosophy. And death came into this boy'slife before his creed was set and hard, and in those first days whilehe walked far afield, he turned his face to the sky in his lonelysorrow, and when he cried to Heaven there was a silence. 

So his heart curdled, and you kind gentlemen of the jury who are topass on the case of John Barclay in this story, remember that he wasonly twenty years old, and that in all his life there was nothing tosymbolize the joy of sacrifice except this young girl. All his boyishlife she had nurtured the other self in his soul, --the self thatmight have learned to give and be glad in the giving. And when shewent, he closed his Emerson and opened his Trigonometry, and put moneyin his purse. [1]

There came a time when Ellen Culpepper was to him as a dream. But shelived in her mother's eyes, and through all the years that followedthe mother watched the little girl grow to maturity and into middlelife with the other girls of her age. And even when the littleheadstone on the Hill slanted in sad neglect, Mrs. Culpepper's oldeyes still saw Ellen growing old with her playmates. And she never sawJohn Barclay that she did not think of Ellen--and and what she wouldhave made of him. 

And what would she have made of him? Maybe a poet, maybe a dreamer ofdreams--surely not the hard, grinding, rich man that he became inthis world. 

FOOTNOTE:

[1] To the Publisher. --"In returning the Mss. Of the life of John Barclay, which you sent for my verification as to certain dates and incidents, let me first set down, before discussing matters pertaining to his later life, my belief that your author has found in the death of Ellen Culpepper an incident, humble though it is, that explains much in the character of Mr. Barclay. The incident probably produced a mental shock like that of a psychological earthquake, literally sealing up the spring of his life as it was flowing into consciousness at that time, and the John Barclay of his boyhood and youth became subterranean, to appear later in life after the weakening of his virility under the strain of the crushing events of his fifties. Yet the subterranean Barclay often appeared for a moment in his life, glowed in some kind act and sank again. Ellen Culpepper explains it all. How many of our lives are similarly divided, forced upward or downward by events, Heaven only knows. We do not know our own souls. I am sure John never knew of the transformation. Surely 'we are fearfully and wonderfully made. '... The other dates and incidents are as I have indicated.... Allow me to thank you for your kindness in sending me the Mss. , and permit me to subscribe myself, "Yours faithfully, "Philemon R. Ward. "

CHAPTER VI

John Barclay returned to Sycamore Ridge in 1872 a full-fledged youngman. He was of a slight build and rather pale of face, for five yearsindoors had rubbed the sunburn off. During the five years he had beenabsent from Sycamore Ridge he had acquired a master's degree from thestate university, and a license to practise law. He was distinctlydapper, in the black and white checked trousers, the flowered cravat, and tight-fitting coat of the period; and the first Monday after heand his mother went to the Congregational Church, whereat John let outhis baritone voice, he was invited to sing in the choir. Bob Hendrickscame home a year before John, and with Bob and Watts McHurdie singingtenor at one end of the choir, and John and Philemon Ward holding downthe other end of the line, with Mrs. Ward, Nellie Logan, MollyCulpepper, and Jane Mason of Minneola, --grown up out of short dressesin his absence, --all in gay colours between the sombre clothes of themen, the choir in the Congregational Church was worth going miles tosee--if not to hear. 

Now you know, of course, --or if you do not know, it is high time youwere learning, --that when Fate gives a man who can sing a head ofcurly hair, the devil, who is after us all, quits worrying about thatyoung person. For the Old Boy knows that a voice and curly hair aremortgages on a young man's soul that few young fellows ever pay off. Now there was neither curly head nor music in all the Barclay tribe, and when John sang "Through the trees the night winds murmur, murmurlow and sweet, " his mother could shut her eyes and hear Uncle Leander, the black sheep of three generations of Thatchers. So that the factthat John had something over a thousand dollars to put in GeneralHendricks' bank, and owned half a dozen town lots in the variousadditions to the town, made the mother thankful for the GrandfatherBarclay's blood in him. But she saw a soul growing into the boy's facethat frightened her. What others admired as strength she feared, forshe knew it was ruthlessness. What others called shrewdness she, remembering his Grandfather Barclay, knew might grow into blind, cruelgreed, and when she thought of his voice and his curly hair, andrecalled Uncle Leander, the curly-headed, singing ne'er-do-well of herfamily, and then in the boy's hardening mouth and his canine jaw sawGrandfather Barclay sneering at her, she was uncertain which blood shefeared most. So she managed it that John should go into partnershipwith General Ward, and Bob Hendricks managed it that the firm shouldhave offices over the bank, and also that the firm was made attorneysfor the bank, --the highest mark of distinction that may come to a lawfirm in a country town. The general realized it and was proud. But hethought the young man took it too much as a matter of course. 

"John, " said the general, one day, as they were dividing their firstfive-hundred-dollar fee, "you're a lucky dog. Everything comes soeasily with you. Let me tell you something; I've figured this out: ifyou don't give it back some way--give it back to the world, orsociety, or your fellows, --or God, if you like to bunch your goodluck under one head, --you're surely going to suffer for it. There isno come-easy-go-easy in this world. I've learned that much of thescheme of things. "

"You mean that I've got to pay as I go, or Providence will keep bookson me and foreclose?" asked John, as he stood patting the roll ofbills in his trousers pocket. 

"That's the idea, son, " smiled the elder man. 

The younger man put his hand to his chin and grinned. "I suppose, " hereplied, "that's why so many men keep the title to their religiousproclivities in their wife's name. " He went out gayly, and the elderman heard the boyish limp almost tripping down the stairs. Ward walkedto the window, straightening his white tie, and stood looking into thestreet at the young man shaking hands and bowing and raising his hatas he went. Ward's hair was graying at the temples, and his thinsmooth face was that of a man who spends many hours considering manythings, and he sighed as he saw John turn a corner and disappear. 

"No, Lucy, that's not it exactly, " said the general that afternoon, ashe brought the sprinkler full of water to the flower bed for theeighth time, and picketed little Harriet Beecher Ward out of thewatermelon patch, and wheeled the baby's buggy to the four-o'clocks, where Mrs. Ward was working. "It isn't that he is conceited--the boyisn't that at all. He just seems to have too little faith in God andtoo much in the ability of John Barclay. He thinks he can beat thegame--can take out more happiness for himself than he puts in forothers. "

The wife looked up and put back her sunbonnet as she said, "Yes, Ibelieve his mother thinks something of the kind. "

One of the things that surprised John when he came home from theuniversity was the prominence of Lige Bemis in the town. When Johnleft Sycamore Ridge to go to school, Bemis was a drunken sign-paintermarried to a woman who a few years before had been the scandal of halfa dozen communities. And now though Mrs. Bemis was still queen only ofthe miserable unpainted Bemis domicile in the sunflowers at the edgeof town, Lige Bemis politically was a potentate of some power. GeneralHendricks consulted Bemis about politics. Often he was found in theback room of the bank, and Colonel Culpepper, although he was anunterrified Democrat, in his campaign speeches referred to Bemis as "adiamond in the rough. " John was sitting on a roll of leather one dayin Watts McHurdie's shop talking of old times when Watts recalled thebattle of Sycamore Ridge, and the time when Bemis came to town withthe Red Legs and frightened Mrs. Barclay. 

"Yes--and now look at him, " exclaimed John, "dressed up like agambler, and referred to in the _Banner_ as 'Hon. E. W. Bemis'! Howdid he do it?"

McHurdie sewed two or three long stitches in silence. He leaned overfrom his bench to throw his tobacco quid in the sawdust box under therusty stove, then the little man scraped his fuzzy jaw reflectivelywith his blackened hand as if about to speak, but he thought better ofit and waxed his thread. He showed his yellow teeth in a smile, andmotioned John to come closer. Then he put his head forward, andwhispered confidentially:--

"What'd you ruther do or go a-fishing?"

"But why?" persisted the young man. 

"Widder who?" returned Watts, grinning and putting his hand to hisear. 

When John repeated his question the third time, McHurdie said:--

"I know a way you can get rich mighty quick, sonny. " And when the boyrefused to "bite, " Watts went on: "If any one asks you what WattsMcHurdie thinks about politics so long as he is in the harnessbusiness, you just take the fellow upstairs, and pull down thecurtain, and lock the door, and tell him you don't know, and not totell a living soul. "

With Bob Hendricks, John had little better success in solving themystery of the rise of Bemis. "Father says he's effective, and hewould rather have him for him than against him, " was the extent ofBob's explanation. 

Ward's answer was more to the point. He said: "Lige Bemis is a livingexample of the power of soft soap in politics. We know--every man inthis county knows--that Lige Bemis was a horse thief before the war, and that he was a cattle thief and a camp-follower during the war; andafter the war we know what he was--he and the woman he took up with. Yet here he has been a member of the legislature and is beginning tobe a figure in state politics, --at least the one to whom the governorand all the fellows write when they want information about thiscounty. Why? I'll tell you: because he's committed every crime andcan't denounce one and goes about the country extenuating things andoiling people up with his palaver. Now he says he is a lawyer--yes, sir, actually claims to be a lawyer, and brought his diploma intocourt two years ago, and they accepted it. But I know, and the courtknows, and the bar knows it was forged; it belonged to his deadbrother back in Hornellsville, New York. But Hendricks downstairs saidwe needed Lige in the county-seat case, so he is a member of the bar, taking one hundred per cent for collecting accounts for Easternpeople, and giving the country a black eye. A man told me he was onover fifty notes for people at the bank; he signs with every one, andHendricks never bothers him. He managed to get into all the lodges, right after the war when they were reorganized, and he sits up withthe sick, and is pall-bearer--regular professional pall-bearer, and Idon't doubt gets a commission for selling coffins from Livingston. "Ward rose from the table his full six feet and put his hands in hispocket and stretched his legs as he added, "And when you think howmany Bemises in the first, second, or third degree there are in thisgovernment, you wonder if the Democrats weren't right when theydeclared the war was a failure. "

The general spoke as he did to John partly in anger and partly becausehe thought the youth needed the lesson he was trying to implant. "Youknow, Martin, " explained the general, a few days later, to ColonelCulpepper, "John has come home a Barclay--not a Barclay of hisfather's stripe. He has taken back, as they say. It's oldAbijah--with the mouth and jaw of a wolf. I caught him palaveringwith a juror the other day while we had a case trying. "

The colonel rested his hands on his knees a moment in meditation andsmiled as he replied: "Still, there's his mother, General. Don't everforget that the boy's mother is Mary Barclay; she has bred most of thewolf out of him. And in the end her blood will tell. "

And now observe John Barclay laying the footing stones of his fortune. He put every dollar he could get into town lots, paying for all hebought and avoiding mortgages. Also he joined Colonel Culpepper inputting the College Heights upon the market. "For what, " explained thecolonel, when the propriety of using the name for his addition wasquestioned, when no college was there nor any prospect of a collegefor years to come--"what is plainer to the prophetic eye than thattime will bring to this magnificent city an institution of learningworthy of our hopes? I have noticed, " added the colonel, waving hiscigar broadly about him, "that learning is a shy goddess; she has tobe coaxed--hence on these empyrean heights we have provided for aseat of learning; therefore College Heights. Look at the splendidvista, the entrancing view, in point of fact. " It was the large whiteplumes dancing in the colonel's prophetic eyes. So it happened thatmore real estate buyers than clients came to the office of Ward andBarclay. But as the general that fall had been out of the officerunning for Congress on the Greeley ticket, still protesting againstthe crime of paying the soldiers in paper and the bondholders in gold, he did not miss the clients, and as John saw to it that there wasenough law business to keep Mrs. Ward going, the general returned fromthe canvass overwhelmingly beaten, but not in the least dismayed; andas Jake Dolan put it, "The general had his say and the people hadtheir choice--so both are happy. "

As the winter deepened John and Colonel Culpepper planted five hundredelm trees on the campus on College Heights, lining three broad avenuesleading from the town to the campus with the trees. John rode into thewoods and picked the trees, and saw that each one was properly set. And the colonel noticed that the finest trees were on Ellen Avenue andspoke of it to Mrs. Culpepper, who only said, "Yes, pa--that's justlike him. " And the colonel looked puzzled. And when the colonel added, "They say he is shining up to that Mason girl from Minneola, thatcomes here with Molly, " his wife returned, "Yes, I expected thatsooner than now. " The colonel gave the subject up. The ways of womenwere past his finding out. But Mrs. Culpepper had heard Jane Masonsing a duet in church with John Barclay, and the elder woman had heardin the big contralto voice of the girl something not meant for thepreacher. And Mrs. Culpepper heard John answer it, so she knew what hedid not know, what Jane Mason did not know, and what only MollyCulpepper suspected, and Bob Hendricks scoffed at. 

As for John, he said to Bob: "I know why you always want me to go overwith you and Molly to get the Mason girl--by cracky, I'm the onlyfellow in town that will let you and Molly have the back seat cominghome without a fuss! No, Robbie--you don't fool your Uncle John. " Andso when there was to be special music at the church, or when any othermusical event was expected, John and Bob would get a two-seated buggy, and drive to Minneola and bring the soloist back with them. And therewould be dances and parties, and coming from Minneola and going backthere would be much singing. "The fox is on the hill, I hear himcalling still, " was a favourite, but "Come where the lilies bloom"rent the midnight air between the rival towns many times that winterand spring of '73. And never once did John try to get the back seat. But there came a time when Bob Hendricks told him that Molly told himthat Jane had said that Molly and Bob were pigs--never to do any ofthe driving. And the next time there was a trip to Minneola, John saidas the young people were seated comfortably for the return trip, "Molly, I heard you said that I was a pig to do all the driving, andnot let you and Bob have a chance. Was that true?"

"No--but do you want to know who did say it?" answered Molly, andJane Mason looked straight ahead and cut in with, "Molly Culpepper, ifyou say another word, I'll never speak to you as long as I live. " Butshe glanced down at Barclay, who caught her eye and saw the smile shewas swallowing, and he cried: "I don't believe you ever said it, Molly, --it must have been some one else. " And when they had all hadtheir say, --all but Jane Mason, --John saw that she was crying, andthe others had to sing for ten minutes without her, before they couldcoax away her temper. And crafty as he was, he did not know it wastemper--he thought it was something entirely different. 

For the craft of youth always is clumsy. The business of youth is tofight and to mate. Wherever there is young blood, there is "boot andhorse, " and John Barclay in his early twenties felt in him the callfor combat. It came with the events that were forming about him. Forthe war between the states had left the men restless and unsatisfiedwho had come into the plain to make their homes. They had heard andfollowed in their youth the call John Barclay was hearing, and afterthe war was over, they were still impatient with the obstacles theyfound in their paths. So Sycamore Ridge and Minneola, being rivaltowns, had to fight. The men who made these towns knew no bettersettlement than the settlement by force. And even during his first sixmonths at home from school, when John sniffed the battle from afar, hewas glad in his soul that the fight was coming. Sycamore Ridge had thecounty-seat; but Minneola, having a majority of the votes in thecounty, was trying to get the county-seat, and the situation grew soserious for Sycamore Ridge that General Hendricks felt it necessary todefeat Philemon Ward for the state senate so that Sycamore Ridge couldget a law passed that would prevent Minneola's majority from changingthe county-seat. This was done by a law which Hendricks secured, giving the county commissioners the right to build a court-house bydirect levy, without a vote of the people, --a court-house so largethat it would settle the county-seat matter out of hand. 

The general, however, took no chances even with his commissioners. Forhe had his son elected as one, and with the knowledge that John wasinvesting in real estate in the Ridge and had an eye for the mainchance, the general picked John for the other commissioner. The placewas on the firing-line of the battle, and John took it almostgreedily. As the spring of '73 opened, there were alarms and rumoursof strife on every breeze, and youth was happy and breathed the fightinto its nostrils like a balsam. For all the world of Sycamore Ridgewas young then, and all the trees were green in the eyes of the menwho kept up the town. Each town had its hired desperadoes, and therewere pickets about each village, and drills in the streets of the twotowns, and a martial spirit all over the county. And as John limpedabout his tasks in those stirring spring days, he felt that he wascoming into his own. But it was all a curious mock combat, --thatbetween the towns, --for though the pickets drilled, and the bad menswaggered on the streets, and the bullies roared their anathemas, thesocial relations between the towns were not seriously disturbed. Youths and maidens came from Minneola to the Ridge for parties anddances, and from the Ridge young men went to Minneola to weddings andfestivals of a social nature unmolested, for it takes a real war--andsometimes more than that--to put a bar across the mating ground ofyouth. So Bob and Molly and John drove to Minneola time and again forJane Mason, and other boys and girls came and went from town to town, while the bitterness and the bickering and the mimic war between therival communities went on. 

Dolan was made sheriff, and Bemis county attorney, and with those twoofficers and a majority of the county commissioners the Ridge had theforces of administration with her. And so one night Minneola came withher wrinkled front of war; viz. , forty fighting men under GabrielCarnine and an ox team, prepared to take the county records by forceand haul them home by main strength. But Lycurgus Mason, whose wifehad locked him in the cellar that night to keep him from danger, wasthe cackling goose that saved Rome; for when, having escaped hiswife's vigilance, he came riding down the wind from Minneola to catchup with his fellow-townsmen, his clatter aroused the men of the Ridge, and they hurried to the court-house and greeted the invaders with halfa thousand armed men in the court-house yard. And in a crisis wherecraft and cunning would not help him, courage came out of JohnBarclay's soul for the first time and into his life as he limpedthrough the guns into the open to explain to the men from Minneolawhen they finally arrived that Lycurgus Mason had not betrayed them, but had rushed into the town, thinking his friends were there ahead ofhim. It was a plucky thing for John to do, considering that his deathwould stop the making of the levy for the court-house that was to berecorded in a few days. But the young man's blood tingled with joy ashe jumped the court-house fence and went back to his men. There wassomething like a smile from Jane Mason in his joy, but chiefly it wasthe joy that youth has in daring, that thrilled him. And the next day, or perhaps it was the next, --at any rate, it was a Sunday late inJune, --when an armed posse from Minneola came charging down on thetown at noon, John ran from his office unseen, over the roofs ofbuildings upon which as a boy he had romped, and ducking through asecond-story window in Frye's store, got two kegs of powder, ran outof the back door, under the exposed piling supporting the building, put the two kegs of powder in a wooden culvert under the ammunitionwagons of the Minneola men, who were battling with the town in thestreet, and taking a long fuse in his teeth, crawled back to thealley, lit the fuse, and ran into the street to look into the revolverof J. Lord Lee--late of the Red Legs--and warn him to run or beblown up with the wagons. And when the explosion came, knocking himsenseless, he woke up a hero, with the town bending over him, andMinneola's forces gone. 

And so John and the town had their fling together. And we who sitamong our books or by our fire--or if not that by our iron radiatorexuding its pleasance and comfort--should not sniff at that day whenblood pulsed quicker and joy was keener, and life was more vivid thanit is to-day. 

Thirty-five years later--in August, 1908, to be exact--the general, in his late seventies, sat in McHurdie's harness shop while the poetworked at his bench. On the floor beside the general was thehistorical edition of the Sycamore Ridge _Banner_--rather anelaborate affair, printed on glossy paper and bedecked with manyphotogravures of old scenes and old faces. A page of the paper wasdevoted to the County Seat War of '73. The general had furnished thematerial for most of the article, --though he would not do thewriting, --and he held the sheet with the story upon it in his hand. As he read it in the light of that later day, it seemed a sordid storyof chicanery and violence--the sort of an episode that one wouldexpect to find following a great war. The general read and reread theold story of the defeat of Minneola, and folded his paper and rolledit into a wand with which he conjured up his spirit of philosophy. "Heigh-ho, " he sighed. "We don't know much, do we?"

McHurdie made no reply. He bent closely over his work, and the generalwent on: "I was mighty mad when Hendricks defeated me for the statesenate in '72, just to get that law passed cheating Minneola out of afair vote on the court-house question. But it's come out all right. "

The harness maker sewed on, and the general reflected. Finally thelittle man at the bench turned his big dimmed eyes on his visitor, andasked, "Did you think, General, that you knew more than the Lord aboutmaking things come out right?" There was no reply and McHurdiecontinued, "Well, you don't--I've got that settled in my mind. "

There was silence for a time, and Ward kept beating his leg with thepaper wand in his hand. "Watts, " said the general, finally, "I knowwhat it was--it was youth. John Barclay had to go through thatperiod. He had to fight and wrangle and grapple with life as he did. Do you remember that night the Minneola fellows came up with their oxteam and their band of killers to take the county records--" andthere was more of it--the old story of the town's wild days that neednot be recorded, and in the end, in answer to some query from thegeneral on John's courage, Watts replied, "John was always a boldlittle fice--he never lacked brass. "

"Was he going with Jane Mason then, Watts, --I forget?" queried thegeneral. 

"Yes--yes, " replied McHurdie. "Don't you remember that very nextnight she sang in the choir--well, John had brought her over fromMinneola two days before, and that Sunday when the little devil wentin the culvert across Main Street and blew up the Minneola wagons, Jane was in town that day--I remember that; and man--man--I heardher voice say things to him in the duet that night that she would havebeen ashamed to put in words. "

The two old men were silent. "That was youth, too, Watts, --fightingand loving, and loving and fighting, --that's youth, " sighed thegeneral. 

"Well, Johnnie got his belly full of it in his day, as old Shakespearesays, Phil--and in your day you had yours, too. Every dog, General--every dog--you know. " The two voices were silent, as twoold men looked back through the years. 

McHurdie put the strap he was working upon in the water, and turnedwith his spectacles in his hands to his comrade. "Maybe it's this way:with a man, it's fighting and loving before we get any sense; and witha town it's the same way, and I guess with the race it's the sameway--fighting and loving and growing sensible after it's over. Maybeso--maybe so, Phil, comrade, but man, man, " he said as he climbed onhis bench, "it's fine to be a fool!"

CHAPTER VII

In Sycamore Ridge every one knows Watts McHurdie, and every one takespride in the fact that far and wide the Ridge is known as WattsMcHurdie's town, and this too in spite of the fact that from SycamoreRidge Bob Hendricks gained his national reputation as a reformer andthe further fact that when the Barclays went to New York or Chicago orto California for the winter in their private car, they alwaysregistered from Sycamore Ridge at the great hotels. One would thinkthat the town would be known more as Hendricks' town or Barclay'stown; but no--nothing of the kind has happened, and when the rich andthe great go forth from the Ridge, people say: "Oh, yes, SycamoreRidge--that's Watts McHurdie's town, who wrote--" but people fromthe Ridge let the inquirers get no farther; they say: "Exactly--it'sWatts McHurdie's town--and you ought to see him ride in the openhack with the proprietor of a circus when it comes to the Ridge andall the bands and the calliope are playing Watts' song. The way thepeople cheer shows that it is really Watts McHurdie's town. " So whenColonel Martin Culpepper wrote the "Biography of Watts McHurdie" whichwas published together with McHurdie's "Complete Poetical andPhilosophical Works, " there was naturally much discussion, and thetown was more or less divided as to what part of the book was thebest. But the old settlers, --those who, during the drouth of '60, atemince pies with pumpkins as the fruit and rabbit meat as the fillingand New Orleans black-strap as the sweetening, the old settlers whoknew Watts before he became famous, --they like best of all thechapters in the colonel's Biography the one entitled "At Hymen'sAltar. " And here is a curious thing about it: in that chapter there isreally less of Watts and considerably more of Colonel Martin Culpepperthan in any other chapter. 

But the newcomers, those who came in the prosperous days of the 70'sor 80's, never could understand the partiality of the old settlers forthe "Hymen's Altar" chapter. Lycurgus Mason also always took the viewthat the "Hymen" chapter was drivel. 

"Now, John, be sensible--" Lycurgus insisted one night in 1903 whenthe two were eating supper in Barclay's private car on a side-track inArizona; "don't be like my wife--she always drools over that chapter, too. But you know my wife--" Lycurgus always referred to Mrs. Masonwith a grand gesture as to his dog or his horse, which were especiallydesirable chattels. "My wife, --it's just like a woman, --she sits andreads that, and laughs and weeps, and giggles and sniffs, and I say, 'What's the matter with you, anyway?'"

John Barclay pushed a button. To the porter he said, "Bring me thatlittle red book in my satchel. " The book had been published but a fewweeks, and John always carried a copy around with him in those days togive to a friend. When the porter brought the book, Barclay readaloud, "Ah, truly hath the poet said, 'Marriages are made in heaven. '"

But Lycurgus Mason pulled his napkin from under his chin and movedback from the table, dusting the crumbs from his obviously Sundayclothes. "There you go--that's it; 'as the poet says. ' John, if youheard that 'as the poet says' as often as I do--" He could not finishthe figure. But he sniffed out his disgust with "as the poet says. ""It wasn't so bad when we were in the hotel, and she was busy withsomething else. But now--but now--" he repeated it the third time, "but now--honest, every time that woman goes to get up a paper forthe Hypatia Club, she gets me in the parlour, and rehearses it to me, and the dad-binged thing is simply packed full of 'as the poetsayses. ' And about that marriages being made in heaven, I tell my wifethis: I say, 'Maybe so, but if they are, I know one that was made on abusy day when the angels were thinking of something else. '"

And John Barclay, who knew Mrs. Mason and knew Lycurgus, knew that hewould as soon think of throwing a bomb at the President as to say sucha thing to her; so John asked credulously: "You did? Well, well! Say, what did she say to that?"

"That's it--" responded Lycurgus. "That's it. What could she say? Ihad her. " He walked the length of the room proudly, with his handsthrust into his pockets. 

Barclay moved his chair to the rear of the car, where he sat smokingand looking into the clear star-lit heavens above the desert. And hismind went back thirty years to the twilight in June after he had setoff the powder keg in the culvert under Main Street in Sycamore Ridge, and he tried to remember how Jane Mason got over from Minneola--didhe bring her over the day before, or was she visiting at theCulpeppers', or did she come over that day? It puzzled him, but heremembered well that in the Congregational choir he and Jane sang aduet in an anthem, "He giveth his beloved sleep. " And he hummed theold aria, a rather melancholy tune, as he sat on the car platform inArizona that night, and her voice came back--a deep sweet contraltothat took "G" below middle "C" as clearly as a tenor, and in her lowerregister there was a passion and a fire that did not blaze in thehigher notes. For those notes were merely girlish and untrained. ThatJune night in '73 was the first night that he and Jane Mason ever hadlagged behind as they walked up the hill with Bob and Molly. And whatcurious things stick in the memory! The man on the rear of the carremembered that as they left the business part of Main Street behindand walked up the hill, they came to a narrow cross-walk, a singlestone in width, and that they tried to walk upon it together, and thathis limp made him jostle her, and she said, "We mustn't do that. "

"What?" he inquired. 

"Oh--you know--walk on one stone. You know what it's a sign of. "

"Do you believe in signs?" he asked. She kept hold of his arm, andkept him from leaving the stone. She was taller than he by a head, andhe hated himself for it. They managed to keep together until theycrossed the street and came into the broader walk. Then she drew arelieved breath and answered: "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I do. " Theywere lagging far behind their friends, and the girl hummed a tune, then she said, "You know I've always believed in my 'Star light--starbright--first star I've seen to-night, ' just as I believe in myprayers. " And she looked up and said, "Oh, I haven't said it yet. " Shepicked out her star and said the rhyme, closing with, "I wish I may, Iwish I might, have the wish I wish to-night. "

And sitting on the car end in Arizona thirty years after, he tried tofind her star in the firmament above him. He was a man in his fiftiesthen, and the night she showed him her star was more than thirty yearsgone by. But he remembered. We are curious creatures, we men, and weremember much more than we pretend to. For our mothers in many caseswere women, and we take after them. 

As Barclay stood in the door of his car debating whether or not to goin, the light from the chimney of the sawmill on the hill attractedhis attention, and because he was in a mood for it, the flying sparkstrailing across the night sky reminded him of the fireworks thatFourth of July in 1873, when he and Jane Mason and Bob and Molly spentthe day together, picnicking down in the timber and coming home todance on the platform under the cottonwood-bough pavilion in theevening. It was a riotous day, and Bob and Molly being lovers of longacceptance assumed a paternal attitude to John and Jane that wascharming in the main, but sometimes embarrassing. And of all thechatter he only remembered that Jane said: "Think how many years theseold woods have been here--how many hundred years--maybe when themound-builders were here! Don't you suppose that they are used to--toyoung people--oh, maybe Indian lovers, and all that, and don't yousuppose the trees see these young people loving and marrying, andgrowing old and ugly and unhappy, and that they some way feel thatthey are just a little tired of it all?"

If any one replied to her, he had no recollection of it, for afterthat he saw the dance and heard the music, and then events seemed toslip along without registering in his memory. There must have been thefifth and the sixth of July in 1873, for certainly there was theseventh, and that was Sunday; he remembered that well enough, for inthe morning there was a council in his office to discuss ways andmeans for the week's work in the county-seat trouble. Tuesday was theday which the new law designated as the one when the levy must be madefor the court-house improvements that would hold the county-seat inSycamore Ridge. At four o'clock, after the Sunday council, John andBob drove out of Sheriff Jake Dolan's stable with his best two-seatedbuggy, and told him they would be back from Minneola at midnight orthereabout after taking Jane Mason home, and the two boys drove downMain Street with the girls, waving to every one with their hats, whilethe girls waved their parasols, and the town smiled; for though allthe world loves a lover, in Sycamore Ridge it has been the custom, since the days when Philemon Ward first took Miss Lucy out to drive, for all the town to jeer at lovers as they pass down street in buggiesand carriages! And so thirty years slipped from Barclay as he stood inthe doorway of his car looking at the Arizona stars. A flicker oflight high up in the sky-line seemed to move. It was the headlight ofa train coming over the mountain. A switchman with a lantern waspassing near the car, and Barclay called to him, "Is that headlightNo. 2?" And when the man affirmed Barclay's theory, he asked, "Howlong does it take it to get down here?"

"Oh, she comes a-humming, " replied the man. "If she doesn't jump thetrack, she'll be down in eight minutes. "

Inside the car Barclay heard a watch snap, and knew that LycurgusMason didn't believe anything of the kind and proposed to get at thefacts. So Barclay sat down on the platform; but his mind went back tothe old days, and the ride through the woods along the Sycamore thatSunday night in July came to him, with all its fragrance and stillnessand sweetness. He recalled that they came into the prairie just as themeadow-lark was crying its last plaintive twilight trill, and thewestern sky was glowing with a rim of gold upon the tips of theclouds. The beauty of the prairie and the sky and the calm of theevening entered into their hearts, and they were silent. Then theyleft the prairie and went into the woods again, on the river road. Andbefore they came out of that road into the upland, Fate turned a screwthat changed the lives of all of them. For in a turn of the road, in adeep cut made by a ravine, Gabriel Carnine, making the last stand forMinneola, stepped into the path and took the horses by the bridles. The shock that John felt that night when he realized what had happenedcame back even across the years. And as the headlight far up in themountain above the desert slipped into a tunnel, though it flashed outagain in a few seconds, while it was gone, all the details of thekidnapping of the young people in the buggy hurried across his mind. Even the old anxiety that he felt lest Sycamore Ridge would think hima traitor to their cause, when they should find that he was not thereto sign the tax levy and save the court-house and the county-seat, came back to him as he gazed at the mountain, waiting for theheadlight, and he remembered how he made a paper trail of torn bitsfrom a Congregational hymn-book, left in Bob's pocket from the morningservice, dropping the bits under the buggy wheels in the dust so thatthe men from the Ridge would see the trail and follow the captives. Inhis memory he saw Jake Dolan, who had followed the trail where it ledto Carnine's farm, come stumbling into the farm-house Tuesday wherethey were hidden, and John, in memory, heard Jake whisper that he hadleft his dog with the rescuing party to lead the rescuers to him if hewas on the right trail and did not return. 

And then as Barclay's mind went back to the long Tuesday, when heshould have been at the Ridge to sign the tax levy, the headlightflashed out of the tunnel. But these were fading pictures. The oneimage that was in his mind--clear through all the years--was of awood and a tree, --a great, spreading, low-boughed elm, near Carnine'shouse where the young people were held prisoners, and Jane Masonsitting with her back against the tree, and lying on the dry grass ather feet his own slight figure; sometimes he was looking up at herover his brow, and sometimes his head rested on the roots of the treebeside her, and she looked down at him and they talked, and no one wasnear. For through youth into middle life, and into the dawn of oldage, That Day was marked in his life. The day of the month--he forgotwhich it was. The day of the week--that also left him, and there camea time when he had to figure back to recall the year; but for allthat, there was a radiance in his life, an hour of calm joy that neverleft him, and he called it only--That Day. That Day is in everyheart; in yours, my dear fat Mr. Jones, and in yours, my good dried-upMrs. Smith; and in yours, Mrs. Goodman, and in yours, Mr. Badman;maybe it is upon the sea, or in the woods, or among the noises of somegreat city--but it is That Day. And no other day of all the thousandsthat have come to you is like it. 

Why should he remember the ugly farm-yard, the hard faces of the men, the straw-covered frame they called a barn, and the unpainted house?All these things passed by him unrecorded, as did the miserable fareof the table, the hard bed at night, and the worry that must havegnawed at his nerves to know that perhaps the town was thinking himfalse to it, or that his mother, guessing the truth, was in pain withterror, or to feel that a rescuing party coming at the wrong timewould bring on a fight in which the girls would be killed. Only thepicture of Jane Mason, fine and lithe and strong, with the pink cheeksof twenty, and the soft curves of childhood still playing about herchin and throat as he saw it from the ground at her feet, --thatpicture was etched into his heart, and with it the recollection of hereyes when she said, "John, --you don't think I--I knew ofthis--beforehand, do you?" Just that sentence--those were the onlywords left in his memory of a day's happiness. And he never heard alocust whirring in a tree that it did not bring back the memory of thespreading tree and the touch--the soft, quick, shy touch of herfingers in his hair, and the fire that was in her eyes. 

It was in the dusk of Tuesday evening that Jake Dolan's dog came intothe yard where the captives were, and Jake disowned him, and joinedthe men who stoned the faithful creature out to the main road. But theprisoners knew that their rescuers would follow the dog, so at supperthe three men from the Ridge sat together on a bench at the tablewhile Mrs. Carnine and the girls waited on the men--after the fashionof country places in those days. Dolan managed to say under his breathto Barclay, "It's all right--but the girls must stay in the houseto-night. " And John knew that if he and Bob escaped with horses beforeten o'clock, they could reach the Ridge in time to sign the levybefore midnight. Darkness fell at eight, and a screech-owl in the woodcomplained to the night. Dolan rose and stretched and yawned, and thenbegan to talk of going to bed, and Gabriel Carnine, whose turn it wasto sleep because he had been up two nights, shuffled off to thestraw-covered stable to lie down with the Texan who was his bunk mate, leaving half a dozen men to guard the prisoners. An hour later thescreech-owl in the wood murmured again, this time much closer, andDolan rose and took off his hat and threw it in the straw beside him. He was looking at the time anxiously toward the wood. But the nextmoment from behind the barn in the opposite direction somethingattracted them. It was a glare of light, and the guards noticed it atthe same time. A last year's straw stack next to the barn was afire. Jane Mason was standing in the back door of the house, and in thehurried blur of moving events John divined that she had slipped outand fired the stack. In an instant there was confusion. The men wereon their feet. They must fight fire, or the barn would go. Dolan ranwith the men to the straw stack. "We'll help you, " he cried. "I'llwake Gabe. " There was hurrrying for water pails. The women appeared, crying shrilly, and in the glare that reddened the sky the yardseemed, full of mad men racing heedlessly. 

"John, " whispered Jane, coming up to him as he drew water from thewell, "let me do this. There are two horses in the pasture. You andBob go--fly--fly. " The Texan came running from the barn, which wasbeginning to blaze. Dolan and Carnine still were in it. Then from thewood back of the camp fifty men appeared, riding at a gallop. LigeBemis and General Ward rode in front of the troop of horsemen. Carninewas still in the burning barn asleep, and there was no leader to givecommand to the dazed guards. Ward and Bemis ran up, motioning the menback, and Ward cried, "Shall we help you save your stock and barn, ormust we fight?" It was addressed to the crowd, but before they couldanswer, Dolan stumbled out of the barn through the smoke and flamescrying, "Boys, --boys, --I can't find him. " He saw the rescuing partyand shouted, "Boys, --Gabe's in there asleep and I can't find him. "The wind had suddenly veered, and the crackling flames had reached thestraw roof of the barn. The fire was gaining headway, and the threebuckets that were coming from the well had no effect on it. As thelast horse was pulled out of the door, one side of the straw wall ofthe barn fell away on fire and showed Gabriel Carnine sleeping not tenfeet from the flames. Lige Bemis soused his handkerchief in water, tied it over his mouth, and ran in. He grabbed the sleeping man anddragged him through, the flames; but both were afire as they came intothe open. 

Now in this story Elijah Westlake Bemis is not shown often in a heroiclight. Yet he had in his being the making of a hero, for he was brave. And heroism, after all, is only effective reliance on some virtue in acrisis, in spite of temptations to do the easy excusable thing. Andwhen Lige Bemis sneaks through this story in unlovely guise, rememberthat he has a virtue that once exalted even him. 

"Gabe Carnine, " said Ward, as the barn fell and there was nothing moreto fear, "we didn't fire your haystack; I give you my word on that. But we are going to take these boys home now. And you better let usalone. "

That John Barclay remembered, and then he remembered being in thefront yard of the farm-house a moment--alone with Jane Mason, hisbridle rein over his arm. Her hair was down, and she looked wild andbeautiful. The straw was still burning back of the house, and the glowwas everywhere. He always remembered that she held his hand and wouldnot let him go, and there two memories are different; for she alwaysmaintained that he did, right there and then, and he recollected thatas he mounted his horse he tried to kiss her and failed. Perhaps bothare right--who knows? But both agree that as he sat there an instanton his horse, she threw kisses at him and he threw them back. And whenthe men rode away, she stood in the road, and he could see her in thelight of the waning fire, and thirty years passed and still he sawher. 

As the headlight of the train lit up the cinder yard, and brought theglint of the rails out of the darkness, John Barclay, a thousand milesaway and thirty years after, fancied he could see her there in therailroad yards beside him waving her hands at him, smiling at him withthe new-found joy in her face. For there is no difference betweenfifty-three and twenty-three when men are in love, and if they are inlove with the same woman in both years, her face will never change, her smile will always seem the same. And to John Barclay there on therear platform of the car, with the crash of the great train in hisears, the same face looked out of the night at him that he saw back inhis twenties, and he knew that the same prayer to the same God wouldgo up that night for him that went up from the same lips so long ago. The man on the car platform rose from his chair, and went into thecar. 

"Well, " he said to Lycurgus Mason as the old man reached for hiswatch, "how about it?"

Lycurgus replied as he put it back in his pocket, "Just seven minutesand a half. She's covered a lot of track in those seven minutes!"

And John Barclay looked back over the years, and saw a boy riding likethe wind through the night, changing horses every half-hour, andtrying to tell time from his watch by a rising moon, but the moon wasblown with clouds like a woman's hair, and he could not see the handson the watch face. So as he looked at the old man sitting crooked overin the great leather chair, John Barclay only grunted, "Yes--she'scovered a long stretch of country in those seven minutes. " And hepicked the Biography off the table and read to himself: "I sometimesthink that only that part of the soul that loves is saved. The rest isdross and perishes in the fire. Whether the love be the love of womanor the love of kind, or the love of God that embraces all, it mattersnot. That sanctifies; that purifies--that marks the way of the onlysalvation the soul can know, and he who does not love with the fervourof a passionate heart some of God's creatures, cannot love God, andnot loving Him, is lost in spite of all his prayers, in spite of allhis aspirations. Therefore, if you would live you must love, for whenlove dies the soul shrivels. And if God takes what you love--love on;for only love will make you immortal, only love will cheat death ofits victory. "

And looking at Lycurgus Mason fidgeting in his chair, John Barclaywondered when he would die the kind of a death that had come to thelittle old man before him, and then he felt the car move under him, and knew they were going back to Sycamore Ridge. 

"Day after to-morrow, " said Barclay, meditatively, as he heard thefirst faint screaming of the heavily laden wheels under him, "dayafter to-morrow, Daddy Mason, we will be home with Colonel Culpepperand his large white plumes. "

CHAPTER VIII

This chapter might have had in it "all the quality, pride, pomp, andcircumstance of glorious war" if it had not been for the matters thatcame up for discussion at the meeting of the Garrison County OldSettlers' Association this year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred andEight. For until that meeting the legend of the last hour of theCounty-seat War of '73 had flourished unmolested; but there GeneralPhilemon Ward rose and laid an axe at the root of the legend, andwhile of course he did not destroy it entirely, he left it scarred andwithered on one side and therefore entirely unfitted for historicalpurposes. It seems that Gabriel Carnine was assigned by President JohnBarclay of the Association to prepare and read a paper on "The Rise, Decline, and Fall of Minneola. " Certainly that was a proper subjectconsidering the fact that corn has been growing over the site ofMinneola for twenty years. And surely Gabriel Carnine, whose blackbeard has whitened in thirty years' faithful service to SycamoreRidge, whose wife lies buried on the Hill, and whose children read theSycamore Ridge _Banner_ in the uttermost parts of the earth, --surelyGabriel Carnine might have been trusted to tell the truth of theconflict waged between the towns a generation ago. But men havecurious works in them, and unless one has that faith in God that giveshim unbounded faith in the goodness of man, one should not open men upin the back and watch the wheels go 'round. For though men are good, and in the long run what they do is God's work and is thereforeacceptable, no man is perfect. There goes Lige Bemis past thepost-office, now, for instance; when he was in the legislature in thelate sixties, every one knows that Minneola raised twenty thousanddollars in cash and offered it to Lige if he would pretend to be sickand quit work on the Sycamore Ridge county-seat bill. He could havefooled us, and could have taken the money, which was certainly morethan he could expect to get from Sycamore Ridge. Did he take it? Notat all. A million would not have tempted him. He was in that game; yetten days after he refused the offer of Minneola, he tried to blackmailhis United States senator out of fifty dollars, and sold his vote to acandidate for state printer for one hundred dollars and flashed thebill around Sycamore Ridge proudly for a week before spending it. 

So Gabriel Carnine must not be blamed if in that paper on Minneola, before the Old Settlers' Association, he let out the pent-up wrath ofthirty years; and also if in the discussion General Ward unsealed hislips for the first time and blighted the myth that told how a hundredMinneola men had captured the court-house yard on the night that JohnBarclay and Bob Hendricks rode home from their captivity to sign thetax levy. Legend has always said that Lige Bemis, riding half a mileahead of the others that night, came to the courtyard; found itguarded by Minneola men, rode back, met John and Bob and the generalcrossing the bridge over the old ford of the Sycamore, and told themthat they could not get into the court-house until the men came up whohad ridden out to rescue the commissioners, --perhaps a quarter of anhour behind the others, --and that even then there must be a fight ofdoubtful issue; and further that it was after eleven o'clock, and soonwould be too late to sign the levy. The forty thousand people inGarrison County have believed for thirty years that finding thecourt-house yard in possession of the enemy, Bemis suggested goingthrough the cave by the Barclays' home, which had its west opening inthe wall of the basement of the court-house; and furthermore, tradition has said that Bemis led John and Bob through the cave, andwith crowbars and hammers they made a man-sized hole in the wall, crawled through it, mounted the basement stairs, unlocked thecommissioners' room, held their meeting in darkness, and five minutesbefore twelve o'clock astonished the invading forces by lighting alamp in their room, signing the levy that Bemis, as county attorney, had prepared the Sunday before, and slipping with it into thebasement, through the cave and back to the troop of horsemen as theywere jogging across the bridge on their way back from Carnine's farm. And here are the marks of General Ward's axe--verified by GabrielCarnine: first, that there were no Minneola invaders in possession ofthe court-house, but only a dozen visitors loafing about town thatnight to watch developments; second, that the regular pickets were outas usual, and an invading force could not have stolen in; and third, that Bemis knew it, but as his political fortunes were low, he rodeahead of the others, hatched up the cock-and-bull story about theguarded court-house, and persuaded the boys to let him lead them intoa romantic adventure that would sound well in the campaign and help toinsure his reëlection the following year. In view of the general'sremarks and Gabriel Carnine's corroborative statement, and in view ofthe bitterness with which Carnine assailed the whole Sycamore Ridgecampaign, how can a truthful chronicler use the episode at all?History is a fickle goddess, and perhaps Pontius Pilate, being humanand used to human errors and human weakness, is not so much to blamefor asking, "What is truth?" and then turning away before he had theanswer. 

Walking home from the meeting through Mary Barclay Park, Barclay'smind wandered back to the days when he won his first importantlawsuit--the suit brought by Minneola to prevent the collection oftaxes under the midnight levy to build the court-house. It was thatlawsuit which brought him to the attention of the legal department ofthe Fifth Parallel Railroad Company, and his employment by thatcompany to defeat the bonds of its narrow-gauged competitor, that wasseeking entrance into Garrison County, was the beginning of hiscareer. And in that fight to defeat the narrow-gauged railroad, thepeople of Garrison County learned something of Barclay as well. He andBemis went over the county together, --the little fox and the oldcoyote, the people called them, --and where men were for sale, Bemisbought them, and where they were timid, John threatened them, andwhere they were neither, both John and Bemis fought with a ferocitythat made men hate but respect the pair. And so though the FifthParallel Railroad never came to the Ridge, its successor, the CornBelt Road, did come, and in '74 John spoke in every schoolhouse in thecounty, urging the people to vote the bonds for the Corn Belt Road, and his employment as local attorney for the company marked his firststep into the field of state politics. For it gave him a railroadpass, and brought him into relations with the men who manipulatedstate affairs; also it made him a silent partner of Lige Bemis inGarrison County politics. 

But even when he was county commissioner, less than two dozen yearsold, he was a force in Sycamore Ridge, and there were days when he hadfour or five thousand dollars to his credit in General Hendricks'bank. The general used to look over the daily balances and stroke hisiron-gray beard and say: "Robert, John is doing well to-day. Son, Iwish you had the acquisitive faculty. Why don't you invest somethingand make something?" But Bob Hendricks was content to do his work inthe bank, and read at home one night and slip over to the Culpeppers'the next night, and so long as the boy was steady and industrious andcareful, his father had no real cause for complaint, and he knew it. But the town knew that John was getting on in the world. He owned halfof Culpepper's second addition, and his interest in College Heightswas clear; he never dealt in equities, but paid cash and gave warrantydeeds for what he sold. It was believed around the Ridge that he could"clean up, " for fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, and when he calledMrs. Mason of the Mason House, Minneola, into the dining room oneafternoon to talk over a little matter with her, he found her mostwilling. It was a short session. After listening and punctuating hisremarks with "of courses" and "yeses" and "so's, " Mrs. Mason's replywas:--

"Of course, Mr. Barclay, "--the Mr. Barclay he remembered as the onlytime in his life he ever had it from her, --"of course, Mr. Barclay, that is a matter rather for you and Mr. Mason to settle. You know, "she added, folding her hands across her ample waist, "Mr. Mason is thehead of the house!" Then she lifted her voice, perhaps fearing thatmatters might be delayed. "Oh, pa!" she cried. "Pa! Come in here, please. There's a gentleman to see you. "

Lycurgus Mason came in with a tea towel in his hands and an apron on. He heard John through in a dazed way, his hollow eyes blinking withevident uncertainty as to what was expected of him. When Barclay wasthrough, the father looked at the mother for his cue, and did notspeak for a moment. Then he faltered: "Why, yes, --yes, --I see! Well, ma, what--" And at the cloud on her brow Lycurgus hesitated again, and rolled his apron about his hands nervously and finally said, "Oh--well--whatever you and her ma think will be all right with me, I guess. " And having been dismissed telepathically, Lycurgus hurriedback to his work. 

It was when John Barclay was elected President of the Corn BeltRailway, in the early nineties, that Lycurgus told McHurdie and Wardand Culpepper and Frye, as the graybeards wagged around the big brownstove in the harness shop one winter day: "You know ma, she never sawmuch in him, and when I came in the room she was about to tell him hecouldn't have her. Now, isn't that like a woman?--no sense about men. But I says: 'Ma, John Barclay's got good blood in him. His grandpadied worth a million, --and that was a pile of money for them days;'so I says, 'If Jane Mason wants him, ma, ' I says, 'let her have him. Remember what a fuss your folks made over me getting you, ' I says;'and see how it's turned out. ' Then I turned to John--I can see thelittle chap now a-standing there with his dicky hat in his hand andhis pipe-stem legs no bigger than his cane, and his gray eyes lookin'as wistful as a dog's when you got a bone in your hand, and I says, 'Take her along, John; take her along and good luck go with you, ' Isays; 'but, ' I says, 'John Barclay, I want you always to remember JaneMason has got a father. ' Just that way I says. I tell you, gentlemen, there's nothing like having a wife that respects you. " The crowd inthe harness shop wagged their heads, and Lycurgus went on: "Now, theyain't many women that would just let a man stand up like that and, asyou may say, give her daughter right away under her nose. But my wife, she's been well trained. "

In the pause that followed, Watts McHurdie's creaking lever was theonly sound that broke the silence. Then Watts, who had been sewingaway at his work with waving arms, spoke, after clearing his throat, "I've heard many say that she was sich. " And the old man cackled, andit became a saying-among them and in the town. 

One who goes back over the fifty years that have passed since SycamoreRidge became a local habitation and a name finds it difficult torealize that one-third of its life was passed before the panic of '78, which closed the Hendricks' bank. For those first nineteen yearspassed as the life of a child passes, so that they seem only sketchedin; yet to those who lived at all, to those like Watts McHurdie andPhilemon Ward, who now pass their happiest moments mooning over tiltedheadstones in the cemetery on the Hill, those first nineteen yearsseem the longest and the best. And that fateful year of '73 to themseems the most portentous. For then, perhaps for the first time, theyrealized the cruel uncertainty of the struggle for existence. With theterrible drouth of '60 this realization did not come; for the town wasyoung, and the people were young; only Ezra Lane was a graybeard inall the town in the sixties; and youth is so sure; there is no hazardunder thirty. In the war they fought and marched and sang and starvedand died, and were still young. But when the financial panic of '73spread its dread and its trouble over the land, youth in SycamoreRidge was gone; it was manhood that faced these things in the Ridge, and manhood had cares, had given hostages to fortune, and life wasserious and hard; and big on the horizon was the fear of failure. General Hendricks swayed in the panic of '73; and the time marked him, took the best of the light from his eye, and put the slightestperceptible hobble on his feet. To Martin Culpepper and Watts McHurdieand Philemon Ward and Jacob Dolan and Oscar Fernald, the panic came intheir late thirties and early forties, a flash of lightning thatprophesied the coming of the storm and stress of an inexorable fate. 

The wedding of John Barclay and Jane Mason occurred in September, 1873, two days after he had stood on the high stone steps of theExchange National Bank and made a speech to the crowd, telling them hewas the largest depositor in the bank, and begging them to stop therun. But the run did not stop, and the day before John's wedding thebank did not open; the short crop and the panic in the East were morethan Garrison County people could stand. But all the first day of thebank's closing and all the next day John worked among the people, reassuring them. So that it was five o'clock in the evening before hecould start to Minneola for his wedding. 

And such a wedding! One would say that when hard times were staringevery one in the face, social forms would be observed most simply. Butone would say so without reckoning with Mrs. Lycurgus Mason. As thegroom and the bridesmaid and best man rode up from Sycamore Valley, two miles from Minneola, in the early falling dusk that night, theMason House loomed through the darkness, lighted up like a steamboat. "You'll have to move along, John, " said Bob Hendricks; "I think Iheard her whistle. "

On the sidewalk in front of the hotel they met Mrs. Mason in her blacksilk with a hemstitched linen apron over it. She ushered them into thehouse, took them to their rooms, and whirled John around on a pivot, it seemed to him, with her interminable directions. His mother, whohad come over to Minneola the day before, came to his room and quietedher son, and as he got ready for what he called the "ordeal, " he couldhear Mrs. Mason swinging doors below stairs, walking on her heelsthrough the house, receiving belated guests from Sycamore Ridge andthe country, --for the whole county had been invited, --and he heardher carrying out a dog that had sneaked into the dining room. 

The groom missed the bride, and as he was tying his necktie, --whichreminded him of General Ward by its whiteness, --he wondered why shedid not come to him. He did not know that she was a prisoner in herroom, while all the young girls in Sycamore Ridge and Minneola werelooking for pins and hooking her up and stepping on each other'sskirts. For one wedding is like all weddings--whether it be in theMason House, Minneola, or in Buckingham Palace. And some there are whomarry for love in Minneola, and some for money, and some for a home, and some for Heaven only knows what, just as they do in the châteauxand palaces and mansions. And the groom is nobody and the bride iseverything, as it was in the beginning and as it shall be ever after. Probably poor Adam had to stand behind a tree neglected and alone, while Lilith and girls from the land of Nod bedecked Eve for thefestivities. Men are not made for ceremonies. And so at all the formaloccasions of this life--whether it be among the great or among thelowly, in the East or the West, at weddings, christenings, andfunerals--man hides in shame and leaves the affairs to woman, wholeads him as an ox, even a muzzled ox, that treadeth out the corn. "The doomed man, " whispered John to Bob as the two in their blackclothes stood at the head of the stair that led into the parlour ofthe Mason House that night, waiting for the wedding march to begin onthe cabinet organ, "ate a hearty supper, consisting of beefsteak andeggs, and after shaking hands with his friends he mounted the gallowswith a firm step!"

Then he heard the thud of the music book on the organ, the creak ofthe treadle, --and when he returned to consciousness he was Mrs. Mason's son-in-law, and proud of it. And she, --bless her heart andthe hearts of all good women who give up the joy of their lives to uspoor unworthy creatures, --she stood by the wax-flower wreath underthe glass case on the whatnot in the corner, and wept into her reallace handkerchief, and wished with all the earnestness of her soulthat she could think of some way to let John know that his trousersleg was wrinkled over his left shoe top. But she could not solve theproblem, so she gave herself up to the consolation of her tears. Yetit should be set down to her credit that when the preacher's amen wassaid, hers was the first head up, and while the others were rushingfor the happy pair she was in the kitchen with her apron on dishing upthe wedding supper. Well might the Sycamore Ridge _Weekly Banner_declare that the "tables groaned with good things. " There were notmerely a little piddling dish of salad, a bite of cake, and a dab ofice-cream. There were turkey and potatoes and vegetables and fruit andbread and cake and pudding and pie--four kinds of pie, mark you--andpreserves, and "Won't you please, Mrs. Culpepper, try some of thatpiccalilli?" and "Oh, Mrs. Ward, if you just would have a slice ofthat fruit cake, " and "Now, General, --a little more of the gravy forthat turkey dressing--it is such a long ride home, " or "Colonel, Iknow you like corn bread, and I made this myself as a specialcompliment to Virginia. "

And through it all the bride sat watching the door--looking alwaysthrough the crowd for some one. Her face was anxious and her heart wasclouded, and when the guests had gone and the house was empty, sheleft her husband and slipped out of the back door. There, after theglare of the lamps had left her eyes, she saw a little man walkingwith his head down, out near the barn, and she ran to him and threwher arms about him and kissed him, and when she led Lycurgus Mason, who was all washed and dressed, back through the kitchen to herhusband, John saw that the man's eyelids were red, and that on thestarched cuffs were the marks of tears. For to him she was only hislittle girl, and John afterward knew that she was the only friend hehad in the world. "Oh, father, why didn't you come in?" cried thedaughter. "I missed you so!" The man blinked a moment at the lightsand looked toward his wife, who was busy at a table, as he said: "Who?Me?" and then added: "I was just lookin' after their horses. I wascoming in pretty soon. You oughtn't to bother about me. Well, John, "he smiled, as he put out his hand, "the seegars seems to be onyou--as the feller says. " And John put his arm about Lycurgus Mason, as they walked out of the kitchen, and Jane reached for her ginghamapron. Then life began for Mr. And Mrs. John Barclay in earnest. 

CHAPTER IX

Forty thousand words--and that is the number we have piled up in thisstory--is a large number of words to string together without aheroine. That is almost as bad as the dictionary, in which He and Sheare always hundreds of pages apart and never meet, --not even in the"Z's" at the end, --which is why the dictionary is so unpopular, perhaps. But this is the story of a man, and naturally it must havemany heroines. For you know men--they are all alike! First, Mrs. MaryBarclay was a heroine--you saw her face, strong and clean and sharplychiselled with a great purpose; then Miss Lucy--black-eyed, red-cheeked, slender little Miss Lucy--was a heroine, but she marriedGeneral Ward; and then Ellen Culpepper was a heroine, but shefluttered out of the book into the sunlight, and was gone; and thencame Jane Mason, --and you have seen her girlish beauty, and you willsee it develop into gentle womanhood; but the real heroine, --of thereal story, --you have not seen her face. You have heard her name, andhave seen her moving through these pages with her back consciouslyturned to you--for being a shy minx, she had no desire to intrudeuntil she was properly introduced. And now we will whirl her aroundthat you may have a good look at her. 

Let us begin at the ground: as to feet--they are not too small--saythree and a half in size. And they support rather short legs--mygoodness, of course she has legs--did you think her shoes were pinned toher over-skirt? Her legs carry around a plump body, --not fat--why, certainly not--who ever heard of a fat heroine (the very best a heroinecan do for comfort is to be plump)--and so beginning the sentence overagain, being a plump little body, there is a neck to account for--a neckwhich we may look at, but which is so exquisite that it would be hardlypolite to consider it in terms of language. Only when we come to thechin that tips the oval of the face may we descend to language, and eventhen we must rise and flick the red mouth with, but a passing word. Butthis much must be plainly spoken. The nose does turn up--not much--but alittle (Bob used to say, just to be good and out of the way)! That, however, is mere personal opinion, and of little importance here. Butthe eyes are brown--reddish brown, with enough white at the corners tomake them seem liquid; only liquid is not the word. For they areradiant--remember that word, for we may come back to it, after we aredone with the brow--a wide brow--low enough for Dickens and Thackerayand Charlotte Bronte, and for Longfellow and Whittier and Will Carletonin his day, and high enough for Tennyson at the temples, but not so highbut that the gate of the eyes has to shut wearily when Browning wouldsail through the current of her soul. As to hair--Heaven knows there isplenty of that, but it had rather a checkered career. As she clung toher mother's apron and waved her father away to war, she was atow-headed little tot, and when he came back from the field of glory hethought he could detect a tendency to red in it, but the fire smoulderedand went out, and the hair turned brown--a dark brown with the glint ofthe quenched fires in it when it blew in the sun. Now frame a glowingyoung face in that soft waving hair, and you have a picture that willspeak, and if the picture should come to life and speak as it was in theyear of our Lord 1873, the first word of all the words in the big fatdictionary it would utter would be Bob. And so you may lift up your faceand take your name and place in this story--Molly Culpepper, heroine. And when you lift your face, we may see something more than its prettyfeatures: we shall see a radiant soul. For scientists have found outthat every material thing in this universe gives off atomic particles ofitself, and some elements are more radiant than others. And there is aparalleling quality in the spiritual world, and some souls give off moreof their colour and substance than others, though what it is theyradiate we do not know. Even the scientists do not know the materialthings that the atoms radiate, so why should we be asked to define theessence of souls? Yet from the soul of Molly Culpepper, in joy and insorrow, in her moments of usefulness and in her deepest woe, her soulglowed and shed its glory, and she grew even as she gave her substanceto the world about her. For that is the magic of God's mystery of life. 

And now having for the moment finished our discussion on theradio-activity of souls, let us go back to the story. 

Mary Barclay rode home from her son's wedding that night with BobHendricks and Molly Culpepper. They were in a long line of buggiesthat began to scatter out and roam across fields to escape the dust ofthe roads. "Well, " said Mrs. Barclay, as they pulled up the bank ofthe Sycamore for home, "I suppose it will be you and Molly next, Bob?"

It was Molly who replied: "Yes. It is going to be Thanksgiving. "

"Well, why not?" asked Mrs. Barclay. 

"Oh--they all seem to think we shouldn't, don't you know, Mrs. Barclay--with all this hard times--and the bank closing. And hasn'tJohn told you of the plan he's worked out for Bob to go to New Yorkthis winter?"

The buggy was nearing the Barclay home. Mrs. Barclay answered, "No, "and the girl went on. 

"Well, it's a big wheat land scheme--and Bob's to go East and sellthe stock. They worked it out last night after the bank closed. He'lltell you all about it. "

Mrs. Barclay was standing by the buggy when the girl finished. Theelder woman bade the young people good night, and turned and went intothe yard and stood a moment looking at the stars before going into herlonely house. The lovers let the tired horses lag up the hill, and asthey turned into Lincoln Avenue the girl was saying: "A year's solong, Bob, --so long. And you'll be away, and I'm afraid. " He tried toreassure her; but she protested: "You are all my life, --bigboy, --all my life. I was only fourteen, just a little girl, when youcame into my life, and all these long seven years you are the onlyhuman being that has been always in my heart. Oh, Bob, Bob, --always. "

What a man says to his sweetheart is of no importance. Men are socircumscribed in their utterances--so tongue-tied in love. They allsay one thing; so it need not be set down here what Bob Hendrickssaid. It was what the king said to the queen, the prince to theprincess, the duke to the lady, the gardener to the maid, thetroubadour to his dulcinea. And Molly Culpepper replied, "When are yougoing, Bob?"

The young man picked up the sagging lines to turn out for WattsMcHurdie's buggy. He had just let Nellie Logan out at the Wards', where she lived. After a "Hello, Watts; getting pretty late for an oldman like you, " Hendricks answered: "Well, you know John--when he getsa thing in his head he's a regular tornado. There was an immense crowdin town to-day--depositors and all that. And do you know, John wentout this afternoon with a paper in his hand, and five hundred dollarshe dug out of his safe over in the office, and he got options to leasetheir land for a year signed up by the owners of five thousand acresof the best wheat land in Garrison County. He wants twenty thousandacres, and pretty well bunched down in Pleasant and Spring townships, and I'm going in four days. " The young man was full of the scheme. Hewent on: "John's a wonder, Molly, --a perfect wonder. He's got grit. Father wouldn't have been able to stand up under this--but John hasbraced him, and has cheered up the people, and I believe, before theweek is out, we will be able to get nearly all the depositors to agreeto leave their money alone for a year, and then only take it out onthirty days' notice. And if we can get that, we can open up by thefirst of the month. But I've got to go on to Washington to see if Ican arrange that with the comptroller of the currency. "

They were standing at the Culpepper gate as he spoke. A light in theupper windows showed that the parents were in. Buchanan came amblingalong the walk and went through the gate between them withoutspeaking. When he had closed the door, the girl came close to herlover. He took her in his arms, and cried, "Oh, darling, --only fourmore days together. " He paused, and in the starlight she saw on hisface more than words could have told her of his love for her. He was asilent youth; the spoken word came haltingly to his lips, and as oftenhappens, words were superfluous to him in his moments of greatemotion. He put her hands to his lips, and moaned, for the hour ofparting seemed to be hurrying down upon him. Finally his tongue foundliberty. "Oh, sweetheart--sweetheart, " he cried, "always rememberthat you are bound in my soul with the iron of youth's first love--myonly love. Oh, I never could again, dear, --only you--only you. Afterthis it would be a sacrilege. "

They stood silent in the joy of their ecstacy for a long minute, thenhe asked gently: "Do you understand, Molly, --do you understand? thisis forever for us, Molly, --forever. When one loves as we love--withour childhood and youth welded into it all--whom God hath joined--"he stammered; "oh, Molly, whom God hath joined, " he whispered, and hisvoice trembled as he sighed again, and kissed her, "whom God hathjoined. Oh, God--God, God!" cried the lover, as he closed his eyeswith his lips against her hair. 

The restless horses recalled the lovers to the earth. It was Molly whospoke. "Bob--Bob--I can't let you go!"

Molly Culpepper had no reserves with her lover. She went onwhispering, with, her face against his heart: "Bob--Bob, big boy, Iam going to tell you something truthy true, that I never breathed toany one. At night--to-night, in just a few minutes--when I go up tomy room--all alone--I get your picture and hold it to me close, andholding it right next to my very heart, Bob, I pray for you. " Shepaused a moment, and then continued, "Oh, and--I pray forus--Bob--I pray for us. " Then she ran up the stone walk, and on thesteps she turned to throw kisses at him, but he did not move until heheard the lock click in the front door. 

At the livery-stable he found Watts McHurdie bending over some breakin his buggy. They walked up the street together. At the corner wherethey were about to part the little man said, as he looked into therapturous face of the lanky boy, "Well, Bob, --it's good-by, John, foryou, I suppose?"

"Oh--I don't know, " replied the other from his enchanted world andthen asked absently, "Why?"

"Well, it's nature, I guess. She'll take all his time now. " He rubbedhis chin reflectively, and as Bob turned to go Watts said: "MyHeavens, how time does fly! It just seems like yesterday that all youboys were raking over the scrap-pile back of my shop, and slipping inand nipping leather strands and braiding them into whips, and I'd haveto douse you with water to get rid of you. I got a quirt hanging up inthe shop now that Johnnie Barclay dropped one day when I got after himwith a pan of water. It's a six-sided one, with eight strands down inthe round part. I taught him how to braid it. " He chewed a moment andspat before going on: "And now look at him. He's little, but oh my. "Something was working under McHurdie's belt, for Bob could hear itchuckling as he chewed: "Wasn't she a buster? It's funny, ain'tit--the way we all pick big ones--we sawed-offs"? The laugh came--aquiet, repressed gurgle, and he added: "Yes--by hen, and youlong-shanks always pick little dominickers. Eh?" He chewed ameditative cud before venturing, "That's what I told her comin' hometo-night. " Bob knew whom he meant. The man went on: "But when she sawthem--him so little she'll have to shake the sheet to find him--andher so big and busting, I seen _her_--you know, " he nodded his headwisely to indicate which "her" he meant. "I saw her a-eying me, out ofthe corner of her eye, and looking at him, and then looking at thegirl, and looking at herself, and on the way home to-night I'm damnedif I didn't have to put off asking her another six months. " He sighedand continued, "And the first thing I know the drummer or thepreacher'll get her. " He chewed for a minute in peace and chuckled, "Well--Bob, I suppose you'll be next?" He did not wait for an answer, but spoke up quickly, "Well, Bob, good night--good night, " andhurried to his shop. 

The next day the people that blackened Main Street in Sycamore Ridgetalked of two things--the bank failure and the new Golden Belt WheatCompany. Barclay enlisted Colonel Culpepper, and promised him twodollars for every hundred-acre option to lease that he secured atthree dollars an acre--the cash on the lease to be paid March first. Barclay's plan was to organize a stock company and to sell his stockin the East for enough to raise eight dollars an acre for every acrehe secured, and to use the five dollars for making the crop. Hebelieved that with a good wheat crop the next year he could make moneyand buy as much land as he needed. But that year of the panic Johncapitalized the hardship of his people, and made terms for them, whichthey could not refuse. He literally sold them their own want. For thefact that he had a little ready money and could promise more beforeharvest upon which the people might live--however miserably was noconcern of his--made it possible for him to drive a bargain littleshort of robbery. It was Bob's part of the business to float the stockcompany in the East among his father's rich friends. John was tofurnish the money to keep Bob in New York, and the Hendricks'connections in banking circles were to furnish the cash to float theproposition, and the Hendricks' bank--if John could get it openedagain--was to guarantee that the stock subscribed would pay six percent interest. So there was no honeymoon for John Barclay. When hedropped the reins and helped his bride out of the buggy the nextmorning in front of the Thayer House, he hustled General Ward's littleboy into the seat, told him to drive the team to Dolan's stable, andwaving the new Mrs. Barclay good-by, limped in a trot over to thebank. In five minutes he was working in the crowd, and by night hadthe required number of the depositors ready to agree to let theirmoney lie a year on deposit, and that matter was closed. He was asolemn-faced youth in those days, with a serious air about him, andsomething of that superabundance of dignity little men often thinkthey must assume to hold their own. The town knew him as a trim littleman in a three-buttoned tail-coat, with rather extraordinary neckties, a well-brushed hat, and shiny shoes. To the country people he was"limping Johnnie, " and General Ward, watching Barclay hustle his waydown Main Street Saturday afternoons, when the sidewalk and thestreets were full of people, used to say, "Busier 'n a tin pedler. "And he said to Mrs. Ward, "Lucy, if it's true that old Grandpa Barclaygot his start carrying a pack, you can see him cropping out in John, bigger than a wolf. "

But the general had little time to devote to John, for he was stateorganizer of a movement that had for its object the abolition ofmiddlemen in trade, and he was travelling most of the time. The dustgathered on his law-books, and his Sunday suit grew frayed at theedges and shiny at the elbows, but his heart was in the cause, and hisblue eyes burned with joy when he talked, and he was happy, and had totravel two days and nights when the fourth baby came, and then was toolate to serve on the committee on reception, and had to be satisfiedwith a minor place on the committee on entertainment and amusements ofwhich Mrs. Culpepper was chairman. But John turned in half of a feethat came from the East for a lawsuit that both he and Ward hadforgotten, and Miss Lucy would have named the new baby Mary Ward, butthe general stood firm for Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Sitting at Sundaydinner with the Wards on the occasion of Elizabeth Cady Stanton Ward'sfirst monthly birthday, John listened to the general's remarks on theiniquity of the money power, and the wickedness of the national banks, and kept respectful and attentive silence. The worst the young man didwas to wink swiftly across the table at Watts McHurdie, who had beeninvited by Mrs. Ward with malice prepense and seated by Nellie Logan. The wink came just as the general, waving the carving knife, wassaying: "Gentlemen, it's the world-old fight--the fight of mightagainst right. When I was a boy like you, John, the fight was betweenbrute strength and the oppressed; between slaves and masters. Now itis between weakness and cunning, between those who would beslaveholders if they could be, and those who are fighting theshackles. " And Mrs. Ward saw the wink, and John saw that she saw it, and he was ashamed. 

So before the afternoon was over, Mr. And Mrs. John Barclay went overto Hendricks's, picking up Molly Culpepper on the way, and the threespent the evening with the general and Miss Hendricks--a faded mousylittle woman in despairing thirties; and before the open fire they satand talked, and John played the piano for an hour, and thought out anextra kink for the Golden Belt Wheat Company's charter. He jabberedabout it to Jane as they walked home, and the next day it became afact. 

"That boy, " said the colonel to his assembled family one evening asthey dined on mush and dried peaches, and coffee made of parched corn, "that John Barclay certainly and surely is a marvel. Talk aboutdrawing blood from a turnip, --why, he can strike an artery in apumpkin. " The colonel smiled reflectively as he proceeded: "Chicagolawyer came in on the stage this afternoon, --kinder getting uneasyabout a little interest I owed to an Ohio man on that College Heightsproperty, and John took that Chicago lawyer up to his office, andtalked him into putting the interest in a second mortgage with all theinterest that will fall due till next spring, and then traded himGolden Belt Wheat Company stock for the mortgage and a thousanddollars besides. "

"Well, did John give you back the mortgage, father?" asked Molly. 

"No, sis, --that wouldn't be business, " replied the colonel, as hestirred his dried peaches into his third dish of mush for dessert;"business is business, you know. John took the mortgage over to thebank and discounted it for some money to buy more options with. Johnsurely does make things hum. "

"Yes, and he's made Bob resign from the board of commissioners, andwon't let him come home Christmas, and keeps him on fifty dollars amonth there in New York--all the same, " returned the girl. 

The colonel looked at his daughter a moment in sympathetic silence;then he put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest and tilted back inhis chair and answered: "Oh, well, my dear, --when you are living in abrown-stone house on Fifth Avenue down in New York, stepping on anigger every which way you turn, you'll thank John that he did keepBob at work, and not bring him back here to pin on a buffalo tail, drink crick water, eat tumble weeds, and run wild. I say, and I fearno contradiction when I say it, that John Barclay is a marvel--aliving wonder in point of fact. And if Bob Hendricks wants to comeback here and live on the succulent and classic bean and the luscious, and I may say tempting, flapjack, let him come, Molly FarquharCulpepper, let him come. " The colonel, proud of his language, lookedaround the family circle. "And we at our humble board, with our plainthough--shall I say nutritive--yes, nutritive and wholesome fare, should thank our lucky stars that John Barclay keeps the Golden BeltWheat Company going, and your husband and father can make a more orless honest dollar now and then to supply your simple wants. "

The colonel had more in his mind, for he rose and began to pace thefloor in a fine frenzy. But Mrs. Culpepper looked up for an instantfrom her tea, and said, "You know you forgot the mail to-day, father, "and he replied, "Yes, that's so. " Then added: "Molly dear, will youbring me my overcoat--please?"

The girl bundled her father into his threadbare blue army overcoatwith the cape. He stood for a moment absently rattling some dimes inhis pocket. Then the faintness of their jingle must have appealed tohim, for he drew a long breath and walked majestically away. He was atall stout man in the midst of his forties, with a military goatee andblack flowing mustaches, and he wore his campaign hat pinned up at theside with the brass military pin and swayed with some show of swaggeras he walked. His gift of oratory he did not bring to the flower ofits perfection except at lodge. He was always sent as a delegate toGrand Lodge, and when he came home men came from all over the countyto see the colonel exemplify the work. But as he marched to funeralsunder his large white plume and with his sword dangling at his side, Colonel Martin Culpepper, six feet four one way and four feet two theother, was a regal spectacle, and it will be many years before thetown will see his like again. 

The colonel walked over to the post-office box and got his mail, thentook a backless chair and drew it up to the sand box in which thestove sat, and the conversation became general in its nature, rangingfrom Emerson's theory of the cosmos and the whiskey ring to theefficacy of a potato in the pocket for rheumatism. Finally when theyhad come to their "don't you remembers" about the battle of Wilson'sCreek, General Ward, with his long coat buttoned closely about him, came shivering into the store to get some camphor gum and stoodrubbing his cold hands by the stove while the clerk was wrapping upthe package. His thin nose was red and his eyes watered, and he hadlittle to say. When he went out the colonel said, "What's he going torun for this year?"

"Haven't you heard?" replied McHurdie, and to the colonel's negativeWatts replied, "Governor--the uprising's going to nominate him. "

"Yes, " said Frye, "and he'll go off following that foolishness andleave his wife and children to John or the neighbours. "

"Do you suppose he thinks he'll win?" asked the Colonel. 

"Naw, " put in McHurdie; "I was talking to him only last week in theshop, and he says, 'Watts, you boys don't understand me. ' He says, 'Idon't want their offices. What I want is to make them think. I'msowing seed. Some day it will come to a harvest--maybe long after I'mdead and gone. ' I asked him if a little seed wouldn't help out somefor breakfast, and he didn't answer. Then he said: 'Watts--what youneed is faith--faith in God and not in money. There are noChristians; they don't believe in God, or they'd trust Him more. Theydon't trust God; they trust money. Yet I tell you it will work. Goahead--do your work in the world, and you won't starve nor yourchildren beg in the streets. '" McHurdie stopped a moment to gnaw hisplug of tobacco. "The general's gitting kind of a crank--and I toldhim so. "

"What did he say?" inquired the colonel. 

"Oh, he just laughed, " replied McHurdie; "he just laughed and said ifhe was a crank I was a poet, and neither was much good at the notewindow of the bank, and we kind of made it up. "

And so the winter evening grew old, and one by one the cronies roseand yawned and went their way. Evening after evening went thus, andwas it strange that in the years that came, when the sunset of lifewas gilding things for Watts McHurdie, he looked through the goldenhaze and saw not the sand in the pit under the stove, not the rows ofdrugs on the wall, not the patent medicine bottles in their fadedwrappers, but as he wrote many years after in "Autumn Musing":--

 "Those nights when Wisdom was our guide And Friendship was the glow, That warmed our souls like living coals, Those nights of long ago. "

Nor is it strange that Martin Culpepper, his commentator, conningthose lines through the snows of many winters, should be a littlemisty as to details, and having taken his pen in hand to write, shouldset down this note:--

"These lines probably refer to the evenings which the poet passed in agoodly company of choice spirits during the early seventies. E'en as Iwrite, Memory, with tender hand, pushes back the sombre curtain, and Isee them now--that charmed circle; the poet with the brow of Jove andMinerva's lips; the rugged warrior at his side, with the dignity ofMars himself; perhaps some Croesus with his gold, drawn by the spellof Wisdom's enchantment into the magic circle; and this your humbledisciple of Thucydides, sitting spellbound under the drippings of thesacred font, getting the material for these pages. That was the GoldenAge; there were giants in those days. "

And so there were, Colonel Martin Culpepper of the Great Heart and the"large white plumes"--so there were. 

CHAPTER X

It was a cold raw day in March, 1874. Colonel Culpepper was sitting inthe office of Ward and Barclay over the Exchange National Bank waitingfor the junior member of the firm to come in; the senior member of thefirm, who had just brought up an arm load of green hickory and dryhackberry stove wood, was standing beside the box-shaped stove, abstractedly brushing the sawdust and wormwood from his sleeves andcoat front. The colonel was whistling and whittling, and the generalkept on brushing after the last speck of dust had gone from his shinycoat. He walked to the window and stared into the ugly brown street. 

Two or three minutes passed, and Colonel Culpepper, anxious for thesociety of his kind, spoke. "Well, General, what's the trouble?"

"Nothing in particular, Martin. I was just questioning the reality ofmatter and the existence of the universe as you spoke; but it's notimportant. " The general shivered, and turned his kind blue eyes on hisfriend in a smile, and then bethought him to put the wood in thestove. 

While he was jamming in a final stick, Colonel Culpepper inquired, "Well, am I an appearance or an entity?"

The general put the smoking poker on the floor, and turned the damperin the pipe as he answered: "That's what I can't seem to make out. Youknow old Emerson says a man doesn't amount to much as a thinker untilhe has doubted the existence of matter. And I just got to thinkingabout it, and wondering if this was a real world after all--or justmy idea of one. " The two men smiled at the notion, and Ward went on:"All right, laugh if you want to, but if this is a real world, whoseworld is it, your world or my world? Here is John Barclay, forinstance. Sometimes I get a peek at his world. " Ward picked up thepoker and sat down and hammered the toe of a boot with it as he wenton: "John's world is the Golden Belt Wheat Company, wheat pouring asteady stream into boundless bins, and money flowing in golden ripplesover it all. Sometimes Bob Hendricks' head rises above the tide longenough to gasp or cry for help and beg to come home, but John's goldenflood sweeps over him again, and he's gone. And here's your world, Martin, wherein every one is kind and careless, and generous and good, and full of smiles and gayety. And there's Lige Bemis' world, full ofcunning and hypocrisy, and meanness and treachery and plotting--ahell of a world it is, with its foundations on hate and deceit--butit's his world, and he has the same right to it that I have to mine. And there's old Watts' world--" The general sighted along the pokerover his toe to the stove side whereon a cornucopia wriggled out ofnothing and poured its richness of fruit and grain into nothing. "There's Watts' world, full of stuffed Personifications, Virtue, Pleasure, Happiness, Sin, Sorrow, and God knows what of demigods, withthe hay of his philosophy sticking out of their eyeholes. You knowabout his maxims, Mart; he actually lives by 'em, and no matter howcommon sense yells at him to get off the track, old Watts just goes onfollowing his maxims, and gets butted into the middle of next week. "

The colonel was making a hole in the stick in his hands, and hisattention was fixed on the whittling, but he added, "And your ownworld, General--how about your own world?"

"My world, " replied the general, as he pulled at the bows of hisrather soiled white tie, and evened them, "My world--" the generaljabbed the poker spear-like into the floor, "I guess I'm a kind of atranscendentalist!"

The colonel blew the chips through the hole in his stick; he bored itround in the pause that followed before he spoke. 

"A transcendentalist, eh? Well, pintedly, General, that is what I maycall a soft impeachment, as the poet says--a mighty soft impeachment. I've heard you called a lot worse names than that--and I may say, "here the crow's-feet began scratching for a smile around the colonel'seyes, "proved, sir, with you as the prosecuting witness. "

The two men chuckled. Then the general, balancing himself, with thepoker point on the floor, as he tilted back went on: "My world, MartCulpepper, is a world in which the ideal is real--a world in a stateof flux with thoughts of to-day the matter of to-morrow; my world is aworld of faith that God will crystallize to-day's aspirations intoto-morrow's justice; my world, " the general rose and waved his pokeras if to beat down the forces of materialism about him, "my world isthe substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things notseen. " He paused. "As I was saying, " he continued at last, "if this isa real world, if matter actually exists and this world is not a dreamof my consciousness, whose world is it, my world, your world, WattsMcHurdie's world, Lige's world, or John's world? It can't be all of'em. " He put the poker across the stove hearth, and sank his handsdeeply into his pockets as he continued: "The question that philosophynever has answered is this: Am I a spectre and you an essence, or areyou a spectre and am I an essence? Is it your world or mine?"

The two men looked instinctively at the rattling doorknob, and JohnBarclay limped into the room. His face was red with the cold and thedriving mist. He walked to the stove and unbuttoned his ulster, whilethe colonel put the subject of the debate before him. The generalamended the colonel's statement from time to time, but the young manonly smiled tolerantly and shook his head. Then he went to his deskand pulled a letter from a drawer. 

"Colonel, I've got a letter here from Bob. The thing doesn't seem tobe moving. He only sold about a thousand dollars' worth of stock lastmonth--a falling off of forty per cent, and we must have more or wecan't take up our leases. He's begging like a dog to come home for aweek, but I can't let him. We need that week. " He limped over to theelder and put his hand on the tall man's arm as he said: "Now, Colonel, that was what I sent for you about. You kind of speak toMolly and have her write him and tell him to hold on a little while. It's business, you know, and we can't afford to have sentimentinterfere with business. "

The colonel, standing by the window, replied, after a pause: "I cansee where you are right, John. Business is business. You got toconsider that. " He looked into the street below and saw GeneralHendricks come shuddering into the cold wind. "How's he getting on?"asked Culpepper, nodding towards Hendricks, who seemed unequal to thegale. 

"Oh, I don't know, Colonel, --times are hard. "

"My, how he's aging!" said the colonel, softly. 

After a silence Barclay said: "There's one thing sure--I've got itinto his hard old head that Bob is doing something back there, and hecouldn't earn his salt here. Besides, " added Barclay, as if to justifyhimself against an accusing conscience, "the old man does all the workin the bank now, with time to spare. "

It was the day of army overcoats, and the hard times had broughthundreds of them from closets and trunks. General Hendricks, fluttering down the street in his faded blue, made a rather patheticfigure. The winter had whitened his hair and withered his ruddy face. His unequal struggle with the wind seemed some way symbolical of hislife, and the two men watched him out of sight without a word. Thecolonel turned toward his own blue overcoat which lay sprawling in achair, and Barclay said as he helped the elder man squeeze into it, "Don't forget to speak to Molly, Colonel, " and then ushered him to thedoor. For a moment Colonel Culpepper stood at the bottom of thestairs, partly hesitating to go into the windy street, and partlytrying to think of some way in which he could get the subject on hismind before his daughter in the right way. Then as he stood on thethreshold with his nose in the storm, he recalled General Ward'sdiscourse about the different worlds, and he thought of Molly's worldof lovers' madness, and that brought up his own youth and itsday-dreams, and Molly flew out of his mind and her mother came in, andhe saw her blue-eyed and fair as she stood before him on theirwedding-day. With that picture in his heart he breasted the storm andwent home whistling cheerfully, walking through his world like aprince. 

When the colonel left the office of Ward and Barclay, the partnersretired into their respective worlds and went sailing through space, each world upon its own axis. The general in a desultory way beganwriting letters to reformers urging them to prepare for the comingstruggle; but John was head over heels in the business of the GoldenBelt Wheat Company, and in an hour had covered two sheets of foolscapwith figures and had written a dozen letters. The scratch, scratch ofhis pen was as regular as the swish of a piston. On the other hand, the general often stopped and looked off into space, and three timeshe got up to mend the fire. At the end of the afternoon Mrs. Ward camein, her cheeks pink with the cold; she had left the seven-year-old tocare for the one-year-old, and the five-year-old to look after thethree-year-old, and had come scurrying through the streets in a brownalpaca dress with a waterproof cape over her shoulders. She and thegeneral spoke for a few moments in their corner, and she hurried outagain. The general finished the letter he was writing and wroteanother, and then backed up to the stove with his coat tails in frontof him and stood benignly watching Barclay work. Barclay felt theman's attention, and whirling about in his chair licking an envelopeflap, he said, "Well, General--what's on your mind?"

"I was just thinking of Lucy--that's all, " replied the general. Barclay knew that the Wards had gone through the winter on less thanone hundred dollars, and it occurred to the younger man that timesmight be rather hard in the Ward household. So he asked, "Are youworried about money matters, General?"

The general's smile broadened to a grin. "Well, to be exact, Lucy andI just counted cash--it's in her pocketbook, and we find our totalcash assets are eight dollars and thirty-nine cents, and it's got totide us over till grass. " He stroked his lean chin, and ran his handsthrough his iron-gray hair and went on, "That's plenty, the way we'vefigured it out--Lucy and I only eat one meal a day anyway, and thechildren seem to eat all the time and that averages it up. " He smileddeprecatingly and added: "But Lucy's got her heart set on a littlematter, and we've decided to spend eighty-seven cents, as you mightsay riotously, and get it. That's what we were talking about. "

Barclay entered into the spirit of Ward's remarks and put in: "But theNational debt, General--if you have all that money to spare, whydon't you pay it off? Practise what you preach, General. "

The smile faded from Ward's face. He was not a man to joke on what heregarded as sacred things. He replied: "Yes, yes, that's just it. Myshare of the interest on that debt this winter was just seventy-fivecents, and if it wasn't for that, we would have had enough to getthem; as it is, we are going to cut out meat for a week--we figuredit all out just now--and get them anyway. She's down at the storebuying them. "

"Buying what?" asked Barclay. 

The general's face lighted up again with a grin, and he replied: "Nowlaugh--dog-gone you--buying flower seeds!" They heard a step at thebottom of the stairs, and the general strode to the door, opened it, and called down, "All right, Lucy--I'm coming, " and buttoning up hiscoat, he whisked himself from the room, and Barclay, looking out ofthe window, watched the two forms as they disappeared in the dusk. Butappearances are so deceptive. The truth is that what he saw was notthere at all, but only appeared on his retina; the two forms that heseemed to see were not shivering through the twilight, but werewalking among dahlias and coxcombs and four-o'clocks and petunias andpoppies and hollyhocks on a wide lawn whereon newly set elm trees werefluttering their faint green foliage in the summer breeze. Yet JohnBarclay would have sworn he saw them there in the cold street, withthe mist beating upon them, and curiously corroborative of thisimpression is a memory he retained of reflecting that since thegeneral's blue overcoat had disappeared the winter before, he hadnoticed that little Thayer had a blue Sunday suit and little ElizabethCady Stanton had appeared wrapped in a blue baby coat. But that onlyshows how these matter-of-fact people are fooled. For though thelittle Wards were caparisoned in blue, and though the general's blueovercoat did disappear about that time, the general and Lucy Ward haveno recollection of shivering home that night, but instead they knowthat they walked among the flowers. 

And John, looking into the darkening street, must have seen somethingbesides the commonplace couple that he thought he saw; for as heturned away to light his lamp and go to work again, he smiled. Surelythere was nothing to smile at in the thing he saw. Perhaps God wastrying to make him see the flowers. But he did not see them, and as itwas nearly an hour before six o'clock, he turned to his work under thelamp and finished his letter to Bob Hendricks. When it was written, heread it over carefully, crossing his "t's" and dotting his "i's, " andas no one was in the room he mumbled it aloud, thus:--

 "DEAR BOB:--Don't get blue; it will be all right. Stick to it. I am laying a wire that will get you an audience with Jay Gould. Make the talk of your life there. You may be able to interest him--if just for a few dollars. Offer him anything. Give him the stock if he will let us use his name. 

 "Don't get uneasy about Molly, Bob. Jane and I see that she goes to everything, and we've scared her up a kind of brevet beau--an old rooster named Brownwell--Adrian Pericles Brownwell, who has blown in here and bought the _Banner_ from Ezra Lane. Brownwell is from Alabama. Do you remember, Bob, that day at Wilson's Creek after we got separated in the Battle I ran into a pile of cavalry writhing in a road? Well, there was one face in that awful struggling mass that I always remembered--and I never expect to see such a look of fear on a man's face again--he was a young fellow then, but now he's thirty-five or so. Well--that was this man Brownwell. I asked him about it the other day. How he ever got out alive, I don't know; but the fact that he should turn up here proves that this is a small world. Brownwell also is a writer from Writersville. You should see the way he paints the lily in the _Banner_ every week. You remember old Cap Lee--J. Lord Lee of the Red Legs--and Lady Lee, as they called her when she was a sagebrush siren with the 'Army of the Border' before the War? Well, read this clipping from the _Banner_ of this week: 'The wealth, beauty, and fashion of Minneola--fairest village of the plain--were agog this week over the birth of a daughter to Lord and Lady Lee, whose prominence in our social circles makes the event one of first importance in our week's annals. Little Beatrix, for so they have decided to christen her, will some day be a notable addition to our refined and gracious circles. Welcome to you, little stranger. '

 "Now you know the man! You needn't be jealous of him. However, he has frozen to the Culpeppers because they are from the South, and clearly he thinks they are the only persons of consequence in town. So he beaus Molly around with Jane and me to the concerts and sociables and things. He is easily thirty-five, walks with a cane, struts like a peacock, and Molly and Jane are having great sport with him. Also he is the only man in town with any money. He brought five thousand dollars in gold, real money, --his people made it on contraband cotton contracts during the War, they say, --and he has been the only visible means of support the town has had for three months. But in the meantime don't worry about Molly, Bob, she's all right, and business is business, you know, and you shouldn't let such things interfere with it. But in another six months we'll be out of the woods and on our way to big money. "

Now another strange thing happened to John Barclay that evening, andthis time it was what he saw, not what he failed to see, that puzzledhim. For just as he sealed the letter to his friend, and thumped hislean fist on it to blot the address on the envelope and press themucilage down, he looked around suddenly, though he never knew why, and there, just outside the rim of light from his lampshade, trembledthe image of Ellen Culpepper with her red and black checked flanneldress at her shoe tops and his rubber button ring upon her finger. Shesmiled at him sweetly for a moment and shook her head sadly, and hercurls fluttered upon her shoulders, and then she seemed to fade intothe general's desk by the opposite wall. John was pallid andfrightened for a moment; then as he looked at the great pile ofletters before him he realized how tired and worn he was. But the faceand the eyes haunted him and brought back old memories, and that nighthe and Jane and Molly Culpepper went to Hendricks', and he played thepiano for an hour in the firelight, and dreamed old dreams. And hishands fell into the chords of a song that he sang as a boy, and Mollycame from the fire and stood beside him while they hummed the words ina low duet:--

 "Let me believe that you love as you loved Long, long ago--long ago. "

But when he went out into the drizzling night, and he and Jane leftMolly at home, he stepped into the whirling yellow world of gold andgrain, and drafts and checks, and leases and mortgages, and Heavenknows what of plots and schemes and plans. So he did not heed Janewhen she said, "Poor--poor little Molly, " but replied as he latchedthe Culpepper gate, "Oh, Molly'll be all right. You can't mix businessand pleasure, you know. Bob must stay. "

And when Molly went into the house, she found her mother waiting forher. The colonel's courage had failed him. The mother took herdaughter's hand, and the two walked up the broad stairs together. 

"Molly, " said the mother, as the girl listlessly went about herpreparations for bed, "don't grieve so about Bob. Father and John needhim there. It's business, you know. "

The daughter answered, "Yes, I know, but I'm so lonesome--solonesome. " Then she sobbed, "You know he hasn't written for a wholeweek, and I'm afraid--afraid!"

When the paroxysm had passed, the mother said: "You know, my dear, they need him there a little longer, and he wants to come back. Yourfather told me that John sent word to-day that you must not let himcome. " The girl's face looked the pain that struck her heart, and shedid not answer. "Molly dear, " began the mother again, "can't you writeto Bob to-morrow and urge him to stay--for me? For all of us? It isso much to us now--for a little while--to have Bob there, sendingback money for the company. I don't know what father would do if itwasn't for the company--and John. "

The daughter held her mother's hand, and after gasping down a sob, promised, and then as the sob kept tilting back in her throat, shecried: "But oh, mother, it's such a big world--so wide, and I am soafraid--so afraid of something--I don't know what--only that I'mafraid. "

But the mother soothed her daughter, and they talked of other thingsuntil she was quiet and drowsy. 

But when she went to sleep, she dreamed a strange dream. The next dayshe could not untangle it, save that with her for hours as she wentabout her duties was the odour of lilacs, and the face of her lover, now a young eager face in pain, and then, by the miracle of dreams, grown old, bald at the temples and brow, but fine and strong andclean--like a boy's face. The face soon left her, but the smell ofthe lilacs was in her heart for days--they were her lilacs, from thebushes in the garden. As days and weeks passed, the dream blurred intothe gray of her humdrum life and was gone. And so that day and thatnight dropped from time into eternity, and who knows of all themillions of stars that swarmed the heavens, what ones held thewandering souls of the simple people of that bleak Western town asthey lay on their pillows and dreamed. For if our waking hours arepassed in worlds so wide apart, who shall know where we walk indreams?

It is thirty years and more now since John Barclay dreamed of himselfas the Wheat King of the Sycamore Valley, and in that thirty years hehad considerable time to reflect upon the reasons why pride alwaysgoeth before destruction. And he figured it out that in his particularcase he was so deeply engrossed in the money he was going to make thatfirst year, that he did not study the simple problem of wheat-growingas he should have studied it. In those days wheat-growing upon theplains had not yet become the science it is to-day, and many SycamoreValley farmers planted their wheat in the fall, and failed to make itpay, and many other Sycamore Valley farmers planted their wheat in thespring, and failed, while many others succeeded. The land had not beendefinitely staked off and set apart by experience as a winter wheatcountry, and so the farmers operating under the Golden Belt WheatCompany, in the spring of 1874, planted their wheat in March. 

That was a beautiful season on the plains. April rains came, and thegreat fields glowed green under the mild spring sun. And BobHendricks, collecting the money from his stock subscriptions, pouredit into the treasury of the company, and John Barclay spent the moneyfor seed and land and men to work the land, and so confident was he ofthe success of the plan that he borrowed every dollar he could lay hishands on, and got leases on more land and bought more seed and hiredmore men, in the belief that during the summer Hendricks could sellstock enough to pay back the loans. To Colonel Culpepper, Barclay gavea block of five thousand dollars' worth of the stock as a bonus inaddition to his commission for his work in securing options, and thecolonel, feeling himself something of a capitalist, and being in fundsfrom the spring sale of lots in College Heights addition, invested innew clothes, bought some farm products in Missouri, and went up anddown the earth proclaiming the glories of the Sycamore Valley, and inMay brought two car-loads of land seekers by stages and wagons andbuggies to Sycamore Ridge, and located them in Garrison County. And inhis mail when he came home he found a notice indicating that he hadoverdrawn his account in the bank five hundred dollars, and that hisnote was due for five hundred more on the second mortgage which he hadgiven the previous fall. 

For two days he was plunged in gloom, and Barclay, observing hisdepression and worming out of the colonel the cause, persuaded GeneralHendricks to put the overdraft and the second mortgage note into onenote for a thousand dollars plus the interest for sixty days until thecolonel could make a turn, and after that the colonel was happy again. He forgot for a moment the responsibility of wealth and engagedhimself in the task of making the Memorial Day celebration in SycamoreRidge the greatest event in the history of the town. Though there wereonly five soldiers' graves to decorate, the longest processionGarrison County had ever known wound up the hill to the cemetery, andColonel Martin Culpepper in his red sash, with his Knights Templar haton, riding up and down the line on an iron-gray stallion, was easilythe most notable figure in the spectacle. Even General Hendricks, revived by the pomp of the occasion, heading the troop of ten veteransof the Mexican War, and General Ward, in his regimentals, wereinconsequential compared with the colonel. And his oration at thegraves, after the bugles had blown taps, kept the multitude in tearsfor half an hour. John Barclay's address at the Opera House thatafternoon--the address on "The Soldier and the Scholar"--was socompletely overshadowed by the colonel's oratorical flight that Janeteased her husband about the eclipse for a month, and never could makehim laugh. Moreover, the _Banner_ that week printed the colonel'soration in full and referred to John's address as "a few sensibleremarks by Hon. John Barclay on the duty of scholarship in times ofpeace. " But here is the strange thing about it--those who read thecolonel's oration were not moved by it; the charm of the voice and thespell of the tall, handsome, vigorous man and the emotion of theoccasion were needed to make the colonel's oratory move one. Still, opinions differ even about so palpable a proposition as the ephemeralnature of the colonel's oratory. For the _Banner_ that week pronouncedit one of the classic oratorical gems of American eloquence, and theeditor thereof brought a dozen copies of the paper under his arm whenhe climbed the hill to Lincoln Avenue the following Sunday night, andpresented them to the women of the Culpepper household, whom he waspunctilious to call "the ladies, " and he assured Miss Molly andMistress Culpepper--he was nice about those titles also--that theirfather and husband had a great future before him in the forum. 

It may be well to pause here and present so punctilious a gentleman asAdrian Pericles Brownwell to the reader somewhat more formally than hehas been introduced. For he will appear in this story many times. Inthe first place he wore mustaches--chestnut-coloured mustaches--thatdrooped rather gracefully from his lip to his jaw, and thence over hiscoat lapels; in the second place he always wore gloves, and never waswithout a flower in his long frock-coat; and thirdly he clicked hiscane on the sidewalk so regularly that his approach was heralded, andthe company was prepared for the coming of a serious, rather nervous, fiery man, a stickler for his social dues; and finally in those days, those sombre days of Sycamore Ridge after the panic of '73, when menhad to go to the post-office to get their ten-dollar bills changed, Brownwell had the money to support the character he assumed. He hadcome to the Ridge from the South, --from that part of the South thatcarried its pistol in its hip pocket and made a large and seriousmatter of its honour, --that was obvious; he had paid Ezra Lane twothousand dollars for the _Banner_, that was a matter of record; and hehad marched with some grandeur into General Hendricks' bank oneSaturday and had clinked out five thousand dollars in gold on themarble slab at the teller's window, and that was a matter attested toby a crowd of witnesses. Watts McHurdie used to say that more peoplesaw that deposit than could be packed into the front room of the bankwith a collar stuffer. 

But why Adrian Brownwell had come to the Ridge, and where he had madehis money--there myth and fable enter into the composition of thenarrative, and one man's opinion is as good as another's. Curiouslyenough, all who testify claim that they speak by the authority of Mr. Brownwell himself. But he was a versatile and obliging gentlemanwithal, so it is not unlikely that all those who assembled him fromthe uttermost parts of the earth into Sycamore Ridge for all thereasons in the longer catechism, were telling the simple truth as theyhave reason to believe it. What men know of a certainty is that hecame, that he hired the bridal chamber of the Thayer House for a year, and that he contested John Barclay's right to be known as the glass offashion and the mould of form in Garrison County for thirty longyears, and then--but that is looking in the back of the book, whichis manifestly unfair. 

It is enough to know now that on that Sunday evening after MemorialDay, in 1874, Adrian P. Brownwell sat on the veranda of the Culpepperhome slapping his lavender gloves on his knee by way of emphasis, andtold the company what he told General Beauregard and what GeneralBeauregard told him, at the battle of Shiloh; also what his maternalgrandfather, Governor Papin, had said to General Jackson, when hisgrandmother, then Mademoiselle Dulangpré, youngest daughter of therefugee duke of that house, had volunteered to nurse the Americansoldiers in Jackson's hospital after the battle of New Orleans; also, and with detail, what his father, Congressman Brownwell, had said onthe capitol steps in December, 1860, before leaving for Washington toresign his seat in Congress; and also with much greater detail herecounted the size of his ancestral domain, the number of theancestral slaves and the royal state of the ancestral household, andthen with a grand wave of his gloves, and a shrug of which Madam Papinmight well have been proud, "But 'tis all over; and we arebrothers--one country, one flag, one God, one very kind but very busyGod!" And he smiled so graciously through his great mustaches, showinghis fine even teeth, that Mrs. Culpepper, Methodist to the heart, smiled back and was not so badly shocked as she knew she should havebeen. 

"Is it not so?" he asked with his voice and his hands at once. "Ah, "he exclaimed, addressing Mrs. Culpepper dramatically, "what betterproof would you have of our brotherhood than our common bondage toyou? However dark the night of our national discord--to-day, North, South, East, West, we bask in the sunrise of some woman's eyes. " Hefluttered his gloves gayly toward Molly and continued:--

 "'O when did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake. '"

And so he rattled on, and the colonel had to poke his words into theconversation in wedge-shaped queries, and Mrs. Culpepper, being in dueand proper awe of so much family and such apparent consequence, spokelittle and smiled many times. And if it was "Miss Molly" this and"Miss Molly" that, when the colonel went into the house to lock theback doors, and "Miss Molly" the other when Mrs. Culpepper went in toopen the west bedroom windows; and even if it was "Miss Molly, shallwe go down town and refresh ourselves with a dish of ice-cream?" andeven if still further a full-grown man standing at the gate under theMay moon deftly nips a rose from Miss Molly's hair and holds the rosein both hands to his lips as he bows a good night--what then? Whatwere roses made for and brown eyes and long lashes and moons and Maywinds heavy with the odour of flowers and laden with the faint soundsof distant herd bells tinkling upon the hills? For men are bold atthirty-five, and maidens, the best and sweetest, truest, gentlestmaidens in all the world, are shy at twenty-one, and polite to theirelders and betters of thirty-five--even when those elders and bettersforget their years!

As for Adrian P. Brownwell, he went about his daily task, editing the_Banner_, making it as luscious and effulgent as a seed catalogue, with rhetorical pictures about as florid and unconvincing. To him thetown was a veritable Troy--full of heroes and demigods, andhonourables and persons of nobility and quality. He used no adjectiveof praise milder than superb, and on the other hand, Lige Bemis oncecomplained that the least offensive epithet he saw in the _Banner_tacked after his name for two years was miscreant. As for JohnBarclay, he once told General Ward that a man could take five dollarsin to Brownwell and come out a statesman, a Croesus or a scholar, asthe exigencies of the case demanded, and for ten dollars he couldcombine the three. 

Yet for all that Brownwell ever remained a man apart. No one thoughtof calling him "Ade. " Sooner would one nickname a gargoyle on a tincornice. So the editor of the _Banner_ never came close to the realheart of Sycamore Ridge, and often for months at a time he did notknow what the people were thinking. And that summer when GeneralHendricks was walking out of the bank every hour and looking fromunder his thin, blue-veined hand at the strange cloud of insectscovering the sky, and when Martin Culpepper was predicting that theplague of grasshoppers would leave the next day, and when John Barclaywas getting that deep vertical crease between his eyes that made himlook forty while he was still in his twenties, Adrian P. Brownwell waschirping cheerfully in the _Banner_ about the "salubrious climate ofGarrison County, " and writing articles about "our phenomenal prospectsfor a bumper crop. " And when in the middle of July the grasshoppershad eaten the wheat to the ground and had left the corn stalksstripped like beanpoles, and had devoured every green thing in theirpath, the _Banner_ contained only a five-line item referring to theplague and calling it a "most curious and unusual visitation. " Butthat summer the _Banner_ was filled with Brownwell's editorials on"The Tonic Effect of the Prairie Ozone, " "Turn the Rascals Out, " "OurDuty to the South, " and "The Kingdom of Corn. " As a writer Brownwellwas what is called "fluent" and "genial. " And he was fond of copyingarticles from the Topeka and Kansas City papers about himself, inwhich he was referred to as "the gallant and urbane editor of the_Banner_. "

But then we all have our weaknesses, and be it said to the everlastingcredit of Adrian Brownwell that he understood and appreciated WattsMcHurdie and Colonel Culpepper better than any other man in town, andthat he printed Watts' poems on all occasions, and never referred tohim as anything less than "our honoured townsman, " or as "our talentedand distinguished fellow-citizen, " and he never laughed at GeneralWard. But the best he could do for John Barclay--even after John hadbecome one of the world's great captains--was to wave his glovesresignedly and exclaim, "Industry, thy name is Barclay. " And Barclayin return seemed never to warm up to Brownwell. "Colonel, " repliedJohn to some encomium of his old friend's upon the new editor, "I'llsay this much. Certainly your friend is a prosperous talker!"

CHAPTER XI

The twenty-fifth of July, 1874, is a memorable day in the life of JohnBarclay. For on that day the grasshoppers which had eaten off thetwenty thousand acres of wheat in the fields of the Golden Belt WheatCompany, as though it had been cropped, rose and left the MissouriValley. They will never come back, for they are ploughed under in thelarva every year by the Colorado farmers who have invaded the plainswhere once the "hoppers" had their nursery; but all this, even if hehad known it, would not have cheered up John that day. For he knewthat he owed one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Easternstockholders of the company, and he had not a dollar to show for it. He had expected to borrow the money needed for the harvesting in thefall, and over and over and over again he had figured with paper andpencil the amount of his debt, and again and again he had tried tofind some way to pay even the interest on the debt at six per cent, which the bank had guaranteed. While the locusts were devouring thevegetation, he walked the hemp carpet that ran diagonally across hisoffice, and chased phantom after phantom of hope that lured him up tothe rim of a solution of the problem, only to push him back into theabyss. He walked with his hands deep in his trousers pockets and hishead down, and as General Ward was out organizing the farmers in arevolt against the dominant party in the state, Barclay was alone mostof the time. The picture of that barren office, with its insurancechromos, with its white, cobweb-marked walls, with its dirty floorpartly covered with an "X" of red-bordered hemp carpet reaching fromthe middle to the four corners, the picture of the four tall unwashedwindows letting in the merciless afternoon sun to fade the grimy blackand white lithograph of William Lloyd Garrison above the general'sdesk, never left John Barclay's memory. It was like a cell on aprisoner's mind. 

As he paced the room that last day of the visit of the grasshoppers, General Hendricks came in. His hair had whitened in the summer. Thepanic and the plague of the locusts had literally wrung the sap out ofhis nerves. Old age was pressing inexorably upon him, palsying hishands on its rack, tripping his feet in its helpless mazes. His dimmedeyes could see only ruin coming, coming slowly and steadily towardhim. In the panic, it came suddenly and inspired fight in him. Butthis year there was something diabolical in its resistless approach. So he shrank from his impending fate as a child trembles at someunknown terror. But Barclay did not swerve. He knew the affairs of thebank fairly well. He was a director who never signed the quarterlystatement without verifying every item for himself. He had dreaded thegeneral's visit, yet he knew that it must come, and he pulled towardthe general a big hickory chair. The old man sank into it and lookedhelplessly into the drawn hard face of the younger man and sighed, "Well, John?"

Barclay stood before him a second and then walked down one arm of the"X" of the carpet and back, and up another, and then turned toHendricks with: "Now, don't lose your nerve, General. You've got tokeep your nerve. That's about all the asset we've got now, I guess. "

The general replied weakly: "I--I, I--I guess you're right, John. Isuppose that's about it. "

"How do you figure it out, General?" asked Barclay, still walking thecarpet. 

The general fumbled for a paper in his pocket and handed it toBarclay. He took it, glanced at it a moment, and then said: "I'm nogood at translating another man's figures--how is it inshort?--Right down to bed-rock?"

Hendricks seemed to pull himself together and replied: "Well, something like ten thousand in cash against seventy thousand indeposits, and fifty thousand of that time deposits, due next October, you know, on the year's agreement. Of the ten thousand cash, fourthousand belongs to Brownwell, and is on check, and you have twothousand on check. "

"All right. Now, General, what do you owe?"

"Well, you know that guarantee of your and Bob's business--that ninethousand. It's due next week. "

"And it will gut you?" asked Barclay. 

The old man nodded and sighed. Barclay limped carefully all over his"X, " swinging himself on his heels at the turns; his mouth washardening, and his eyes were fixed on the old man without blinking ashe said: "General--that's got to come. If it busts you--it will saveus, and we can save you after. That has just absolutely got to bepaid, right on the dot. "

The old man could not have turned paler than he was when he enteredthe room, but he rose halfway in his chair and shook his leonine head, and then let his hands fall limply on his knees as he cried: "No--no, John--I can't. I can't. "

Barclay put his hand on the back of the old man's chair, and he couldfeel the firm hard grip of the boy through his whole frame. Then aftera moment's pause Barclay said: "General, I'm in earnest about that. You will either mail those dividend certificates according to yourguarantee on the first, or as sure as there is a God in heaven I'llsee that you won't have a dollar in your bank on the night of thesecond. "

The old man stood gasping. The eyes of the two men met. Barclay's werebold and green and blazing. 

"Boy! Boy! Boy!--" the old man faltered. "Don't ruin me! Don't ruinme--" he did not finish the sentence, but sank into his chair, anddropped his face to his breast and repeated, "Don't, don't, don't, "feebly for a few times, without seeming to realize what he was saying. From some outpost of his being reinforcements came. For he rosesuddenly, and shaking his haggard fist at the youth, exclaimed in ahigh, furious, cracking voice as he panted and shook his great hairyhead: "No--by God, no, by God, no! You damned young cut-throat--youcan break my bank, but you can't bulldoze me. No, by God--no!" Hestarted to leave the room. Barclay caught the old man and swung himinto a chair. The flint that Barclay's nature needed had been struck. His face was aglow as with an inspiration. 

"Listen, man, listen!" Barclay cried. "I'm not going to break yourbank, I'm trying to save it. " He knew that the plan was ripe in hishead, and as he talked it out, something stood beside him andmarvelled at its perfection. As its inherent dishonesty revealeditself, the old man's face flinched, but Barclay went on unfolding hisscheme. It required General Hendricks to break the law half a dozenways, and to hazard all of the bank's assets, and all of its cash. Andit required him to agree not to lend a dollar to any man in the countyexcept as he complied with the demands of the Golden Belt WheatCompany and mortgaged his farm to Barclay. The plan that Barclay setforth literally capitalized the famine that had followed thegrasshopper invasion, and sold the people their own need at Barclay'sprice. Then for an hour the two men fought it out, and at the endBarclay was saying: "I am glad you see it that way, and I believe, asyou do, that they will take it a little better if we also agree to paythis year's taxes on the land they put under the mortgage. It would bea great sweetener to some of them, and I can slip in an option to sellthe land to us outright as a kind of a joker in small type. " Hisbrassy eyes were small and beady as his brain worked out the detailsof his plan. He put his hands affectionately on General Hendricks'shoulders as he added, "You mustn't forget to write to Bob, General;hold him there whatever comes. "

At the foot of the stairs the two men could hear the heavy tread ofColonel Culpepper. As Hendricks went down the stairs John heard thecolonel's "Mornin', General, " as the two men passed in the hallway. 

"Mornin', Johnnie--how does your corporocity sagashiate thismornin'?" asked the colonel. 

Barclay looked at the colonel through little beady green eyes andreplied, --he knew not what. He merely dipped an oar into the talkoccasionally, he did not steer it, and not until he emerged from hiscalculations twenty minutes after the colonel's greeting did Barclayrealize that the colonel was in great pain. He was saying whenBarclay's mind took heed: "And now, sir, I say, now, having forced hisunwelcome and, I may say, filthy lucre upon me, the impudent scalawagwrites me to-day to say that I must liquidate, must--liquidate, sir;in short, pay up. I call that impertinence. But no matter what I callit, he's going to foreclose. " Barclay's eyes opened to attention. Thecolonel went on. "The original indebtedness was a matter of tenthousand--you will remember, John, that's what I paid for my share ofthe College Heights property, and while I have disposed of some, --inpoint of fact sold it at considerable profit, --yet, as you know, andas this scoundrel knows, for I have written him pointedly to thateffect, I have been temporarily unable to remit any sum substantialenough to justify bothering him with it. But now the scamp, thegrasping insulting brigand, notifies me that unless I pay him when themortgage is due, --to be plain, sir, next week, --he proposes toforeclose on me. "

The colonel's brows were knit with trouble. His voice faltered as headded: "And, John--John Barclay, my good friend--do you realize thatthat little piece of property out on the hill is all I have on earthnow, except the roof over my head? And may--" here his voice slidinto a tenor with pent-up emotion--"maybe the contemptiblerapscallion will try to get that. " The colonel had risen and waspacing the floor. "What a damn disreputable business your commerce is, anyway! John, I can't afford to lose that property--or I'd be apauper, sir, a pauper peddling organs and sewing-machines and maybeteaching singing-school. " The colonel's face caught a rift of sunshineas he added, "You know I did that once before I was married and cameWest--taught singing-school. "

"Well, Colonel--let's see about it, " said Barclay, absently. And thetwo men sat at the table and figured up that the colonel's liabilitieswere in the neighbourhood of twelve thousand, of which ten thousandwere pressing and the rest more or less imminent. At the end of theirconference, Barclay's mind was still full of his own affairs. But hesaid, after looking a moment at the troubled face of the bigblack-eyed man whose bulk towered above him, "Well, Colonel, I don'tknow what under heavens I can do--but I'll do what I can. "

The colonel did not feel Barclay's abstraction. But the colonel's facecleared like a child's, and he reached for the little man and huggedhim off his feet. Then the colonel broke out, "May the Lord, whoheedeth the sparrow's fall and protects all us poor blunderingchildren, bless you, John Barclay--bless you and all your household. "There were tears in his eyes as he waved a grand adieu at the door, and he whistled "Gayly the Troubadour" as he tripped lightly down thestairs. And in another moment the large white plumes were dancing inhis eyes again. This time they waved and beckoned toward asubscription paper which the colonel had just drawn up when theannoying letter came from Chicago, reminding him of his debt. Thepaper was for the relief of a farmer whose house and stock had beenburned. The colonel brought from his hip pocket the carefully foldedsheet of foolscap which he had put away when duty called him toBarclay. He paused at the bottom of the stair, backed the paper on thewall, and wrote under the words setting forth the farmer'sdestitution, "Martin Culpepper--twenty-five dollars. " He stood amoment in the stairway looking into the street; the day was fair andbeautiful; the grasshoppers were gone, and with them went all thevegetation in the landscape; but the colonel in his nankeen trousersand his plaited white shirt and white suspenders, under his whitePanama hat, felt only the influence of the genial air. So he drew outthe subscription paper again and erased the twenty-five dollars andput down thirty-five dollars. Then as Oscar Fernald and Daniel Fryecame by with long faces the colonel hailed them. 

"Boys, " he said, "fellow named Haskins down in Fairview, with ninechildren and a sick wife, got burnt out last night, and I'm kind ofseeing if we can't get him some lumber and groceries and things. Iwant you boys, " the colonel saw the clouds gathering and smiled tobrush them away, "yes, I want you boys to give me ten dollars apiece. "

"Ten dollars!" cried Fernald. 

"Ten dollars!" echoed Frye. "My Lord, man, there isn't ten dollars incash between here and the Missouri River!"

"But the man and his children will starve, and his wife will die ofneglect. "

"That's the Lord's affair--and yours, Mart, " returned Fernald, as hebroke away from the colonel's grasp; "you and He brought them here. "Frye went with Oscar, and they left the colonel with his subscriptionpaper in his hand. He looked up and down the street and then drew along breath, and put the paper against the wall again and sighed as heerased the thirty-five dollars and put down fifty dollars after hisname. Then he started for the bank to see General Hendricks. The largewhite plumes were still dancing in his eyes. 

But so far as Barclay is concerned the colonel never reached thebottom of the stairs, for Barclay had his desk covered with law-booksand was looking up contracts. In an hour he had a draft of a mortgageand option to buy the mortgaged land written out, and was copying itfor the printer. He took it to the _Banner_ office and asked Brownwellto put two men on the job, and to have the proof ready by the nextmorning. 

Brownwell waved both hands magnificently and with much grace, andsaid: "Mr. Barclay, we will put three men on the work, sir, and if youwill do me the honour, I will be pleased to bring the proof up LincolnAvenue to the home of our mutual friend, Colonel Culpepper, where youmay see it to-night. " Barclay fancied that a complacent smile wreathedBrownwell's face at the prospect of going to the Culpeppers', and thenext instant the man was saying: "Charming young lady, Miss Molly! Ah, the ladies, the ladies--they will make fools of us. We can't resistthem. " He shrugged and smirked and wiggled his fingers and played withhis mustaches. "Wine and women and song, you know--they get us all. But as for me--no wine, no song--but--" he finished the sentencewith another flourish. 

Barclay did what he could to smile good-naturedly and assent in somesort of way as he got out of the room. That night, going up the hill, he said to Jane: "Brownwell is one of those fellows who regard allwomen--all females is better, probably--as a form of vice. He's thekind that coos like a pouter pigeon when he talks to a woman. "

Jane replied: "Yes, we women know them. They are always claiming thatmen like you are not gallant!" She added, "You know, John, he's thejealous, fiendish kind--with an animal's idea of honour. " They walkedon in silence for a moment, and she pressed his arm to her side andtheir eyes met in a smile. Then she said: "Doubtless some women likethat sort of thing, or it would perish, but I don't like to be treatedlike a woman--a she-creature. I like to be thought of as a humanbeing with a soul. " She shuddered and continued: "But the soul doesn'tenter even remotely into his scheme of things. We are just bodies. "

The Barclays did not stay late at the Culpeppers' that night, but tookthe proofs at early bedtime and went down the hill. An hour later theyheard Molly Culpepper and Brownwell loitering along the sidewalk. Brownwell was saying:--

"Ah, but you, Miss Molly, you are like the moon, for--

 "'The moon looks on many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this. '

"And I--I am--"

The Barclays did not hear what he was; however, they guessed, and theyguessed correctly--so far as that goes. But Molly Culpepper did hearwhat he was and what he had been and what he would be, and the moreshe parried him, the closer he came. There were times when he forgotthe "Miss" before the "Molly, " and there were other times when she hadto slip her hand from his ever so deftly. And once when they werewalking over a smooth new wooden sidewalk coming home, he caught herswiftly by the waist and began waltzing and humming "The Blue Danube. "And at the end of the smooth walk, she had to step distinctly awayfrom him to release his arm. But she was twenty-one, and one does notalways know how to do things at twenty-one--even when one intends todo them, and intends strongly and earnestly--that one would do atforty-one, and so as they stood under the Culpepper elm by the gatethat night, --under the elm, stripped gaunt and naked by thelocusts, --and the July moon traced the skeleton of the tree upon theclose-cropped sod, we must not blame Molly Culpepper too much even ifshe let him, hold her hand a moment too long after he had kissed it aformal good night; for twenty-one is not as strong as its instincts. It is such a little while to learn all about a number of importantthings in a big and often wicked world that when a little man or alittle woman, so new to this earth as twenty-one years, gets a fingerpinched in the ruthless machinery, it is a time for tears andmothering and not for punishment. And so when Adrian Brownwell pulledthe little girl off her feet and kissed her and asked her to marry himall in a second, and she could only struggle and cry "No, no!" and beghim to let her go--it is not a time to frown, but instead a time togo back to our twenty-ones and blush a little and sigh a little, andmaybe cry and lie a little, and in the end thank God for the angel Hesent to guard us, and if the angel slept--thank God still for thecharity that has come to us. 

The next day John Barclay had Colonel Martin Culpepper and Lige Bemisin his office galvanizing them with his enthusiasm and coaching themin their task. They were to promise three dollars an acre, August 15, to every farmer who would put a mortgage on his land for six dollarsan acre. The other three dollars was to cover the amount paid byBarclay as rent for the land the year before. They were also to offerthe landowner a dollar and a half an acre to plough and plant the landby September 15, and another dollar to cultivate it ready for theharvest, and the company was to pay the taxes on the land and furnishthe seed. Barclay had figured out the seed money from the sale of themortgages. The man was a dynamo of courage and determination, and hecharged the two men before him until they fairly prickled with thescheme. He talked in short hard sentences, going over and over hisplan, drilling them to bear down on the hard times and that therewould be no other buyers or renters for the land, and to say that thebank would not lend a dollar except in this way. Long after they hadleft his office, Barclay's voice haunted them. His face was set andhis eyes steady and small, and the vertical wrinkle in his brow was asfirm as an old scar. He limped about the room quickly, but his strongfoot thumped the floor with a thud that punctuated his words. 

They left, and he sat down to write a letter to Bob Hendricks tellinghim the plan. He had finished two pages when General Hendricks came ina-tremble and breathless. The eyes of the two men met, and Hendricksreplied:--

"It's Brownwell--the fat's in the fire, John. Brownwell's going!"

"Going--going where?" asked the man at the desk, blankly. 

"Going to leave town. He's been in and given notice that he wants hismoney in gold day after to-morrow. "

"Well--well!" exclaimed Barclay, with his eyes staring dumbly atnothing on the dingy white wall before him. "Well--don't that beatthe Jews? Going to leave town!" He pulled himself together and grippedhis chair as he said, "Not by a damn sight he ain't. He's going tostay right here and sweat it out. We need that four thousand dollarsin our business. No, you don't, Mr. Man--" he addressed ahypothetical Brownwell. "You're roped and tied and bucked and gagged, and you stay here. " Then he said, "You go on over to the bank, General, and I'll take care of Brownwell. " Barclay literally shovedthe older man to the door. As he opened it he said, "Send me up a boyif you see one on the street. "

In ten minutes Brownwell was running up the stairs to Barclay's officein response to his note. He brought a copy of the mortgage with, him, and laid it before Barclay, who went over it critically. He found afew errors and marked them, and holding it in his hands turned to theeditor. 

"Hendricks says you are going to leave town. Why?" asked Barclay, bluntly. He had discovered even that early in life that a circuitousman is generally knocked off his guard by a rush. Brown well blinkedand sputtered a second or two, scrambling to his equilibrium. Beforehe could parry Barclay assaulted him again with: "Starving to death, eh? Lost your grip--going back to Alabama with the banjo on yourknee, are you?"

"No, sir--no, sir, you are entirely wrong, sir--entirely wrong, andscarcely more polite, either. " Brown well paused a minute and added:"Business is entirely satisfactory, sir--entirely so. It is anothermatter. " He hesitated a moment and added, with the ghost of a smirk, "A matter of sentiment--for--

 "'The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. '"

Brownwell sat there flipping his gloves, exasperatingly; Barclayscrewed up his eyes, put his head on one side, and suddenly a flashcame into his face and he exclaimed, "Come off, you don't meanit--not Molly!"

The rejected one inclined his head. Barclay was about to laugh, butinstead he said, "Well, you are not a quitter; why don't you go aheadand get her?" He glanced instinctively at his letter to Bob Hendricks, and as if to shield what he was going to say, put a paper over thepage, and then the seriousness of the situation came over him. "Youknow women; cheer up, man--try again. Stick to it--you'll win, "cried Barclay. The fool might go for so small a reason. It was no timefor ribaldry. "Let me tell you something, " he went on. His eyes openedagain with a steady ruthless purpose in them, that the man before himwas too intent on his own pose to see. Barclay put a weight upon thewhite sheet of paper that he had spread over his letter to BobHendricks and then went on. "Say, Brownwell, let me tell yousomething. This town is right in the balance; you can help. " Somethingseemed to hold Barclay back, but he took the plunge. "You can stayhere and help. We need men like you. " Then he took a blind shot in thedark before going on--perhaps to give himself another chance. "Haveyou got any more of that buried money--I mean more than you gaveGeneral Hendricks--the kind that you dug up after the war andscratched the mould off the eagles?"

Brownwell flushed and replied, as he put one hand in his coat and theother, with his stick and hat and gloves, behind him: "That is myaffair, sir. However, I will say that I have. "

"I thought so, " retorted Barclay. "Now look here, bring it to theRidge. Here's the place to invest it and now's the everlasting time. You jump in here and help us out, help build up the town, and there'snothing too good for you. " Barclay was ready for it now. He did notflinch, but went on: "Also here's your chance to help ColonelCulpepper. He's to be closed out, and ten thousand would save him. Youknow the kind of a man the colonel is. Stay with the game, Mr. Man, stay with the game. " He saw Brownwell's eyes twitch. Barclay knew hehad won. He added slowly, "You understand?"

Brownwell smiled benignly. Barclay looked nervously at the unfinishedletter on the table. Brownwell waved his arms again dramatically, andreplied: "Ah, thank you--thank you. I shall play my hand out--andhearts are trumps--are they not?" And he went out almost dancing forjoy. 

When the man was gone Barclay shuddered; his contempt for Brownwellwas one of the things he prided himself on, and the intrigue revoltedhim. He stood a moment at the window looking into the street absently. He became conscious that some one was smiling at him on the crossingbelow. Then automatically he heard himself say, "Oh, Molly, can yourun up a minute?" And a moment later she was in the room. She was abewitching little body in her wide skirts and her pancake of a hatwith a feather in it as she sat there looking at her toes thatmorning, with her bright eyes flashing up into his like rockets. Butthere were lines under the eyes, and the rims of the eyelids werealmost red--as red as pretty eyelids ever may be. Barclay went rightto the midst of the matter at once. He did not patronize her, but toldher in detail just the situation--how the Golden Belt Wheat Company'sinterest must be met by the bank under its guarantee, or Bob and hisfather would be worse than bankrupts, they would be criminals. He putBob always in the foreground. Barclay unfolded to her all the plansfor going ahead with the work, and he told her what they were doingfor her father by giving him employment. He marched straight up to thematter in hand without flinching. 

"Molly, " he began without batting his eyes, "here is where you comein. That fellow Brownwell was up here this morning. Oh, you needn'tshiver--I know all about it. You had the honour of refusing him lastnight. " To her astonished, hurt face he paid no heed, but went on:"Now he's going to leave town on account of you and pull out fourthousand dollars he's got in the bank. If he does that, we can't payour guarantee. You've got to call him back. " She flared up as if tostop him, but he went on: "Oh, I know, Molly Culpepper--but this isno game of London Bridge. It's bad enough, but it's business--coldclammy business, and sometimes we have to do things in this world forthe larger good. That roan simply can't leave this town and you mustbold him. It's ruin and perhaps prison to Bob and his father if hegoes; and as for your own father and mother--it makes them paupers, Molly. There's no other way out of it. " He paused a moment. 

The girl's face blanched, and she looked at the floor and spoke, "AndBob--when can he come back?"

"I don't know, Molly--but not now--he never was needed there as heis now. It's a life-and-death matter, Molly Culpepper, with everycreature on earth that's nearest and dearest to you--it makes orbreaks us. It's a miserable business, I know well--but your duty isto act for the larger good. You can't afford to send Bob to jail andyour people to the poorhouse just because--"

The girl looked up piteously and then cried out: "Oh, John--don't, don't--I can't. It's awful, John--I can't. "

"But, Molly, " he replied as gently as he could, "you must. You can'tafford to be squeamish about this business. This is a woman's job, Molly, not a child's. "

She rose and looked at him a fleeting moment as if in search of somemercy in his face. Then she looked away. He stood beside her, barringher way to the door. "But you'll try, Molly, won't you--you'll try?"he cried. She looked at him again with begging eyes and stepped aroundhim, and said breathlessly as she reached the door: "Oh, I don't know, John--I don't know. I must think about it. "

She felt her way down the stairs, and stopped a minute to composeherself before she crossed the street and walked wearily up the hill. 

That night at supper Colonel Culpepper addressed the assembled familyexpansively. "The ravens, my dears, the ravens. Behold Elijah fed bythe sacred birds. By Adrian P. Brownwell, to be exact. This morning Iwent down town with the sheriff selling the roof over our heads. Thisafternoon who should come to me soliciting the pleasure of lending, memoney--who, I say, but Adrian P. Brownwell?"

"Well, I hope you didn't keep him standing, " put in Buchanan. 

"My son, " responded the colonel, as he whetted the carving knife onthe steel--a form which was used more for rhetorical effect than, culinary necessity, as there were pork chops on the platter, "my son, no true gentleman will rebuke another who is trying to lend him money. Always remember that. " And the colonel's great body shook withmerriment, as he proceeded to fill up the plates. But one plate wentfrom the table untouched, and Molly Culpepper went about her work witha leaden heart. For the world had become a horrible phantasm to her, aplace of longing and of heartache, a place of temptation and trial, lying under the shadow of tragedy. And whose world was it that night, as she sat chattering with her father and the man she feared, whoseworld was it that night, if this is a real world, and not the shadowof a dream? Was it the colonel's gay world, or John's golden world, orWard's harmonious world, or poor little Molly's world--all askew withmiserable duties and racking heartaches, and grinning sneering fears, with the relentless image of the Larger Good always before her? Surelyit was not all their worlds, for there is only one world. Then whosewas it? God who made it and set it in the heavens in His great loveand mercy only knows. Watts McHurdie once wrote some query like this, and the whole town smiled at his fancy. In that portion of his"Complete Poetical and Philosophical Works" called "Fragments" occurthese lines:--

 "The wise men say This world spins 'round the universe of which it is a part; But anyway-- The only world I know about is spun from out my heart. "

And perhaps Watts, sewing away in his harness shop, had deciphered oneletter in the riddle of the Sphinx. 

CHAPTER XII

"If I ever get to be a Turk or anything like that, " said WattsMcHurdie, in October, two months after the events recorded in the lastchapter had occurred, as he sat astraddle of his bench, sewing on abridle, "I'm going to have one red-headed wife--but not much more'none. "

Colonel Culpepper dropped a "Why?" into the reflections of the poet. 

Watts replied, "Oh, just to complete the set!"

The colonel did not answer and Watts chuckled: "I figure out thatwomen are a study. You learn this one and pat yourself on thebreast-bone and say, 'Behold me, I'm on to women. ' But you ain't. Another comes along and you have to begin at the beginning and learn'em all over. I wonder if Solomon who had a thousand--more orless--got all his wisdom from them. "

The colonel shook his head, and said sententiously, "Watts--theyhain't a blame thing in it--not a blame thing. " The creaking of thetreadle on Watt's bench slit the silence for a few moments, and thecolonel went on: "There can be educated fools about women, WattsMcHurdie, just as there are educated fools about books. There'snothing in your theory of a liberal education in women. On thecontrary, in all matters relating to and touching on affairs of theheart--beware of the man with one wife. "

McHurdie flashed his yellow-toothed smile upon his friend and replied, "Or less than one?"

"No, sir, just one, " answered Colonel Culpepper. "A man with a raft ofwives, first and last, is like a fellow with good luck--the Lordnever gives him anything else. And I may say in point of fact, thatthe man with no wife is like a man with bad luck--the Lord nevergives him anything else, either!" The colonel slapped his right handon his knee and exclaimed: "Watts McHurdie--what's the matter withyou, man? Don't you see Nellie's all ready and waitin'--just fairlyhonin', and longin', I may say, for a home and a place to begin tolive?"

McHurdie gave his treadle a jam and swayed forward over his work andanswered, "Marry in haste--repent at leisure. "

But nevertheless that night Watts sat with Nellie Logan on the frontporch of the Wards' house, watching the rising harvest moon, whileMrs. Ward, inside, was singing to her baby. Nellie Logan roomed withthe Wards, and was bookkeeper in Dorman's store. It was nearly teno'clock and the man rose to go. "Well, " he said, and hesitated amoment, "well, Nellie, I suppose you're still waiting?" It was aquestion rather than an assertion. 

The woman put her hands gently on the man's arms and sighed. "I justcan't--not yet, Watts. "

"Well, I thought maybe you'd changed your mind. " He smiled as hecontinued, "You know they say women do change sometimes. "

She looked down at him sadly. "Yes, I know they do, but some way Idon't. "

There was a long pause while Watts screwed up his courage to say, "Still kind of thinking about that preacher?"

The woman had no animation in her voice as she replied, "You know thatby now--without asking. "

The man sat down on the step, and she sat on a lower step. He wassilent for a time. Then he said, "Funny, ain't it?" She knew she wasnot to reply; for in a dozen years she had learned the man's moods. Ina minute, during which he looked into his hat absent-mindedly, he wenton: "As far as I've been able to make it out, love's a kind of agrand-right-and-left. I give my right hand to you, and you give yoursto the preacher, and he gives his to some other girl, and she giveshers to some one else, like as not, who gives his to some one else, and the fiddle and the horn and the piano and the bass fid screech andtoot and howl, and away we go and sigh under our breaths and break ourhearts and swing our partners, and it's everybody dance. " He looked upat her and smiled at his fancy. For he was a poet and thought hisremarks had some artistic value. 

She smiled back at him, and he leaned on his elbows and looked up ather as he said quietly: "I'd like awful well, Nellie--awful well ifyou'd be my partner for the rest of this dance. It's lonesome downthere in the shop. "

The woman patted his hand, and they sat quietly for a while and thenshe said, "Maybe sometime, Watts, but not to-night. "

He got up, and stood for a moment beside her on the walk. "Well, " hesaid at length, "I suppose I must be moving along--as the wanderingJew said. " He smiled and their eyes met in the moonlight. Wattsdropped his instantly, and exclaimed, "You're a terrible handsomegirl, Nellie--? did you know it?" He repeated it and added, "And theLord knows I love you, Nellie, and I've said it a thousand times. " Hefound her hand again, and said as he put on his hat, "Well, good-by, Nellie--good-by--if you call that gone. " His handclasp tightened andhers responded, and then he dropped her hand and turned away. 

The woman felt a desire to scream; she never knew how she choked herdesire. But she rushed after him and caught him tightly and sobbed, "Oh, Watts--Watts--Watts McHurdie--are you never going to have anymore snap in you than that?"

As he kicked away the earth from under him, Watts McHurdie saw thelight in a window of the Culpepper home, and when he came down toearth again five minutes later, he said, "Well, I was just a-thinkinghow nice it would be to go over to Culpeppers' and kind of tell themthe news!"

"They'll have news of their own pretty soon, I expect, " repliedNellie. And to Watts' blank look she replied: "The way that manBrownwell keeps shining around. He was there four nights last week, and he's been there two this week already. I don't see what MollyCulpepper can be thinking of. "

So they deferred the visit to the Culpeppers', and in due time WattsMcHurdie flitted down Lincoln Avenue and felt himself wafted alongMain Street as far in the clouds as a mortal may be. And though it wasnearly midnight, he brought out his accordion and sat playing it, beating time with his left foot, and in his closed eyes seeing visionsthat by all the rights of this game of life should come only to youth. And the guests in the Thayer House next morning asked, "Well, forheaven's sake, who was that playing 'Silver Threads among the Gold'along there about midnight?--he surely must know it by this time. "

And Adrian Brownwell, sitting on the Culpepper veranda the next nightbut one, said: "Colonel, your harness-maker friend is a musicalartist. The other night when I came in I heard him twanging hislute--'The Harp that once through Tara's Hall'; you know, Colonel. "

And John Barclay closed his letter to Bob Hendricks: "Well, Bob, as Isit here with fifty letters written this evening and ready to mail, and the blessed knowledge that we have 18, 000 acres of winter wheatall planted if not paid for, I can hear old Watts wheezing away on hisaccordion in his shop down street. Poor old Watts, it's a pity thatman hasn't the acquisitive faculty--he could turn that talent intoenough to keep him all his days. Poor old Watts!"

And Molly Culpepper, sitting in her bedroom chewing her penholder, finally wrote this: "Watts McHurdie went sailing by the houseto-night, coming home from the Wards', where he was making his regularcall on Nellie. You know what a mouse-like little walk he has, scratching along the sidewalk so demurely; but to-night, after hepassed our place I heard him actually break into a hippety-hop, and asI was sitting on the veranda, I could hear him clicking clear down tothe new stone walk in front of the post-office. " Oho, Molly Culpepper, you said "as I was sitting on the veranda"; that is of course thetruth, but not the whole truth; what you might have said was "as wewere sitting on the veranda, " and "as we were talking of what I like"and "what you like, " and of "what I think" and "what you think, " andas "I was listening to war tales from a Southern soldier, " and as "Iwas finding it on the whole rather a tiresome business "; those thingsyou might have written, Molly Culpepper, but you did not. And was it atwinge or a prick or a sharp reproachful stab of your conscience thatmade you chew the tip of your penholder into shreds and then madlywrite down this:--

"Bob, I don't know what is coming over me; but some way your lettersseem so far away, and it has been such a long time since I saw you, awhole lonesome year, and Bob dear, I am so weak and so unworthy ofyou; I know it, oh, I know it. But I feel to-night that I must tellyou something right from my heart. It is this, dear: no matter whatmay happen, I want you to know that I must always love you better thanany one else in all the world. I seem so young and foolish, and lifeis so long and the world is so big--so big and you are so far away. But, Bob dear, my good true boy, don't forget this that I tell youto-night, that through all time and all eternity the innermost part ofmy heart must always be yours. No matter what happens to you and me inthe course of life in the big world--you must never forget what Ihave written here to-night. "

And these words, for some strange reason, were burned on the man'ssoul; though she had written him fonder ones, which passed from himwith the years. The other words of the letter fell into his eyes andwere consumed there, so he does not remember that she also wrote thatnight: "I have just been standing at my bedroom window, looking outover the town. It is quiet as the graveyard, save for the murmur ofthe waters falling over the dam. And I cannot tell whether it is fancyor whether it is real, but now and then there comes to me a faint hintof music, --it sounds almost like Watts' accordion, but of course itcannot be at this unholy hour, and the tune it makes me think of someway is 'Silver Threads among the Gold. ' Isn't it odd that I shouldhear that song, and yet not hear it, and have it running through mymind?"

And thus the town heard Watts McHurdie's song of triumph--the chortlethat every male creature of the human kind instinctively lets out whenhe has found favour in some woman's eyes, that men have let out sinceLemech sang of victory over the young man to Adah and Zillah! And inall the town no one knew what it meant. For the accordion is notessentially an instrument of passion. So the episode ended, andanother day came in. And all that is left to mark for this world thatnight of triumph--and that mark soon will bleach into oblivion--arethe verses entitled "Love at Sunset, " of which Colonel MartinCulpepper, the poet's biographer, writes in that chapter "At Hymen'sAltar, " referred to before: "This poem was written October 14, 1874, on the occasion of the poet's engagement to Miss Nellie Logan, whoafterward became his wife. By many competent critics, including noless a personage than Hon. John Barclay, president of the NationalProvisions Company, this poem is deemed one of Mr. McHurdie's noblestachievements, ranking second only to the great song that gave himnational fame. "

And it should be set down as an integral part of this narrative thatJohn Barclay first read the verses "Love at Sunset" in the _Banner_, two weeks after the night of their composition, as he was finishing acampaign for the Fifth Parallel bonds. He picked up the _Banner_ oneevening at twilight in a house in Pleasant township, and seeing Watts'initials under some verses, read them at first mechanically, and thenreread them with real zest, and so deeply did they move the man fromthe mooring of the campaign that seeing an accordion on the table ofthe best room in which he was waiting for supper, Barclay picked it upand fooled with it for half an hour. It had been a dozen years sincehe had played an accordion, and the tunes that came into his fingerswere old tunes in vogue before the war, and he thought of himself asan old man, though he was not yet twenty-five. But the old tunesbrought back his boyhood from days so remote that they seemed a longtime past. And that night when he addressed the people in the PleasantValley schoolhouse, he was half an hour getting on to the subject ofthe bonds; he dwelt on the old days and spoke of the drouth of '60 andof the pioneers, and preached a sermon, with their lives for texts, onthe value of service without thought of money or hope of other rewardthan the joy one has in consecrated work. Then he launched into thebond proposition, and when the votes were counted Pleasant townshipindorsed Barclay's plan overwhelmingly. For he was a young man offorce, if not of eloquence. His evident sincerity made up for what helacked in oratorical charm, and he left an impression on those abouthim. So when the bonds carried in Garrison County, the firm of Wardand Barclay was made local attorneys for the road, and General Ward, smarting under the defeat of his party in the state, refused to acceptthe railroad's business, and the partnership was dissolved. 

"John, " said Ward, as he put his hands on the young man's shouldersand looked at him a kindly moment, before picking up his bushel basketof letters and papers, to move them into another room and dissolve thepartnership, "John, " the elder man repeated, "if I could alwaysmaintain such a faith in God as you maintain in money and its power, Icould raise the dead. "

Barclay blinked a second and replied, "Well, now, General, lookhere--what I don't understand is how you expect to accomplishanything without money. "

"I can't tell you, John--but some way I have faith that I can--cando more real work in this world without bothering to get money, than Ican by stopping to get money with which to do good. "

"But if you had a million, you could do more good with it than you aredoing now, couldn't you?" asked Barclay. 

"Yes, perhaps I could, " admitted the general, as he eyed his miserablelittle pile of worldly goods in the basket. "I suppose I could, " herepeated meditatively. 

"All right then, General, " cut in Barclay. "I have no million, anymore than you have; but I'm going to get one--or two, maybe a dozenif I can, and I want to do good with it just as much as you do. When Iget it I'll show you. " Barclay rose to lend the general a hand withhis basket. As they went awkwardly through the door with the load, thegeneral stopping to get a hold on the basket that would not twist hishand, he put the load down in the hall and said: "But while you'regetting that million, you're wasting God's ten talents, boy. Can't yousee that if you would use your force, your keenness, and persistencehelping mankind in some way--teaching, preaching, lending a hand tothe poor, or helping to fight organized greed, you would get more ofGod's work done than you will by squeezing the daylights out of yourfellow-men, making them hate money because of your avarice, and end bydoling it out to them in charity? That's my point, boy. That's why Idon't want your railroad job. "

They had dropped the basket in the bare room. The general had not somuch as a chair or a desk. He looked it over, and Barclay's eyesfollowed his. "What are you going to do for furniture?" asked theyounger man. 

The general's thin face wrinkled into a smile. "Well, " he replied, "Isuppose that if a raven can carry dry-goods, groceries, boots andshoes and drugs, paints and oils, --and certainly the ravens have beenbringing those things to the Wards for eight years now, and they'reall paid for, --the blessed bird can hump itself a little and bringsome furniture, stoves, and hardware. "

Barclay limped into his room, while the general rubbed the dust offthe windows. In a minute John came stumbling in with a chair, and ashe set it down he said, "Here comes the first raven, General, and nowif you'll kindly come and give the ravens a lift, they'll bring you atable. " And so the two men dragged the table into the office, and asthey finished, Ward saw General Hendricks coming up the stairs, andwhen the new room had been put in order, --a simple operation, --General Ward hurried home to help Mrs. Ward get in their dahliaroots for the winter. 

As they were digging in the garden, covering the ferns and wrappingthe magnolia tree they had lately acquired, and mulching theperennials, Mrs. Mary Barclay came toward them buffeting the wind. Shewore the long cowlish waterproof cloak and hood of the period--whichshe had put on during the cloudy morning. Her tall strong figure didnot bend in the wind, and the schoolbooks she carried in her handbroke the straight line of her figure only to heighten the priestesseffect that her approaching presence produced. 

"Well, children, " she said, as she stood by the Wards at their work, "preparing your miracles?" She looked at the bulbs and roots, andsmiled. "How wonderful that all the beauty of the flowers should be inthose scrawny brown things; and, " she added as she brushed away thebrown hair of her forties from her broad brow, "God probably thinksthe same thing when He considers men and their souls. "

"And when the gardener puts us away for our winter's sleep?" Wardasked. 

She turned her big frank blue eyes upon him as she took the words fromhis mouth, "'And the last Adam was made a quickening spirit. '" Thenshe smiled sadly and said, "But it is the old Adam himself that I seemto be wrestling with just now. "

"In the children--at school?" asked the Wards, one after the other. She sighed and looked at the little troopers straggling along thehighway, and replied, "Yes, partly that, too, " and throwing herunnecessary hood back, turned her face into the wind and walkedquickly away. The Wards watched her as she strode down the hill, andfinally as he bent to his work the general asked:--

"Lucy, what does she think of John?"

Mrs. Ward, who was busy with a geranium, did not reply at once. But ina moment she rose and, putting the plant with some others that were togo to the cellar, replied: "Oh, Phil--you know a mother tries to hopeagainst hope. She teaches her school every day, and keeps her mindbusy. But sometimes, when she stops in here after school or for lunch, she can't help dropping things that let me know. I think her heart isbreaking, Phil. "

"Does she know about the wheat deal--I mean about the way he hasmade the farmers sign that mortgage by cutting them off from borrowingmoney at the bank?"

"Not all of it--but I think she suspects, " replied the wife. 

"Did you know, dear, " said the general, as he put the plants in thebarrow to wheel them to the cellar, "that I ran across somethingto-day--it may be all suspicion, and I don't want to wrongJohn--but Mart Culpepper, God bless his big innocent heart, letsomething slip--well, it was John, I think, who arranged for thatloan of ten thousand from Brownwell to Mart. Though why he didn't getit at the bank, I don't know. But John had some reason. Things lookmighty crooked there at the bank. I know this--Mart says thatBrownwell lent him the money, and Mart lent it to the bank for a monththere in August, while he was holding the Chicago fellow in the air. "

Mrs. Ward sat down on the front steps of the porch, and exclaimed:--

"Well, Phil Ward--that's why the Culpeppers are so nice to Brownwell. Honestly, Phil, the last time I was over Mrs. Culpepper nearly talkedher head off to me and at Molly about what a fine man he is, and toldall about his family, and connections--he's related to the angelGabriel on his mother's side, " she laughed, "and he's own cousin toSt. Peter through the Brownwells. "

"Oh, I guess they're innocent enough about it--they aren'tmercenary, " interrupted the general. 

"Oh, no, " replied Mrs Ward, "never in the world; but he's been good tothem and he's of their stock--and it's only natural. "

"Yes, probably, " replied the general, and asked, "Does she intend tomarry him, do you think?" Mrs. Ward was sorting some dahlia roots onthe wheelbarrow and did not reply at once. "Do you suppose they'reengaged?" repeated the general. 

"I often wonder, " she returned, still at her task. Then she rose, holding a bulb in her hands, and said: "It's a funny kind of relation. Her father and mother egging her on--and you know that kind of a man;give him an inch and he'll take an ell. I wonder how far he has got. "She took the bulb to a pile near the rear of the house. "Those are thenice big yellow ones I'm saving for Mrs. Barclay. But I'm sure of onething, Molly has no notion of marrying Brownwell. " She continued:"Molly is still in love with Bob. She was over here last week and hada good cry and told me so. "

"Well, why doesn't she send this man about his business?" exclaimedthe general. 

Mrs. Ward sighed a little and replied, "Because--there is only oneperfect person in all the world, and that's you. " She smiled at himand continued: "The rest of us, dear, are just flesh and blood. So wemake mistakes. Molly knows she should; she told me so the other day. And she hates herself for not doing it. But, dearie--don't you seeshe thinks if she does, her father and mother will lose the big house, and Bob will be involved in some kind of trouble? They keep thatbefore her all of the time. She says that John is always insistingthat she be nice to Brownwell. And you know the Culpeppers thinkBrownwell is--well, you know what they think. "

They worked along for a while, and the general stopped and put hisfoot on his spade and cried: "That boy--that boy--that boy! Isn't heselling his soul to the devil by bits? A little chunk goes every day. And oh, my dear, my dear--" he broke out, "what profiteth a man if hegain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Poor, poor John. " He fellto his work again, sighing, "Poor John, poor John!" So they talked onuntil the afternoon grew old. 

And while they were talking, John and General Hendricks were inBarclay's office going over matters, and seeing where they stood. 

"So he says seventy thousand is too much for the company and me toowe?" said John, at the end of half an hour's conference. 

The general was drumming his fingers on the table nervously. "Yes--hesays we've got to reduce that in thirty days, or he'll close us up. Haven't you got any political influence, somewhere in the East, John, --some of those stockholders, --that will hold this matter uptill you can harvest your crop next June?"

Barclay thought a moment, with his hand in his chin, and then slowlyshook his head. A bank inspector from Washington was several degreeshigher in the work of politics than Barclay had gone. 

"Let me see--" droned Barclay; "let me see. We can at least tryscattering it out a little; cut off, say, fifty thousand from me andthe company and put it in the name of Lige--"

"He's on to Lige, we've got a hat full of Lige's notes in there, "interrupted the general. 

"All right, then, drop Lige and put in the colonel--he'll do that forme, and I'll see if I can't get the colonel to get Brownwell toaccommodate us. He's burning a good bit of the colonel's stove woodthese nights. " Barclay smiled, and added, "And I'll just put Bob infor a few thousand. "

"But what'll we do about those taxes?" asked the general, anxiously. "You know they've got to be paid before the first of the year, andthat's only six weeks off. "

Barclay rose and paced the rug, and replied: "Yes, that's so. I wasgoing to make another note for them. But I suppose we oughtn't to doit even under cover; for if he found out you had exceeded our loanright now--you know those fellows get ugly sometimes. " The young manscrewed up his face and stood looking out of the window in silence fora long minute. Then he limped over to his chair and sat down as onewho has a plan. "Say now, General; you know Gabe Carnine's coming inas county treasurer right after the first of the year, and we willmake him help us. You make your personal check for the nine thousand, and give it to the old cuss who's in the county treasurer's officenow, with the descriptions of the land, and get the tax receipts;he'll bring the check back to the bank; you give him credit on hispass-book with the other checks, and just hold your own check out inthe drawer as cash. If my check was in there, the inspector might dropin and see it, and cause a disturbance. When Gabe comes in, I'll makehim carry the matter over till next summer. "

The transaction would cover only a few days, Barclay explained; andfinally he had his way. So the Larger Good was accomplished. 

And later Adrian Brownwell came into the office to say:--

"Mr. Barclay, our friend, Colonel Culpepper, confessed to me aftersome transparent attempts at subterfuge that my signing anaccommodation note would help you, and do I understand this also willhelp our young friend, Robert Hendricks, whom I have never seen, andenable him to remain at his post during the winter?"

John Barclay took a square hard look at Brownwell, and got a smile anda faint little shrug in return, whereupon, for the Larger Good, hereplied "Yes, " and for the Larger Good also, perhaps, Adrian Brownwellanswered:

"Well, I shall be delighted--just make my note for thirty days--onlythirty days, you understand; and then--well, of course ifcircumstances justify it, I'll renew it. " Barclay laughed and asked, "Well, Mr. Brownwell, as between friends may I ask how 'circumstances'are getting on?"

Brownwell shrugged his shoulders and smiled blandly as he answered:"Just so-so; I go twice a week. And--" he waved his gloves airily andcontinued, "What is it the immortal Burns says: 'A man's a man, for a'that and a' that!' And I'm a man, John Barclay, and she's a woman. AndI go twice a week. You know women, sir, you know women--they'remostly all alike. So I think--" he smirked complacently as heconcluded--"I think what I need is time--only time. "

"Luck to you, " said Barclay. "I'll just make the note thirty days, asyou say, and we can renew it from time to time. "

Then Brownwell put on his hat, twirled his cane effusively, and badeBarclay an elaborate adieu. 

And ten days later, Molly Culpepper, loathing herself in her soul, andpraying for the day of deliverance when it should be all over, walkedslowly from the post-office up the hill to the house, the statelyhouse, with its impressive pillars, reading this: "My darling Girl:John has sent me some more mortgages to sell, and they have to be soldnow. He says that father has to have the money, and he and father havelaid out work for me that will keep me here till the middle ofJanuary. John says that the government inspector has been threateningus with serious trouble in the bank lately, and we must have themoney. He says the times have forced us to do certain things that weretechnically wrong--though I guess they were criminally wrong fromwhat he says, and we must have this money to make things good. So I amcompelled to stay here and work. Father commands me to stay in a waythat makes me fear that my coming home now would mean our ruin. What abrick John is to stay there and shoulder it all. But, oh, darling, darling, darling, I love you. "

There was more, of course, and it was from a man's heart, and thestrange and sad part of this story is that when Molly Culpepper readthe rest of the letter, her heart burned in shame, and her shame waskeener than her sorrow that her lover was not coming home. 

So it happened naturally that Molly Culpepper went to the Christmasdance with Adrian Brownwell, and when Jane Barclay, seeing theproprietary way the Alabaman hovered over Molly, and his obviousjealousy of all the other men who were civil to her, asked John why hedid not let Bob come home for the holidays, as he had promised, forthe Larger Good John told her the facts--that there were somemortgages that had just come in, and they must be sold, so that thecompany could reduce its indebtedness to the bank. But the facts arenot always the truth, and in her heart, which did not reason but onlyfelt, Molly Culpepper, knowing that Brownwell and John Barclay were insome kind of an affair together, feared the truth. And from her heartshe wrote to her lover questioning John's motives and pleading withhim to return, and he, having merely the facts, did not see the truth, and replied impatiently--so impatiently that it hurt, and there wastemper in her answer, and then for over a week no letter came, and forover a week no reply went back to that. And so the Larger Good wasdoing its fine work in a wicked world. 

CHAPTER XIII

The spring sun of 1875 that tanned John Barclay's face gave it aleathery masklike appearance that the succeeding years never entirelywore off. For he lived in the open by day, riding among his fields inthree townships, watching the green carpet of March rise and begin todimple in April, and billow in May. And at night he worked in hisoffice until the midnight cockcrow. His back was bowed under a scoreof burdens. But his greatest burden was the bank; for it gave himworry; and worry weighed upon him more than work. It was inApril--early April when the days were raw and cloudy, and the nightsblustery and dreary--that Barclay sat in his office one night after ahard day afield, his top-boots spattered with mud, his corduroy coatspread out on a chair to dry, and his wet gray soft hat on his deskbeside him. Jane was with her parents in Minneola, and Barclay hadcome to his office without eating, from the stable where he left histeam. The yellow lights in the street below were reflected on themists outside his window, and the dripping eaves and cornices abovehim and about him seemed to mark the time of some eery music too finefor his senses, and the footfalls in the street below, hurryingfootfalls of people shivering through the mists, seemed to be the drumbeats of the weird symphony that he could not hear. 

Barclay drew a watch from, the pocket of his blue flannel shirt, andlooked at it and stopped writing and stood by the box-stove. He waslooking at the door when he heard a thud on the stairs. It wasfollowed by a rattling sound, and in a moment Adrian Brownwell and hiscane were in the room. After the rather gorgeous cadenza ofBrownwell's greeting had died away and Barclay had his man in a chair, Barclay opened the stove door and let the glow of the flames fight theshadows in the room. 

"Well, " said Barclay, turning toward his visitor brusquely, "why won'tyou renew that accommodation paper for me again?"

The Papins and the Dulangprés shrugged their shoulders and wavedtheir hands through Brownwell rather nastily as he answered, "Circumstances, Mr. Barclay, circumstances!"

"You're not getting along fast enough, eh?" retorted Barclay. 

"Yes--and no, " returned Brownwell. 

"What do you mean?" asked Barclay, half divining the truth. 

"Well--it is after all our own affair--but since you are a friend Iwill say this: three times a week--sometimes four times a week I goout to pay my respects. Until November I stayed until nine, atChristmas we put on another hour; now it is ten-thirty. I am a man, John Barclay--as you see. She--she is an angel. Very good. In thatway, yes. But, " the Papins and Dulangprés came back to his face, andhe shook his head. "But otherwise--no. There we stand still. She willnot say it. "

Barclay squinted at the man who sat so complacently in the glow of thefirelight, with his cane between his toes and his gloves lightlyfanning the air. "So I take it, " said John, "that you are like theMemorial Day parade, several hours passing a given point!"

"Exactly, " smiled back Brownwell. He drew from his pocket a diamondring. "She will look at it; she will admire it. She will put it on achain, but she will not wear it. And so I say, why should I put myhead in a noose here in your bank--what's the use? No, sir, JohnBarclay--no, sir. I'm done, sir. "

Barclay knew wheedling would not move Brownwell. He was of the mulishtemperament. So Barclay stretched out in his chair, locked his handsback of his head, and looked at the ceiling through his eyelashes. After a silence he addressed the cobwebs above him: "Supposing thecase. Would a letter from me to you, setting forth the desperate needof this accommodation paper, not especially for me, but for ColonelCulpepper's fortunes and the good name of the Hendricks family--wouldthat help your cause--a letter that you could show; a letter, "Barclay said slowly, "asking for this accommodation; a letter that youcould show to--to--well, to the proper parties, let us say, to-night; would--that kind of a letter help--" Barclay rose suddenlyto an upright position and went on: "Say, Mr. Man, that ought topretty nearly fix it. Let's leave both matters open, say for twohours, and then at ten o'clock or so--you come back here, and I'llhave the note for you to sign--if you care to. How's that?" he askedas he turned to his desk and reached for a pen. 

"Well, " replied Brownwell, "I am willing to try. "

And so Barclay sat writing for five minutes, while the glow of theflames died down, and the shadows ceased fighting and were still. 

"Read this over, " said Barclay at length. "You will see, " he added, ashe handed Brownwell the unfolded sheets, "that I have made it clearthat if you refuse to sign our notes, General Hendricks will becompelled to close the bank, and that the examination which willfollow will send him to prison and jeopardize Bob, who has signed alot of improper notes there to cover our transactions, and that in thecrash Colonel Culpepper will lose all he has, including the roof overhis head--if you refuse to help us. " ("However, " snarled Barclay, athis conscience, "I've only told the truth; for if you take your moneyand go and shut down on the colonel, it would make him a pauper. ")

With a flourishing crescendo finale Adrian Brownwell entered the darkstairway and went down into the street. Barclay turned quickly to hiswork as if to avoid meditation. The scratch of his pen and the murmurof the water on the roof grew louder and louder as the evening waxedold. And out on the hill, out on Lincoln Avenue, the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon thathouse--that stately house of a father's pride and--

At ten o'clock John Barclay heard a light footstep and a rattling caneupon the stair, and Brownwell, a human whirligig of gay gestures, cametripping into the room. "A pen, a pen, "--he cried, "my kingdom for apen. " He was tugging at his gloves as he spoke, and in the clatterthat he made, Barclay found the blank note and pushed it toward thetable's edge to Brownwell, who put his ornate copy-book signature uponit with a flourish. 

When he had gone, Barclay wrote a note to Jane telling her of Molly'sengagement to Brownwell, and then he sat posting his books, andfiguring up his accounts. It was after midnight when he limped downthe stairs, and the rain had ceased. But a biting wind like a cruelfate came out of the north, and he hurried through the desertedstreet, under lowering clouds that scurried madly across the stars. But John Barclay could not look up at the stars, he broke into alimping run and head downward plunged into the gale. And never in allhis life could he take a square look at Molly Culpepper's diamondring. 

As the spring deepened Bob Hendricks felt upon him at his work thepressure of two distinct troubles. One was his sweetheart's attitudetoward him, and the other was the increasing weakness of his father. Molly Culpepper's letters seemed to be growing sad; also they werefailing in their length and frequency--the young man felt that theywere perfunctory. His father's letters showed a physical breakdown. His handwriting was unsteady, and often he repeated himself insuccessive letters. The sister wrote about her father's weakness, andseemed to think he was working too hard. But the son suspected that itwas worry rather than work, and that things were not going right inthe bank. He did not know that the Golden Belt Wheat Company hadsapped the money of the bank and had left it a husk, which at any timemight crumble. The father knew this, and after the first of the yearevery morning when he opened the bank he feared that day would be thelast day of its career. 

And so it fell out that "those that look out of the windows" weredarkened, and General Hendricks rose up with the voice of the bird andwas "afraid of that which was high" and terrors were in the way. So onhis head, the white blossom of the almond tree trembled; and one noonin March the stage bore to this broken, shaking old man a letter fromKansas City that ran the sword of fear into his heart and almoststopped it forever. It ran:--

"Dear General: I have just learned from talking with a banker herethat an inspector is headed our way. He probably will arrive the dayafter this reaches you. Something must be done about that tax check ofyours. The inspector should not find it in the drawer again. Once wasall right, but you must get it out now. Put it in the form of a note. Make it Carnine's note. He is good for twice that. Don't bother himwith it, but make it out for ninety days, and by that time we can makeanother turn. But that note must be in there. Your check won't do anylonger. The inspector has been gossiping about us up here--and aboutthat check of yours. For God's sake, don't hesitate, but do this thingquick. "

The letter was not signed, but it came in Barclay's envelope, and wasaddressed by Barclay's hand. 

The general fumbled with the pad of blank notes before him for a longtime. He read and reread Barclay's letter. Then he put away the padand tore the letter into bits and started for the front door. But aterror seized him, and he walked behind the counter and put hispalsied hand into the box where he kept cancelled checks, and pickedout one of Gabriel Carnine's checks. He folded it up, and started forthe door again, but turned weakly at the threshold, and walked to theback room of the bank. 

When it was done, and had been worked through the books, GeneralHendricks, quaking with shame and fear, sat shivering before his deskwith jaws agape and the forged name gashed into his soul. And "thestrong men" bowed themselves as he shuffled home in the twilight. Thenext day when the inspector came, "all the daughters of music werebrought low" and the feeble, bent, stricken man piped and wheezed andstammered his confused answers to the young man's questions, and stoodparalyzed with unspeakable horror while the inspector glanced at theCarnine note and asked some casual question about it. When the bankclosed that night, General Hendricks tried to write to his son andtell him the truth, but he sat weeping before his desk and could notput down the words he longed to write. Bob Hendricks found thattear-stained letter half finished in the desk when he came home, andhe kept it locked up for years. And when he discovered that the dateon the letter and the date on the forged note were the same, the sonknew the meaning of the tears. But it was all for the Larger Good, andso John Barclay won another game with Destiny. 

But the silver cord was straining, and morning after morning the oldpitcher went to the fountain, to be battered and battered andbattered. His books, which he kept himself, grew spotted and dirty, and day by day in the early spring the general dreaded lest somedepositor would come into the bank and call for a sum in cash so largethat it would take the cash supply below the legal limit, and that aninspector would suddenly appear again and discover the deficiency. Except Barclay the other directors knew nothing of the situation. Theysigned whatever reports the general or Barclay put before them; therecame a time in April when any three of a dozen depositors could havetaken every penny out of the bank. When the general was unusually lowin spirits, Barclay sent Colonel Culpepper around to the bank with hisanthem about times being better when the spring really opened, and foran hour the general was cheerful, but when the colonel went, thegeneral always saw the axe hanging over his head. And then one morninglate in April--one bright Sunday morning--the wheel of the cisternwas broken, and they found the old man cold in his bed with his faceto the wall. 

John Barclay was on a horse riding to the railroad--four hours away, before the town was up for late Sunday morning breakfast. Thatafternoon he went into Topeka on a special engine, and told a Topekabanker who dealt with the bank of Sycamore Ridge the news of thegeneral's death, and asked for five thousand dollars in silver toallay a possible run. At midnight he drove into the Ridge with themoney, and the bank opened in the morning at seven o'clock instead ofnine, so that a crowd might not gather, and depositors who came, sawback of Barclay a great heap of silver dollars, flanked by all thegold and greenbacks in the vault, and when a man asked for his moneyhe got it in silver, and when Oscar Fernald presented a check for overthree thousand dollars, Barclay paid it out in silver, and in thespirit of fun, Sheriff Jake Dolan, who heard of the counting andrecounting of the money while it was going on, brought in awheelbarrow and Oscar wheeled his money to his hotel, while everyloafer in town followed him. At noon Fernald came back with his money, and Barclay refused to take it. The town knew that also. Barclay didnot step out of the teller's cage during the whole day, but Lige Bemiswas his herald, and through him Barclay had Dolan refuse to giveFernald protection for his money unless Fernald would consent to belocked up in jail with it. In ten minutes the town knew that story, and at three o'clock Barclay posted a notice saying the bank wouldremain open until nine o'clock that night, to accommodate anydepositors who desired their money, but that it would be closed forthree days following until after the funeral of the president of thebank. 

The next day he sat in the back room of the bank and receivedprivately nearly all the money that had been taken out Monday, andseveral thousand dollars besides that came through fear that Fernald'scash would attract robbers from the rough country to the West whomight loot the town. To urge in that class of depositors, Barclayasked Sheriff Dolan to detail a guard of fifty deputies about the bankday and night, and the day following the cash began coming in withmildew on it, and Adrian Brownwell appeared that night with a thousanddollars of old bank-notes, issued in the fifties, that smelled of theearth. Thursday John limped up and down the street inviting first onebusiness man and then another into the bank to help him count cash andstraighten out his balance. And each of a dozen men believed for yearsthat he was the man who first found the balance in the books of theExchange National Bank of Sycamore Ridge, after John Barclay had gotthem tangled. And when Barclay was a great and powerful man in theworld, these men, being interviewed by reporters about the personalityof Barclay, took pride in telling this story of his blundering. Butwhen Bob Hendricks reached Sycamore Ridge Thursday noon, confidence inthe safety of the bank was founded upon a rock. 

So when the town closed its stores that afternoon and took the body ofthe general, its first distinguished citizen to die, out upon theHill, and laid it to rest in the wild prairie grass, John Barclay andJane, his wife, rode in the carriage with the mourners, and John stoodby his friend through the long service, and when the body was loweredinto the grave, the most remote thought in all the world from John'smind was that he was responsible for the old man's death. 

Bob Hendricks saw Molly Culpepper for the first time in twenty months, standing by her father with those who gathered about the general'sgrave, and as soon as he could leave the friends who came home withhim and his sister, he hurried to the Culpeppers'. As he left hishome, he could see Molly sitting on the veranda behind one of thepillars of great pride. She moved down the steps toward the gate tomeet him. It was dusk, --deep dusk, --but he knew her figure and wasthrilled with joy. They walked silently from the gate toward theveranda, and the youth's soul was moved too deeply for words. Sodeeply indeed was his being stirred, that he did not notice in hiseagerness to bring their souls together how she was holding him awayfrom her heart. 

The yellow roses were blooming, and the pink roses were in bud. Theystrayed idly to the side of the house farthest from the street, andthere they found the lilacs, heavy with blooms; they were higher thanthe girl's head, --a little thicket of them, --and behind the thicketwas a rustic seat made of the grape-vines. He stepped toward thechair, pulling her by the hand, and she followed. He tried to gatherher into his arms, but she slid away from him and cried, "No--no, Bob--no!"

"Why--why--why! what's wrong?" gasped the youth. 

The girl sank on the seat and covered her face with her hands. Hetouched her shoulder and her hair with his finger-tips, and sheshivered away from him. "Oh, Bob--Bob, Bob!--" she cried in agony, still looking at the grass before her. 

The young man looked at her in perplexity. "Why, dear--why--why, darling--why, Molly, " he stammered, "why--why--"

She rose and faced him. She gripped herself, and he could feel theunnatural firmness in her voice as she spoke. 

"Bob, I am not the little girl you left. " He put out his arms, but sheshrank back among the lilacs; their perfume was in her face, and shewas impressed with that odd feeling one sometimes has of having hadsome glimpse of it all before. She knew that she would say, "I am notworthy--not worthy any more--Bob, do you understand?"

And when he had stepped to ward her again with piteous pleadingface, --a face that she had never seen before, yet seemed always tohave known, --she felt that numb sense of familiarity with it all, andit did not pain her as she feared it would when he cried, "Oh--God, Molly--nothing you ever could do would make you unworthy ofme--Molly, Molly, what is it?" The anguish in his face flashed backfrom some indefinite past to her, and then the illusion was gone, andthe drama was all new. He caught her, but she fought herself away. 

"Don't--don't!" she cried; "you have no right--now. " She droppedinto the seat, while he stood over her with horror on his face. Sheanswered the question of his eyes, rocking her body as she spoke, "Bob--do you understand now?" He shook his head, and she went on, "Wearen't engaged--not any more, Bob--not any more--never!" He startedto speak, but she said: "I'm going to marry Mr. Brownwell. Oh, Bob--Bob, I told you I was unworthy--now do you understand?"

The man turned his face starward a second, and then dropped his head. "Oh, " he groaned, and then sat down beside her at the other end of thebench. He folded his hands on his knees, and they sat silent for atime, and then he asked in a dead voice, "You know I love you--still, don't you, Molly?"

She answered, "Yes, that's what makes it hard. "

"And do you love me?" he cried with eagerness. 

She sat for a minute without replying and then answered, "I am a womannow, Bob--a grown woman, and some way things are different. "

They sat without speaking; then he drew a deep breath and said, "Well, I suppose I ought to go. " His head rested on his hand which wassupported by an arm of the chair. He did not offer to rise. 

She rose and went to him, kneeling before him. She put her hands uponhis shoulders, and he put them aside, and she felt him shudder. Shemoaned, and looked up at him. Her face was close to his, but he didnot come closer. He stared at her dumbly, and kept shaking his head asif asking some mute question too deep for words. Then he put out hishand and took hers. He put it against his cheek and held it in bothhis own. She did not take her eyes from his face, but his eyes beganto wander. 

"I will never see you again, Bob--I mean like this. " She paused. 

There was no life in his hands, and hers slipped away unrestrained. "How sweet the lilacs smell to-night, " he said as he drew in a deepbreath. He leaned back that he might breathe more freely, and added ashe sighed, "I shall smell them through eternity--Molly. " Then he roseand broke off a spray. He helped her rise and said, "Well--so this isthe way of it. " His handsome fair face was white in the moonlight, andshe saw that his hair was thinning at the temples, and the strangeflash of familiarity with it all came again as she inhaled thefragrance of the lilacs. 

She trembled with some chill of inner grief, and cried vehemently, "Oh, Bob--my boy--my boy--say you hate me--for God's love, say youhate me. " She came so close to him that she touched him, then shecrumpled against the side of the seat in a storm of tears, but helooked at her steadily and shook his head. 

"Come on, Molly. It's too cool for you out here, " he said, and tookher hand and walked with her to the steps. She was blinded by herweeping, and he helped here to the veranda, but he stopped on a lowerstep where his face was on a level with hers, and dropping her hand, he said, "Well, good night, Molly--good night--" and as he halfturned from her, he said in the same voice, "Good-by. "

He went quickly down the walk--a tall stalwart figure, and he carriedhis hat in his hand, and wiped his forehead as he went. At the gate helooked back and saw her standing where he had left her; he could stillhear the pitiful sobs, but he made no sign to her, and she heard himwalking away under the elms into the night. When his steps had ceasedshe ran on tiptoe, holding her breath to silence her sobs, through thehall, up the stairs of the silent home to her room, and locked thedoor. When she could not pray, she lay sobbing and groaning through along night. 

CHAPTER XIV

The next morning John Barclay gave Robert Hendricks the keys to thebank. Barclay watched the town until nine o'clock and satisfiedhimself that there would be no run on the bank, for during the earlypart of the morning young Hendricks was holding a reception in hisoffice; then Barclay saddled a horse and started for the wheat fields. After the first hours of the morning had passed, and the townspeoplehad gone from the bank, Robert Hendricks began to burrow into thebooks. He felt instinctively that he would find there the solution ofthe puzzle that perplexed him. For he was sure Molly Culpepper had notjilted him wantonly. He worked all the long spring afternoon and intothe night, and when he could not sleep he went back to the bank atmidnight, following some clew that rose out of his under-consciousnessand beckoned him to an answer to his question. 

The next morning found him at his counter, still worrying his books asa ferret worries a rat. They were beginning to mean something to him, and he saw that the bank was a worm-eaten shell. When he discoveredthat Brownwell's notes were not made for bona fide loans, but thatthey were made to cover Barclay's overdrafts, he began to find thetruth, and then when he found that Colonel Culpepper had lent themoney back to the bank that he borrowed from Brownwell, --also to saveJohn's overdrafts, --Bob Hendricks' soul burned pale with rage. Hefound that John had borrowed far beyond the limit of his credit at thebank to buy the company's stock, and that he had used Culpepper andBrownwell to protect his account when it needed protection. Hendrickswent about his work silently, serving the bank's customers, andgreeting his neighbours pleasantly, but his heart was full of a lustto do some bodily hurt to John Barclay. When John came back, hesauntered into the bank so airily that Hendricks could not put thehate into his hands that was in his breast. John was full of a plan toorganize a commission company, buy all of the wheat grown by theGolden Belt Wheat Company and make a profit off the wheat company forthe commission company. He had bargained with the traffic officers ofthe railroad company to accept stock in the commission company inreturn for rate concessions on the Corn Belt Railroad, which waswithin a few months' building distance of Sycamore Ridge. 

As John unfolded his scheme, Bob eyed his partner almost without aword. A devil back in some recess of his soul was thirsting for aquarrel. But Bob's sane consciousness would not unleash the devil, sohe replied:--

"No--you go ahead with your commission company, and I'll stick to thewheat proposition. That and the bank will keep me going. "

The afternoon was late, and a great heap of papers of the bank and thecompany lay before them that needed their time. Bob brushed his devilback and went to work. But he kept looking at Barclay's neck andimagining his fingers closing upon it. When the twilight was falling, Barclay brought the portmanteau containing the notes into the backroom and turning to the "C's" pulled out a note for nine thousanddollars signed by Gabriel Carnine, who was then county treasurer. Barclay put it on the table before Hendricks and looked steadily athim a minute before saying, "Bob--see that note?" And when the youngman answered, the other returned: "We had to do that, and severalother things, this spring to tide us over. I didn't bother you withit--but we just had to do it--or close up, and go to pieces with thewheat scheme. "

Hendricks picked up the note, and after examining it a moment, askedquickly, "John, is that Gabe's signature?"

"No--I couldn't get Gabe to sign it--and we had to have it to makehis account balance. "

"And you forged his note, --and are carrying it?" cried Hendricks, rising. 

"Oh, sit down, Bob--we did it here amongst hands. It wasn't exactlymy affair, the way it got squared around. "

Hendricks took the note to the window. He was flushed, and the devilgot into his eyes when he came back, and he cried, "And you madefather do it!"

Barclay smiled pacifically, and limped over to Hendricks and took thenote from him and put it back into the portmanteau. Then Barclayreplied: "No, Bob, I didn't make your father--the times made yourfather. It was that or confess to Gabe Carnine, who swelled up ontaking his job, that we hadn't paid the taxes on the company's land, though our check had been passed for it. When it came in, we gave thecounty treasurer credit on his daily bank-book for the nine thousand, but we held out the check. Do you see?"

"Yes, that far, " replied Hendricks. 

"Well, it's a long story after that, but when I found Gabe wouldn'taccommodate us for six months by giving us his note to carry as cashuntil we could pay it, --the inspectors wouldn't take mine or yourfather's, --and our books had to show the amount of gross cash thatthe treasurer deposited before Gabe came in, your father thought itunwise to keep holding checks that had already been paid in the draweras cash for that nine thousand, so we--well, one day he just put thisnote in, and worked it through the books. "

Hendricks had his devil well in hand as he stared at Barclay, and thensaid: "John--this is mighty dangerous business. Are we carrying hisaccount nine thousand short on our books, and making his pass-bookbalance?"

"That's it, only--"

"But suppose some one finds it out?" asked Hendricks. 

"Oh, now, Bob, keep your shirt on. I fixed that. You know they keeptwo separate accounts, --a general maintenance account and a bondaccount, and Gabe has been letting us keep the paid-off bonds in thevault and look after their cancelling, and while he was sick, I was incharge of the treasurer's office and had the run of the bank, and Isquared our account at the Eastern fiscal agency and in the bondaccount in the treasurer's office, and fixed up the short maintenanceaccount all with nine thousand dollars' worth of old bonds that werekicking around the vault uncancelled, and now the job is hermeticallysealed so far as the treasurer and the bank are concerned. "

"So we can't pay it back if we want to? Is that the way, John?" askedHendricks, his fingers twitching as he leaned forward in his chair. 

"Ah, don't get so tragic about it. Some day when Gabe has calmed down, and wants a renomination, I'll take him in the back room and show himthe error that we've both made, and we'll just quietly put back themoney and give him the laugh. " There was a pause, and Barclay tiltedhis chair back and grinned. "It's all right, Bob--we were where wehad to do it; the books balance to a 'T' now--and we'll square itwith Gabe sometime. "

"But if we can't--if Gabe won't be--be--well, be reasonable? Whatthen?" asked Hendricks. 

"Oh, well, " returned John, "I've thought of that too. And you'll findthat when, the county treasury changes hands in '79, you'll have tolook after the bond account and the treasurer's books and make alittle entry to satisfy the bonds when they really fall due;then--I'll show you about it when we're over at the court-house. Butif we can't get the money back with Gabe or the next man, the timewill come when we can. "

And Bob Hendricks looked at the natty little man before him andsighed, and began working for the Larger Good also. And afterwards asthe months flew by the Golden Belt Wheat Company paid the interest onthe forged note, and the bank paid the Golden Belt Wheat Companyinterest on a daily ledger balance of nine thousand, and all wenthappily. The Larger Good accepted the sacrifices of truth, and went onits felicitous way. 

After Barclay left the bank that night, Hendricks found still more ofthe truth. And the devil in the background of his soul came out andglared through the young man's sleepless eyes as he appeared inBarclay's office in the morning and said, before he had found a chair, "John, what's your idea about those farmers' mortgages? Are you goingto let them pay them, or are you going to make them sell under thatoption that you've got in them?"

"Why, " asked Barclay, "what's it to us? Haven't the courts decidedthat that kind of an option is a sale--clear through to the UnitedStates Supreme Court?"

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" persisted Hendricks. 

Barclay squinted sidewise at his partner for a few seconds and said, "Well, it's no affair of ours; we've sold all the mortgages anyway. "

Hendricks wagged his head impatiently and exclaimed, "Quit yourdodging and give me a square answer--what have you got up your sleeveabout those options?"

Barclay rose, limped to the window, and looked out as he answered:"Well, I've always supposed we'd fix it up some way to buy back thosemortgages and then take the land we want for ourselves--for you andme personally--and give the poor land back to the farmers if they paythe money we lent them. "

"Well, " returned Hendricks, "just count me out on that. Whatever Imake in this deal, and you seem to think our share will be plenty, goes to getting those farmers back their land. So far as I'm concernedthat money we paid them was rent, not a loan!"

Barclay dropped his hands in astonishment and gaped at Hendricks. 

"Well, my dear Miss Nancy, " he exclaimed, "when did you get religion?"

The two men glared at each other a moment, and Hendricks grappled hisdevil and drew a long breath and replied: "Well, you heard what Isaid. " And then he added: "I'm pretty keen for money, John, but whenit comes to skinning a lot of neighbours out of land that you andevery one says is going to raise thirty dollars' worth of wheat to theacre this year alone, and only paying them ten dollars an acre for thetitle to the land itself--" He did not finish. After a pause headded: "Why, they'll mob you, man. I've got to live with thosefarmers. " Barclay sneered at Hendricks without speaking and Hendricksstepped over to him and drew back his open hand as he said angrily, "Stop it--stop it, I say. " Then he exclaimed: "I'm not what you'dcall nasty nice, John--but I'm no robber. I can't take the rent ofthat land for nothing, raise a thirty-dollar crop on every acre of it, and make them pay me ten dollars an acre to get back the poor land andsteal the good land, on a hocus-pocus option. "

"'I do not use the nasty weed, said little Robert Reed, '" repliedBarclay, with a leer on his face. Then, he added: "I've held yourmiserable little note-shaving shop up by main strength for a year, bymain strength and awkwardness, and now you come home with your mouthall fixed for prisms and prunes, and want to get on a higher plane. You try that, " continued Barclay, and his eyes blazed at Hendricks, "and you'll come down town some morning minus a bank. "

Then the devil in Bob Hendricks was freed for an exultant moment, ashis hands came out of his pockets and clamped down on Barclay'sshoulders, and shook him till his teeth rattled. 

"Not with me, John, not with me, " he cried, and he felt his fingersclutching for the thin neck so near them, and then suddenly his handswent back to his pockets. "Now, another thing--you got Brownwell tolend the colonel that money?" Hendricks was himself. 

Barclay nodded. 

"And you got Brownwell to sign a lot of accommodation paper there atthe bank?"

"Yes--to cover our own overdrafts, " retorted Barclay. "It was eitherthat or bust--and I preferred not to bust. What's more, if we hadgone under there at one stage of the game when Brownwell helped us, wecould have been indicted for obtaining money under falsepretences--you and I, I mean. I'm perfectly willing to stick my headinside the jail and look around, " Barclay grinned, "but I'll be damnedif I'm going clear inside for any man--not when I can find a way toback out. " Barclay tried to laugh, but Hendricks would not let him. 

"And so you put up Molly to bail you out. " Barclay did not answer andHendricks went on bitterly: "Oh, you're a friend, John Barclay, you'rea loyal friend. You've sold me out like a dog, John--like a dog!"

Barclay, sitting at his desk, playing with a paper-weight, snarledback: "Why don't you get in the market yourself, if you think I'vesold you out? Why don't you lend the old man some money?"

"And take it from the bank you've just got done robbing of everythingbut the wall-paper?" Hendricks retorted. 

"No, " cried Barclay, in a loud voice. "Come off your high horse andtake the profits we'll make on our wheat, pay off old Brownwell andmarry her. "

"And let the bank bust and the farmers slide?" asked Hendricks, "andbuy back Molly with stolen money? Is that your idea?"

"Well, " Barclay snapped, "you have your choice, so if you think moreof the bank and your old hayseeds than you do of Molly, don't comeblubbering around me about selling her. "

"John, " sighed Hendricks, after a long wrestle--a final contest withhis demon, "I've gone all over that. And I have decided that if I'vegot to swindle seventy-five or a hundred farmers--most of them oldsoldiers on their homesteads--out of their little all, and cheat fivehundred depositors out of their money to get Molly, she and I wouldn'tbe very happy when we thought of the price, and we'd always think ofthe price. " His demon was limp in the background of his soul as headded: "Here are some papers I brought over. Let's get back to thesettlement--fix them up and bring them over to the bank this morning, will you?" And laying a package carefully on the table, Hendricksturned and went quickly out of the room. 

After Hendricks left the office that May morning, Barclay satwhistling the air of the song of the "Evening Star, " looking blanklyat a picture of Wagner hanging beside a picture of Jay Gould. The tuneseemed to restore his soul. When he had been whistling softly for fiveminutes or so, the idea flashed across his mind that flour was the onething used in America more than any other food product and that if aman had his money invested in the manufacture and sale of flour, hewould have an investment that would weather any panic. The ideaovercame him, and he shut his eyes and his ears and gripped his chairand whistled and saw visions. Molly Culpepper came into the room, andpaused a moment on the threshold as one afraid to interrupt a sleeper. She saw the dapper little man kicking the chair rounds with hisdangling heels, his flushed face reflecting a brain full of blood, hiseyes shut, his head thrown far back, so that his Adam's apple stuck upirrelevantly, and she knew only by the persistence of the soft lowwhistle that he was awake, clutching at some day-dream. When shecleared her throat, he was startled and stared at her foolishly for amoment, with the vision still upon him. His wits came to him, and herose to greet her. 

"Well--well--why--hello, Molly--I was just figuring on a matter, "he said as he put her in a chair, and then he added, "Well--I wasn'texpecting you. "

Even before she could speak his lips were puckering to pick up thetune he had dropped. She answered, "No, John, I wanted to see you--soI just came up. "

"Oh, that's all right, Molly--what is it?" he returned. 

"Well--" answered the young woman, listlessly, "it's about; father. You know he's badly in debt, and some way--of course he sells lots ofland and all, but you know father, John, and he just doesn't--oh, hejust keeps in debt. "

Barclay had been lapsing back into his revery as she spoke, but hepulled himself out and replied: "Oh, yes, Molly--I know about fatherall right. Can't you make him straighten things out?"

"Well, no. John, that's just it. His money comes in so irregularly, this month a lot and next month nothing, that it just spoils him. Whenhe gets a lot he spends it like a prince, " she smiled sadly andinterjected: "You know he is forever giving away--and then while he'swaiting he gets in debt again. Then we are as poor as the people forwhom he passes subscription papers, and that's just what I wanted tosee you about. "

Barclay took his eyes off Jay Gould's picture long enough to look atthe brown-eyed girl with an oval face and a tip of a chin that justfitted the hollow of a man's hand; there were the smallest brownfreckles in the world across the bridge of her nose, and under hereyes there was the faintest suggestion of dark shading. Youth was inher lips and cheeks, and when she smiled there were dimples. ButJohn's eyes went back to Jay Gould's solemn black whiskers and he saidfrom his abstraction, "Well, Molly, I wish I could help you. "

"Well, I knew you would, John, some way; and oh, John, I do need helpso badly. " She paused a moment and gazed at him piteously andrepeated, "So badly. " But his eyes did not move from the sacredwhiskers of his joss. The vision was flaming in his brain, and withhis lips parted, he whistled "The Evening Star" to conjure it back andkeep it with him. The girl went on:--

"About that money Mr. Brownwell loaned father, John. " She flushed andcried, "Can't you find some way for father to borrow the money and payMr. Brownwell--now that your wheat is turning out so well?"

The young man pulled himself out of his day-dream and said, "Well--why--you see, Molly--I--Well now, to be entirely frank withyou, Molly, I'm going into a business that will take all of mycredit--and every cent of my money. "

He paused a moment, and the girl asked, "Tell me, John, will the wheatstraighten things up at the bank?"

"Well, it might if Bob had any sense--but he's got a fool notion ofconsidering a straight mortgage that those farmers gave on their landas rent, and isn't going to make them redeem their land, --his shareof it, I mean, --and if he doesn't do that, he'll not have a cent, andhe couldn't lend your father any money. " Barclay was anxious to getback to his "Evening Star" and his dream of power, so he asked, "Why, Molly, what's wrong?"

"John, " she began, "this is a miserable business to talk about; but itis business, I guess. " She stopped and looked at him piteously. "Well, John, father's debt to Mr. Brownwell--the ten-thousand-dollar loan onthe house--will be due in August. " The young man assented. And aftera moment she sighed, "That is why I'm to be married in August. " Shestood a moment looking out of the window and cried, "Oh, John, John, isn't there some way out--isn't there, John?"

Barclay rose and limped to her and answered harshly: "Not so long asBob is a fool--no, Molly. If he wants to go mooning around releasingthose farmers from their mortgages--there's no way out. But Iwouldn't care for a man who didn't think more of me than he did of alot of old clodhoppers. "

The girl looked at the hard-faced youth a moment in silence, andturned without a word and left the room. Barclay floated away on his"Evening Star" and spun out his dream as a spider spins his web, andwhen Hendricks came into the office for a mislaid paper half an hourlater, Barclay still was figuring up profits, and making his webstronger. As Hendricks, having finished his errand, was about to go, Barclay stopped him. 

"Bob, Molly's been up here. As nearly as I can get at it, Brownwellhas promised to renew the colonel's mortgage in August. If he andMolly aren't married by then--no more renewals from him. Don't be afool, Bob; let your sod-busters go hang. If you don't get their farms, some one else will!"

Hendricks looked at his partner a minute steadily, grunted, and strodeout of the room. And the incident slipped from John Barclay's mind, and the web of the spider grew stronger and stronger in his brain, butit cast a shadow that was to reach across his life. 

After Hendricks went from his office that morning, Barclay boundedback, like a boy at play, to the vision of controlling the flourmarket. He saw the waving wheat of Garrison County coming to therailroad, and he knew that his railroad rates were so low that themiller on the Sycamore could not ship a pound of flour profitably, andBarclay's mind gradually comprehended that through railroad rates hecontrolled the mill, and could buy it at his leisure, upon his ownterms. Then the whole scheme unfolded itself before his closed eyes ashe sat with his head tilted back and pillowed in his hands. If hisrailroad concession made it possible for him to underbid the miller atthe Ridge, why could he not get other railroad concessions andunderbid every miller along the line of the Corn Belt road, bydividing profits with the railroad officials? As he spun out hisvision, he could hear the droning voices of General Ward and ColonelCulpepper in the next room; but he did not heed them. 

They were discussing the things of the day, --indeed, the things of afortnight before, to be precise, --the reception given by theCulpeppers to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary. The windowswere open, and Barclay could hear the men's voices, and he knewvaguely that they were talking of Lige Bemis. For Barclay hadtactfully asked the colonel as a favour to invite Mr. And Mrs. Bemisto the silver wedding reception. So the Bemises came. Mrs. Bemis, whowas rather stout, even for a woman in her early forties, wore blacksatin and jet ornaments, including black jet ear bobs of tremendoussize. And Watts McHurdie was so touched by the way ten years under aroof had tamed the woman whom he had known of old as "Happy Hallie, "that he wrote a poem for the _Banner_ about the return of the"Prodigal Daughter, " which may be found in Garrison County scrap-booksof that period. As for Mr. Bemis, he went slinking about the outskirtsof the crowd, showing his teeth considerably, and making it obviousthat he was there. 

So as John Barclay rode his "Evening Star" to glory, in the next roomGeneral Ward turned to the colonel, who stood puffing in the doorwayof the general's law-office. "Martin, did John Barclay make you invitethat woman to your house--that Bemis woman?"

The colonel got his breath slowly after climbing the stair, and he didnot reply at once. But he smiled, and stood with his arms akimbo a fewseconds before he spoke. "Well now, General--since you ask it, I mayas well confess it pointedly--I am ashamed to say he did!"

Ward motioned the colonel to a seat and asked impatiently, "Ashamed?"

"Well, " responded Culpepper, as he put his feet in the window ledge, "she's as good as I am--if you come down to that! Why shouldn't I, who pretend to be a gentleman, --a Virginia gentleman, I may say, sir, --why shouldn't I be ashamed, disgraced, sir, disgraced in pointof fact, that I had to be forced to invite any person in all God'sbeautiful world to my home?"

Ward looked at the colonel coldly a moment and then blurted out: "Ah, shucks, sir--stuff and nonsense! You know what she was before thewar--Happy Hally! My gracious, Martin, how could you?"

Martin Culpepper brought his chair down with a bang and turnedsquarely to Ward. "General, the war's over now. I knew HappyHally--and I knew the Red Legs she trained with. And we're makingsenators and governors and state officers and indeed, I may say, prominent citizens out of them. Why not give Hally her show? You damncold-nosed Yankee Brahmins--you have Faith and you have Hope, but youhave no more Charity than a sausage-grinder. " The colonel rose, andcried with some asperity, "General, if you'd preach about the poorless, and pray with 'em more, you'd know more about your fellow-men, sir!"

Perhaps this conversation should not have been set down here; for ithas no direct relation to the movement of this narrative. Thenarrative at this point should be hurrying along to tell how JohnBarclay and Bob Hendricks cleared up a small fortune on their wheatdeal, and how that autumn Barclay bought the mill at Sycamore Ridge bysqueezing its owner out, and then set about to establish four branchesof the Golden Belt Wheat Company's elevator service along the line ofthe new railroad, and how he controlled the wheat output of threecounties the next year through his enterprise. These facts carry JohnBarclay forward toward his life's goal. And while these twomiddle-aged gentlemen--the general and the colonel--were in the nextroom wrangling over the youthful love affairs of a middle-aged lady, agreat dream was shaping in Barclay's head, and he did not heed them. He was dreaming of controlling the wheat market of the Golden BeltRailroad, through railroad-rate privileges, and his fancy was feelingits way into flour, and comprehending what might be done with wheatproducts. 

It was a crude dream, but he was aflame with it, and yet--JohnBarclay, aged twenty-five, was a young man with curly hair andflattered himself that he could sing. And there was always in him thatside of his nature, so the reader must know that when Nellie Logancame to his office that bright summer morning and found him wrapped inhis day-dream of power, she addressed herself not to the Thane ofWheat who should be King hereafter, but to the baritone singer in theCongregational choir, and the wheat king scampered back to the dreamworld when John replied to Nellie's question. 

"So it's _your_ wedding, is it, Nellie--your wedding, " he repeated. "Well, where does Watts come in?" And then, before she answered, hewent on, "You bet I'll sing at your wedding, and what's more, I'llbring along my limping Congregational foot, and I'll dance at yourwedding. "

"Well, I just knew you would, " said the young woman. 

"So old Watts thought I wouldn't, did he?" asked Barclay. "The oldskeezicks--Well, well! Nellie, you tell him that the fellow who waswith Watts when he was shot ten miles from Springfield isn't going todesert him when he gets a mortal wound in the heart. " Then Barclayadded: "You get the music and take it down to Jane, and tell her toteach me, and I'll be there. Jane says you're going to put old Wattsthrough all the gaits. "

He leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled at his visitor. He had aslow drawl that he used in teasing, and one who heard that voice andafterward heard the harsh bark of the man in driving a bargain orbrowbeating an adversary would have to look twice to realize that thesame man was talking. A little over an hour before in that very roomhe had looked at Bob Hendricks from under wrinkled brows with thevertical line creased between his eyes and snarled, "Well, then, ifyou think she's going to marry that fellow because I got him to lendthe colonel some money, why don't you go and lend the colonel somemore money and get her back?"

But there was not a muscle twitching in his face as he talked toNellie Logan, not a break in his voice, not a ruffle of a hair, totell her that John Barclay had broken with the friend of his boyhoodand the partner of his youth, and that he had closed and bolted theDoor of Hope on Molly Culpepper. He drawled on: "Jane was saying thatyou were going to have Bob and Molly for best man and bridesmaid. Ought you to do that? You know they--"

He did not finish the sentence, but she replied: "Oh, yes, I knowabout that. I told Watts he ought to have Mr. Brownwell; but he's asstubborn as a mule about just that one thing. Everything else--theflower girls and the procession and the ring service and all--he's sonice about. And you know I just had to have Molly. "

John slapped the arms of his chair and laughed. "As old Daddy Masonsays, 'Now hain't that just like a woman!' Well, Nellie, it's yourwedding, and a woman is generally not married more than once, so it'sall right. Go it while you're young. "

And so he teased her out of the room, and when Sycamore Ridge packeditself into the Congregational Church one June night, to witness themost gorgeous church wedding the town ever had seen, John opened theceremonies by singing the "Voice that breathed o'er Eden" mosteffectively, and Sycamore Ridge in its best clothes, rather stuffedand uncomfortable thereby, was in that unnatural attitude toward theworld where it thought John Barclay's voice, a throaty baritone, withmuch affectation in the middle register, a tendency to flat in theupper register, and thick fuzz below "C, " was beautiful, though Johnoften remembered that night with unalloyed shame. He saw himself as hestood there, primped to kill, like a prize bull at a fair, bellowingout a mawkish sentiment in a stilted voice, and he wondered how theRidge ever managed to endure him afterwards. 

But this is a charitable world, and his temperament was such that hedid not realize that no one paid much attention to him, after the realceremony started. When the bride and the bridesmaid came down theaisle, Nellie Logan radiant in the gown which every woman in thechurch knew had come from Chicago and had been bought of the drummerat wholesale cost, saving the bride over fifteen dollars on theregular price--what did the guests care for a dapper little mansinging a hymn tune through his nose, even if he was the richest youngman in town? And when Molly Culpepper--dear little MollyCulpepper--came after the bride, blushing through her powder, andlooking straight at the floor for fear her eyes would wander after herheart and wondering if the people knew--it was of no consequence thatJohn Barclay's voice frazzled on "F"; for if the town wished to noticea man at that wedding, there was Watts McHurdie in a paper collar, with a white embroidered bow tie and the first starched shirt the townhad ever seen him wear, badly out of step with the procession, whilethe best man dragged him like an unwilling victim to the altar; and ofcourse there was the best man, --and a handsome best man as mengo, --fair-skinned, light-haired, blue-eyed, with a good glow on hisimmobile face and rather sad eyes that, being in a man's head, wentboldly where they chose and where all the women in the town could seethem go. So there were other things to remember that night besidesJohn Barclay's singing and the festive figure he cut at that wedding:there was the wedding supper at the Wards', and the wedding receptionat the Culpeppers', and after it all the dance in Culpepper Hall. Andall the town remembers these things, but only two people remember amoment after the reception when every one was hurrying away to thedance and when the bridesmaid--such a sweet, pretty littlebridesmaid--was standing alone in a deserted room with a tallgroomsman--just for a moment--just for a moment before AdrianBrownwell came up bustling and bristling, but long enough to say, "Bob--did you take my gloves there in the carriage as we were cominghome from the church?" and long enough for him to answer, "Why, didyou lose them?" and then to get a good square look into her eyes. Itwas only a few seconds in the long evening--less than a second thattheir eyes met; but it was enough to be remembered forever; thoughwhy--you say! It was all so commonplace; there was nothing in it thatyou would have thought worth remembering for a moment. "Bob, did youtake my gloves?" "Why, did you lose them?" and then a glance of theeyes. Surely there are more romantic words than these. But when a manand a woman go in for collecting antiques in their dialogues, Heavenonly knows what old rubbish you will find in their attics, scoured offand rebuilt and polished with secret tears until the old stuff glowslike embers. 

And that is why, when the music was silent in Culpepper Hall, and thetall young man walked slowly home alone, as he clicked his own gatebehind him, he brought from his pocket two little white gloves, --justtwo ordinary white gloves, --and held them to his lips and lifted hisarms in despair once and let them drop as he stood before hisdoorstep. And that is why a girl, a little girl with the weariest facein the town, looked out of her bedroom window that night and whisperedover and over to herself the name she dared not speak. And all thiswas going on while the town was turning over in its bed, listening tothe most tumultuous charivari that Sycamore Ridge has ever known. 

Night after night that summer faithful Jake Dolan walked the streetsof Sycamore Ridge with Bob Hendricks. By day they lived apart, but atnight the young man often would look up the elder, and they would walkand walk together, but never once did Hendricks mention Molly's namenor refer to her in any way; yet Jake Dolan knew why they walkedabroad. How did he know? How do we know so many things in this worldthat are neither seen nor heard? And the Irish--they have the drop ofblood that defies mathematics; the Irish are the only people in theworld whom kind Providence permits to add two and two together to makesix. "You say 'tis four, " said Dolan, one night, as he and Hendricksstood on the bridge listening to the roar from the dam. "I say 'tissix. There is this and there is that and you say they make the other. Not at all; they make something else entirely different. You take yourtwo and your two and make your four and try your four on the world, and it works--yes, it works up to a point; but there is somethingleft over, something unexplained; you don't know what. I do. It's theother two. Therefore I say to you, Mr. Robert Hendricks, that two andtwo make six, because God loves the Irish, and for no other reason onearth. "

So much for the dreams of Molly, the memories of Bob, and the vagariesof Mr. Dolan. They were as light as air. But in John Barclay's life avision was rising--a vision that was real, palpable, and vital; avision of wealth and power, --and as the days and the months passed, the shadow of that vision grew big and black and real in a score oflives. 

CHAPTER XV

As June burned itself gloriously into July, Robert Hendricks no longercounted the weeks until Molly Culpepper should be married, but countedthe days. So three weeks and two days, from the first of July, becamethree weeks, then two weeks and six days, and then one week and sixdays, and then six days, five days, four days, three days; and then itbecame seventy-two hours. And the three threshing machines of theGolden Belt Wheat Company were pouring their ceaseless stream into thecompany's great bins. The railroad was only five miles away, andHendricks was sitting in his office in the bank going over and overhis estimates of the year's crop which was still lying in thefield, --save the crop from less than two thousand acres that washarvested and threshed. From that he judged that there would be enoughto redeem his share of the farmers' mortgages, which in Hendricks'mind could be nothing but rent for the land, and to pay his share ofthe bank's fraudulent loans to the company--and leave nothing more. 

The fact that John expected to buy back the mortgages from Easterninvestors who had bought them, and then squeeze the farmers out oftheir land by the option to buy hidden in the contract, did not moveHendricks. He saw his duty in the matter, but as the golden flood rosehigher in the bins, and as hour after hour rolled by bringing himnearer and nearer to the time when Molly Culpepper should marry AdrianBrownwell, a temptation came to him, and he dallied with it as he satfiguring at his desk. The bank was a husk. Its real resources had beensold, and a lot of bogus notes--accommodation paper, they calledit--had taken the place of real assets. For Hendricks to borrow moneyof any other institution as the officer of the Exchange National Bankof Sycamore Ridge would be a crime. And yet he knew that ten thousanddollars would save her, and his brain was wrought with a madness. Andso he sat figuring while the hours slipped by, trying to discount hisfuture income from the wheat to justify himself in taking the moneyfrom the bank's vaults. His figures did not encourage him. They showedhim that to be honest with the farmers he might hope for no profitfrom that year's crop, and with two years of failure behind him, heknew that to discount the next year's crop would be nothing less thanstealing. Then, strong and compelling, came the temptation to let thefarmers fight it out with the Eastern investors. The temptation rockedthe foundations of his soul. He knew it was wrong; he knew he would bea thief, if he did it, no matter what the law might say, no matterwhat the courts might adjudge. To Barclay what was legal was right, and what the courts had passed upon--that was legal. But Hendrickssat with his pencil in his hand, going over and over his figures, trying to silence his conscience. 

It was a hot afternoon that he sat there, and idly through his mindwent the computation that he had but sixty-six more hours of hope, andas he looked at the clock he added, "and thirty-eight minutes andtwenty-seven seconds, " when Martin Culpepper came ambling into theback room of the bank. 

"Robert, " began the colonel, with his eyes on the floor and his handsdeep in his trousers pockets, "I've just been talking to John. " Thecolonel rubbed his neck absent-mindedly and went on, "John's a Yankee, Robert--the blue stripe on his belly is fast blue, sir; it won'tfade, change colour, or crock, in point of fact, not a damned bit, sir, not till the devil covers it with a griddle stripe, sir, I maysay. " The colonel slouched into a chair and looked into Hendricks'face with a troubled expression and continued, "That John certainly isYankee, Robert, and he's too many for me. Yes, sir, certainly he's gotme up in the air, sir--up in the air, and as I may say a mile west, on that wheat deal. " Hendricks leaned forward unconsciously, and thecolonel dropped both hands to his knees and leaned toward Hendricks. "Robert Hendricks, " asked the colonel, as he bored his deep black eyesinto the younger man, "did you know about that option in the wheatland mortgage? Answer me, sir!"

"Not at the time, Colonel, " returned Hendricks, and began, "but I--"

"Well, neither did I. And I got half of those mortgages myself. Ligeand I did it all, sir. And Lige knew--Lige, he says it's legal, but Isay it's just common stealing. " Hendricks moistened his lips and satwith mute face gazing at the colonel. The colonel went on, "And nowthe farmers have found it out, and the devil's to pay, sir, with nopitch hot!"

Hendricks cleared his throat and began, "Well, Colonel--I don't know;of course I--"

The elder man rose to his full height and glared at the younger, andcried, "Ah, Robert, Robert, fire in the mountain, snakes in thegrass--you do know--you do know, sir. You know that to hold up thefarmers of this county in the midst of what amounted to a famine, notto let them borrow a dollar in the county except on a gougingmortgage, and then to slip into that mortgage a blind option to sellfor ten dollars an acre land that is worth three times that, isstealing, and so does John Barclay know that, and, worst of all, sodoes Martin Culpepper know that, and the farmers are finding itout--my neighbours and comrades that I helped to swindle, sir--torob, I may say--they know what it is. "

The colonel's voice was rising, and he stood glaring and puffingbefore the young man, shaking his head furiously. Young Hendricks wasengaged in swallowing his Adam's apple and blinking unsteadily, andjust as he started to reply, the colonel, who had caught his temper bythe horn and was shaking it into submission, cried: "Yes, sir, Robert, that's what I said, sir; those were my very words in point of fact. And, " he began as he sat down and sighed, "what galls me most of all, Robert, is that John laughs at me. Here you've been gagging andgulping and sputtering, boy, to keep down your conscience, and so Iknow--yes, Robert, I'm dead sure, I may say, that you're all right;but John giggles--giggles, sir, snickers in point of fact, as thoughhe had done something smart in getting me to go out among my oldsoldier friends and rob 'em of their homesteads. He doesn't care formy good name any more than for his own. "

Hendricks drummed with his fingers on the desk before him. His blueeyes looked into nothing, and his mind's eye saw the house of cards hehad been dallying with totter and fall. He drew a deep breath beforehe looked up at the colonel, and said rather sadly: "Well, Colonel, you're right. I told John the day after I came home that I wouldn'tstand it. " He drummed with his fingers for a moment before continuing, "I suppose you got about half of those contracts, didn't you?"

The colonel pulled from his pocket a crumpled paper and handed it toHendricks, "Here they are, sir--and every one from a soldier or asoldier's widow, every one a homestead, sir. "

Hendricks walked to the window, and stood looking out with his eyescast down. He fumbled his Masonic watch-charm a moment, and thenglancing at it, caught the colonel's eye and smiled as he said: "I'mon the square, Colonel, in this matter. I'll protect you. " He went tothe elder man and put his hands on his shoulder as he said: "You go toyour comrades and tell them this, Colonel, that between now andsnowfall every man will have his land clear. But, " he added, pickingup the list of the colonel's contracts, "don't mention me in thematter. " He paused and continued, "It might hurt the bank. Just tellthem you'll see that it's taken care of. "

The colonel put out his hand as he rose. When their hands met he wassaying: "Blood tells, Robert Hendricks, blood tells. Wasn't yoursainted father a Democrat, boy, a Democrat like me, sir, --a UnionDemocrat in point of fact?" The colonel squeezed the younger man'shand as he cried: "A Union Democrat, sir, who could shoot at hisparty, sir, but never could bring himself to vote against it--notonce, sir--not once. And Robert Hendricks, when I see you acting asyou've acted just now, sir, this very minute in point of fact, I maysay, sir, that you're almost honest enough to be a Democrat, sir--like your sainted father. " The colonel held the young man's handaffectionately for a time and then dropped it, sighing, "Ah, sir--ifit wasn't for your damned Yankee free schools and your damned Yankeesurroundings, what a Democrat you would have made, Robert--what agrand Democrat!" The colonel waved his silver tobacco box proudly andmade for the door and left Hendricks sitting at his desk, drumming onthe board with one hand, and resting his head in the other, lookinglongingly into the abyss from which he had escaped; for the lure ofthe danger still fluttered his soul. 

Strength had come to him in that hour to resist the temptation. Butthe temptation still was there. For he was a young man, giving up foran intangible thing called justice the dearest thing in his life. Hehad opened the door of his life's despair and had walked in, as muchlike a man as he could, but he kept looking back with a heavy heart, hungering with his whole body and most of his soul for all that he hadrenounced. And so, staring at the light of other days, and across theshadow of what might have been, he let ten long minutes tick pasttoward the inevitable hour, and then he rose and put his hand to theplough for the long furrow. 

They are all off the stage now, as Bob Hendricks is standing in thefront door of the bank that August night with his watch in his handreckoning the minutes--some four thousand three hundred ofthem--until Molly Culpepper will pass from him forever, and as thestage is almost deserted, we may peep under the rear curtain for aminute. Observe Sycamore Ridge in the eighties, with Hendricks itsmoving spirit, controlling its politics, dominating itsbusiness, --for John Barclay's business has moved to the City and BobHendricks has become the material embodiment of the town. And the townthere on the canvas is a busy town of twenty thousand people. Justback of that scene we find a convention spread on the canvas, apolitical convention wherein Robert Hendricks is struggling for goodgovernment and clean politics. Observe him a taciturn, forceful man, with his hands on the machinery of his party in the state, shaping itsdestinies, directing its politics, seeking no office, keeping himselfin the background, desiring only to serve, and not to advertise hispower. So more and more power comes to him, greater and wideropportunities to serve his state. His business grows and multiplies, and he becomes a strong man among men; always reserved, alwayscautious, a man whose self-poise makes people take him for a cynic, though his heart is full of hope and of the joy of life to the verylast. Let us lift up one more rag--one more painted rag in thescenery of his life--and see him a reformer of national fame; see himwith an unflinching hand pull the wires that control a great nationalpolicy of his party, and watch in that scene wherein he names apresident--even against the power and the money and the organizationof rich men, brutally rich men like John Barclay. Hendricks' thin hairis growing gray in this scene, and his skin is no longer fresh andwhite; but his eyes have a twinkle in them, and the ardour of his soulglows in a glad countenance. And as he sits alone in his room longafter midnight while the bands are roaring and the processionscheering and the great city is ablaze with excitement, RobertHendricks, turning fifty, winds his watch--the same watch that heholds in his hand here while we pause to peek under the canvas behindthe scenes--and wonders if Molly will be glad that his side won. Hehas not seen her for months, nor talked with her for years, and yet ashe sits there winding his watch after his great strategic victory innational politics, he hopes fondly that perhaps Molly will know thathe played a clean hand and won a fair game. 

Now let us crawl out from under this rubbish of the coming years, backinto Sycamore Ridge. And while the street is deserted, let us turn thefilm of events forward, letting them flit by unnoticed past thewedding of Molly Culpepper and Adrian Brownwell until we come to theAugust day when the railroad came to Sycamore Ridge. 

Jacob Dolan, sheriff in and for Garrison County for four years, beginning with 1873, remembered the summer of 1875 to his dying day, as the year when he tore his blue soldier coat, and for twenty-fiveyears, after the fight in which the coat was torn, Dolan never put iton for a funeral or a state occasion, that he did not smooth out theseam that Nellie Logan McHurdie made in mending the rent place, andrecall the exigencies of the public service which made it necessary totear one's clothes to keep the peace. 

"You may state to the court in your own way, " said the judge at thetrial of the sheriff for assault, "just how the difficulty began. "

"Well, sir, " answered Dolan, "there was a bit of a celebration intown, on August 30, it being the day the railroad came in, and inhonour of the occasion I put on my regimentals, and along about--sayeleven o'clock--as the crowd began to thicken up around the bankcorner, and in front of the hardware store, I was walking along, kindof shoving the way clear for the ladies to pass, when some one behindme says, 'General Hendricks was an old thief, and his son is nobetter, ' and I turned around and clapt my eye on this gentleman here. I'd never seen him before in my whole life, but I knew by the boldfree gay way he had with his tongue that he was from Minneola and benton trouble. 'Keep still, ' says I, calm and dignified like, bent onpreserving the peace, as was my duty. 'I'll not, ' says he. 'You will, 'says I. 'Tis a free country, ' says he, coming toward me with oneshoulder wiggling. 'But not for cowards who malign the dead, ' says I. 'Well, they were thieves, ' says he, shaking his fist and getting moreand more into contempt of court every minute. 'You're a liar, ' says I, maintaining the dignity of my office. 'And you're a thief too, ' sayshe. 'A what?' says I. 'A thief, ' says he. 'Whack, ' says I, with mystick across his head, upholding the dignity of the court. 'Biff, 'says he, with a brick that was handy, more and more contemptuous. 'Youdirty, mangy cur, ' says I, grabbing him by the ears and pounding hishead against the wall as I spoke, hoping to get some idea of thedignity of the court into his rebellious head. 'Whoop, ' says he, and, as he tore my coat, 'Yip yip, ' says I, and may it please the court itwas shortly thereafter that the real trouble started, though Imisremember just how at this time. " And as there were three "E"Company men on the jury, they acquitted Dolan and advised the court toassess a fine on the prosecuting witness for contributory negligencein resisting an officer. 

But the coat--the blue coat with brass buttons, with the straps of alieutenant on the shoulders, was mended and even in that same summerdid active service many times. For that was a busy summer for SycamoreRidge, and holidays came faster than the months. When the supremecourt decided the Minneola suit to enjoin the building of thecourt-house, in favour of Syeamore Ridge, there was another holiday, and men drew John Barclay around in the new hack with the top down, and there were fireworks in the evening. For it was John Barclay'slawsuit. Lige Bemis, who was county attorney, did not try to claimcredit for the work, and when the last acre of the great wheat crop ofthe Golden Belt Wheat Company was cut, and threshed, there was a bigcelebration and the elevator of the Golden Belt Wheat Company wasformally turned over to the company, and John Barclay was the hero ofanother happy occasion. For the elevator, standing on a switch by therailroad track, was his "proposition. " And every one in town knew thatthe railroad company had made a rate of wheat to Barclay and hisassociates, so low that Minneola could not compete, even if she hauledher wheat to another station on the road, so Minneola teams lined upat Barclay's elevator. That autumn Minneola, without a railroad, without a chance for the county-seat, and without a grain market, began to fag, and during the last of September, the Mason House camemoving out over the hill road, from Minneola to Sycamore Ridge, surrounded by a great crowd of enthusiastic men from the Ridge. Everyevening, of the two weeks in which the house was moving, people droveout from Sycamore Ridge to see it, and Lycurgus Mason, sitting on theback step smoking, --he could not get into the habit of using thefront steps even in his day of triumph, --was a person of considerableimportance. 

Money was plentiful, and the Exchange National Bank grew with thecountry. The procession of covered wagons, that had straggled andfailed the year before, began to close ranks in the spring; and inplace of "Buck" and "Ball" and "Star, " and "Bright" and "Tom" and"Jerry, " who used to groan under the yoke, horses were hitched to thewagons, and stock followed after them, and thus Garrison County wassettled, and Sycamore Ridge grew from three to five thousand people inthree years. In the spring of '75 the _Banner_ began to publish adaily edition, and Editor Brownwell went up and down the railroad onhis pass, attending conventions and making himself a familiar figurein the state. Times were so prosperous that the people lost interestin the crime of '73, and General Ward had to stay in his law-office, but he joined the teetotalers and helped to organize the Good Templarsand the state temperance society. Colonel Culpepper in his prosperitytook to fancy vests, cut extremely low, and the Culpepper women becamethe nucleus of organized polite society in the Ridge. 

The money that John Barclay made in that first wheat transaction wasthe foundation of his fortune. For that money gave him two importantthings needed in making money--confidence in himself, and prestige. He was twenty-five years old then, and he had demonstrated to hiscommunity thoroughly that he had courage, that he was crafty, and thathe went to his end and got results, without stopping for overnicescruples of honour. Sycamore Ridge and Garrison County, excepting afew men like General Ward, who were known as cranks, regarded John asthe smartest man in the county--smarter even than Lige Bemis. And thewhole community, including some of the injured farmers themselves, considered Hendricks a sissy for his scruples, and thought Barclay ashrewd financier for claiming all that he could get. Barclay got holdof eight thousand acres of wheat land, in adjacent tracts, and wentahead with his business. In August he ploughed the ground for anothercrop. Also he persuaded his mother to let him build a new home on thesite of the Barclay home by the Sycamore tree under the ridge, andwhen it was done that winter Mr. And Mrs. John Barclay moved out oftheir rooms at the Thayer House and lived with John's mother. Thehouse they built cost ten thousand dollars when it was finished, andit may still be seen as part of the great rambling structure that hebuilt in the nineties. John put five hundred dollars' worth of booksinto the new house--sets of books, which strangely enough he forcedhimself to wade through laboriously, and thus he cultivated a habit ofreading that always remained with him. In those days the books withcracked backs in his library were Emerson, Browning, and Tennyson. Andafter a hard day's work he would come home to his poets and his piano. He thought out the whole plan of the Barclay Economy Car Door Stripabout midnight, sitting in his night clothes at the piano afterreading "Abt Vogler, " and the central idea for the address on the"Practical Transcendentalist, " which he delivered at the opening ofthe state university the next year, came to him one winter night afterhe had tried to compose a clanging march as an air to fit Emerson's"The Sphinx. " After almost a quarter of a century that address becamethe first chapter of Barclay's famous book, which created suchribaldry in the newspapers, entitled "The Obligations of Wealth. "

It was in 1879 that Barclay patented his Economy Door Strip, and putit in his grain cars. It saved loss of grain in shipping, and Barclay, being on terms of business intimacy with the railroad men, sold theEconomy Strip to the railroads to use on every car of grain or flourhe shipped. And Lycurgus Mason, taken from the kitchen of the MasonHouse, hired a room over McHurdie's harness shop, and made the stripsthere. His first day in his new shop is impressed upon his memory byan incident that is the seed of a considerable part of this story. 

He always remembers that day, because, when he got to the ThayerHouse, he found John there in the buggy waiting for him, and a crowdof men sitting around smoking cigars. In the seat by Barclay was acigar-box, and Lycurgus cut in, before John could speak, with, "Well, which is it?"

And John returned, "A girl--get in; Mother Mason needs you. "

Lycurgus fumbled under the box lid for a cigar as he got into thebuggy, and repeated: "Mother needs me, eh? Well, now, ain't that justlike a woman, taking a man from his work in the middle of the day?What are you going to name her?"

"How do you like Jeanette?" asked Barclay, as he turned the horse. "You know we can't have two Janes, " he explained. 

"Well, " asked the elder man, tentatively, "how does mother stand onJeanette?"

"Mother Mason, " answered Barclay, "is against it. "

"All right, " replied Lycurgus, "I vote aye. What does she want?" heasked. 

"Susan B. , " returned Barclay. 

"Susan B. Anthony?" queried the new grandfather. 

"Exactly, " replied the new father. 

The two rode down the street in silence; as they turned into theBarclay driveway Lycurgus chuckled, "Well--well--Susan B. Wants toput breeches on that child before she gets her eyes open. " Then heturned on Barclay with a broad grin of fellowship, as he pinched theyoung man's leg and laughed, "Say--John--honest, ain't that justlike a woman?"

And so Jeanette Thatcher Barclay came into this world, and what withher Grandmother Barclay uncovering her to look at the Thatcher nose, and her Grandmother Mason taking her to the attic so that she could goupstairs before she went down, that she might never come down in theworld, and what with her Grandfather Mason rubbing her almost raw withhis fuzzy beard before the women could scream at him, and what withher father trying to jostle her on his knee, and what with all thedifferent things Mrs. Ward, the mother of six, would have done to her, and all the things Mrs. Culpepper, mother of three, would have done toher, and Mrs. McHurdie, mother of none, prevented the others fromdoing, Jeanette had rather an exciting birthday. And Jeanette Barclayas a young woman often looks at the scrap-book with its crinkly leavesand reads this item from the _Daily Banner_: "The angels visited ourprosperous city again last Thursday, June 12, and left a little onenamed Jeanette at the home of our honoured townsman, John Barclay. Mother and child progressing nicely. " But under this item is a longpoem clipped from a paper printed a week later, --Jeanette has countedthe stanzas many times and knows there are seventeen, and each oneends with "when the angels brought Jeanette. " Her father used to readthe verses to her to tease her when she was in her teens, and oncewhen she was in her twenties, and Jeanette had the lonely poet out todinner one Sunday, she sat with him on the sofa in the library, looking at the old scrap-book. Their eyes fell upon the verses aboutthe angels bringing Jeanette, and the girl noticed the old man mummingit over and smiling. 

"Tell me, Uncle Watts, " she asked, "why did you make such a long poemabout such a short girl?"

The poet ran his fingers through his rough gray beard, and went ondroning off the lines, and grinning as he read. When he had finished, he took her pretty hand in his gnarly, bony one and patted the whitefirm flesh tenderly as he peered back through the years. "U-h-m, thatwas years and years ago, Jeanette--years and years ago, and Nelliehad just bought me my rhyming dictionary. It was the first time I hada chance to use it. " The lyrical artist drummed with his fingers onthe mahogany arm of the sofa. "My goodness, child--what a long columnthere was of words rhyming with 'ette. '" He laughed to himself as hemused: "You know, my dear, I had to let 'brevet' and 'fret' and'roulette' go, because I couldn't think of anything to say about them. You don't know how that worries a poet. " He looked at the verses inthe book before him and then shook his head sadly: "I was youngthen--it seems strange to think I could write that. Youth, youth, " hesighed as he patted the fresh young hand beside him, "it is not bychance you rhyme with truth. "

His eyes glistened, and the girl put her cheek against his andsqueezed the thin, trembling hand as she cried, "Oh, Uncle Watts, Uncle Watts, you're a dear--a regular dear!"

"In his latter days, " writes Colonel Culpepper, in the second editionof the Biography, "those subterranean fires of life that flowed sofervently in his youth and manhood smouldered, and he did not writeoften. But on occasion the flames would rise and burn for a momentwith their old-time ardour. The poem 'After Glow' was penned one nightjust following a visit with a young woman, Jeanette, only daughter ofHonourable and Mrs. John Barclay, whose birth is celebrated elsewherein this volume under the title 'When the Angels brought Jeanette. ' Theday after the poem 'After Glow' was composed I was sitting in theharness shop with the poet when the conversation turned upon thecompensations of age. I said: 'Sir, do you not think that one of ourcompensations is that found in the freedom and the rare intimacy withwhich we are treated by the young women? They no longer seem to fearus. Is it not sweet?' I asked. Our hero turned from his bench with asmile and a deprecating gesture as he replied softly, 'Ah, Colonel--that's just it; that's just the trouble. ' And then he tookfrom a box near by this poem, 'The After Glow, ' and read it to me. AndI knew the meaning of the line--

"'Oh, drowsy blood that tosses in its sleep. '

"And so we fell to talking of other days. And until the twilight camewe sat together, dreaming of faded moons. "

CHAPTER XVI

Colonel Martin Culpepper was standing with, one foot on the windowledge in the office of Philemon R. Ward one bright spring morningwatching the procession of humanity file into the post-office and outinto the street upon the regular business of life. Mrs. WattsMcHurdie, a bride of five years and obviously proud of it, hurried by, and Mrs. John Barclay drove down the street in her phaeton; OscarFernald, with a pencil behind his ear, came out of his office lickingan envelope and loped into the post-office and out like a dog lookingfor his bone; and then a lank figure sauntered down the street, stopping here and there to talk with a passerby, stepping into astairway to light a cigar, and betimes leaning languidly against anawning post in the sun and overhauling farmers passing down MainStreet in their wagons. 

"He's certainly a gallus-looking slink, " ejaculated the colonel. 

The general, writing at his desk, asked, "Who?"

"Our old friend and comrade in arms, Lige Bemis. " At the blank look onthe general's face the colonel shook his head wearily. "Don't knowwhat a gallus-looking slink is, do you? General, the more I live withyou damn Yankees and fight for your flag and die for your country, sir, the more astonished I am at your limited and provincial knowledgeof the United States language. Here you are, a Harvard graduate, withthe Harvard pickle dripping off your ears, confessing such ignoranceof your mother-tongue. General, a gallus-looking slink is four hossthieves, three revenue officers, a tin pedler, and a sheep-killingdog, all rolled into one man. And as I before remarked, our belovedcomrade, Lige Bemis, is certainly a gallus-looking slink. "

"Far be it from me, " continued the colonel, "residing as I may say ina rather open and somewhat exposed domicile--a glass house infact--to throw stones at Elijah Westlake Bemis, --far be it. " Thecolonel patted himself heroically on the stomach and laughed. "Doubtless, while I haven't been a professional horse thief, nor acattle rustler, still, probably, if the truth was known, I've done anumber of things equally distasteful--I was going to sayobnoxious--in the sight of Mr. Bemis, so we'll let that pass. " Thecolonel stretched his suspenders out and let them flap against theplaits of his immaculate shirt. "But I will say, General, that as Isee it, it will be a heap handier for me to explain to St. Peter atthe gate the things I've done than if he'd ask me about Lige'srecord. "

The general scratched along, without answering, and the colonel lookedmeditatively into the street; then he began to smile, and the smileglowed into a beam that bespread his countenance and sank into a moodthat set his vest to shaking "like a bowl full of jelly. " "I was justthinking, " he said to nobody in particular, "that if Lige was jumped outof his grave right quick by Gabriel and hauled up before St. Peter andasked to justify my record, he'd have some trouble too--considerabledifficulty, I may say. I reckon it's all a matter of having to live withyour sins till you get a good excuse thought up. "

The general pushed aside his work impatiently and tilted back in hischair. "Come, Martin Culpepper, come, come! That won't do. You knowbetter than that. What's the use of your pretending to be as bad asLige Bemis? You know better and I know better and the whole town knowsbetter. He's little, and he's mean, and snooping, and crooked as adog's hind leg. Why, he was in here yesterday--actually in here tosee me. Yes, sir--what do you think of that? Wants to be statesenator. "

"So I hear, " smiled the colonel. 

"Well, " continued the general, "he came in here yesterday as pious asa deacon, and he said that his friends were insisting on his runningbecause his enemies were bringing up that 'old trouble' on him. Hecalls his horse stealing and cattle rustling 'that old trouble. 'Honestly, Martin, you'd think he was being persecuted. It was all Icould do to keep from sympathizing with him. He said he couldn'tafford to retreat under fire, and then he told me how he had beentrying to be a better man, and win the respect of the people--and Icouldn't stand it any longer, and I rose up and shook my fist in hisface and said: 'Lige Bemis, you disreputable, horse-stealing cowthief, what right have you to ask my help? What right have you got torun for state senator, anyway?' And, Martin, the brazen whelp rearedback and looked me squarely in the eye and answered without blinking, 'Because, Phil Ward, I want the job. ' What do you think of that forbrass?"

The colonel slapped his campaign hat on his leg and laughed. There wasalways, even to the last, something feminine in Martin Culpepper'sface when he laughed--a kind of alternating personality of the othersex seemed to tiptoe up to his consciousness and peek out of his kindeyes. As he laughed with Ward the colonel spoke: "Criminy, but that'slike him. He's over there talking to Gabe Carnine on the corner now. Iknow what he's saying. He has only one speech, and he gets it off toall of us. He's got his cigar chawed down to a rag, stuck in onecorner of his mouth, and he's saying, 'Gabe--this is the fight of mylife. This is the last time I'm going to ask my friends for help. 'General, I've heard that now, off and on, first and last, from oldLige at every city, state, county, and lodge election since the warclosed, and I can see how Gabe is twisting and wiggling trying to getaway from it. He's heard it too. Now Lige is saying: 'Gabe, I ain'tgoing to lie to you; you know me, and you know I've mademistakes--but they were errors of judgment, and I want to get achance to live 'em down. I want to show the young men of this statethat Lige Bemis of the Red Legs is a man--even if he was wild as ayoung fellow; it'll prove that a man can rise. ' Poor old Gabe--Ligehas got him by the coat front, now. That's the third degree. When hegets him by the neck and begins to whisper, he's giving him the workin the uniform rank. He's saying: 'Gabe, I've got to have you with me. I can't win without you, and I would rather lose than win with youagainst me. You stand for all that's upright in this county, and ifyou'll come to my aid, I can win. ' Here, General--look--Lige's gothim by the neck and the hand. Now for the password right from thegrand lodge, 'Gabe, you'd make a fine state treasurer--I can land itfor you. Make me state senator, and with my state acquaintance, addedto the prestige of this office, I can make a deal that will land you. 'Oh, I know his whole speech, " laughed the colonel. "Bob Hendricks isto be secretary of state, John Barclay is to be governor, OscarFernald is to be state auditor, and the boys say that Lycurgus Masonhas the refusal of warden of the Penitentiary. " The colonel chuckledas he added: "So far as the boys have been able to learn, Lige stillhas United States senator, president, and five places in the cabinetto go on, but Minneola township returns ain't all in yet, and they maychange the result. By the way, General, what did you get?"

The general flushed and replied, "Well, to be perfectly honest withyou, Mart--he did promise me to vote for the dram-shop law. "

And in the convention that summer Lige Bemis strode with his raggedcigar sticking from the corner of his mouth, with his black eyesblazing, and his shock of black hair on end, begging, bulldozing, andbuying delegates to vote for him. He had the river wards behind him toa man, and he had the upland townships where the farmers needed asecond name on their notes at the bank; and in the gentleman'sward--the silk-stocking ward--he had Gabriel Carnine, chairman ofthe first ward delegation, casting the solid vote of that ward forBemis ballot after ballot. And when Bemis got Minneola township forfifty dollars, --and everybody in the convention knew it, --he wasdeclared the nominee of the party with a whoop. 

But behind Bemis was the sinister figure of young John Barclay workingfor his Elevator Company. He needed Bemis in politics, and Bemisneeded Barclay in business. And there the alliance between Barclay andBemis was cemented, to last for a quarter of a century. Barclay andBemis went into the campaign together and asked the people to rally tothe support of the party that had put down the rebellion, that hadfreed four million slaves, and had put the names of Lincoln and ofGrant and Garfield as stars in the world's firmament of heroes. Andthe people of Garrison County responded, and State Senator ElijahWestlake Bemis did for Barclay in the legislature the things thatBarclay would have preferred not to do for himself, and the GoldenBelt Elevator Company throve and waxed fat. And Lige Bemis, itsattorney, put himself in the way of becoming a "general counsel, " withhis name on an opaque glass door. For as Barclay rose in the world, hefound the need of Bemis more and more pressing every year. In politicsthe favours a man does for others are his capital, and Barclay'sdeposit grew large. He was forever helping some one. His standing withthe powers in the state was good. He was a local railroad attorney, and knew the men who had passes to give, and who were responsible forthe direction which legislation took during the session. Barclay sawthat they put Bemis on the judiciary committee, and by manipulatingthe judiciary committee he controlled a dozen votes through Bemis. Hechanged a railroad assessment law, secured the passage of a lawpermitting his Elevator Company to cheat the farmers by falselygrading their wheat, and prevented the passage of half a dozen lawsrestricting the powers of railroads. So at the close of thelegislative session his name appeared under a wood-cut picture in the_Commonwealth_ newspaper, and in the article thereunto appendedBarclay was referred to as one of the "money kings of our youngstate. " That summer he turned his wheat into his elevator early and ata low price, and borrowed money on it, and bought five new elevatorsand strained his credit to the limit, and before the fall closed hehad ten more, and controlled the wheat in twenty counties. Strangersriding through the state on the Corn Belt Railroad saw the words, "TheGolden Belt Elevator Company" on elevators all along the line. But fewpeople knew then that the "Company" had become a partnership betweenJohn Barclay of Sycamore Ridge and less than half a dozen railroadmen, with Barclay owning seventy-five per cent of the partnership andwith State Senator Bemis the attorney for the company. 

That year the railroad officials who were making money out of theGolden Belt Elevator Company were obliging, and Barclay made acontract with them to ship all grain from the Golden Belt Company'selevators in cars equipped with the Barclay Economy Rubber Strip, andhe sold these strips to the railroads for four dollars apiece and putthem on at the elevators. He shipped ten thousand cars that year, andLycurgus Mason hired two men to help him in the strip factory. AndJohn Barclay, in addition to the regular rebate, made forty thousanddollars that he did not have to divide. The next year he leased threelarge mills and took over a score of elevators and paid Lycurgustwenty dollars a week, and Lycurgus deposited money in the bank in hisown name for the first time in his life. 

As the century clanged noisily into its busy eighties, Adrian P. Brownwell creaked stiffly into his forties. And while all the worldabout him was growing rich, --or thought it was, which is the samething, --Brownwell seemed to be struggling to keep barely even withthe score of life. The _Banner_ of course ran as a daily, but it was amiserable, half-starved little sheet, badly printed, and edited, asthe printers used to say, with a pitchfork. It looked shiftless anddirty-faced long before Brownwell began to look seedy. EditorBrownwell was forever going on excursions--editorial excursions, land-buyers' excursions, corn trains, fruit trains, trade trains, political junkets, tours of inspection of new towns and new fields, and for consideration he was forever writing grandiloquent accounts ofhis adventures home to the _Banner_. But from the very first heostentatiously left Molly, his wife, at home. "The place for a woman, "said Brownwell to the assembled company on the Barclay veranda oneevening, when Jane had asked him why he did not take Molly to theopening of the new hotel at Garden City, "the place for woman is inthe sacred precincts of home, 'far from the madding crowd's ignoblethrong. ' The madame and I, " with a flourish of his cane, "came to thatagreement early, eh, my dear, eh?" he asked, poking her masterfullywith his cane. And Molly Brownwell, wistful-eyed and fading, smiledand assented, and the incident passed as dozens of other incidentspassed in the Ridge, which made the women wish they had AdrianBrownwell, to handle for just one day. But the angels in thatdepartment of heaven where the marriages are made are exceedinglycareful not to give to that particular kind of women the AdrianBrownwell kind of men, so the experiment which every one on earth forthousands of years has longed to witness, still remains a theory, andAdrian Brownwell traipsed up and down the earth, in his lavendergloves, his long coat and mouse-coloured trousers, his high hat, withhis twirling cane, and the everlasting red carnation in hisbuttonhole. His absence made it necessary for Molly Brownwell to leavethe sacred precincts of the home many and many a Saturday afternoon, to go over the books at the _Banner_ office, make out bills, take themout, and collect the money due upon them and pay off the printers whogot out the paper. But Adrian Brownwell ostentatiously ignored suchservices and kept up the fiction about the sacred precincts, and oftenwrote scorching editorials about the "encroachment of women" and grewindignant editorially at the growth of sentiment for woman's suffrage. On one occasion he left on the copy-hook a fervid appeal for women torepulse the commercialism which "was sullying the fair rose ofwomanhood, " and taking "from woman the rare perfume of her chiefestcharm, " and then he went away on a ten days' journey, and the foremanof the _Banner_ had to ask Mrs. Brownwell to collect enough money fromthe sheriff and a delinquent livery-stable keeper to pay the freightcharges on the paper stock needed for that week's issue of the paper. 

The town came to know these things, and so when Brownwell, who, sincehis marriage, had taken up his abode at the Culpeppers', hinted at his"extravagant family, " the town refused to take him seriously. And thestrutting, pompous little man, who referred grandly to "my wife, " andthen to "the madame, " and finally to "my landlady, " in a ratherelaborate attempt at jocularity, laughed alone at his merriment alongthis line, and never knew that no one cared for his humour. 

So in his early forties Editor Brownwell dried up and grew yellow andbegan to dye his mustaches and his eyebrows, and to devote much timeto considering his own importance. "Throw it out, " said Brownwell tothe foreman, "not a line of it shall go!" He had just come home from atrip and had happened to glance over the proof of the articledescribing the laying of the corner-stone of Ward University. 

"But that's the only thing that happened in town this week, and Mrs. Brownwell wrote it herself. "

"Cut it out, I say, " insisted Brownwell, and then threw back hisshoulders and marched to his desk, snapping his eyes, anddemonstrating to the printers that he was a man of consequence. "I'llteach 'em, " he roared. "I'll teach 'em to make up their committees andleave me out. "

He raged about the office, and finally wrote the name of Philemon R. Ward in large letters on the office blacklist hanging above his desk. This list contained the names which under no circumstances were toappear in the paper. But it was a flexible list. The next day JohnBarclay, who desired to have his speech on the laying of thecorner-stone printed in full, gave Brownwell twenty dollars, and amost glowing account of the event in question appeared in the_Banner_, and eloquence staggered under the burden of praise whichBrownwell's language loaded upon the shoulders of General Ward. 

It is now nearly a generation since that corner-stone was laid. Boys andgirls who then were children have children in the university, and itsalumni include a brigadier in the army, a poet, a preacher of nationalrenown, two college presidents, an authority upon the dynamics of livingmatter, and two men who died in the American mission at Foo Chow duringthe uprising in 1900. When General Ward was running for President of theUnited States on one of the various seceding branches of the prohibitionparty, while Jeanette Barclay was a little girl, he found the money forit; two maiden great-aunts on his mother's side of the family had half amillion dollars to leave to something, and the general got it. Theywilled it to him to hold in trust during his lifetime, but the day afterthe check came for it, he had transferred the money to a universityfund, and had borrowed fifty dollars of Bob Hendricks to clean up hisgrocery bills and tide him over until his pension came. But he was apractical old fox. He announced that he would give the money to acollege only if the town would give a similar sum, and what with JohnBarclay's hundred-thousand-dollar donation, and Bob Hendricks' tenthousand, and what with the subscription paper carried around by ColonelCulpepper, who proudly headed it with five thousand dollars, and afterthe figure wrote in red ink "in real estate, " much to the town'smerriment, and what with public meetings and exhortations in thechurches, and what with voting one hundred thousand dollars in bonds byGarrison County for the privilege of sending students to the collegewithout tuition, the amount was raised; and as the procession wheeledout of Main Street to attend the ceremonies incident to laying thecorner-stone that beautiful October day, it is doubtful which was theprouder man--Martin Culpepper, the master of ceremonies, in his plumedhat, flashing sword, and red sash, or General Philemon Ward, who for thefirst time in a dozen years heard the crowd cheer his name when thegovernor in his speech pointed at the general's picture--his campaignpicture that had been hooted with derision and spattered with filth onso many different occasions in the town. The governor's remarks were ofcourse perfunctory; he devoted five or ten minutes to the praise ofGeneral Ward, of Sycamore Ridge, of John Barclay, and of education ingeneral, and then made his regular speech that he used for collegecommencements, for addresses of welcome to church conferences, synods, and assemblies, and for conclaves of the grand lodge. General Ward spokepoorly, which was to his credit, considering the occasion, and WattsMcHurdie's poem got entangled with Juno and Hermes and Minerva and anumber of scandalous heathen gods, --who were no friends of Watts, --andthe crowd tired before he finished the second canto. But manydiscriminating persons think that John Barclay's address, "The Time ofTrue Romance, " was the best thing he ever wrote. It may be found in hisbook as Chapter XI. "The Goths, " he said, "came out of the woods, pulledthe beards of the senators, destroyed the Roman state, murdered andpillaged the Roman people, and left the world the Gothic arch; theVikings came over the sea, roaring their sagas of rapine and slaughter;the conquerors came to Europe with spear and sword and torch and leftthe outlines of the map, the boundaries of states. Luther married hisnun, and set Christendom to fighting over it for a hundred years, but heleft a free conscience. Cromwell thrust his pikes into the noble headsof England, snapped his fingers at law, and left civil liberty. Organized murder reached its sublimity in the war that Lincoln waged, and in that murdering and pillage true romance came to mankind in itsflower. Murder for the moment in these piping times has become impolite. But true romance is here. Our heroes rob and plunder, and build cities, and swing gayly around the curves of the railroads they have stolen, andswagger through the cities they have levied upon the people to build. Dowe care to-day whether Charlemagne murdered his enemies with a sword oran axe; do we ask if King Arthur used painless assassination or burnedhis foes at the stake? Who cares to know that Cæsar was a rake, and thatWilliam the Conqueror was a robber? They did their work and did it well, and are snugly sitting on their monuments where no moralist can reachthem. So those searching for true romance to-day, who regard thedecalogue as mere persiflage, and the moral code as a thing of archaicinterest, will get their day's work done and strut into posterity inbronze and marble. They will cheat and rob and oppress and grind thefaces off the poor, and do their work and follow their visions, and livethe romance in their hearts. To-morrow we will take their work, disinfect it, and dedicate it to God's uses. "

There was more of it--four thousand words more, to be exact, and whenGeneral Ward went home that night he prayed his Unitarian God toforgive John Barclay for his blasphemy. And for years the generalshuddered when his memory brought back the picture of the little man, with his hard tanned face, his glaring green eyes, his brazen voicetrumpeting the doctrine of materialism to the people. 

"John, " said the general, the next day, as he sat in the mill, goingover the plans of the college buildings with Barclay, who was chairmanof the board of directors, "John, why are you so crass, so gross amaterialist? You have enough money--why don't you stop getting it anddo something with it worth while?"

"Because, General, I'm not making money--that's only an incident ofmy day's work. I'm organizing the grain industry of this country as itis organized in no other country on this planet. " Barclay rose as hespoke and began limping the length of the room. It was his habit towalk when he talked, and he knew the general had come to catechizehim. 

"Yes, but then, John--what then?"

"What then?" repeated Barclay, with his hands in his pockets and hiseyes on the floor. "Coffee, maybe--perhaps sugar, or tobacco. Or whynot the whole food supply of the people--let me have meat and sugarwhere I will have flour and grain, and in ten years no man in Americacan open his grocery store in the morning until he has asked JohnBarclay for the key. " He snapped his eyes good-naturedly at thegeneral, challenging the man's approval. 

The general smiled and replied: "No, John, you'll get the social bugand go around in knee-breeches, riding a horse after a scared fox, orkeeping a lot of hussies on a yacht. They all get that way sooner orlater. "

Barclay leaned over Ward, stuck out his hard jaw and growled: "Well, Iwon't. I'm going to be a tourist-sleeper millionaire. I stick toSycamore Ridge; Jeanette goes to the public schools; Jane buys herclothes at Bob Hendricks' or Dorman's, or at the most of MarshallField in Chicago; I go fishing down at Minneola when I want rest. "Ward started to protest, but Barclay headed him off. "I made a millionlast year. What did I do with it? See any yachts on the Sycamore?Observe any understudies for Jane around the place? Have you heard ofany villas for the Barclays in Newport? No--no, you haven't, but youmay like to know that I have control of a railroad that handles morewheat than any other hundred miles in the world, and it is the key tothe lake situation. And I've put the price of my Economy Door Strip upto ten dollars, and they don't dare refuse it. What's more, I'm goingto hire a high-priced New York sculptor to make a monument for oldHenry Schnitzler, who fell at Wilson's Creek, and put it in thecemetery. But I am giving none of my hard-earned cash to cooks andflorists and chorus ladies. So if I want to steal a mill or so everyseason, and gut a railroad, I'm going to do it, but no one can rise upand say I am squandering my substance on riotous living. "

Barclay shook his head as he spoke and gesticulated with his hands, and the general, seeing that he could not get the younger man to talkof serious things, brought out the plans for the college buildings, and the men fell to the work in hand with a will. 

Barclay's spirit was the spirit of his times--growing out of acondition which, as Barclay said in his speech, was like Emersonianoptimism set to Wagnerian music. In Sycamore Ridge factories rose inthe bottoms near the creek, and shop hands appeared on the streets atnight; new people invaded Lincoln Avenue, and the Culpeppers, tomaintain their social supremacy, had to hire a coloured man to openthe door for an afternoon party, and for an evening reception it tooktwo, one for the door and one to stand at the top of the stairs. 

Those were the palmy days of the colonel's life. Money came easily, and went easily. The Culpepper Mortgage Company employed fifty men, who handled money all over the West, and one of the coloured men whoopened the door at the annual social affair at the Culpepper home alsotook care of the horses, and drove the colonel down to his office inthe Barclay block every morning, and drove him home in the evening. 

"Well, " said Watts McHurdie to Gabriel Carnine as the two walked downthe hill into the business section of the town, a few days after thecorner-stone of Ward College was laid, "old Phil has got his collegestarted and Mart's got his church a-going. "

"You mean the East End Mission? Yes, and I don't know which, of 'em ishappier over his work, " replied Carnine. 

"Well, Mart certainly is proud; he's been too busy to loaf in the shopfor six months, " said McHurdie. 

Carnine smiled, and stroked his chestnut beard reflectively before headded: "Probably that's why he hasn't been in to renew his last twonotes. But I guess he does a lot of good to the poor people over therealong the river. Though I shouldn't wonder if he was encouraging themto be paupers. " Carnine paused a moment and then added, "Good oldMart--he's got a heart just like a woman's. "

They were passing the court-house square, and Bailiff Jacob Dolan, with a fist full of legal papers, caught step with Carnine andMcHurdie. "We were talking about Mart Culpepper and his MissionChurch, " said Carnine. "Don't you suppose, Jake, that Mart, bycirculating down there with his basket so much, encourages the peopleto be shiftless? We were just wondering. "

"Oh, you were, were you?" snapped Dolan. "There you go, Gabe Carnine;since you've moved to town and got to be president of a bank, you'remighty damn scared about making paupers. When Christ told the youngman to sell his goods and give them to the poor, He didn't tell him tobe careful about making them paupers. And Mr. Gabriel Carnine, Esquire, having the aroma of one large morning's drink on my breathemboldens me to say, that if you rich men will do your part in giving, the Lord will manage to keep His side of the traces from scraping onthe wheel. And if I had one more good nip, I'd say, which Heavenforbid, that you fellows are asking more of the Lord by expecting Himto save your shrivelled selfish little souls from hell-fire because ofyour squeeze-penny charities, than you would be asking by expectingHim to keep the poor from becoming paupers by the dribs you give them. And if Mart Culpepper can give his time and his money every dayhelping them poor devils down by the track, niggers and whites, goodand bad, male and female, I guess the Lord will put in lick for lickwith Mart and see that his helping doesn't hurt them. " Dolan shook hishead at the banker, and then smiled at him good-naturedly as hefinished, "Put that in your knapsack, you son of a gun, and chew on ittill I see you again. " Whereupon he turned a corner and went his way. 

Carnine laughed rather unnaturally and said to McHurdie, "That's whyhe's never got on like the other boys. Whiskey's a bad partner. "

McHurdie agreed, and went chuckling to his work, when Carnine turnedinto the bank. Later in the forenoon Bailiff Dolan came in grinning, and took a seat by the stove in McHurdie's shop and said as he reachedinto the waste-basket for a scrap of harness leather, and beganwhittling it, "What did Gabe say when I left you this morning?" andwithout waiting for a reply, went on, "I've thought for some time Gabeneeded a little something for what ails him, and I gave it to him, outof the goodness of my heart. "

McHurdie looked at Dolan over his glasses and replied, "Speech issilver, but silence is golden. "

"The same, " answered Dolan, "the same it is, and by the same authorityapples of gold in pictures of silver is a word fitly spoken to a manlike Gabe Gamine. " He whittled for a few minutes while the harnessmaker worked, and then sticking his pocket-knife into the chairbetween his legs, said: "But what I came in to tell you was about LigeBemis; did you know he's in town? Well, he is. Johnnie Barclay wiredhim to leave the dump up in the City and come down here, and what for, do you think? 'Tis this. The council was going to change the name ofEllen Avenue out by the college to Garfield, and because it was namedfor that little girl of Mart's that died right after the war, don'tyou think Johnnie's out raising hell about it, and brought Lige downhere to beat the game. He'll be spending a lot of money if he has to. Now you wouldn't think he'd do that for old Mart, would you? He's toomany for me--that Johnny boy is. I can't make him out. " The Irishmanplayed with his knife, sticking it in the chair and pulling it out fora while, and then continued: "Oh, yes, what I was going to tell youwas the little spat me and Lige had over Johnnie. Lige was in my roomin the court-house waiting to see a man in the court, and was braggingto me about how smart John was, and says Lige, 'He's found some earthover in Missouri--yellow clay, ' he says, 'that's just as good asoatmeal, and he ships it all over the country to his oatmeal mills andmixes it with the real stuff and sells it. ' I says: 'He does, does he?Sells mud mixed with oatmeal?' and Lige says, 'Yes, sir, he's got awhole mountain of it, and he's getting ten dollars a ton net for it, which is better than a gold mine. ' 'And you call that smart?' says I. 'Yes, ' says he, 'yes, sir, that's commercial instinct; it's perfectlyclean mud, and our chemist says it won't harm any one, ' says he. 'Andhim president of the Golden Belt Elevator Co. ?' says I. 'He is, ' saysLige. 'And don't need the money at all?' says I. 'Not a penny of it, 'says he. 'Well, ' says I, 'Lige Bemis, ' says I, 'when Johnnie gets tohell, --and he'll get there as sure as it doesn't freeze over, ' saysI, 'may the devil put him under that mountain of mud and keep hisrailroad running night and day dumping more mud on while he eats hisway out as a penance, ' says I. And you orto heard 'em laugh. " Dolanwent on cutting curly-cues from the leather, and McHurdie kept onsewing at his bench. "It is a queer world--a queer world; and thatJohnnie Barclay is a queer duck. Bringing Lige Bemis clear down hereto help old Mart out of a little trouble there ain't a dollar in; andthen turning around and feeding the American people a mountain of mud. Giving the town a park with his mother's name on it, and sellinglittle tin strips for ten dollars apiece to pay for it. He's a queerduck. I'll bet it will keep the recording angel busy keeping books onJohnnie Barclay. "

"Oh, well, Jake, " replied McHurdie, after a silence, "maybe the angelswill just drop a tear and wipe much of the evil off. "

"Maybe so, Watts McHurdie, maybe so, " returned Dolan, "but there won'tbe a dry eye in the house, as the papers say, if they keep up withhim. " And after delivering himself of this, Dolan rose and yawned, andwent out of the shop singing an old tune which recited the fact thathe had "a job to do down in the boulevard. "

Looking over the years that have passed since John Barclay andSycamore Ridge were coming out of raw adolescence into maturity, onesees that there was a miracle of change in them both, but where it wasand just how it came, one may not say. The town had no specialadvantages. It might have been one of a thousand dreary brownunpainted villages that dot the wind-swept plain to-day, instead ofthe bright, prosperous, elm-shaded town that it is. John Barclay inthose days of his early thirties might have become a penny-pinchingdull-witted "prominent citizen" of the Ridge, with no wider sphere ofinfluence than the Sycamore Valley, or at most the Corn Belt Railroad. But he and the town grew, and whether it was destiny that guided them, or whether they made their own destiny, one cannot say. The townseemed to be struggling and fighting its way to supremacy in theSycamore Valley; and the colonel and the general and Watts McHurdie, sitting in the harness shop a score of years after those days of theseventies, used to try to remember some episode or event that wouldtell them how John fought his way up. But they could not do so. It wasa fight in his soul. Every time his hand reached out to steal a millor crush an opponent with the weapon of his secret railroad rebates, something caught his hand and held it for a moment, and he had tofight his way free. At first he had to learn to hate the man he wasabout to ruin, and to pretend that he thought the man was about toruin him. Then he could justify himself in his greedy game. But atlast he worked almost merrily. He came to enjoy the combat for its ownsake. And sometimes he would play with a victim cat-wise, and after avictory in which the mouse fought well, John would lick his chops withsome satisfaction at his business prowess. Mill after mill along thevalley and through the West came under his control. And his skin grewleathery, and the brass lustre in his eyes grew hard and metallic. When he knew that he was the richest man in Garrison County, he sawthat there were richer men in the state, and in after years when hewas the richest man in the state, and in the Missouri Valley, the richmen in other states moved him by their wealth to work harder. Butbefore he was thirty, his laugh had become a cackle, and ColonelMartin Culpepper, who would saunter along when Barclay would limp byon Main Street, would call out after him, "Slow down, Johnnie, slowdown, boy, or you'll bust a biler. " And then the colonel would pauseand gaze benignly after the limping figure bobbing along in the nextblock, and if there was a bystander to address, the colonel would say, "For a flat-wheel he does certainly make good time. " And then if thebystander looked worth the while, the colonel, in seven cases out often, would pull out a subscription paper for some new church building, or for some charitable purpose, and proceed to solicit the neededfunds. 

BOOK II

BEING NO CHAPTER AT ALL, BUT AN INTERLUDE FOR THE ORCHESTRA

And so the years slipped by--monotonous years they seem now, so faras this story goes. Because little happened worth the telling; forgrowth is so still and so dull and so undramatic that it escapesinterest and climax; yet it is all there is in life. For the roots ofevents in the ground of the past are like the crowded moments of ourpassing lives that are recorded only in our under-consciousnesses, torise in other years in character formed, in traits established, inevents fructified. And in the years when the evil days came not, JohnBarclay's tragedy was stirring in the soil of his soul. 

And now, ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the management, let usthank you for your kind attention, during the tedious act which hasclosed. We have done our best to please you with the puppets and havecracked their heads together in fine fashion, and they have danced andcried and crackled, while we pulled the strings as our mummersmumbled. But now they must have new clothes on. Time, the greatcostumer, must change their make-up. So we will fold down the curtain. John Barclay, a Gentleman, must be painted yellow with gold. PhilemonWard, a Patriot, must be sprinkled with gray. Martin Culpepper's LargeWhite Plumes must be towsled. Watts McHurdie, a Poet, must be bent alittle at the hips and shoulders. Adrian Brownwell, a Gallant, mustcreak as he struts. Neal Dow Ward, an Infant, must put on longtrousers. E. W. Bemis, a Lawyer, must be dignified; Jacob Dolan, anIrishman and a Soldier, must grow unkempt and frowsy. RobertHendricks, Fellow Fine, must have his blond hair rubbed off at thetemples, and his face marked with maturity. Lycurgus Mason, a WomanTamer, must get used to wearing white shirts. Gabriel Carnine, a MoneyChanger, must feel his importance; and Oscar Fernald, a Tavern Keeper, must be hobbled by the years. All but the shades must be refurbished. General Hendricks and Elmer, his son, must fade farther into the mistsof the past, while Henry Schnitzler settles comfortably down instoried urn and animated bust. 

There they hang together on the line, these basswood folk, and besidethem wave their womankind. These also must be repaired and refittedthroughout, as Oscar Fernald's letter-heads used to say of the ThayerHouse. Jane Barclay, Wife of John, must have the "star light, starbright" wiped out of her eyes. Mary Barclay, Mother of the Same, musthave her limbs trimmed gaunt, and her face chiselled strong andindomitable. Jeanette Barclay, a Toddler, must grow into dresses. Molly Culpepper, a Dear, must have her heart taken out, and her faceshow the shock of the operation. Nellie Logan, a poet's Wife, mustjoin all the lodges in the Ridge to help her husband in politics. Trixie Lee, little Beatrix Lee, daughter of J. Lord and Lady Lee, musthave her childish face scarred and her eyes glazed. Mrs. Hally Bemis, a Prodigal, must be swathed in silk. Elizabeth Cady Stanton Ward andall her sisters must be put in the simple garb of school-teachers. Miss Hendricks, a Mouse, must hide in the dusky places; and EllenCulpepper, a Memory, must come to life. 

And so, ladies and gentlemen, while we have been diverting you, Timehas been at work on the little people of the passing show, and nowbefore we draw back the curtain to let them caper across your hearts, let us again thank you one and all for your courtesy in staying, andhope that what you see and hear may make you wiser and kinder andbraver; for this is a moral entertainment, good people, planned toshow you that yesterday makes to-day and they both make to-morrow, andso the world spins round the sun. 

CHAPTER XVII

The rumble of the wheels in the great stone mill across the Sycamoreand the roar of the waters over the dam seem to have been in JeanetteBarclay's ears from the day of her birth; for she was but a baby whenthe stone mill rose where the little red mill had stood, and besidethe stone mill there had grown up the long stone factory whereinLycurgus Mason was a man of consequence. As the trains whirled bystrangers could see the signs in mammoth letters, "The Golden BeltMills" on the larger building and on the smaller, "The Barclay EconomyDoor Strip Factory. " Standing on the stone steps of her father's housethe child could read these signs clear across the mill-pond, and fromthese signs she learned her letters. For her father had more pride inthat one mill on the Sycamore than in the scores of other mills thathe controlled. And even in after years, when he controlled mills allover the West, and owned railroads upon which to take his flour to thesea, and ships in which to carry his flour all over the world, theGolden Belt Mill at Sycamore Ridge was his chief pride. The rumble ofthe wheels and the hoarse voice of the dam that seemed to Jeanettelike the call of the sea, were so sweet to her father's ears that whenhe wearied of the work of the National Provisions Company, with itstwo floors of busy offices in the Corn Exchange Building in the greatcity, he would come home to Sycamore Ridge, and go to his privateoffice in the mill. The child remembers what seemed like endless days, but what in truth were only a few hours in a few days in a few years, when Daddy Barclay carried her on his shoulders across the bridge andsat her down barefooted and bareheaded to play upon the dam, while hein his old clothes prodded among the great wheels near by or satbeside her telling her where he caught this fish or that fish or aturtle or a water moccasin when he was a little boy. At low water, sheremembers that he sometimes let her wade in the clear stream, while hesat in his office near by watching her from the window. That was whenshe was only four years old, and she always had the strangest memoryof a playfellow on the dam, a big girl, who fluttered in and out ofthe shadows on the stones. Jeanette talked with her, but no one elsecould see her, and once the big girl, who could not talk herself, stamped her feet and beckoned Jeanette to come away from a rock onwhich she was playing, and her father, looking out of a window, turnedwhite when he saw a snake coiled beside the rock. But Jeanette saw thesnake and was frightened, and told her father that Ellen saw it too, and she could not make him understand who Ellen was. So he onlytrembled and hugged his little girl to him tightly, and mother wouldnot let the child play on the dam again all that summer. 

She made songs to fit the rhythmic murmur of the wheels. And alwaysshe remembered the days she had spent with Daddy Mason in the factorywhere the machines thumped and creaked, and where the long rubbersheets were cut and sewed, and the clanking rolls of tin and zinccurled into strips, and Daddy Mason made her a little set of dishesand all the things she needed in her playhouse from the scraps of tinand rubber, and she learned to twist the little tin strips on a stickand make the prettiest bright shiny tin curls for her dolls that alittle girl ever saw in all the world. And once Ellen came from amongthe moving shadows of the wheels and drew Jeanette from beneath agreat knife that fell at her feet, and when Daddy Mason saw what hadhappened he fainted, poor man, and made her promise never, never, solong as she lived, to tell Grandma Mason. And then he drove her uptown, and they had some ice-cream, and she was sent to bed without herlunch because she would not tell Grandma Mason why grandpa boughtice-cream for her. 

It was such a beautiful life, so natural and so exactly what a littlegirl should have, that even though she went to the ocean and crossedit as a child with her mother and grandmother, and even though shewent to the mountains many times, her childish heart always washomesick for the mill, and at night in her dreams her ears were filledwith the murmur of waters and the wordless song of ceaseless wheels. And once when she came back a big girl, --an exceedingly big girl withbraids down her back, a girl in the third reader in fact, who couldread everything in the fourth reader, because she had already done so, and who could read Eugene Aram in the back of the sixth, only shenever did find out what "gyves upon his wrists" meant, --once when shecame back to the dam and was sitting there looking at the sunsetreflected in the bubbling, froth-flecked water at her feet, Ellen camesuddenly, under the noise of the roaring water, and frightenedJeanette so that she screamed and jumped; and Ellen, who was mucholder than Jeanette--four or five and maybe six years older--ranright over the slippery, moss-covered ridge of the dam, and was gonebefore Jeanette could call her back. The child never saw her playmateagain, though often Jeanette would wonder where Ellen lived and whoshe was. As the years went by, Jeanette came to remember her playmateas her dream child, and once when she was a young miss of eighteen, and something in her hurt to be said, she tried to make a little poemabout her dream-child playmate, but all she ever got was:--

"O eyes, so brown and clear like water sparkling over mossy stones. "

So she gave it up and wrote a poem about a prince who carried away amaiden, and then she tore up the prince and the maiden, and if it werenot for that line about the eyes in the back of her trigonometry, witha long list of words under it rhyming with "stones, " she would haveforgotten about her playfellow, and much of the memory of the dam andthe pride she took as a child in the great letters upon the high stonewalls of the mills, and of the word "Barclay" on the long low walls ofthe factory, might have passed from her consciousness altogether. Bysuch frail links does memory bind us to our past; and yet, onceformed, how like steel they hold us! What we will be, grows from whatwe are, and what we are has grown from what we were. If JeanetteBarclay, the only child of a man who, when she was in her twenties, was to be one of the hundred richest men in his country, --so far asmere money goes, --had been brought up with a governess and a maid, and with frills and furbelows and tucks and Heaven knows what of sillykinks and fluffy stuff in her childish head, instead of being broughtup in the Sycamore Ridge public schools, with Grandmother Barclay toteach her the things that a little girl in the fourth reader shouldknow, and with a whole community of honest, hard-working men and womenabout her to teach her what life really is, indeed she would havelived a different life, and when she was ready to marry--But there wego looking in the back of the book again, and that will not do at all;and besides, a little blue-eyed girl in gingham aprons, sitting on acool stone with moss on its north side, watching the bass play amongthe rocks in a clear, deep, sun-mottled pool under a great elm tree, has a right to the illusions of her childhood and should not behustled into long dresses and love affairs until her time has come. 

But the recollection of those days, so vivid and so sweet, is one ofher choicest treasures. Of course things were not as she saw them. Jake Dolan was only in his forties then, and considered himself ayoung man. But the child remembers him as a tall, brown-eyed man whomshe saw on state occasions in his faded blue army clothes, and to herhe has always been the picture of a veteran. Some one must have toldher--though she cannot remember who it was--that as Jake Dolangently descended the social and political scale, he sloughed off hisworldly goods, and as he moved about in the court-house from thesheriff's office to the deputy's office, and from the deputy's to thebailiff's, and from the bailiff's to the constable's, and from theconstable's to the janitor's room in the basement, he carried with himthe little bundle that contained all his worldly goods, the thin blueuniform, spotless and trim, and his lieutenant's commission, andmustering-out papers from the army. It is odd, is it not, that thisprosaic old chap, who smoked a clay pipe, and whose onlyaccomplishment was the ability to sing "The Hat me Father Wore, " underthree drinks, and the "Sword of Bunker Hill, " under ten, should haveepitomized all that was heroic in this child's memory. As for GeneralPhilemon Ward, --a dear old crank who, when Jeanette was born, wasvoting with the Republican party for the first time since the war, andwho ran twice for President on some strange issue before she was inlong dresses, --General Ward, whose children's ages could be guessedby the disturbers of the public peace, whose names they bore, --EliThayer, Mary Livermore, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Frances Willard, NealDow, Belva Lockwood, and Helen Gougar, --General Ward, who scorned herfather's offer of ten thousand dollars a year as state counsel for theNational Provisions Company, and went out preaching fiat money and asubtreasury for the farmers' crops, trusting to God and the flowergarden about his little white house, to keep the family alive--it isodd that Jeanette's childish impression was that General Ward was aman of consequence in the world. Perhaps his white necktie, his longblack coat, and his keen lean face, or his prematurely gray hair, gaveher some sort of a notion of his dignity, but whatever gave her thatnotion she kept it, and though in her later life there came a passingtime when she hated him, she did not despise him. And what with thesong that she heard the bands playing all over the country, the songthat the bands sometimes played for Americans in Europe, very badly, as though it was being translated from English into broken French orItalian, what with Watts McHurdie's fame and with his verses thatappeared in the _Banner_ on formal occasions, the girl built a fancyof him as one of the world's great poets--some one like Shakespeareor Milton; and she was well into her teens before she realized thetruth, that he was an excellent harness maker who often brought out ofhis quaint little dream world odd-shaped fancies in rhyme, --somegrotesque, some ridiculous, and some that seemed pretty for amoment, --and who under the stress of a universal emotion had rhymedone phase of our common nature and set it to a simple tune that movedmen deeply without regard to race or station. So she lived in herchild world--a world quite different from the real world--a worldgilded by the sunrise of consciousness; and because the angels lovedher and kept her heart clean, the gilding never quite wore off herheroes. And nothing that Heaven gives us in this world is so blessedas to have the gilding stick to the images of our youth. In Jeanette'scase even Lige Bemis--Judge Bemis, she had been taught to callhim--never showed the tar under the gilding to her eyes. Her firstmemory of him was in her father's office in the big City. He was atall man, with gray hair that became him well, with sharp black eyes, and enough flesh on his bones to carry the frock-coats he always woreand give him a corporosity just escaping the portly. She remembersseeing the name "E. W. Bemis" in gold letters on the door of his room, and not being able to figure out how a man whose name began with "E"or "W" could be called Lige. He was General Counsel of the Corn BeltRailroad in those days, when her father was president of the road, andshe knew that he was a man always to be considered. And when, as awoman grown, she learned the truth about Lige Bemis, it was hard tobelieve, for all she could find against him was his everlasting smile. 

It is a curious and withal a beautiful thing to see a child come intothe worn and weary world that we grownups have made, and make it overinto another world altogether. Perhaps the child's eye and the child'sheart, fresh from God, see and feel more clearly and more justly thanwe do. For this much is sure--Jeanette was right in keeping to theend the image of Colonel Martin Culpepper as a knight-errant, whoneeded only a bespangled steed, a little less avoirdupois, and afoolish cause to set him battling in the tourney. As it was, in thishumdrum world, the colonel could do nothing more heroic than comerattling down Main Street into the child's heart, sitting with somedignity in his weather-beaten buggy, while instead of shining armourand a glistening helmet he wore nankeen trousers, a linen coat, and adignified panama hat. Moreover, it is stencilled into her memoryindelibly that the colonel was the first man in this wide world toraise his hat to her. 

Now it should not be strange that this world was a sad jumble offiction and of facts to a child's eyes; for to many an older pair ofeyes it has all seemed a puzzle. Even the shrewd, kind brown eyes ofJacob Dolan often failed to see things as they were, and what his eyesdid see sometimes bewildered him. By day Dolan saw Robert Hendricks, president of the Exchange National Bank, president and manager of theSycamore Ridge Light, Heat, and Power Company, proprietor of theHendricks Mercantile Company, treasurer and first vice-president ofthe new Western Wholesale Grocery, and chairman of his party'scongressional central committee, and Dolan's eyes saw a hard, busyman--a young man, it is true; a tall, straight, rather lean, rope-haired young man in his thirties, with frank blue eyes, thatturned rather suddenly upon one as if to frighten out a secret. Theman seemed real enough to Dolan, from the wide crown of his slightlybald, V-shaped head, to his feet with the hard click in the heels; andyet that man paid no particular attention to Dolan. It was "Hello, Jake, " with a nod, as they passed, maybe only an abstracted stare anda grunt. But at night, as they walked together over the town under thestars or moon, a lonely soul rose out of the tall body and spread overthe face. 

Dolan kept to his pipe and Hendricks to his cigar. But these were theonly marks of caste between them. One night Hendricks led the wayacross the bridge down the river road and into the fields. They walkedfar up the stream and their conversation had consisted largely of"Watch out, " "All right, " "I see, " "This is the best way. " Theyloitered down a dark lane shaded by hedgerows until they came to alittle wooden bridge and sat down. Dolan looked at the stars, while apipe and a cigar had burned out before Hendricks spoke, "Well, chatterbox?"

"I was bothered with a question of mistaken identity, " replied Dolan. To the silence he answered: "Me myself. I'm the man. Do you happen toknow who I am?" Hendricks broke a splinter from the wood under him, and Dolan continued: "Of course you don't, and neither do I. Forexample, I go down into Union township before election and visit withthe boys. I bring a box of cigars and maybe a nip under the buggyseat, and maybe a few stray five-dollar bills for the lads that drivethe wagons that haul the voters to the polls. I go home, and I says tomyself: 'I have that bailiwick to a man. No votes there against Jake. 'But the morning after election I see Jake didn't get but two votes inthe township. Very well. Now who did they vote against? Surely notagainst the genial obliging rollicking Irish lad whose face I shaveevery other morning. What could they possibly have against him?No--they voted against that man Dolan, who got drunk, at the Fair andthrowed the gate receipts into the well, and tried to shoo the horsesoff the track into the crowd at the home-stretch of the trotting race. He's the man they plugged. And there's another one--him thatconfesses to Father Van Sandt. " Dolan shook his head sadly and sighed. "He's a black-hearted wretch. If you want to see how a soul will lookin its underwear, get an Irishman to confess to a Dutchman. " The chirpof crickets arose in the silence, and after a time Dolan concluded, "And now there abideth these three, me that I shave, me that they voteagainst, and me that the Father knows; and the greatest of these ischarity--I dunno. "

The soul beside him on the bridge came back from a lilac bower ofother years, with a girl's lips glowing upon his and the beat of agirl's heart throbbing against his own. The soul was seared withimages that must never find spoken words, and it moved the lips to sayafter exhaling a deep breath from its body, "Well, let's go home. "There, too, was a question of identity. Who was Robert Hendricks? Washe the man chosen to lead his party organization because he was cleanabove reproach and a man of ideals; was he the man who was trustedwith the money of the people of his town and county implicitly; or washe the man who knew that on page 234 of the cash ledger for 1879 inthe county treasurer's office in the Garrison County court-house therewas a forgery in his own handwriting to cover nine thousand dollars ofhis father's debt? Or was he the man who for seven years had creptinto a neighbour's garden on a certain night in April to smell thelilac blossoms and always had found them gone, and had stood thererigid, with upturned face and clenched fists, cursing a fellow-man? Orwas he the man who in the county convention of his party had risenpale with anger, and had walked across the floor and roared hisdenunciation of Elijah W. Bemis as a boodler and a scoundrel squarelyto the man's gray, smirking face and chattering teeth, and then hadreached down, and grabbed the trapped bribe-giver by the scruff of theneck and literally thrown him out of the convention, while the crowdwent mad with applause? As he went home that night following theconvention, walking by the side of Dolan in silence, he wondered whichof all his _aliases_ he really was. At the gate of the Hendricks homethe two men stopped. Hendricks smiled quizzically as he asked: "Well, I give it up, Jake. By the way, did you ever meet me?"

The brown eyes of the Irishman beamed an instant through the night, before he hurried lightly down the street. 

And so with all of this hide-and-seek of souls, now peering frombehind eyes and now far away patting one--two--three upon somedistant base, with all these queer goings-on inside of people here inthis strange world, it is no wonder that when the angels broughtJeanette to the Barclays, they left her much to learn and many thingsto study about. So she had to ask questions. But questions oftenreveal more than answers. At least once they revealed much, when shesat on the veranda of the Barclay home a fine spring evening with allthe company there. Aunt Molly was there; and Uncle Bob Hendricks wasthere, the special guest of Grandma Barclay. Uncle Adrian was away ona trip somewhere; but Uncle Colonel and Grandma Culpepper and all theothers were there listening to father's new German music-box, and noone should blame a little girl, sitting shyly on the stone steps, trying to make something out of the absurd world around her, if shepiped out when the talk stopped:--

"Mother, why does Aunt Molly cut off her lilac buds before theybloom?"

And when her mother assured her that Aunt Molly did nothing of thekind, and when Uncle Bob Hendricks looked up and saw Aunt Molly gopale under her powder, and when Aunt Molly said, "Why, Jane--thechild must have dreamed that, " no one in this wide world must blame alittle girl for opening her eyes as wide as she could, and lifting herlittle voice as strongly as she could, and saying: "Why, Aunt Molly, you know I saw you last night--when I stayed with you. You know Idid, 'cause I looked out of the window and spokened to you. You know Idid--don't you remember?" And no one must blame the mother forshaking her finger at Jeanette, and no one must blame Jeanette forsitting there shaking a protesting head, and screwing up her littleface, trying to make the puzzle out. 

And when, later in the evening, Daddy Barclay went over to the millwith his work, and Uncle Bob left in the twilight, and Aunt Molly andmother were alone in mother's room, how should a little girl know whatthe crying was all about, and how should a little girl understand whena small woman, looking in a mirror, and dabbing her face with a powderrag, said to mother, who knows everything in the world, and all aboutthe angels that brought you here: "Oh, Jane, Jane, you don'tknow--you don't understand. There are things that I couldn't make youunderstand--and I mustn't even think of them. "

Surely it is a curious world for little girls--a passing curiousworld, when there are things in it that even mothers cannotunderstand. 

So Jeanette turned her face to the wall and went to sleep, leavingAunt Molly powdering her nose and asking mother, "Does it look allright now--" and adding, "Oh, I'm such a fool. " In so illogical aworld, the reader must not be allowed to think that Molly Brownwelllamented the folly of mourning for a handsome young gentleman in blueserge with white spats on his shoes and a Byronic collar and a fluffynecktie of the period. Far be it from her to lament that sentiment asfolly; however, when she looked at her eyes in the mirror and saw hernose, she felt that tears were expensive and reproached herself forthem. But so long as these souls of ours, whatever they may be, arecaged in our bodies, our poor bodies will have to bear witness totheir prisoners. If the soul smiles the body shines, and if the soulfrets the body withers. And Molly Brownwell saw in the looking-glassthat night more surely than ever before that her face was beginning toslump. Her cheeks were no longer firm, and at her eyes were the stainsof tears that would not wipe off, but crinkled the skin at the templesand deepened the shadows into wide salmon-coloured lines that fellaway from each side of the nose so that no trick could hide them. Moreover, the bright eyes that used to flash into Bob Hendricks'steady blue eyes had grown tired, and women who did not know, wonderedwhy such a pretty girl had broken so. 

The Culpeppers had remained with the Barclays for dinner, and the hourwas late for the Ridge--after nine o'clock, and as the departingguests went down the long curved walk of Barclay pride to the Barclaygate, they saw a late April moon rising over the trees by the mill. They clanged the tall iron gate behind them, and stood a momentwatching the moon. For the colonel never grew too old to notice it. Heput his arms about his wife and his daughter tenderly, and said beforethey started up the street, "It never grows old--does it?" And hepressed his wife to him gently and repeated, "Does it, my dear--it'sthe same old moon; the one we used to have in Virginia before the war, isn't it?"

His wife smiled at him placidly and said, "Now, pa--"

Whereupon the colonel squeezed his daughter lustily, and exclaimed, "Well, Molly still loves me, anyway. Don't you, Molly?" And theyounger woman patted his cheek, and then they started for home. 

"Papa, how much money has John?" asked the daughter, as they walkedalong. 

A man always likes to be regarded as an authority in financialmatters, and the colonel stroked his goatee wisely before replying:"U-h-m-m, let me see--I don't exactly know. Bob and I were talkingabout it the other day--after I bought John's share in CollegeHeights--last year, to be exact. Of course he's got the mill and it'sall paid for--say a hundred thousand dollars--and that old wheatland he got back in the seventies--he's cleaned all of that up. Ishould say that and the mill were easily worth half a million, andthey're both clear. That's all in sight. " The colonel ruminated amoment and then continued: "About the rest--it's a guess. Some say amillion, some say ten. All I know in point of fact, my dear, to getright down to bed-rock, is that Lycurgus says they are turning out twoor three car-loads of the strips a year. I wouldn't believe Lycurguson a stack of Bibles as high as his head, but little Thayer Ward, whoworks down there in the shipping department, told the general the samething, and Bob says he knows John gets ten dollars apiece for themnow, so that's a million dollars a year income he's got. He handlesgrain and flour way up in Minnesota, and back as far as Ohio, and westto California. But what he actually owns, --that is, whether he rentsthe mills or, to be exact, steals them, --I haven't any idea--not theslightest notion in the world, in point of fact--not the slightestnotion. "

As they passed through Main Street it was deserted, save in thebilliard halls, and as no one seemed inclined to talk, the coloneltook up the subject of Barclay: "Say we call it five million--fivemillion in round numbers; that's a good deal of money for a man tohave and haggle a month over seventy-five dollars the way he did withme when he sold me his share of College Heights. But, " added thecolonel, "I suppose if I had that much I'd value it more. " The womenwere thinking of other things, and the colonel addressed the night:"Man gets an appetite for money just as he does for liquor--just likethe love for whiskey, I may say. " He shook his sides as he meditatedaloud: "But as for me--I guess I've got so I can take it or let italone. Eh, ma?"

"I didn't catch what you were saying, pa, " answered his wife. "I wasjust thinking whether we had potatoes enough to make hash forbreakfast; have we, Molly?"

As the women were discussing the breakfast, two men came out of across street, and the colonel, who was slightly in advance of hiswomen, hailed the men with, "Hello there, Bob--you and Jake out herecarrying on your illicit friendship in the dark?"

The men and the Culpeppers stopped for a moment at the corner. MollyBrownwell's heart throbbed as they met, and she thought of the risingmoon, and in an instant her brain was afire with a hope that shamedher. Three could not walk abreast on the narrow sidewalk up the hill, and when she heard Hendricks say after the group had parleyed amoment, "Well, Jake, good night; I'll go on home with the colonel, "she managed the pairing off so that the young man fell to her, and thecolonel and Mrs. Culpepper walked before the younger people, and theyall talked together. But at Lincoln Avenue, the younger peopledisconnected themselves from the talk of the elders, and finallylagged a few feet behind. When they reached the gate the colonelcalled back, "Better come in and visit a minute, Bob, " and Mollyadded, "Yes, Bob, it's early yet. "

But what she said with her voice did not decide the matter for him. Itwas her eyes. And what he said with his voice is immaterial--it waswhat his eyes replied that the woman caught. What he said was, "Well, just for a minute, Colonel, " and the party walked up the steps of theveranda, and Bob and Molly and the colonel sat down. 

Mrs. Culpepper stood for a moment and then said, "Well, Bob, you mustexcuse me--I forgot to set my sponge, and there isn't a bit of breadin the house for Sunday. " Whereupon she left them, and when thecolonel had talked himself out he left them, and when the two werealone there came an awkward silence. In the years they had been aparta thousand things had stirred in their hearts to say at this time, yetall their voices spoke was, "Well, Molly?" and "Well, Bob?" The moonwas in their faces as it shone through the elm at the gate. The manturned his chair so that he could look at her, and after satisfyinghis eyes he broke the silence with, "Seven years. "

And she returned, "Seven years the thirteenth of April. "

The man played a tune with his fingers and a foot and said nothingmore. The woman finally spoke. "Did you know it was the thirteenth?"

"Yes, " he replied, "father died the ninth. I have often counted itup. " He added shortly after: "It's a long time--seven years! My! butit has been a long time!"

"I have wondered if you have thought so, " a pause, "too!"

Their hearts were beating too fast for thoughts to come coherently. The fever of madness was upon them, and numbed their wills so thatthey could not reach beneath the surface of their consciousnesses tofind words for their emotions. Then also there was in each adeadening, flaming sense of guilt. Shame is a dumb passion, and thesetwo, who in the fastnesses of a thousand nights had told themselvesthat what they sought was good and holy, now found in each other'sactual presence a gripping at the tongue's root that held them dumb. 

"Yes, I--" the man mumbled, "yes, I--I fancied you understood thatwell enough. "

"But you have been busy?" she asked; "very busy, Bob, and oh, I'vebeen so proud of all that you've done. " It was the woman's tongue thatfirst found a sincere word. 

The man replied, "Well--I--I am glad you have. "

It seemed to the woman a long time since her father had gone. Herconscience was making minutes out of seconds. She said, "Don't youthink it's getting late?" but did not rise. 

The man looked at his watch and answered, "Only 10. 34. " He started torise, but she checked him breathlessly. 

"Oh, Bob, Bob, sit down. This isn't enough for these long years. I hadso many things to say to you. " She hesitated and cried, "Why are we sostupid now--now when every second counts?"

He bent slightly toward her and said in a low voice, "So that's whyyour lilacs have never bloomed again. "

She looked at her chair arm and asked, "Did you know they hadn'tbloomed?"

"Oh, Molly, of course I knew, " he answered, and then went on: "Everythirteenth of April I have slipped through the fence and come overhere, rain or shine, at night, to see if they were blooming. But Ididn't know why they never bloomed!"

The woman rose and walked a step toward the door, and turned her headaway. When she spoke it was after a sob, "Bob, I couldn't bear it--Ijust couldn't bear it, Bob!"

He groaned and put his hands to his forehead and rested his elbow onthe chair arm. "Oh, Molly, Molly, Molly, " he sighed, "poor, poorlittle Molly. " After a pause he said: "I won't ever bother you again. It doesn't do any good. " A silence followed in which the woman turnedher face to him, tear-stained and wretched, with the seams of herheart all torn open and showing through it. "It only hurts, " the mancontinued, and then he groaned aloud, "Oh, God, how it hurts!"

She sank back into her chair and buried her face in the arm farthestfrom him and her body shook, but she did not speak. He stared at herdry-eyed for a minute, that tolled by so slowly that he rose at theend of it, fearful that his stay was indecorously long. 

"I think I should go now, " he said, as he passed her. 

"Oh, no!" she cried. "Not yet, not just yet. " She caught his arm andhe stopped, as she stood beside him, trembling, haggard, staring athim out of dead, mad eyes. There was no colour in her blotched face, and in the moonlight the red rims of her eyes looked leaden, and hervoice was unsteady. At times it broke in sobbing croaks, and she spokewith loose jaws, as one in great terror. "I want you to know--" shepaused at the end of each little hiccoughed phrase--"that I have notforgotten--" she caught her breath--"that I think of you everyday--" she wiped her eyes with a limp handkerchief--"every day andevery night, and pray for you, though I don't believe--" shewhimpered as she shuddered--"that God cares much about me. "

He tried to stop her, and would have gone, but she put a hand upon hisshoulder and pleaded: "Just another minute. Oh, Bob, " she cried, andher voice broke again, "don't forget me. Don't forget me. When I wasso sick last year--you remember, " she pleaded, "I raved in delirium aweek. " She stopped as if afraid to go on, then began to shake as witha palsy. "I raved of everything under God's sun, and through it all, Bob--not one word of you. Oh, I knew that wouldn't do. " She swayedupon his arm. "I kept a little corner of my soul safe to guard you. "She sank back into her chair and chattered, "Oh, I guarded you. "

She was crying like a child. He stood over her and touched herdishevelled hair with the tips of his fingers and said: "I oughtn't tostay, Molly. "

And she motioned him away with her face hidden and sobbed, "No--Iknow it. "

He paused a moment on the step before her and then said, "Good-by, Molly--I'm going now. " And she heard him walking down the yard on thegrass, so that his footsteps would not arouse the house. It seemed tothem both that it was midnight, but time had moved slowly, and whenthe spent, broken woman crept into the house, and groped her way toher room, she did not make a light, but slipped into bed withoutlooking at her scarred, shameful face. 

CHAPTER XVIII

In the sunshine of that era of world-wide prosperity in the eighties, John Barclay made much hay. He spent little time in Sycamore Ridge, and his private car might be found in Minnesota to-day and at the endof the week in California. As president of the Corn Belt Road and ascontrolling director in the North Lake Line, he got rates on otherrailroads for his grain products that no competitor could duplicate. And when a competitor began to grow beyond the small fry class, Barclay either bought him out or built a mill beside the offender andcrushed him out. Experts taught him the value of the chaff from thegrain. He had a dozen mills to which he shipped the refuse from hisflour and heaven only knows what else, and turned the stuff intovarious pancake flours and breakfast foods. He spent hundreds ofthousands of dollars in advertising--in a day when largeappropriations for advertising were unusual. And the words "Barclay'sBest" glared at the traveller from crags in the Rocky Mountains andfrom the piers of all the great harbour bridges. He used Niagara toglorify the name of Barclay, and "Use Barclay's Best" had to be washedoff the statue of the Goddess of Liberty in New York Harbour. Thegreenish brown eyes of the little man were forever looking into space, and when he caught a dream, instead of letting it go, he called astenographer and made it come true. In those days he was beginning torealize that an idea plus a million dollars will become a fact if aman but says the word, whereas the same idea minus a million remains adream. The great power of money was slowly becoming part of the man'sconsciousness. During the years that were to come, he came to thinkthat there was nothing impossible. Any wish he had might be gratified. Such a consciousness drives men mad. 

But in those prosperous days, while the millions were piling up, Barclay kept his head. All the world was buying then, but wherever hecould Barclay sold. He bought only where he had to, and paid cash forwhat he bought. He did not owe a dollar for anything. He had noequities; his titles were all good. And as he neared his forties hebelieved that he could sell what he had at forced sale for manymillions. He was supposed to be much richer than he was, but the onething that he knew about it was that scores of other men had more thanhe. So he kept staring into space and pressing the button for hisstenographer, and at night wherever his work found him, whether inBoston or in Chicago or in San Francisco, he hunted up the place wherehe could hear the best music, and sat listening with his eyes closed. He always kept his note-book in his hand, when Jane was not with him, and when an idea came to him inspired by the music, he jotted it down, and the next day, if it stood the test of a night's sleep, he turnedthe idea into an event. 

In planning his work he was ruthless. He learned that by bribing menin the operating department of any railroad he could find out what hiscompetitors were doing. And in the main offices of the NationalProvisions Company two rooms full of clerks were devoted toconsidering the duplicate way-bills of every car of flour or grain orgrain product not shipped by the Barclay companies. Thus he was ableto delay the cars of his competitors, and get his own cars through ontime. Thus he was able to bribe buyers in wholesale establishments topush his products. And with Lige Bemis manipulating the railroad andjudiciary committees in the legislatures of ten states, no laws wereenacted which might hamper Barclay's activities. 

"Do you know, Lucy, " said General Ward to his wife one night when theywere discussing Barclay and his ways and works, "sometimes I thinkthat what that boy saw at Wilson's Creek, --the horrible bloodshed, the deadly spectacle of human suffering at the hospital wagon, someway blinded his soul's eye to right and wrong. It was all a man couldstand; the picture must have seared the boy's heart like a fire. "

Mrs. Ward, who was mending little clothes in the light of thedining-room lamp, put down her work a moment and said: "I have alwaysthought the colonel had some such idea. For once when he was speakingof the way John stole that wheat land, he said, 'Well, poor John, hegot a wound at Wilson's Creek that never will heal, ' and when I askedif he meant his foot, the colonel smiled like a woman and said gently, 'No, Miss Lucy, not there--not there at all; in his heart, my dear, in his heart!'"

And the general's eyes met the eyes of a mother wandering toward a boyof nine sleeping, tired out, on a couch near by; he was a little boywith dark hair, and red tanned cheeks, and his mouth--such a softinnocent mouth--curved prettily, like the lips of children in oldpictures, and as he slept he smiled, and the general, meeting themother's eyes coming back from the little face, wiped his glasses andnodded his head in understanding; in a moment they both rose and stoodhand in hand over their child, and the mother said in a tremblingvoice, "And his mother prayed for him, too--she has told me so--somany times. "

But the people of Sycamore Ridge and of the Mississippi Valley did notindulge in any fine speculations upon the meaning of life when theythought of John Barclay. He had become considerable of a figure in theworld, and the Middle West was proud of him. For those were the daysof tin cornices, false fronts, vain pretences, and borrowed plumesbought with borrowed money. Other people's capital was easy to get, and every one was rich. Debt was regarded as an evidence ofprosperity, and the town ran mad with the rest of the country. It isnot strange then that Mrs. Watts McHurdie, she who for four yearsduring the war dispensed "beefsteak--ham and eggs--breakfastbacon--tea--coffee--iced tea--or--milk" at the Thayer House, andfor ten years thereafter sold dry-goods and kept books at Dorman'sstore, should have become tainted with the infection of the times. Butit is strange that she could have inoculated so sane a little man asWatts. Still, there were Delilah and Samson, and of course Samson wasa much larger man than Watts, and Nellie McHurdie was considerablylarger than Delilah; and you never can tell about those things, anyway. Also it must not be forgotten that Nellie McHurdie since hermarriage had become Grand Preceptress in one lodge, Worthy Matron inanother, Senior Vice Commander in a third, and Worshipful Benefactressin a fourth, to say nothing of positions as corresponding secretary, delegate to the state convention, Keeper of the Records and Seals, Scribe, --and perhaps Pharisee, --in half a dozen others, all in theinterests of her husband's political future; and with such obviousdevotion before him, it is small wonder after all that he succumbed. 

But he would not run for office. He had trouble every springpersuading her, but he always did persuade her, that this wasn't hisyear, that conditions were wrong, and that next year probably would bebetter. But he allowed her to call their home "The Bivouac, " and havethe name cut in stone letters on the horse-block; and he sat by meeklyfor many long years at lodges, at church entertainments, at highschool commencement exercises, at public gatherings of every sort, andheard her sing a medley of American patriotic songs which wound upwith the song that made him famous. It was five drinks in Jake Dolanthat stopped the medley, when the drinks aforesaid inspired him torise grandly from his chair at the front of the hall at aninstallation of officers of Henry Schnitzler Post of the Grand Army, and stalk majestically out of the room, while the singing was inprogress, saying as he turned back at the door, before thumpingheavily down the stairs, "Well, I'm getting pretty damn tired ofthat!" Mrs. McHurdie insisted that Watts should whip Dolan, and it ispossible that at home that night Watts did smite his breast and shakehis head fiercely, for in the morning the neighbours saw Mrs. McHurdiewalk to the gate with him, talking earnestly and holding his arm as ifto restrain him; moreover, when Watts had turned the corner of LincolnAvenue and had disappeared into Main Street, she hurried over to theCulpeppers' to have the colonel warn Dolan that Watts was a dangerousman. But when Dolan, sober, walked into the harness shop thatafternoon to apologize, the little harness maker came down the aisleof saddles in his shop blinking over his spectacles and with his handto his mouth to strangle a smile, and before Dolan could speak, Wattssaid, "So am I--Jake Dolan--so am I; but if you ever do that again, I'll have to kill you. "

It happened in the middle eighties--maybe a year before the collegewas opened--maybe a year after, though Gabriel Carnine, talking of itsome twenty years later, insists that it happened two years after theopening of the college. But no one ever has mentioned the matter toWatts, so the exact date may not be recorded, though it is animportant date in the uses of this narrative, as will be seen later. All agree--the colonel, the general, Dolan, Fernald, and perhaps twodozen old soldiers who were at the railroad station waiting for thetrain to take them to the National Encampment of the Grand Army of theRepublic, --that it was a fine morning in September. Of course JohnBarclay contributed the band. He afterwards confessed to that, explaining that Nellie had told him that Watts never had received theattention he should receive either in the town or the state or thenation, and so long as Watts was a National Delegate for the firsttime in his life, and so long as she had twice been voted for asNational President of the Ladies' Aid, and might get it this time, theband would be, as she put it, "so nice to take along"; and as Johnnever forgot the fact that Nellie asked him to sing at her wedding, hehired the band. Thus are we bound to our past. But the band was notwhat caused the comrades to gasp, though its going was a surprise. Andwhen they heard it turn into Main Street far up by Lincoln Avenue, playing the good old tune that the town loved for Watts' sake and forthe sake of the time and the place and the heroic deeds itcelebrated, --when they heard the band, the colonel asked the general, "Where's Watts?" and they suspected that the band might be bringinghim to the depot. 

Heaven knows the town had bought uniforms and new horns for the bandoften enough for it to do something public-spirited once in a whilewithout being paid for it. So the band did not come to the town as ashock in and of itself. Neither for that matter did the hack--the newglistening silver-mounted hack, with the bright spick-and-span hearseharness on the horses; in those bustling days a quarter was nothing, and you can ride all over the Ridge for a quarter; so when thecomrades at the depot, in their blue soldiers' clothes their campaignhats, and their delegates' badges, saw the band followed by the hack, they were of course interested, but that was all. And when some of thefar-sighted ones observed that the top of the hack was spread backroyally, they commented upon the display of pomp, but the comment wasnot extraordinary. But when from the street as the band stopped, therecame cheers from the people, the boys at the station felt thatsomething unusual was about to come to them. So they watched the bandmarch down the long sheet-iron-covered station walk, and the hack movealong beside the band boys; and the poet's comrades-in-arms saw himsitting beside the poet's wife, --the two in solemn state. And thenthe old boys beheld Watts McHurdie, --little Watts McHurdie, with hisgrizzled beard combed, with his gold-rimmed Sunday glasses far down onhis nose so that he could see over them, and--wonder of wonders, theysaw a high shiny new silk hat wobbling over his modest head. 

He stumbled out of the open hack with his hand on the great stiffawkward thing, obviously afraid it would fall off, and she that wasNellie Logan, late of the Thayer House and still later of Dorman'sstore, and later still most worshipful, most potent, most gorgeous andmost radiant archangel of seven secret and mysterious covenants, conclaves, and inner temples, stood beaming at the pitiful sight, clearly proud of her shameless achievement. Watts, putting his hand tohis mouth to cover his smile, grabbed the shiny thing again as henodded cautiously at the crowd. Then he followed her meekly to thewomen's waiting room, where the wives and sisters of the comrades wereassembled--and they, less punctilious than the men, burst forth witha scream of joy, and the agony was over. 

And thus Watts McHurdie went to his greatest earthly glory. Thedelegation from the Ridge, with the band, had John Barclay's privatecar; that was another surprise which Mrs. McHurdie arranged, and whenthey got to Washington, where the National Encampment was, opinionsdiffer as to when Watts McHurdie had his high tide of happiness. Thecolonel says that it was in the great convention, where the SycamoreRidge band sat in front of the stage, and where Watts stood in frontof the band and led the great throng, --beginning with his crackedlittle heady tenor, and in an instant losing it in the awful diapasonof ten thousand voices singing his old song with him; and where, whenit was over, General Grant came down the platform, making his wayrather clumsily among the chairs, and at last in front of the wholeworld grasped Watts McHurdie's hands, and the two little men, embarrassed by the formality of it all, stood for a few secondslooking at each other with tears glistening in their speaking eyes. 

But Jake Dolan, who knows something of human nature, does not hold tothe colonel's view about the moment of McHurdie's greatest joy. "Wewere filing down the Avenue again, thousands and ten thousands of us, as we filed past the White House nearly twenty years before. And theSycamore Ridge band was cramming its lungs into the old tune, when upon the reviewing stand, beside all the big bugs and with the Presidentthere himself, stood little Watts, plug hat in hand, bowing to theboys. 'Twas a lovely sight, and he had been there for two mortal hoursbefore we boys got down--there was the Kansas boys and the Iowa boysand some from Missouri, carrying the old flag we fought under atWilson's Creek. Watts saw us down the street and heard the old bandplay; a dozen other bands had played that tune that day; but BillyDorman's tuba had its own kind of a rag in it, and Watts knew it. Iseen him a-waving his hat at the boys, almost as soon as they saw him, and as the band came nearer and nearer I saw the little man's facebegin to crack, and as he looked down the line and saw them Kansas andIowa soldiers, I seen him give one whoop, and throw that plug hathellwards over the crowd and jump down from that band stand like awild man and make for the gang. He was blubbering like a calf when hecaught step with me, and he yelled so as to reach my ears above theroar of the crowds and the blatting of the bands--yelled with hisvoice ripped to shreds that fluttered out ragged from the torn bosomof him, 'Jake--Jake--how I would like to get drunk--just thisonce!' And we went on down the avenue together--him bareheaded, hay-footing and straw-footing it the same as in the old days. "

Jake always paused at this point and shook his head sorrowfully, andthen continued dolefully: "But 'twas no use; he was caught and tookaway; some says it was to see the pictures in the White House, andsome says it was to a reception given by the Relief Corps to theofficers elect of the Ladies' Aid, where he was pawed over by a lot ofold girls who says, 'Yes, I'm so glad--what name please--oh, --McHurdie, surely not _the_ McHurdie; O dear me--Sister McIntire, come right here, this is _the_ McHurdie--you know I sang your songwhen I was a little girl'--which was a lie, unless Watts wrote it forthe Mexican War, and he didn't. And then some one else comes waddlingup and says, 'O dear me, Mr. McHurdie--you don't know how glad I amto see the author of "Home, Sweet Home, "' and Watts blinks his eyesand pleads not guilty; and she says, 'O dear, excuse the mistake;well, I'm sure you wrote something?' And Watts, being sick of love, asSolomon says in his justly celebrated and popular song, Watts looksthrough his Sunday glasses and doesn't see a blame thing, and smilesand says calmly, 'No, madam, you mistake--I am a simple harnessmaker. ' And she sidles off looking puzzled, to make room for the onefrom Massachusetts, who stares at him through her glasses and says, 'So you're Watts McHurdie--who wrote the--' 'The same, madam, ' saysWatts, courting favour. 'Well, ' says the high-browed one, 'well--youare not at all what I imagined. ' And 'Neither are you, madam, ' returnsWatts, as sweet as a dill pickle; and she goes away to think it overand wonder if he meant it that way. No--that's where Nellie made hermistake. It wouldn't have hurt him--just once. But what's done'sdone, and can't be undone, as the man said when he fished his wife outof the lard vat. "

Now this all seems a long way from John Barclay--the hero of thisromance. Yet the departure of Watts McHurdie for his scene of glorywas on the same day that a most important thing happened in the livesof Bob Hendricks and Molly Brownwell. That day Bob Hendricks walkedone end of the station platform alone. The east-bound train was halfan hour late, and while the veterans were teasing Watts and the womenrailing at Mrs. McHurdie, Hendricks discovered that it was one hundredand seventy-eight steps from one end of the walk to the other, andthat to go entirely around the building made the distance fifty-foursteps more. It was almost train time before Adrian Brownwell arrived. When the dapper little chap came with his bright crimson carnation, and his flashing red necktie, and his inveterate gloves and cane, Hendricks came only close enough to him to smell the perfume on theman's clothes, and to nod to him. But when Hendricks found that theman was going with the Culpeppers as far as Cleveland, as he told theentire depot platform, "to report the trip, " Hendricks sat on abaggage truck beside the depot, and considered many things. As he wassitting there Dolan came up, out of breath, and fearful he should belate. 

"How long will you be gone, Jake?" asked Hendricks. 

"The matter of a week or ten days, maybe, " answered Dolan. 

"Well, Jake, " said Hendricks, looking at Dolan with serious eyes, yetrather abstractedly, "I am thinking of taking a long trip--to be gonea long time--I don't know exactly how long. I may not go at all--Ihaven't said anything to the boys in the store or the bank or out atthe shop about it; it isn't altogether settled--as yet. " He pausedwhile a switch engine clanged by and the crowd surged out of thedepot, and ebbed back again into their seats. "Did you deliver my notethis morning?"

"Yes, " replied Dolan, "just as you said. That's what made me a littlelate. "

"To the lady herself?"

"To the lady herself, " repeated Dolan. 

"All right, " acquiesced Hendricks. "Now, Jake, if I give it out thatI'm going away on a trip, there'll be a lot of pulling and hauling andfussing around in the bank and in the store and at the shopand--every place, and then I may not go. So I've gone over everyconcern carefully during the past week, and have set down what oughtto be done in case I'm gone. I didn't tell my sister even--she's sonervous. And, Jake, I won't tell any one. But if, when you get backfrom Washington, I'm not here, I'm going to leave this key with you. Tell the boys at the bank that it will open my tin box, and in the tinbox they'll find some instructions about things. " He smiled, and Dolanassented. Hendricks uncoiled his legs from the truck, and began to getdown. "I won't mix up with the old folks, I guess, Jake. They havetheir own affairs, and I'm tired. I worked all last night, " he added. He held out his hand to Dolan and said, "Well, good-by, Jake--have agood time. "

The elder man had walked away a few steps when Hendricks called himback, and fumbling in his pockets, said: "Well, Jake, I certainly am afool; here--" he pulled an envelope marked "Dolan" from his insidepocket--"Jake, I was in the bank this morning, and I found a picturefor you. Take it and have a good time. It's a long time till pensionday--so long. "

The Irishman peeped at the bill and grinned as he said, "Them holypictures from the bank, my boy, have powerful healing qualities. " Andhe marched off with joy in his carriage. 

Hendricks then resumed his tramp; up and down the long platform hewent, stepping on cracks one way, and avoiding cracks the next, thinking it all out. He tried to remember if he had been unfair to anyone; if he had left any ragged edges; if he had taken a penny morethan his honest due. The letter to the county treasurer, returning themoney his father had taken, was on top of the pile of papers in histin box at the bank. He had finally concluded, that when everythingelse was known, that would not add much to his disgrace. And then itwould be paid, and that page with the forged entry would not always bein his mind. There were deeds, each witnessed by a different notary, so that the town would not gossip before he went, transferring all ofhis real estate to his sister, and the stock he had sold to the bankwas transferred, and the records all in the box; then he went over theprices again at which he had disposed of his holdings to the bank, andhe was sure he had made good bargains in every case for the bank. Soit was all fair, he argued for the thousandth time--he was all squarewith the world. He had left a deposit subject to his check of twentythousand dollars--that ought to do until they could get on their feetsomewhere; and it was all his, he said to himself--all his, and noone's business. 

And when he thought of the other part, the voice of Adrian Brownwellsaying, "Well, come on, old lady, we must be going, " rose in hisconsciousness. It was not so much Brownwell's words, as his air ofpatronage and possession; it was cheerful enough, quite gay in fact, but Hendricks asked himself a hundred times why the man didn't whistlefor her, and clamp a steel collar about her neck. He wonderedcynically if at the bottom of Brownwell's heart, he would not ratherhave the check for twelve thousand dollars which Hendricks had leftfor Colonel Culpepper, to pay off the Brownwell note, than to have hiswife. For seven years the colonel had been cheerfully neglecting it, and now Hendricks knew that Adrian was troubling him about the olddebt. 

As he rounded the depot for the tenth time he got back to their lastmeeting. There stood General Ward with his arm about the girlish waistof Mrs. Ward, the mother of seven. There was John Barclay with Janebeside him, and they were holding hands like lovers. The Ward childrenwere running like rabbits over the broad lawn under the elms, andthere, talking to the wide, wide world, was Adrian Brownwell, propounding the philosophy of the _Banner_, and quoting from lastweek's editorials. And there sat Bob and Molly by the flower bed thatbordered the porch. 

"I am going to the city to hear Gilmore, " he said. That was simpleenough, and her sigh had no meaning either. It was just a weary littlesigh, such as women sometimes bring forth when they decide to saysomething else. So she had said: "I'll be all alone next week. I thinkI'll visit Jane--if she's in town. "

Then something throbbed in his brain and made him say:--

"So you'd like to hear Gilmore, too?"

She coloured and was silent, and the pulse of madness that was beatingin her made her answer:--

"Oh--I can't--you know the folks are going to Washington to theencampment, and Adrian is going as far as Cleveland with thedelegation to write it up. "

An impulse loosened his tongue, and he asked:--

"Why not? Come on. If you don't know any one up there, go to the FifthAvenue; it's all right, and I'll get tickets, and we'll go every nightand both matinees. Come on!" he urged. 

She was aflame and could not think. "Oh--don't, Bob, don't--not now. Please don't, " she begged, in as low a tone as she dared to use. 

Adrian was thundering on about the tariff, and the general waswrangling with him. The Barclays were talking to themselves, and thechildren were clattering about underfoot, and in the trees overhead. Bob's eyes and Molly's met, and the man shuddered at what he saw ofpathos and yearning, and he said: "Well, why not? It's no worse to gothan to want to go. What's wrong about it--Molly, do you think--"

He did not finish the sentence, for Adrian had ceased talking, andMolly, seeing his jealous eyes upon her, rose and moved away. Butbefore they left that night she found occasion to say, "I've beenthinking about it, Bob, and maybe I will. "

In the year that had passed since Hendricks had left her sobbing inthe chair on the porch of the Culpepper home, a current between themhad been reëstablished, and was fed by the chance passing in a store, a smile at a reception, a good morning on the street, and the currentwas pulsing through their veins night and day. But that fine Septembermorning, as she stood on the veranda of her home with a dust-cap onher head, cleaning up the litter her parents had made in packing, shewas not ready for what rushed into her soul from the letter Dolan lefther, as he hurried away to overtake the band that was turning fromLincoln Avenue into Main Street. She sat in a chair to read it, andfor a moment after she had read it, she held it open in her lap andgazed at the sunlight mottling the blue grass before her, through theelm trees. Her lips were parted and her eyes wide, and she breathedslowly. The tune the band was playing--McHurdie's song--sank intoher memory there that day so that it always brought back the mottledsunshine, the flowers blooming along the walk, and the song of a robinfrom a lilac bush near by. She folded the letter carefully, and put itinside her dress, and then moving mechanically, took it out and readit again:--

 "MY DARLING, MY DARLING: There is no use struggling any more. You must come. I will meet you in the city at the morning train, the one that leaves the Ridge here at 2. 35 A. M. We can go to the parks to-morrow and be alone and talk it all out, before the concert--and then--oh, Molly, core of my soul, heart of my heart, why should we ever come back! BOB. "

All that she could feel as she sat there motionless was a crashing"no. " The thing seemed to drive her mad by its insistence--a horribleracking thing that all but shook her, and she chattered at it: "Whynot? Why not? Why not?" But the "no" kept roaring through her mind, and as she heard the servant rattling the breakfast dishes in thehouse, the woman shivered out of sight and ran to her room. She fellon her knees to pray, but all she could pray was, "O God, O God, OGod, help me!" and to that prayer, as she said it, the something inher heart kept gibbering, "Why not? Why not? Why not?" From an old boxhidden in a closet opening out of her mother's room she took BobHendricks' picture, --the faded picture of a boy of twenty, --andholding it close to her breast, stared open-lipped into the heart ofan elm tree-top. The whistle of the train brought her back to her realworld. She rose and looked at herself in the mirror, at the unromanticface with its lines showing faintly around her eyes, grown quietduring the dozen years that had settled her fluffy hair into sedatewaves. She smiled at the changes of the years and shook her head, andgot a grip on her normal consciousness, and after putting away thepicture and closing the box, she went downstairs to finish her work. 

On the stairs she felt sure of herself, and set about to plan for thenext day, and then the tumult began, between the "no" and her soul. Ina few minutes as she worked the "no" conquered, and she said, "Bob'scrazy. " She repeated it many times, and found as she repeated it thatit was mechanical and that her soul was aching again. So the morningwore away; she gossiped with the servant a moment; a neighbour came inon an errand; and she dressed to go down town. As she went out of thegate, she wondered where she would be that hour the next day, and thenthe struggle began again. Moreover, she bought some newgloves--travelling gloves to match her gray dress. 

In the afternoon she and Jane Barclay sat on the wide porch of theBarclay home. "Gilmore's going to be in the city all this week, " saidJane, biting a thread in her sewing. 

"Is he?" replied Molly. "I should so like to hear him. It's so poky upat the house. "

"Why don't you?" inquired Jane. "Get on the train and go on up. "

"Do you suppose it would be all right?" replied Molly. 

"Why, of course, girl! Aren't you a married woman of lawful age? Iwould if I wanted to. "

There was a pause, and Molly replied thoughtfully, "I have half anotion to--really!"

But as she walked home, she decided not to do it. People from theRidge might be there, and they wouldn't understand, and herfinger-tips chilled at the memory of Adrian Brownwell's jealous eyes. So as she ate supper, she went over the dresses she had that wereavailable. And at bedtime she gave the whole plan up and went upstairshumming "Marguerite" as happily as the thrush that sang in the lilacsthat morning. As she undressed the note fell to the floor. When shepicked it up, the flash of passion came tearing through her heart, andthe "no" crashed in her ears again, and all the day's struggle was fornothing. So she went to bed, resolved not to go. But she staredthrough the window into the night, and of a sudden a resolve came toher to go, and have one fair day with Hendricks--to talk it all outforever, and then to come home, and she rose from her bed and tiptoedthrough the house packing a valise. She left a note in the kitchen forthe servant, saying that she would be back for dinner the nextevening, and when she struck a match in the front hall to see whattime it was, she found that it was only one o'clock. For an hour shesat in the chill September air on the veranda, thinking it allover--what she would say; how they would meet and part; and over andover again she told herself that she was doing the sensible thing. Asthe clock struck two she picked up her valise--it was heavier thanshe thought, and it occurred to her that she had put in manyunnecessary things, and that she had time to lighten it. But shestopped a moment only, and then walked to the gate and down a sidestreet to the station. It was 2. 20 when she arrived, and the train wasmarked on the blackboard by the ticket window on time. She kepttelling herself that it was best to have it out; that she would comeright back; but she remembered her heavy valise, and again the warning"no" roared through her soul. She walked up and down the longplatform, and felt the presence of Bob Hendricks strong andcompelling; she knew he had been there that very day, and wonderedwhere he sat. Then she thought perhaps she would do better not to go. She looked into the men's waiting room, and it was empty save for oneman; his back was turned to her, but she recognized Lige Bemis. Atremble of guilt racked and weakened her. And with a thrill as of painshe heard the faint whistle of a train far up the valley. The manmoved about the room inside. Apparently he also heard the far-offwhistle. She shrank around the corner of the depot. But he caughtsight of her dress, and slowly sauntered up and down the platformuntil he passed near enough to her to identify her in the faintflicker of the gas. He spoke, and she returned his greeting. The trainwhistled again--much nearer it seemed to her, but still far away, andher soul and the "no" were grappling in a final contest. Suddenly itcame over her that she had not bought her ticket. Again the trainwhistled, and far up the tracks she could see a speck of light. Shehurried into the waiting room to buy the ticket. The noise of thetrain was beginning to sound in her ears, She was frightened andnervous, and she fumbled with her purse and valise. Nearer and nearercame the train, and the "no" fairly screamed in her ears, and her facewas pallid, with the black wrinkles standing out upon it in thegaslight. The train was in the railroad yards, and the glare of theheadlight was in the waiting room. Bemis came in and saw her fumblingwith her ticket, her pocket book, and her valise. 

"You'll have to hurry, Mrs. Brownwell, this is the limited--it onlystops a minute. Let me help you. "

He picked up the valise and followed her from the room. The rush ofthe incoming train shattered her nerves. They pulsed in fear of somedreadful thing, and in that moment she wondered whether or not shewould ever see it all again--the depot, the familiar street, thegreat mill looming across the river, and the Barclay home half a mileabove them. In a second she realized all that her going meant, and the"no" screamed at her, and the "why not" answered feebly. But she hadgone too far, she said to herself. The engine was passing her, andBemis was behind her with the heavy valise. She wondered what he wouldsay when Bob met her at the train in the city. All this flashed acrossher mind in a second, and then she became conscious that the rumblingthing in front of her was not the limited but a cattle train, and thesickening odour from it made her faint. In the minute while it wasrushing by at full speed she became rigid, and then, taking her valisefrom the man behind her, turned and walked as fast as she could up thehill, and when she turned the corner she tried to run. Her feet tookher to the Barclay home. She stood trembling in terror on the greatwide porch and rang the bell. The servant admitted the white-faced, shaking woman, and she ran to Jane Barclay's room. 

"Oh, Jane, " chattered Molly, "Jane, for God's love, Jane, holdme--hold me tight; don't let me go. Don't!" She sank to the floor andput her face in Jane's lap and stuttered: "I--I--have g-g-got tot-t-tell you, Jane. I've g-g-ot to t-t-t-ell you, J-J-Jane. " And thenshe fell to sobbing. "Hold me, don't let me go out there. When itwhistles ag-g-gain h-h-hold me t-t-tight. "

Jane Barclay's strong kind hands stroked the dishevelled hair of thetrembling woman. And in time she looked up and said quietly, "Youknow--you know, Jane, Bob and I--Bob and I were going to run away!"Molly looked at Jane a fearful second with beseeching eyes, and thendropped her head and fell to sobbing again, and lay with her face onthe other woman's knees. 

When she was quiet Jane said: "I wouldn't talk about it any more, dear--not now. " She stroked the hair and patted the face of the womanbefore her. "Shall we go to bed now, dear? Come right in with me. " Andsoon Molly rose, and her spent soul rested in peace. But they did not goto bed. The dawn found the two women talking it out together--clear fromthe beginning. 

And when the day came Molly Brownwell went to Jane Barclay's desk andwrote. And when Bob Hendricks came home that night, his sister handedhim a letter. It ran:--

 "MY DEAR BOB: I have thought it all out, dear; it wouldn't do at all. I went to the train, and something, I don't know what, caught me and dragged me over to Jane's. She was good--oh, so good. She knows; but it was better that she should than--the other way. 

 "It will never do, Bob. We can't go back. The terrible something that I did stands irrevocably between us. The love that might have made both our lives radiant is broken, Bob--forever broken. And all the king's horses and all the king's men cannot ever put it together again. I know it now, and oh Bob, Bob, it makes me sadder than the pain of unsatisfied love in my heart. 

 "It just can't be; nothing ever can make it as it was, and unless it could be that way--the boy and girl way, it would be something dreadful. We have missed the best in the world, Bob; we cannot enjoy the next best together. But apart, each doing his work in life as God wills it, we may find the next best, which is more than most people know. 

 "I have found during this hour that I can pray again, Bob, and I am asking God always to let me hope for a heaven, into which I can bring a few little memories--of the time before you left me. Won't you bring yours there, too, dear? Until then--good-by. 

 "MOLLY. "

The springs that move God's universe are hidden, --those that move theworld of material things and those that move the world of spiritualthings, and make events creep out of the past into the future sonoiselessly that they seem born in the present. It is all a mystery, the half-stated equation of life that we call the scheme of things. Only this is sure, that however remote, however separated by time andspace, the tragedy of life has its root in the weakness of men, and ofall the heart-breaking phantasms that move across the panorama of theday, somewhere deep-rooted in our own souls' weakness is theineradicable cause. Even God's mercy cannot separate the punishmentthat follows sin, and perhaps it is the greatest mercy of His mercythat it cannot do so. For when we leave this world, our books areclear. If our souls grow--we pay the price in suffering; if theyshrivel, we go into the next world, poorer for our pilgrimage. 

So do not pity Molly Brownwell nor Robert Hendricks when you learnthat as she left the station at Sycamore Ridge that night, Lige Bemiswent to a gas lamp and read the note from Robert Hendricks that in herconfusion she had dropped upon the floor. Only pity the miserablecreature whose soul was so dead in him that he could put that noteaway to bide his time. In this wide universe, wherein we are growingslowly up to Godhood, only the poor leprous soul, whitened with maliceand hate, deserves the angels' tears. The rest of us, --weak, failing, frail, to whom life deals its sorrows and its tears, its punishmentsand its anguish, --we leave this world nearer to God than when we camehere, and the journey, though long and hard, has been worth the while. 

CHAPTER XIX

Back in the days when John Barclay had become powerful enough toincrease the price of his door strips to the railroad companies fromfive dollars to seven and a half, he had transferred the business ofthe factory that made the strips from Hendricks' Exchange National tothe new Merchants' State Bank which Gabriel Carnine was establishing. For Carnine and Barclay were more of a mind than were Barclay andHendricks; Carnine was bent on getting rich, and he had come to regardBarclay as the most remarkable man in the world. Hendricks, on theother hand, knew Barclay to the core, and since the quarrel of theseventies, while they had maintained business relations, they weremerely getting along together. There were times when Barclay feltuncomfortable, knowing that Hendricks knew much about his business, but the more Carnine knew, the more praise Barclay had of him; and so, even though Jane kept her own account with Hendricks, and though Johnhimself kept a personal account with Hendricks, the Economy Door StripCompany and the Golden Belt Wheat Company did business with Carnine, and Barclay became a director of the Merchants' State Bank, andgreatly increased its prestige thereby. And Bob Hendricks sighed asigh of relief, for he knew that he would never become John Barclay'sfence and be called upon to dispose of stolen goods. So Hendricks wenthis way with his eyes on a level and his jaw squared with the world. And when he knew that Jane knew the secret of his soul, about the onlycomfort he had in those black days was the exultation in his heartthat John--whatever he might know--could not turn it into cash atthe Exchange National Bank. 

As he walked alone under the stars that first night after MollyBrownwell's note came to him, he saw his life as it was, with thingssquarely in their relations. Of course this light did not stay withhim always; at times in his loneliness the old cloud of wild yearningwould come over him, and he would rattle the bars of his madhouseuntil he could fight his way out to the clean air of Heaven under thestars. And at such times he would elude Dolan, and walk far away fromthe town in fields and meadows and woods struggling back tosanity--sometimes through a long night. But as the years passed, thistruth came to be a part of his consciousness--that in some measurethe thing we call custom, or law, or civilization, or society, withall its faults, is the best that man, endowed as he is to-day, canestablish, and that the highest service one can pay to man or to Godis found in conforming to the social compact, at whatever cost ofphysical pain, or mental anguish, if the conformation does not requirea moral breach. That was the faith he lived by, that by service to hisfellows and by sacrifice to whatever was worthy in the social compact, he would find a growth of soul that would pay him, either here orhereafter. So he lent money, and sold light, and traded inmerchandise, and did a man's work in politics--playing each gameaccording to the rules. 

But whatever came to him, whatever of honour or of influence, or ofpublic respect, in his own heart there was the cloud--he knew that hewas a forger, and that once he had offered to throw everything he hadaside and take in return--But he was not candid enough even in hisown heart to finish the indictment. It made him flush with shame, andperhaps that was why on his face there was often a curiousself-deprecating smile--not of modesty, not of charity, but the smileof the man who is looking at a passing show and knows that it is notreal. As he went into his forties, and the flux of his life hardened, he became a man of reserves--a kind, quiet, strong man, charitable toa fault for the weaknesses of others, but a man who rarely reflectedhis impulses, a listener in conversation, a dreamer amid the tumult ofbusiness, whose success lay in his industry and caution, and who drewmen to him not by what he promised, but by the faith we chatteringdaws have in the man who looks on and smiles while we prattle. 

His lank bones began to take on flesh, and his face rounded at thecorners, and the eagerness of youth passed from him. He always lookedmore of a man than John Barclay. For Barclay was a man of enthusiasms, who occasionally liked to mouth a hard jaw-breaking "damn, " and whofollowed his instincts with womanly faith in them--so that he becameknown as a man of impulse. But Hendricks' power was in repression, andin Sycamore Ridge they used to say that the only reason why BobHendricks grew a mustache was to chew it when people expected him totalk. It wasn't much of a mustache--a little blond fuzz about asheavy as his yellow eyebrows over his big inquiring blue eyes, and heonce told Dolan that he kept it for a danger signal. When he foundhimself pulling at it, he knew he was nervous and should get out intothe open. They tell a story in the Ridge to the effect that Hendricksstarted to run to a fire, and caught himself pulling at his mustache, and turned around and went out to the power-house instead. 

It was the only anecdote ever told of Hendricks after he wasforty--for he was not a man about whom anecdotes would hang well, though the town is full of them about John Barclay. So Hendricks liveda strong reticent man, who succeeded in business though he was honest, and who won in politics by choosing his enemies from the kind of noisymen who make many mistakes, and let every one know it. The time camewhen he did not avoid Molly Brownwell; she felt that he was not afraidto see her in any circumstances, and that made her happy. Sometimesshe went to him in behalf of one of her father's charges, --some poordevil who could not pay his note at the bank and keep the children inschool, or some clerk or workman at the power-house who had beendischarged. At such times they talked the matter in hand over frankly, and it ended by the man giving way to the woman, or showing her simplythat she was wrong. 

Only once in nearly a score of years did a personal word pass betweenthem. She had come to him for his signature to a petition for a pardonfor a man whose family suffered while he was in the penitentiary. Hendricks signed the paper and handed it back to her, and his blueeyes were fixed impersonally upon her, and he smiled his curious, self-deprecatory smile and sighed, "As we forgive our debtors. " Thenhe reached for a paper in his desk and seemed oblivious to herpresence. No one else was near them, and the woman hesitated a momentbefore turning to go and repeated, "Yes, Bob--as we forgive ourdebtors. " She tried to show him the radiance in her soul, but he didnot look up and she went away. When she had gone, he pushed aside hiswork and sat for a moment looking into the street; he began biting hismustache, and rose, and went out of the bank and found some otherwork. 

That night as Hendricks and Dolan walked over the town together, Dolansaid: "Did you ever know, Robert"--that was as near familiarity asthe elder man came with Hendricks--"that Mart Culpepper owed hisson-in-law a lot of money?"

"Well, " returned Hendricks, "he borrowed a lot fifteen years ago orsuch a matter; why?"

"Well, " answered Dolan, "I served papers on Mart to-day in a suitfor--I dunno, a lot of money--as I remember it about fifteenthousand dollars. That seems like a good deal. "

Hendricks grunted, and they walked on in silence. Hendricks knew fromBrownwell's overdraft that things were not going well with him, and hebelieved that matters must have reached a painful crisis in theCulpepper family if Brownwell had brought suit against the colonel. 

The next morning Colonel Martin Culpepper came into the bank. He hadgrown into a large gray man--with gray hair, gray mustaches ofundiminished size, and chin whiskers grayed and broadened with theyears. His fine black eyes were just beginning to lose their lustre, and the spring was going out of his stride. As he came into the bank, Hendricks noticed that the colonel seemed to shuffle just a little. Heput out his fat hand, and said:--

"Robert, will you come into the back room with me a moment? It isn'tbusiness--I just want to talk with you. " He smiled apologetically andadded, "Just troubles, Robert--just an old man wants to talk to someone, in point of fact. "

Hendricks followed the colonel into the directors' room, and withoutceremony the colonel sank heavily into a fat leather chair, facing thewindow, and Hendricks sat down facing the colonel. The colonel lookedat the floor and fumbled his triangular watch-charm a moment, andcleared his throat, as he spoke, "I don't know just how to begin--toget at it--to proceed, as I may say, Robert. " Hendricks did notreply, and the colonel went on, "I just wanted to talk to some one, that's all--to talk to you--just to you, sir, to be exact. "

Hendricks looked kindly at the colonel, whose averted eyes made theyounger man feel uncomfortable. Then he said gently, "Well, Colonel, don't be backward about saying what you want to to me. " It was a longspeech for Hendricks, and he felt it, and then qualified it with, "But, of course, I don't want to urge you. "

The colonel's face showed a flush of courage to Hendricks, but thecourage passed, and there was a silence, and then a little twitchunder his eyes told Hendricks that the colonel was contemplating aflank attack as he spoke, "Robert, may I ask you in confidence ifAdrian Brownwell is hard up?"

Hendricks believed the truth would bring matters to a head, and heanswered, "Well, I shouldn't wonder, Colonel. "

"Very hard up?" pressed the colonel. 

Hendricks remembered Brownwell's overdraft and half a dozen past duenotes to cover other overdrafts and answered, "Well, Colonel, notdesperate, but you know the _Index_ has been getting the best of the_Banner_ for two or three years. "

There was a pause, and then the colonel blurted out, "Well, Bob, he'ssued me. "

"I knew that, Colonel, " returned Hendricks, anxious to press thematter to its core. "Jake told me yesterday. "

"I was going to pay him; he's spoken about it several times--dunned me, sir, in point of fact, off and on for several years. But he knew I wasgood for it. And now the little coward runs off up to Chicago to attendthe convention and sues me while he's gone. That's what I hate. "Hendricks could see that the object of the colonel's visit was still onhis mind, and so he left the way open for the colonel to talk. "You knowhow Mrs. Culpepper feels and how Molly feels--disgraced, sir, humiliated, shamed, to be exact, sir, in front of the whole town. Whatwould you do, Robert? What can a man do in a time like this--I ask you, what can he do?"

"Well, I'd pay him, Colonel, if I were you, " ventured the younger man. 

The colonel straightened up and glared at Hendricks and exclaimed:"Bob Hendricks, do you think, sir, that Martin Culpepper would restfor a minute, while he had a dollar to his name, or a rag on his back, under the imputation of not paying a debt like that? It is paid, sir, --settled in full this morning, sir. But what am I going to doabout him, sir--the contemptible scamp who publicly sued his ownwife's father? That's what I came to you for, Robert. What am I goingto do?"

"It'll be forgotten in a week, Colonel--I wouldn't worry about it, "answered Hendricks. "We all have those little unpleasantnesses. "

The colonel was silent for a time, and then he said: "Bob--" turninghis eyes to meet Hendricks' for the first time during theirmeeting--"that scoundrel said to me yesterday morning before leaving, 'If I hadn't the misfortune of being your son-in-law, you wouldn'thave the honour of owing me this money. ' Then he sneered at me--youknow the supercilious way he has, the damn miserable hound-pup way hehas of grinning at you, --and says, 'I regarded it as a loan, eventhough you seemed to regard it as a bargain. ' And he whirled and leftme. " The colonel's voice broke as he added: "In God's name, Bob, tellme--did I sell Molly? You know--you can tell me. "

The colonel was on his feet, standing before Hendricks, with, hishands stretched toward the younger man. Hendricks did not reply atonce, and the colonel broke forth: "Bob Hendricks, why did you and mylittle girl quarrel? Did she break it or did you? Did I sell her, Bob, did I sell my little girl?" He slipped back into the chair and for amoment hid his face, and shook with a great sob, then pulled himselftogether, and said, "I know I'm a foolish old man, Bob, only I feel agood deal depends on knowing the truth--a good deal of my attitudetoward him. "

Hendricks looked at the colonel for an abstracted moment, and thensaid: "Colonel, Adrian Brownwell is hard up--very hard up, and youdon't know how he is suffering with chagrin at being beaten by the_Index_. He is quick-tempered--just as you are, Colonel. " He paused amoment and took the colonel by the hand, --a fat, pink hand, withoutmuch iron in it, --and brought him to his feet. "And about that othermatter, " he added, as he put his arm about the colonel, "you didn'tsell her. I know that; I give you my word on that. It was fifteenyears ago--maybe longer--since Molly and I were--since we wenttogether as boy and girl. That's a long time ago, Colonel, a long timeago, and I've managed to forget just why we--why we didn't make a goof it. " He smiled kindly at the colonel as he spoke--a smile that thecolonel had not seen in Hendricks' face in many years. Then the maskfell on his face, and the colonel saw it fall--the mask of the manover the face of the boy. A puzzled, bewildered look crept into thegray, fat face, and Hendricks could see that the doubt was still inthe colonel's heart. The younger man pressed the colonel's hand, andthe two moved toward the door. Suddenly tears flushed into the dimmedeyes of the colonel, and he cried, through a smile, "Bob Hendricks, Ibelieve in my soul you're a liar--a damn liar, sir, but, boy, you'rea thoroughbred--God bless you, you're a thoroughbred. " And he turnedand shuffled from the room and out of the bank. 

When Colonel Martin Culpepper left Robert Hendricks at the door of thedirectors' room of the Exchange National Bank, the colonel waspersuaded in his heart that his daughter had married Adrian Brownwellto please her parents, and the colonel realized that day that herparents were pleased with Brownwell as a suitor for their daughter, because in time of need he had come to their rescue with money, andincidentally because he was of their own blood and caste--a Southerngentleman of family. The colonel went to the offices of the CulpepperMortgage and Loan Company and went over his bank-book again. The checkthat he drew would take all but three hundred and forty-five dollarsout of the accounts of his company, and not a dollar of it was his. The Culpepper Mortgage Company was lending other people's money. Ithad been lending money on farm mortgages for ten years. Pay-day onmany mortgages was coming due, and of the fifteen thousand dollars hechecked out to pay Adrian Brownwell's debt, thirteen thousand dollarswas money that belonged to the Eastern creditors of the company--menand women who had sent their money to the company for it to lend; andthe money checked out represented money paid back by the farmers forthe release of their mortgages. Some of the money was interest paid byfarmers on their mortgages, some of it was partial payments--but noneof it was Colonel Culpepper's money. 

"Molly, " said the colonel, as his daughter came into the office, "I'vegiven a check for that--that money, you know, to Adrian--paid it infull, my dear. But--" the colonel fumbled with his pencil a momentand added, "I'm a trifle shy--a few thousand in point of fact, and Ijust thought I'd ask--would you borrow it of Bob, if you were me?"

He looked at her closely, and she coloured and shook her headvehemently as she replied: "Oh, no, father--no, can't you get itsomewhere else? Not from Bob--for that! I mean--oh--I'd much rathernot. "

The colonel looked at his daughter a moment and drew a deep breath, and sighed, and smiled across his sigh, and took her hand and put itaround his neck and kissed it, and when she was close to him he puthis arm about her, and their eyes met for a fleeting instant, and theydid not speak. But in a moment from across his desk the daughterspoke, "Why don't you go to John or Carnine, father?"

"Well, Gabe--you know Gabe. I'm borrowed clear to the limit there, now. And John--you know John, Molly--and the muss, the disagreeablemuss, --the row, in point of fact, we had over that last seventy-fivedollars settling up the College Heights business--you remember? Well, I just can't go to John. But, " he added cheerfully, "I can get itelsewhere, my dear--I have other resources, other resources, mydear. " And the colonel smiled so gayly that he deceived even hisdaughter, and she went home as happy as a woman with eyelids as red ashers were that day might reasonably expect to be. 

As for the colonel, he sat figuring for an hour upon a sheet of whitepaper. His figures indicated that by putting all of his propertyexcept his home into the market, and reserving all of his commissionson loans that would fall due during the three years coming, he couldpay back the money he had taken, little by little, and be square withthe company's creditors in three years--or four at the most. So helet the check stand, and did not try to borrow money of the banks tomake it good, but trusted to to-morrow's receipts to pay yesterday'sdebts of the company. Knowing that several mortgages of more thanthree thousand each would fall due in a few weeks, and that the mencarrying them, expected to pay them, the colonel wrote dilatoryletters to the Eastern creditors whose money he had taken, explainingthat there was some delay in the payment of the notes, and that thematter would be straightened out in a few weeks. When the money camein from the mortgages falling due the next month, he paid thosealready due, and delayed the payment of Peter until Paul paid up. Itwas a miserable business, and Colonel Culpepper knew that he was athief. The knowledge branded him as one, and bent his eyes to theground, and wrenched his proud neck so that his head hung loosely uponit. Always when he spoke in public, or went among his poor on errandsof mercy, at his elbow stood the accusing spectre, and choked hisvoice, and unnerved his hand. And trouble came upon the Culpeppers, and the colonel's clothes, which, had always been immaculate, grewshabby. As that year and the next passed and mortgages began fallingdue, not only in the colonel's company but all over the county, allover the state, all over the Missouri Valley, men found they could notpay. The cycle of business depression moved across the world, as thosethings come and go through the centuries. Moreover, General Ward wasriding on the crest of a wave of unrest which expressed in terms ofpolitics what the people felt in their homes. Debts were falling due;crops brought small returns; capital was frightened; men in the millslost their work; men on the farms burned their corn; and ColonelMartin Culpepper sank deeper and deeper into the mire. 

Those years of the panic of the early nineties pressed all the youthout of his step, dimmed the lustre of his eyes, and slowly broke hisheart. His keenest anguish was not for his own suffering, but becausehis poor, the people at the Mission, came trooping to him for help, and he had to turn so many away. The whole town knew that he was introuble, though no one knew or even suspected just what it was. Forthe people had their own troubles in those days, and the town and thecounty and the state and the whole world grew shabby. 

One day in the summer of '93, Colonel Culpepper was sitting in hisoffice reading a letter from Vermont demanding a long-deferredinterest payment on a mortgage. There were three hundred dollars due, and the colonel had but half that amount, and was going to send whathe had. Jake Dolan came into the office and saw the colonel sittingwith the letter crumpled in his hands, and with worry in the dull oldeyes. 

"Come in, Jake, come in, " cried the colonel, a little huskily. "What'sthe trouble, comrade--what's wrong?"

But let Dolan tell it to Hendricks three days later, as the two aresitting at night on the stone bridge across the Sycamore built by JohnBarclay to commemorate the battle of Sycamore Ridge. "'Well, Mart, 'says I, 'I'm in vicarious trouble, ' says I. 'It's along of my orphanasylum, ' says I. 'What orphan asylum?' says he. 'Well, it's this way, Mart, ' says I. 'You know they found Trixie Lee guilty this afternoonin the justice court, don't you?' Mart sighs and says, 'Poor Trixie, Isupposed they would sooner or later, poor girl--poor girl. An' oldCap Lee of the Red Legs was her father; did you know that, Jake?' heasks. 'Yes, Mart, ' says I, 'and Lady Lee before her. She comes by ithonestly. ' Mart sat drumming with his fingers on the table, lookingback into the years. 'Poor Jim, ' he says, 'Jim was a brave soldier--abrave, big-hearted, generous soldier--he nursed me all that firstnight at Wilson's Creek when I was wounded. Poor Jim. ' 'Yes, ' says I, 'and Trixie has named her boy for him--Jim Lord Lee Young; that washer husband's name--Young, ' says I. 'And it's along of the boy thatI'm here for. The nicest bright-eyed little chap you ever saw; and heseems to know that something is wrong, and just clings to his motherand cries--seven years old, or maybe eight--and begs me not to puthis mother in jail. And, ' says I to Mart, 'Mart, I just can't do it. The sheriff he's run, and so has the deputy; they can't stand the boycrying, and damn it to hell, Mart, I can't, either; so I just left 'emin the office and locked the door and come around to see you. I'd 'a'gone to see Bob, only he's out of town this week, ' I says. 'I canthrow up the job, Mart--though I'd have to go on the county; butMart, they ain't a soul for the boy to go to; and it ain't right toput him in jail with the scum that's in there. '"

"Tough--wasn't it?" said Hendricks. "What did you do? Why didn't yougo to Carnine or Barclay?"

"That's just what I'm a-comin' to, --the Priest or the Levite?" saidJake. "Well, Mart said, 'Where're the men they caught--won't theyhelp?' and I says, 'They paid their tine and skipped. ' 'Fine?' asksMart, 'fine? I thought you said it was jail sentence. ' 'Well, ' says I, 'it amounts to the same thing; she can't pay her fine, and that damnreform judge, wanting to make a record as a Spartan, has committed herto jail till it is paid!' 'So they go free, and she goes to jail, because she is poor, ' says Mart. ' That's what your reform means, ' saysI, 'or I let her and the boy loose and lose my job. And oh, Mart, 'says I, 'the screams of that little boy at the disgrace of it and theterror of the jail--man--I can't stand it!' 'How much is it?' sighsMart. 'An even hundred fine and seventeen dollars and fifty centscosts, ' says I. Mart's eyes was leaking, and he gets up and goes tothe vault, and comes back with the cash and says, blubbering like acalf: 'Here, Jake Dolan, you old scoundrel, take this. I'll pass apaper and get it to-morrow--now get out of here. ' And he handed methe money all cried over where he'd been slow counting it out, andsaid when he'd got hold of his wobbly jaw: 'Don't you tell her whereyou got it--I don't want her around here. I'll see her to-morrow whenI'm down that way and talk to her for old Cap Lee--' And then helaughs as he stands in the door and says: 'Well, Jim, ' and he pointsup, 'your bread cast upon the waters was a long time a-coming--buthere she is;' and he says, 'Do you suppose the old villain knows?' AndI turned and hunted up the justice and went around to the office, andtold Trixie to 'go sin no more, ' and she laughs and says, 'Well, hardly ever!' and I kissed the kid, and he fought my whiskers, and weall live happy ever after. "

But the colonel, after Dolan left the office, went into the darkeningroom, and spread out the harsh letter from the Vermont bankerdemanding money long past due, and read and reread it and took up hisburden, and got into the weary treadmill of his life. It rained thenext day, and he did not go out with his subscription paper; he hadlearned that people subscribe better on bright days; and as Hendricksand Barclay were both out of town, he wrote a dilatory letter to theVermont people--the fifth he had written about that particulartransaction--and waited another rainy day and still another beforestarting out with his paper. But the event was past; the cry of thechild was not in the people's ears; they knew that the colonel had putup the money; so it was not until Hendricks came back and heard thestory from Dolan that the colonel was repaid. Then because he actuallyhad the money--at least half of it due on that particular debt, whichwas one of scores of its kind--the colonel delayed another day andanother, and while he was musing the fire burned. And events startedin Vermont which greatly changed the course of this story. 

"I wonder, " he has written in that portion of the McHurdie Biographydevoted to "The Press of the Years, " "why, as we go farther andfarther into life, invariably it grows dingier and dingier. The 'largewhite plumes' that dance before the eyes of youth soil, and arebedraggled. And out of the inexplicable tangle of the mesh of lifecome dark threads from God knows where and colour the woof of it grayand dreary. Ah for the days of the large white plumes--for the dayswhen life's woof was bright!"

CHAPTER XX

If the reader of this tale should feel drawn to visit Sycamore Ridge, he will find a number of interesting things there, and the trip may bemade by the transcontinental traveller with the loss of but half adozen hours from his journey. The Golden Belt Railroad, fifteen yearsago, used to print a guide-book called "California and Back, " in whichwere set down the places of interest to the traveller. In that bookSycamore Ridge was described thus:--

 "Sycamore Ridge, pop. 22, 345, census 1890; large water-power, main industry milling; also manufacturing; five wholesale houses. Seat Ward University, 1300 students; also Garrison County High School, also Business College. Thirty-five churches, two newspapers, the _Daily Banner_ and the _Index_; fifty miles of paved streets; largest stone arch bridge in the West, marking site of Battle of Sycamore Ridge, a border ruffian skirmish; home of Watts McHurdie, famous as writer of war-songs, best known of which is--" etc. , etc. 

But excepting Watts, who may be gone before you get there, --for he isan old man now, and is alone and probably does not always have thebest of care, --the things above annotated will not interest thetraveller. At the Thayer House they will tell you that three things inthe town give it distinction: the Barclay home, a rambling gray brickstructure which the natives call Barclay Castle, with a great sycamoretree held together by iron bands on the terraced lawn before thehouse--that is number one; the second thing they will advise thetraveller to see is Mary Barclay Park, ten acres of transplanted elmtrees, most tastefully laid out, between Main Street and the Barclayhome; and the third thing that will be pointed out to the traveller isthe Schnitzler fountain, in the cemetery gateway, done by St. Gaudens;it represents a soldier pouring water from his canteen into his hand, as he bathes the brow of a dying comrade. 

These things, of course, --the house, the park, and thefountain, --represent John Barclay and his money. The town is proud ofthem, but the reader is advised not to expect too much of them. One ofthe two things really worth seeing at the Ridge is the view over thewheat fields of the Sycamore Valley from the veranda of the Culpepperhome on the hill. There one may see the great fields lying in threetownships whereon John Barclay founded his fortune. The second thingworth seeing may be found in the hallway of the public librarybuilding, just at the turn of the marble stairway, where the morninglight strikes it. Take the night train out of Chicago and get to theRidge in the morning, to get the light on that picture. 

It is a portrait of John Barclay, done when he was forty years old andpainted by a Russian during the summer when the Barclays were calledhome from Europe before their journey was half completed, tostraighten out an obstreperous congressman, one Tom Wharton by name, who was threatening to put wheat and flour on the free list in atariff bill, unless--but that is immaterial, except that Wharton wason Barclay's mind more or less while the painter was at work, and theportrait reflects what Barclay thought of a number of things. It showsa small gray-clad man, with a pearl pin in a black tie, sitting ratheron the edge of his chair, leaning forward, so that the head is throwninto the light. The eyes are well opened, and the jaw comes out, ahard mean jaw; but the work of the artist, the real work that revealsthe soul of the sitter, is shown in three features, if we except thepugnacious shoulders. In the face are two of these features: themouth, a hard, coarse, furtive mouth, --the mouth of the liar who isnot polished, --the peasant liar who has been caught and has brazenedit out; the mouth and the forehead, full almost to bulging, so cleanand white and naked that it seems shameful to expose it, a poet'sforehead, noble and full of dreams, broad over the eyes, and asdelicately modelled at the temples as a woman's where the curly brownhair is brushed away from it. But the wonderful feature about theportrait is the right hand. The artist obviously asked Barclay toassume a natural attitude, and then seeing him lean forward with hishand stretched out in some gesture of impatience, persuaded him totake that pose. It is the sort of vital human thing that would pleaseBarclay--no sham about it; but he did not realize what the Russianwas putting into that hand--a long, hard, hairy, hollow, grasping, relentless hand, full in the foreground and squarely in the light--ahorrible thing with artistic fingers, and a thin, greedy palmindicated by the deep hump in the back. It reaches out from thepicture, with the light on the flesh tints, with the animal hair thickupon it, and with the curved, slender, tapering fingers cramped like aclaw; and when one follows up the arm to the crouching body, thefurtive mouth, the bold, shrewd eyes, and then sees that forehead fullof visions, one sees in it more than John Barclay of Sycamore Ridge, more than America, more than Europe. It is the menace ofcivilization--the danger to the race from the domination of sheerintellect without moral restraint. 

General Ward, who was on the committee that received the picturefifteen years after it was painted, stood looking at it the morning itwas hung there on the turn of the stairs. As the light fellmercilessly upon it, the general, white-haired, white-necktied, clean-shaven, and lean-faced, gazed at the portrait for a long time, and then said to his son Neal who stood beside him, "And Samson wistnot that the Lord had departed from him. "

It will pay one to stop a day in Sycamore Ridge to see thatpicture--though he does not know John Barclay, and only understandsthe era that made him, and gave him that refined, savage, cunning, grasping hand. 

Barclay stopped a week in Washington on his return from Europe theyear that picture was painted, made a draft for fifty thousand dollarson the National Provisions Company to cover "legal expenses, " and camestraight home to Sycamore Ridge. He was tired of cities, he toldColonel Culpepper, who met Barclay at the post-office the morning hereturned, with his arms full of newspapers. "I want to hear the oldmill, Colonel, " said Barclay, "to smell the grease down in the guts ofher, and to get my hair full of flour again. " When he had gorgedhimself for two days, he wired Bemis to come to the Ridge, and Barclayand Bemis sat on the dam one evening until late bedtime, consideringmany things. As they talked, Barclay found that a plan for thereorganization of the Provisions Company was growing in his mind, andhe talked it out as it grew. 

"Lige, " he said, as he leaned with his elbows on a rock behind him, "the trouble with the company as it now stands is that it's toopalpable. There's too much to levy on--too much in sight; too muchphysical property. How would it do to sell all these mills andelevators, and use the company as a kind of a cream skimmer--a profitshop--to market the products of the mills?" He paused a moment, andBemis, who knew he was not expected to reply, flipped pebbles into thestream. Barclay changed his position slightly and began to pick stonesout of the crevices, and throw the stones into the water. "That's thething to do--go ahead and sell every dollar's worth of assets thecompany's got--I'll take the mill here. I couldn't get along withoutthat. Then we'll buy the products of the mills at cost of the millers, and let them get their profits back as individual holders of ourstock. Our company will handle the Door Strip--buy it and sellit--and if any long-nosed reformer gets to snooping around the mills, he'll find they are making only a living profit; and as for us--anystate grain commissioner or board of commissioners who wanted toexamine us could do so, and what'd he find? Simply that we're buyingour products at cost of the millers and selling at the marketprice--sometimes at a loss, sometimes at a profit; and what if we dohandle all the grain and grain products in the United States? Theycan't show that we are hurting anything. I tell you there's getting tobe too much snooping now in the state and federal governments. Haveyou got any fellow in your office who can fix up a charter that willlet us buy and sell grain, and also sell the Barclay Economy Strip?"

Bemis nodded. 

"Then, damn 'em, let 'em go on with their commissioners and boards andlegislative committees; they can't catch us. There's no law againstthe railroads that ship our stuff buying the Economy Door Strip, isthere? You bet there isn't. And we're entitled to a good roundinventor's profit, ain't we? You bet we are. You go ahead and get upthat reorganization, and I'll put it through. Say, Lige--" Barclaychuckled as a recollection flashed across his mind--"you know I'vemade some of our Northwest senators promise to make you a federaljudge. That's one of the things I did last week; I thought maybesometime we'd need a federal judge as one of the--what do you callit--the hereditaments thereunto appertaining of the company. " Bemisopened his eyes in astonishment, and Barclay grunted in disgust as hewent on: "Of course we can't get you appointed from thisstate--that's clear--but they think we can work it through in theCity--as soon as there is a vacancy--or make a new district. Howwould you like that? Judge Bemis--say, that sounds all right, doesn'tit?"

Barclay rose and stretched his legs and arms. "Well, I must begoing--Mrs. Barclay and my mother want to hear the new organ over inthe Congregational Church. It's a daisy--Colonel Culpepper, amongsthands, skirmished up three thousand. They let me pick it out, and Ihad to put up another thousand myself to get the kind I wanted. Areyou well taken care of at the hotel?" When Bemis explained that he hadthe bridal chamber, the two men clambered up the bank of the stream, crossed the bridge, and at his gate Barclay said: "Now, I'll sleep onthis to-night, --this reorganization, --and then I'll write you aletter to-morrow, covering all that I've said, and you can fix up atentative charter and fire it down--and say, Lige, figure out what amodest profit on all the grain and grain produce business of thecountry would be--say about two and a half per cent, and make thecapitalization of the reorganization fit that. We'll get the realprofits out of the Door Strip, and can fix that up in the books. We'llshow the reformers a trick or two. " It was a warm night, and when theorgan recital was over, John and Jane Barclay, after the custom of thetown, sat on a terrace in front of the house talking of the day'sevents. Music always made John babble. 

"Jane, " he asked suddenly, "Jane--when does a man begin to grow old?Here I am past forty. I used to think when a man was forty he wasmiddle-aged; every five years I have advanced my idea of what an oldman was; when I was fifteen, I thought a man was getting along when hewas thirty. When I was twenty-five, I regarded forty as the beginningof the end; when I was thirty, I put the limit of activity atforty-five; five years ago I moved it up to fifty; and to-day I havejumped it to sixty. It seems to me, Jane, that I'm as much of a boy asever; all this talk about my being a man puzzles me. What's thisProvisions Company but a game? And I'm going to play another game; I'mgoing to get grain and grain produce organized, and then I'm going totackle meat. In ten years I'll have the packing-houses where I havethe mills; but it's just play--and it's a lot of fun. "

He was silent a moment. Jane did not disturb his reveries. Sheunderstood, without exactly putting her feeling into language, thatshe was being talked at, not talked to. 

"Say, Jane, " he exclaimed, "wasn't that 'Marche Triomphante to-nightgreat?" He hummed a bar from the motif, "That's it--my--" he cried, hitting his chair arm with his fist, "but that's a big thing--almostgood enough for Wagner to have done; big and insistent and strong. I'mgetting to like music with go to it--with bang and brass. Wagner doesit; honest, Jane, when I hear his trombones coming into a theme, I getideas enough to give the whole force in the office nervous prostrationfor a month. To-night when that thing was swelling up like a greattidal wave of music rolling in, I worked out a big idea; I'm going tosell all the mills and factories back to the millers for our stock, and when I own every dollar of our stock, I'm going to double theprice of it to them and sell it back to them; and if they haggle aboutit, I'll build a new mill across the track from every man-jack whotries to give me any funny business--I'll show 'em. Thatreorganization ought to clean up millions for us in the next year. What a lot of fun it all is! I used to think old Jay Gould was somepumpkins; but if we get this reorganization through, I'll go downthere and buy the Gould outfit and sell 'em for old iron. "

The current of his thoughts struck under language, as a prairie streamsometimes hides from its surface bed. After a time Jane said: "GrandmaBarclay thought the 'Marche Funebre' was the best thing the man did. Iheard the Wards speaking of it in the vestibule; and Molly, who heldmy hand through it, nearly squeezed it off--poor girl; but she looksreal well these days. " Jane paused a moment and added: "Did you noticethe colonel? How worn and haggard he looks--he seems broken so. Theysay he is in trouble. Couldn't we help him?"

Her husband did not reply at once. Finally he recalled his wanderingwits and answered: "Oh, I don't know, Jane. He'll pull through, Iguess. " Then he reverted to the music, which was still in his head. "He played the Largo well--didn't he? That was made for the organ. But some way I like the big things. The Largo is like running a littletwenty-horse-power steam mill, and selling to the home grocers. But'The Ride of the Valkyries, ' with those screaming discords of brass, and those magnificent crashes of harmony--Jane, I've got anidea--Wagner's work is the National Provisions Company set to music, and I'm the first trombone. " He laughed and reached for his wife'shand and kissed it; then he rose and stood before her, admiring her inthe starlight, as he exclaimed: "And you are those clarinets, sweetand clear and delicious, that make a man want to cry for sheer joy. Come on, my dear--isn't it very late?" And the little man limpedacross the grass up the steps and into the house. The two stopped amoment while he listened to the roar of the water and the rumble ofthe mill, that glowed in the night like a phosphorescent spectre. Hesqueezed her hand and cried out in exultation, "It's great, isn'tit--the finest mill on this planet, my dear--do you realize that?"And then they turned into the house. 

The next morning he kept two stenographers busy; he was spinning theweb of his reorganization, bringing about a condition under which menwere compelled to exchange their stock in the National ProvisionsCompany for their former property. He was a crafty little man, and hisways were sometimes devious, even though to outward view hisadvertised and proclaimed methods were those of a pirate. So when hehad dictated a day's work to two girls, he went nosing through themill, loafing in the engine rooms, looking at the water wheel, orrunning about rafters in the fifth floor like a great gray rat. As hewent he hummed little tunes under his breath or whistled between histeeth, with his lips apart. After luncheon he unlocked a row-boat, andtook a cane pole and rowed himself a mile up the mill-pond, andbrought home three good-sized bass. Thus did he spend his idle momentsaround the Ridge. That night he thumped his piano and longed for apipe organ. The things he tried to play were noisy, and his mother, sitting in the gloaming near him, sighed and said: "John, play some ofthe old pieces--the quieter ones; play 'The Long and Weary Day' andsome of the old songs. Have you forgotten the 'Bohemian Girl' andthose Schubert songs?"

His fingers felt their way back to his boyhood, and when he ceasedplaying, he stood by his mother a moment, and patted her cheeks as hehummed in German the first two lines of the "Lorelei, " and then said, "We have come a long way since then--eh, mother?" She held his handto her cheek and then to her lips, but she did not reply. He repeatedit, "A long, long way from the little home of one room here!" After apause he added, "Would you like to go back?"

A tear fell on the hand against her cheek. He felt her jaw quiver, andthen she said, "Oh, yes, John--yes, I believe I would. "

He knew she did not care for his wealth, and there were many thingsabout his achievements that he felt she might misunderstand; herattitude often puzzled him. So he sat a moment on her chair arm, andsaid, "Well, mother, I have done my best. " It was a question more thana protest. 

"Yes, dear, " she replied, "I know you have--you have done yourbest--your very best. But I think it is in your blood. "

"What?" he asked. 

"Oh, all this, " she answered; "all this money-getting. I am foolish, John, but some way, I want my little boy back--the one who used tosit with me so long ago, and play on the guitar and sing 'Sleeping, IDream, Love. ' I don't like your new music, John; it's so like clangingcars, and crashing hammers, and the groans of men at toil. "

"But this is a new world, mother--a new world that is different, "protested the son, impatiently. 

And the mother answered sadly as she looked up at him: "I know, dear--it is a new world; but the same old God moves it; and the samefaith in God and love of man move men that always have moved them, andalways will move them; there are as many things to live and die fornow, as when your father gave up his life, John--just as many. " Theyrocked together in silence--the boy of forty and the mother of sixty. Finally she said, "Johnnie, play me 'Ever of Thee I'm fondlyThinking, ' won't you, before you go?"

He sat with his foot on the soft pedal and played the old love song, and as he played his mother wandered over hills he had never seen, through fields he had never known, and heard a voice in the song hemight never hear, even in his dreams. When he finished, she stoodbeside him and cried with all the passion her years could summon: "Oh, John--John--it will come out some way--some day. It's in your soul, and God in His own way will bring it out. " He did not understand herthen, and it was many years before he prayed her prayer. 

The next day he went to the City and plunged into his work, and theRidge and its people and the prayers of his mother became to him onlyas a dream that comes in the night and fades in the day. Even theshabby figure of Colonel Martin Culpepper, with his market basket onhis arm, waving a good-by as the Barclay private car pulled out of theSycamore Ridge depot, disappeared from his mind, though that patheticimage haunted him for nearly a hundred miles as he rode, and he couldnot shake it off until he immersed himself in the roar of the greatCity. He could not know that he had any remote relation with the worryin the old man's eyes. Nor did Martin Culpepper try to shift his loadto John. He knew where the blame was, and he tried to take it like aman. But in reckoning the colonel's account, may not something becharged off to the account of John Barclay, who to save himself andaccomplish the Larger Good--which meant the establishment of his ownfortunes--sent Adrian Brownwell in those days in the seventies withthe money to the colonel, not so much to help the colonel as to saveJohn Barclay? The Larger Good is a slow, vicious, accumulative poison, and heaven only knows when it will come out and kill. 

It was a week after the pipe-organ recital at the church, when MaryBarclay, doing her day's marketing, ran into Colonel Culpepperstanding rather forlornly in front of McHurdie's shop. He bowed to herwith elaborate graciousness, and she stopped to speak with him. In amoment he was saying, "So you have not heard, are unaware, entirelyignorant, in point of fact, of my misfortunes?" She assented, and thecolonel went on: "Well, madam, the end has come; I have played out myhand; I have strutted my hour upon the stage, and now I go off. OldMart Culpepper, my dear, is no longer the leading citizen, nor ourdistinguished capitalist, not even the hustling real estate agent offormer days--just plain old Mart Culpepper, I may say. He who was, isnow a has-been, --just an old man without a business. " He saw that shedid not appreciate what had happened, and he smiled gently and said:"Closed up, my dear madam. A receiver was appointed a few minutes agofor the Culpepper Mortgage Company, and I gave him the key. Failure--failure--" he repeated the word bitterly--"failure iswritten over the door of this life. "

Mary Barclay grasped his big fat hand and pressed it, and shook herhead. Something in her throat choked her, and she could not speak atfirst. The two stood a moment in silence before the woman saidemphatically, "No--no! Martin Culpepper, God is keeping your books!"

The shabby old man stood uncovered, a smile quivering about his eyes. "Maybe so, Mary Barclay, maybe so, " he said. The smile fell into hiscountenance as he added, "That is why I have gone so long without asettlement; with my account so badly overdrawn, too. " Then he turnedto go and walked as lightly down the street as a man could walk, broken before his time with the weight of a humiliation upon him and afear greater than his shame burning in his fluttering old heart. 

And now if you are reading this story to be in the company of the richMr. Barclay, to feel the madness of his millions, to enjoy the vaindelirium of his power, skip the rest of this chapter. For it tells of ashabby time in the lives of all of the threadbare people who move inthis tale. Even John Barclay sees the seams and basting threads of hislife here, and as for the others, --the colonel and Jake and the generaland Watts, and even Molly, --what do these people mean to you, thesecommon people, in their old clothes, with their old hearts and theirrusty sins and their homely sorrows? Milord and his lady will notscamper across these pages; no rooms with rich appointments will gladdenyour eyes, and perhaps in the whole book you will not find a man inevening dress nor a woman in a dinner gown. And now the only thing thereis to offer is Jake Dolan, aged fifty-seven, with scanty, grizzled hair, sitting in his shirt-sleeves in the basement of the court-house, withthe canvas cot he sleeps on for a chair, mending his blue army coat. Beside him on the bed are his trousers, thin, almost worn through, patched as to the knees and as to other important places, but clean andwithout a loose thread hanging from them. Surely an old Irishman mendingan old army coat under a dusty electric light bulb in the basement of acourt-house, wherein he is janitor by grace of the united demand ofHenry Schnitzler Post of the G. A. R. No. 432, is not a particularlyinspiring picture. But he has bitten the last thread with his teeth, andis putting away the sewing outfit. And now Mr. Dolan, from the drawer ofa little table beside the cot, --a table with Bob Hendricks' picture, framed in plush, sitting on the top, --now Mr. Dolan takes from thedrawer a tablet of writing paper printed by the county. It is hisparticular pride, that writing paper. For upon it at the top is thepicture of the new one-hundred-thousand-dollar court-house, and besidethe court-house picture are these words: "Office of Jacob Dolan, Custodian of Public Buildings and Grounds of Garrison County. " Mr. Dolanwill be writing a letter, and so long as it begins with "Dear Sir, " andnothing more endearing, surely we may look over his shoulder while hewrites, --even though it is bad form. And as Mr. Dolan will be writing to"Robert Hendricks, care of Cook's Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, "--which he spellswith an "i, " but let that pass, and let some of his literary style andconstruction pass with it, --and as he will be writing to Mr. Hendricks, perhaps Miss Nancy may do well to go sit in the corridor and put herfingers in her ears while we read. For Mr. Dolan is an emotional man, and he is breathing hard, and by the way he grabs his pen and jabs itinto the ink one can see that he is angry. 

 "DEAR SIR (begins Mr. Dolan): I take my pen in hand to answer yours of this date from New York and would have written you anyhow, as there is much on my mind and I would cable you, but I can't, being for the moment short of funds. I write to say, Robert, that we have Mart Culpepper in jail--right across the hall. He came in at nine o'clock to-night, and the damn Pop judge put his bail at $15, 999 to cover his alleged shortage, and the stinker won't accept us old boys on the bond--Phil and Watts and Os and the Company 'C' boys I could get before the judge went to bed, and Gabe Carnine, the gut, would not sign--would not sign old Mart's bond, sir, and I hope to be in hell with a fishpole some day poking him down every time his slimy fingers get on the rim of the kettle. But we'll have him out in the morning, if every man in Garrison County has to go on the bond. They say Mart received money to pay four or five mortgages due to a Vermont Bank, and they sent a detective here about a month ago and worked up the case, and closed his business to-day and waited until to-night to arrest him. I've just come from Mart. It's hell. Hoping this will find you enjoying the same I beg my dear sir to sign myself

 "Your ob't s'r'v't J. DOLAN. "

When Jacob Dolan finished his letter, he addressed the envelope andhurried away to mail it. And so long as we are here in thecourt-house, and the custodian is gone, would you like to step in andsee Martin Culpepper across the hall? It is still in the basement now, and if you are quiet, so quiet that the slipping patter of a rat'sfoot on the floor comes to you, a sound as of a faint whining willcome to you also. There--now it comes again. No, it is not a dog; itis a man--a man in his agony. Shall we open the great iron door, andgo into the cell room? Why, not even you, Miss Nancy--not even you, who love tears so? You would not see much--only a man, with his coatand vest off, an old man with a rather shaggy, ill-kept chin whiskerand not the cleanest shirt in the world--though it is plaited, andonce was a considerable garment. And the man wearing it, who liesprostrate upon his face, once was a considerable man. But he is oldnow, old and broken, and if he should look up, as you stepped in thecorridor before him, you would see a great face ripped and scarred byfear and guilt, and eyes that look so piteously at you--eyes of a manwho cannot understand why the blow has fallen, surprised eyes with ahorror in them; and if he should speak, you will find a voice roughand mushy with asthma. The heart that has throbbed so many nights infear and the breath that has been held for so many footsteps, at lasthave turned their straining into disease. No--let's not go in. Hebade his daughter go, and would not see his wife, and they have sentto the City for his son, --so let us not bother him, for to-morrow hewill be out on bail. But did you hear that fine, trembling, animalwhine--that cry that wrenched itself out of set teeth like a livingthing? Come on--let us go and find Jake, and if he is taking a drink, don't blame him too much, Miss Nancy--how would you like to sleep inthat room across the corridor?

At nine o'clock the next morning two hundred men had signed the bondthe judge required, and Martin Culpepper shambled home with avertedeyes. They tried to carry him on their shoulders, thinking it wouldcheer him up; and from the river wards of the town scores came to givehim their hands. But he shook himself away from them, like a greatwhipped dog, and walked slowly up the hill, and turned into LincolnAvenue alone. 

John Barclay heard the news of the colonel's trouble as he steppedfrom his private car in the Sycamore Ridge yards that morning, andJane went to the Culpepper home without stopping at her own. Thatafternoon, Molly Brownwell knocked at Barclay's office door in themill, and went in without waiting for him to open it. She was pale andhaggard, and she sat down before he could speak to her. 

"John, " she said in a dead voice that smote his heart, "I have comefor my reward now. I never thought I'd ask it, John, but last night Ithought it all out, and I don't believe it's begging. "

"No, " he replied quietly, "it's not. I am sure--"

But she did not let him finish. She broke in with: "Oh, I don't wantany of your money; I want my own money--money that you got when yousold me into bondage, John Barclay--do you remember when?" She criedthe last words in a tremulous little voice, and then caught herself, and went on before he could put into words the daze in his face. "Letme tell you; do you remember the day you called me up into your officeand asked me to hold Adrian in town to save the wheat company? Yes, you do--you know you do! And you remember that you played on my lovefor Bob, and my duty to father. Well, I saved you, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did, Molly, " Barclay replied. 

She stared a moment at the framed pictures of mill designs on thewall, and at the wheat samples on the long table near her, and did notspeak; nor did he. She finally broke the silence: "Well, I saved you, but what about father--" her voice broke into a sob--"and Bob--Janehas told you what Bob and I have been--and what about me--what haveyou taken from me in these twenty years? Oh, John, John, what afearful wreck we have made of life--you with your blind selfishness, and I with my weakness! Did you know, John, that the money that fatherborrowed that day, twenty years ago, of Adrian, to lend to you, is thevery money that sent him to jail last night? I guess he--he took whatwasn't his to pay it back. " Her face twitched, and she was losingcontrol of her voice. Barclay stepped to the door and latched it. Shewatched him and shook her head sadly. "You needn't be afraid, John--I'm not going to make a scene. "

"It's all right, Molly, " said Barclay. "I want to help you--you knowthat. I'm sorry, Molly--infinitely sorry. "

She looked at him for a moment in silence, and then said: "Yes, John, I'll give you credit for that; I think you're as sorry as a selfishman like you can be. But are you sorry enough to go to jail a pauper, like father, or wander over the earth alone, like Bob, or come and begfor money, like me?" Then she caught herself quickly and cried: "Onlyit's not begging, John--it's my own; it's the price you got when yousold me into bondage; it's the price of my soul, and I need it now. Those people only want their money--that is all. "

"Yes, " he replied, "I suppose that is all they want. " He drummed onhis desk a moment and then asked, "Does your father know how much itis?"

"Yes, " she answered, "I found in his desk at the house last night apaper on which he had been figuring--poor father--all the nightbefore. All the night before--" she repeated, and then sobbed, "Poorfather--all the night before. He knew it was coming. He knew thedetective was here. He told me to-day that the sum he had there wascorrect. It is sixteen thousand five hundred and forty-three dollars. But he doesn't know I'm here, John. I told him I had some money of myown--some I'd had for years--and I have--oh, I have, JohnBarclay--I have. " She looked up at him with the pallid face stainedwith fresh tears and asked, "I have--I have--haven't I, John, haven't I?"

He put his elbows on the desk and sank his head in his hands andsighed, "Yes, Molly--yes, you have. "

They sat in silence until the roar of the waters and the murmur of thewheels about them came into the room. Then the woman rose to go. "Well, John, " she said, "I suppose one shouldn't thank a person forgiving her her own--but I do, John. Oh, it's like blood money tome--but father--I can't let father suffer. "

She walked to the door, he stepped to unlatch it, and she passed outwithout saying good-by. When she was gone, he slipped the latch, andsat down with his hands gripping the table before him. As he satthere, he looked across the years and saw some of the havoc he hadmade. There was no shirking anything that he saw. A footfall passingthe door made him start as if he feared to be caught in some guiltyact. Yet he knew the door was locked. He choked a little groan behindhis teeth, and then reached for the top of his desk, pulled down therolling cover, and limped quickly out of the room--as though he wereleaving a corpse. What he saw was the ghost of the Larger Good, mocking him through the veil of the past, and asking him suchquestions as only a man's soul may hear and not resent. 

He walked over the mill for a time, and then calling his stenographersfrom their room, dictated them blind and himself dumb with details ofa deal he was putting through to get control of the cracker companiesof the country. When he finished, the sunset was glaring across thewater through the window in front of him, and he had laid his ghost. But Molly Brownwell had her check, and her father was saved. 

That evening the colonel sat with Watts McHurdie, on the broad verandaof the Culpepper home, and as the moon came out, General Ward wanderedup the walk and Jake Dolan came singing down the street about "therelic of old dacincy--the hat me father wore. " Perhaps he had onedrink in him, and perhaps two, or maybe three, but he clicked the gatebehind him, and seeing the three men on the veranda, he called out:--

"Hi, you pig-stealing Kansas soldiers, haven't ye heard the war isover?" And then he carolled: "Oh, can't get 'em up, Oh, can't get 'emup, Oh, can't get 'em up in the mornin'--Get up, you"--but the restof the song, being devoted to the technical affairs of war, and endingwith a general exhortation to the soldier to "get into your breeches, "would give offence to persons of sensitive natures, and so may as wellbe omitted from this story. 

There was an awkward pause when Dolan came on the veranda. The generalhad just tried to break the ice, but Dolan was going at too high aspeed to be checked. 

"Do you know, " he asked, "what I always remember when I hear thatcall? You do not. I'll tell you. 'Twas the morning of the battle ofWilson's Creek, and Mart and me was sleeping under a tree, when thebugler of the Johnnies off somewhere on the hill he begins to crowthat, and it wakes Mart up, and he rolls over on me and he says:'Jake, ' he says, or maybe 'twas me says, 'Mart, ' says I--anyway, oneof us says, 'Shut up your gib, you flannel-mouthed mick, ' he says, 'and let me pull my dream through to the place where I find themoney, ' he says. And I says, 'D'ye know what I'm goin' to do when Iget home?' says I. 'No, ' says he, still keen for that money; 'no, 'says he, 'unless it is you're going to be hanged by way of diversion, 'he says. 'I'm going to hire a bugler, ' says I. 'What fer--in the nameof all the saints?' says he. 'Well, ' says I, 'I'm going to ask him toblow his damn horn under my window every morning at five o'clock, ' Isays, 'and then I'm going to get up and poke my head out of the windowand say: "Mister, you can get me up in the army, but on this occasionwould you be obliging enough to go to hell"!' And Mart, seeing thatthe money was gone from his dream, he turns over and wallops me withthe blanket till I was merely a palpitating mass. That was a greatbattle, though, boys--a great battle. "

And then they shouldered arms and showed how fields were won. Boom!went Sigel's guns out of the past, and crash! came the Texas cavalry, and the whoop of the Louisiana Pelicans rang in their ears. Theymarched south after Hindman, and then came back with Grant toVicksburg, where they fought and bled and died. The general left themand went east, where he "deployed on our right" and executed flankmovements, and watched Pickett's column come fling itself to death atGettysburg. And Watts McHurdie rode with the artillery through therear of the rebel lines at Pittsburg Landing, and when the rebelofficer saw the little man's bravery, and watched him making for theUnion lines bringing three guns, he waved his hat and told hissoldiers not to shoot at that boy. The colonel took a stick and markedout on the floor our position at Antietam, and showed where thereserves were supposed to be and how the enemy masked his guns behindthat hill, and we planted our artillery on the opposite ridge; and hemarched with the infantry and lay in ambush while the enemy camemarching in force through the wood. In time Watts McHurdie was talkingto Lincoln in the streets of Richmond, and telling for the hundredthtime what Lincoln said of the song and how he had sung it. But whocares now what Lincoln said? It was something kind, you may be sure, with a tear and a laugh in it, and the veterans laughed, while theireyes grew moist as they always did when Watts told it. Then they fellto carnage again--a fierce fight against time, against the momentwhen they must leave their old companion alone. Up hills they chargedand down dales, and the moon rose high, and cast its shadow to theeastward before they parted. First Dolan edged away, and then thegeneral went, waving his hand military fashion; and the colonelreturned the salute. When the gate had clanged, Watts rose to go. Hedid not speak, nor did the colonel. Arm in arm, they walked down thesteps together, and halfway down the garden path the colonel restedhis hand on the little man's shoulder as they walked in silence. Atthe gate they saw each other's tears, and the little man's voicefailed him when the colonel said, "Well, good-by, comrade--goodnight. " So Watts turned and ran, while the colonel, for the first timein his manhood, loosed the cords of his sorrow and stood alone in themoonlight with upturned face, swaying like an old tree in a storm. 

CHAPTER XXI

And now those who have avoided the gray unpainted shame of theseunimportant people of the Ridge may here take up again for a momentthe trailing clouds of glory that shimmer over John Barclay's officein the big City. For here there is the sounding brass and tinklingcymbal of great worldly power. Here sits John Barclay, a littlegray-haired, gray-clad, lynx-eyed man, in a big light room at thecorner of a tower high over the City in the Corn Exchange Building, the brain from which a million nerves radiate that run all over theworld and move thousands of men. Forty years before, when John wasplaying in the dust of the road leading up from the Sycamore, no kingin all the world knew so much of the day's doings as John knows now, sitting there at the polished mahogany table with the green blottingpaper upon it, under the green vase adorned with the red rose. Ablight may threaten the wheat in Argentine, and John Barclay knowsevery cloud that sails the sky above that wheat, and when the cloudbursts into rain he sighs, for it means something to him, thoughheaven only knows what, and we and heaven do not care. But a dry dayin India or a wet day in Russia or a cloudy day in the Dakotas are alltaken into account in the little man's plans. And if princes quarreland kings grow weary of peace, and money bags refuse them war, JohnBarclay knows it and puts the episode into figures on the clean whitepad of paper before him. 

It is a privilege to be in this office; one passes three doors to gethere, and even at the third door our statesmen often cool their toes. Mr. Barclay is about to admit one now. And when Senator Myton comesin, deferentially of course, to tell Mr. Barclay the details of thelong fight in executive session which ended in the confirmation by thesenate of Lige Bemis as a federal judge, the little gray man waves thesenator to a chair, and runs his pencil up a column of figures, presses a button, writes a word on a sheet of paper, and when themessenger appears, hands the paper to him and says, "For Judge Bemis. "

"I have just dismissed a Persian satrap, " expands Barclay, "who won'tlet his people use our binders; that country eventually will be agreat field for our Mediterranean branch. "

Myton is properly impressed. For a man who can make a senator out ofRed River clay and a federal judge out of Lige Bemis is a superhumancreature, and Myton does not doubt Barclay's power over satraps. 

When the business of the moment between the two men is done, Barclay, rampant with power, says: "Myton" (it is always "Myton, " never"Senator, " with Barclay; he finds it just as well to let his inferiorsknow their relation to the universe), "Myton, I ran across a queerthing last week when I took over that little jerkwater New Englandcoast line. The Yankees are a methodical lot of old maids. I find theyhad been made agents of a lot of the big fellows--insurance people, packing-houses, and transcontinental railroads--two of my lines werepaying them, though I'd forgotten about it until I looked it up--andthe good old sewing society had card-indexed the politics of theUnited States--the whole blessed country, by state and congressionaldistricts. I took over the chap who runs it, and I've got the wholekit in the offices here now. It's great. If a man bobs up forsomething in Florida or Nebraska, we just run him down on the cardindex, and there he stands--everything he ever did, every interviewhe ever gave, every lawsuit he ever had, every stand he ever took inpolitics--right there in the index, in an envelope ready for use, andall the mean things ever written about him. I simply can't make amistake now in getting the wrong kind of fellows in. Commend me to aYankee or a Jap for pains. I can tell you in five minutes just whatinfluences are behind every governor, congressman, senator, judge, most of the legislators in every state, the federal courts clear up tothe Supreme Court. There was a man appointed on that court less than adozen years ago who swapped railroad receiverships like a tin peddlerwith his senator for his job, when he was on the circuit bench. And hewas considerable of a judge in the bean country for a time. Just toverify my index, I asked Bemis about this judge. 'Lige, ' I said, 'wasJudge So-and-So a pretty honest judge?' 'Oh, hell, ' says Lige, andthat was all I could get out of him. So I guess they had him indexedright. " And Barclay rattles on; he has become vociferous andloquacious, and seems to like to hear the roar of his voice in hishead. The habit has been growing on him. 

But do not laugh at the blindness of John Barclay, sitting there inhis power, admiring himself, boasting in the strength of hiscard-index to Senator Myton. For the tide of his power was running in, and soon it would be high tide with John Barclay--high tide of hispower, high tide of his fame, high tide of his pride. So let us watchthe complacent smile crack his features as he sits listening toSenator Myton: "Mr. Barclay, do you know, I sometimes think thatProvidence manifests itself in minds like yours, even as in the daysof old it was manifest in the hearts of the prophets. In those days itwas piety that fitted the heart for higher things; to-day it isbusiness. You and a score of men like you in America are intrustedwith the destiny of this republic, as surely as the fate of thechildren of Israel was in the hands of Moses and Aaron!"

Barclay closed his eyes a moment, in contemplation of the figure, andthen broke out in a roaring laugh, "Hanno is a god! Hanno is agod!--get out of here, Henry Myton, --get out of here, I say--thisis my busy day, " and he laughed the young senator out of the room. Buthe sat alone in his office grinning, as over and over in his mind hisown words rang, "Hanno is a god!" And the foolish parrot of his otherself cackled the phrase in his soul for days and days!

It is our high privilege thus to stand close by and watch the wheelsof the world go around. In those days of the late nineties Barclaytravelled up and down the earth so much in his private car that Janeused to tell Molly Brownwell that living with John was like being atravelling man's wife. But Jane did not seem to appreciate herprivilege. She managed to stay at home as much as possible, andsometimes he took the Masons along for company. Mrs. Mason gloried init, and lived at the great hotels and shopped at the highest-pricedantique stores to her heart's delight. Lycurgus' joy was in beinginterviewed, and the Barclay secretaries got so that they could editthe Mason interviews and keep out the poison, and let the old manswell and swell until the people at home thought he must surely burstwith importance at the next town. 

One day in the nineties Barclay appropriated a half-million dollars toadvertise "Barclay's Best" and a cracker that he was pushing. When theman who placed the business in the newspaper had gone, Barclay satlooking out of the window and said to his advertising manager: "I'vegot an idea. Why should I pay a million dollars to irresponsiblenewspapers? I won't do it. "

"But we must advertise, Mr. Barclay--you've proved it pays. "

"Yes, " he returned, "you bet it pays, and I might just as well getsomething out of it besides advertising. Take this; make five copiesof it; I'll give you the addresses later. " Barclay squared himself toa stenographer to dictate:--

 "Dear Sir: I spend a million dollars a year advertising grain products; you and the packers doubtless spend that much advertising your products and by-products; the railroads spend as much more, and the Oil people probably half as much more. Add the steel products and the lumber products, and we have ten million dollars going into the press of this country. In a crisis we cannot tell how these newspapers will treat us. I think we should organize so that we will know exactly where we stand. Therefore it is necessary absolutely to control the trade advertising of this country. A company to take over the five leading advertising agencies could be formed, for half as much as we spend every year, and we could control nine-tenths of the American trade advertising. We could then put an end to any indiscriminate mobbing of corporations by editors. I will be pleased to hear from you further upon this subject. "

A day or two later, when the idea had grown and ramified itself in hismind, he talked it all out to Jane and exclaimed, "How will old PhilWard's God manage to work it out, as he says, against thatproposition? Brains, " continued Barclay, "brains--that's what countsin this world. You can't expect the men who dominate thiscountry--who make its wealth, and are responsible for its prosperity, to be at the mercy of a lot of long-nosed reformers who don't know howto cash their own checks. "

How little this rich man knew of the world about him! Howcircumscribed was his vision! With all his goings up and down theearth, with all of his great transactions, with all of his apparentpower, how little and sordid was his outlook on life. For he thoughthe was somebody in this universe, some one of importance, and in hisscheme of things he figured out a kind of partnership between himselfand Providence--a partnership to run the world in the interests ofJohn Barclay, and of course, wherever possible, with reasonabledividends to Providence. 

But a miracle was coming into the world. In the under-consciousnessesof men, sown God only knows how and when and where, sown in theweakness of a thousand blind prophets, the seeds of righteous wrath atgreed like John Barclay's were growing during all the years of histriumph. Men scarcely knew it themselves. Growth is so simple andnatural a process that its work is done before its presence is known. And so this arrogant man, this miserable, little, limping, brass-eyed, leather-skinned man, looked out at the world around him, and did notsee the change that was quickening the hearts of his neighbours. 

And yet change was in everything about him. A thousand years are asbut a watch in the night, and tick, tock, tick, tock, went the greatclock, and the dresses of little Jeanette Barclay slipped down, down, down to her shoe-tops, and as the skirts slipped down she went up. Andbefore her father knew it her shoe-tops sank out of sight, and she wasa miss at the last of her teens. But he still gave her his finger whenthey walked out together, though she was head and shoulders above him. 

One day when she led him to the _Banner_ office to buy some fancyprogrammes for a party she was giving, he saw her watching young NealWard, --youngest son of the general, --who was sitting at a reporter'sdesk in the office, and the father's quick eyes saw that she regardedthe youth as a young man. For she talked so obviously for the Wardboy's benefit that her father, when they went out of theprinting-office, took a furtive look at his daughter and sighed andknew what her mother had known for a year. 

"Jeanette, " he said that night at dinner, "where's my shot-gun?" Whenshe told him, he said: "After dinner you get it, load it with salt, and put it in the corner by the front door. " Then he added to theassembled family: "For boys--dirty-faced, good-for-nothing, long-legged boys! I'm going to have a law passed making an open seasonfor boys in this place from January first until Christmas. "

Jeanette dimpled and blushed, the family smiled, and her mother said:"Well, John, there'll be a flock of them at Jeanette's party next weekfor you to practise on. All the boys and girls in town are coming. "

And after dessert was served the father sat chuckling and grinning andgrunting, "Boys--boys, " and at intervals, "Measly little milk-eyedkids, " and again "Boys--boys, " while the family nibbled at itscheese. 

Those years when the nineteenth century was nearing its close and whenthe tide of his fortunes was running in, bringing him power and makinghim mad with it, were years of change in Sycamore Ridge--in the oldas well as in the young. In those years the lilacs bloomed on in theCulpepper yard; and John Barclay did not know it, though forty yearsbefore Ellen Culpepper had guarded the first blossoms from thosebushes for him. Miss Lucy, his first ideal, went to rest in thoseyears while the booming tide was running in, and he scarcely knew it. Mrs. Culpepper was laid beside Ellen out on the Hill; and he hardlyrealized it, though no one in all the town had watched him growinginto worldly success with so kindly an eye as she. But the tide wasroaring in, and John Barclay's whole consciousness was turned towardit; the real things of life about him, he did not see and could notfeel. And so as the century is old the booming tide is full, and JohnBarclay in his power--a bubble in the Divine consciousness, a merevision in the real world--stands stark mad before his phantasm, dreaming that it is all real, and chattering to his soul, "Hanno is agod. "

And now we must leave John Barclay for the moment, to explain why NealDow Ward, son of General Philemon Ward, made his first formal call atthe Barclays'. It cannot be gainsaid that young Mr. Ward, agedtwenty-one, a senior at Ward University, felt a tingle in his bloodthat day when he met Miss Jeanette Barclay, aged eighteen, and homefor the spring vacation from the state university; and seeing her forthe first time with her eyes and her hair and her pretty, strong, wideforehead poking through the cocoon of gawky girlhood, created adistinct impression on young Mr. Ward. 

But in all good faith it should be stated that he did not make hisfirst formal call at the Barclays' of his own accord; for his sister, Elizabeth Cady Stanton Ward, took him. She came home from theCulpeppers' just before supper, laughing until she was red in theface. And what she heard at the Culpeppers', let her tell in her ownway to the man of her heart. For Lizzie was her father's child; thefour other Ward girls, Mary Livermore, Frances Willard, BelvaLockwood, and Helen Gougar, had climbed to the College Heights and hadgone to Ward University, and from that seat of learning had gone forthin the world to teach school. Elizabeth Cady Stanton Ward had remainedin the home, after her mother's death filling her mother's vacantplace as well as a daughter may. 

"Well, father, " said the daughter, as she was putting the evening mealon the table, addressing the general, who sat reading by the window inthe dining room, "you should have been at the Culpeppers' when thecolonel came home and told us his troubles. It seems that NellieMcHurdie is going to make Watts run for sheriff--for sheriff, father. Imagine Watts heading a posse, or locking any one up! And Watts haspassed the word to the colonel, and he has passed it to Molly and me, and I am to see Mrs. Barclay, and she is to see Mrs. Carnine to-morrowmorning, and they are all to set to work on Nellie and get her to seethat it won't do. Poor Watts--the colonel says he is terribly wroughtup at the prospect. "

The general folded his paper and smiled as he said: "Well, I don'tknow; Watts was a brave soldier. He would make a good enough sheriff;but I suppose he doesn't really care for it. "

"Why, no, of course not, father--why should he?" asked the daughter. "Anyhow, I want you to make Neal go down to Barclays' with me to-nightto talk it over with Jane. Neal, " she called to the young man who wassitting on the porch with his book on his knee, "Neal, I want you togo to Barclays' with me to-night. Come in now, supper's ready. "

And so it happened that Neal Dow Ward made his first call on JeanetteBarclay with his sister, and they all sat on the porch together thatfine spring evening, with the perfume of the lilacs in the air; and ithappened naturally enough that the curious human law of attractionwhich unites youth should draw the chairs of the two young peopletogether as they talked of the things that interest youth--theparties and the ball-games and the fraternities and sororities, andthe freshman picnic and the senior grind; while the chairs of the twoothers drew together as they talked of the things which interest womenin middle life--the affairs of the town, the troubles of WattsMcHurdie, the bereavement of the Culpeppers, the scarcity of good helpin the kitchen, the popularity of Max Nordau's "Social Evolution, " andthe fun in "David Harum. " Nor is it strange that after the girl hadshown the boy her Pi Phi pin, and he had shown her his Phi Deltashield, they should fall to talking of the new songs, and that theyshould slip into the big living room of the Barclay home, lighted bythe electric lamps in the hall, and that she should sit down to thepiano to show him how the new song went. And if the moonlight fellacross the piano, and upon her face as she sang the little Irishfolk-song, all in minors, with her high, trembling, half-formed notesin the upper register, and if she flushed and looked up abashed andhad to be teased to go on, --not teased a great deal, but alittle, --will you blame the young man if he forgot for a moment thather father was worth such a lot of money, and thought only that shewas a beautiful girl, and said so with his eyes and face and hands inthe pretty little pause that followed when she ceased singing? And ifto hide her confusion when her heart knew what he thought, she put onefoot on the loud pedal of the piano and began singing "O Margery, OMargery, " and he sang with her, and if they thrilled just a little astheir voices blended in the rollicking song--what of it? What of it?Was it not natural that lilacs should grow in April? Was it notnatural that Watts McHurdie should dread the white light that beatsupon the throne of the sheriff's office? Was it not natural that heshould turn to women for protection against one of their sex, and thatthe women plotting for him should have a boy around and having a boyaround where there is a girl around, and spring around and lilacsaround and a moon and music and joy around, --what is more natural inall this world than that in the fire struck by the simple joy of youththere should be the flutter of unseen wings around, and when the twohad finished singing, with something passing between their hearts notin the words, what is more natural than that the girl, half frightenedat the thrill in her soul, should say timidly:--

"I think they will miss us out there--don't you?" as she rose fromthe piano. 

And if you were a boy again, only twenty-one, to whom millions ofmoney meant nothing, would you not catch the blue eyes of the girl asshe looked up at you, in the twilight of the big room, and answer, "All right, Jeanette"? Certainly if you had known a girl all yourlife, you would call her by her first name, if her father were worth abillion, and would you not continue, emboldened some way by not beingfrowned upon for calling her Jeanette, though she would have beenastonished if you had said Miss Barclay--astonished and maybe alittle fearful of your sincerity--would you not continue, after alittle pause, repeating your words, "All right, Jeanette--I supposeso--but I don't care--do you?" as you followed her through the doorback to the moon-lit porch?

And as you walked home, listening to your elder sister, would you nothave time and inclination to wonder from what remote part of thisbeautiful universe, from what star or what fairy realm, that creaturecame, whose hair you pulled yesterday, whose legs seem to have beencovered with long skirts in the twinkling of an eye, and whoseunrelated features by some magic had sloughed off, leaving a beautifulface? Would you not think these things, good kind sir, when you weretwenty-one--even though to-day they seem highly improbable thoughtsfor any one to have who was not stark mad? But if we were not allstark mad sometimes, how would the world go round? If we were not allmad sometimes, who would make our dreams come true? How would visionsin thin air congeal into facts, how would the aspirations of the racemake history? And if we were all sane all the time, how would theangels ever get babies into the world at all, at all?

CHAPTER XXII

"Speaking of lunatics, " said Mr. Dolan to Mr. Hendricks one Junenight, a few weeks after the women had persuaded Mrs. McHurdie not todrag the poet into politics, --"speaking of lunatics, you may rememberthat I was born in Boston, and 'twas my duty as a lad to drive theCambridge car, and many a time I have heard Mr. Holmes the poet andMr. Emerson the philosopher discussing how the world was made; whetherit was objective or subjective, --which I take it to mean whether theworld is in the universe or only in your eye. One fine winter night wewere waiting on a switch for the Boston car, when Mr. Holmes said toMr. Emerson: 'What, ' says he, 'would you think if Jake Dolan drivingthis car should come in and say, "Excuse me, gentlemen, but the moon Isee this moment is not some millions of miles away, but entirely in myown noddle?"' 'I'd think, ' says the great philosopher, never blinking, 'that Mr. Dolan was drunk, ' says he. And there the discussion ended, but it has been going on in my head ever since. Here I am a manclimbing up my sixties, and when have I seen the moon? Once walking bythis very creek here trying to get me courage up to put me arm aroundher that is now Mary Carnine; once with me head poked up close to theheads of Watts McHurdie, Gabe Carnine, and Philemon Ward, serenadingthe girls under the Thayer House window the night before we left forthe army. And again to-night, sitting here on the dam, listening tothe music coming down the mill-pond. Did you notice them, Robert--theyoung people--Phil Ward's boy, and John Barclay's girl, and MaryCarnine's oldest, and Oscar Fernald's youngest, with their guitars andmandolins, piling into the boats and rowing up stream? And now they'resinging the songs we sang--to their mothers, God bless 'em--theother day before these children were born or thought of, and now I sithere an old man looking at the moon. "

"But is it the moon?" he went on after a long silence, puffing at hispipe. "If the moon is off there, three or thirty or three hundredmillion miles away in the sky, where has it been these forty years?I've not seen it. And yet here she pops out of my memory into my eye, and if I say the moon has always been in my eye, and is still in myeye, Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson says I'm drunk. But does that settle thequestion of who's got the moon--me or the cosmos--as the poets callit?" After that the two men smoked in silence, and as Hendricks threwaway the butt of his cigar, Dolan said, "'Tis a queer, queer world, Robert--a queer, queer world. "

Now do not smile at Mr. Dolan, gentle reader, for Adam must havethought the same thing, and philosophy has been able to say nothingmore to the point. 

It is indeed a queer, queer world, and our blindness is the queerestthing in it. Here a few weeks, later sit John and Jane Barclay on theterrace before their house one June night, listening to singing on thewater. Suddenly they realize that there is youth in the world--yetthere has been singing on the mill-pond ever since it was built. Ithas been the habitat of lovers for a quarter of a century, thismill-pond, yet Jane and John Barclay have not known it, and not untiltheir own child's voice came up to them, singing "Juanita, " did theyrealize that the song had not begun anew after its twenty years'silence in their own hearts, but always had been on the summer breeze. And this is strange, too, considering how rich and powerful JohnBarclay is and how by the scratch of his pen, he might set men workingby the thousands for some righteous cause. Yet so it is; for with allthe consciousness of great power, with all the feeling of unrestraintthat such power gives a man, driving him to think he is a kind of god, John Barclay was only a two-legged man, with a limp in one foot, and alittle mad place in his brain, wherein he kept the sense of hisrelation to the rest of this universe. And as he sat, blind to themoon, dreaming of a time when he would control Presidents and dominatecourts if they crossed his path, out on the mill-pond under an elmtree that spread like a canopy upon the water, a boy, letting the oarshang loosely, was playing the mandolin to a girl--a pretty girlwithal, blue as to eyes, fair as to hair, strong as to mouth and chin, and glorious as to forehead--who leaned back in the boat, played withthe overhanging branches, and listened and looked at the moon, and letGod's miracle work unhindered in her heart. And all up and down thosetwo miles of mill-pond were other boats and other boys and othermaidens, and as they chatted and sang and sat in the moonlight, theregrew in their hearts, as quietly as the growing of the wheat in thefields, that strange marvel of life, that keeps the tide of humanityceaselessly flowing onward. And it is all so simply done before oureyes, and in our ears, that we forget it is so baffling a mystery. 

Now let us project our astral bodies into the living room of theBarclay home, while Mr. And Mrs. John Barclay are away in Boston, andonly John Barclay's mother and his daughter are in Sycamore Ridge; andlet us watch a young man of twenty-one and a young woman of eighteendispose of a dish of fudge together. Fudge, it may be explained to theunsophisticated, is a preparation of chocolate, sugar, and cream, cooked, cooled, and cut into squares. As our fathers and motherspulled taffy, as our grandfathers and grandmothers conjured with maplesugar, and as their parents worked the mysterious spell with somewitchery of cookery to this generation unknown, so is fudge in thesepiping times the worker of a strange witchery. Observe: Through alarge room, perhaps forty feet one way and twenty-five feet the otherway, flits a young woman in the summer twilight. She goes abouthumming, putting a vase in place here, straightening a picture there, kicking down a flapping rug, or rearranging a chair; then she sitsdown and turns on an electric light and pretends to read. But she doesnot read; the light shows her something else in the room that needsattention, and she turns to that. Then she sits down again, and againgoes humming about the room. Suddenly the young woman rises andhurries out of the room, and a footstep is heard on the porch, outside. A bell tinkles, and a maid appears, and--

"Yes, " she says. "I'll see if Miss Jeanette is at home!"

And then a rustle of skirts is heard on the stairway and Miss Jeanetteenters with: "Why, Neal, you are an early bird this evening--were youafraid the worm would escape? Well, it won't; it's right here on thepiano. "

The young man's eyes, --good, clear, well-set, dark eyes that matchhis brown hair; eyes that speak from the heart, --note how they dwellupon every detail of the opposing figure, caressing with their shysurreptitious glances the girl's hair, her broad forehead, her lips;observe how they flit back betimes to those ripe red lips, like beesthat hover over a flower trembling in the wind; how the eyes of theyoung man play about the strong chin, and the bewitching curves of theneck and shoulders, and rise again to the hair, and again steal overthe face, to the strong shoulders, and again hurry back to the facelest some feature fade. This is not staring--it is done so quickly, so furtively, so deftly withal as the minutes fly by, while the lipsand the teeth chatter on, that the stolen honey of these glances isstored away in the heart's memory, all unknown to him who has gatheredit. 

An hour has passed now, while we have watched the restless eyes attheir work, and what has passed with the hour? Nothing, ladies andgentlemen--nothing; gibber, chatter, giggles, and squeals--that isall. Grandma Barclay above stairs has her opinion of it, and wondershow girls can be so addle-pated. In her day--but who ever lived longenough or travelled far enough or inquired widely enough to find onesingle girl who was as wise, or as sedate, or as industrious, or asmeek, or as gentle, or as kind as girls were in her grandmother's day?No wonder indeed that grandmothers are all married--for one couldhardly imagine the young men of that day overlooking such paragons ofvirtue and propriety as lived in their grandmothers' days. Fancy anold maid grandmother with all those qualities of mind and heart thatgirls had in their grandmothers' days!

So the elder Mrs. Barclay in her room at the top of the stairs hearswhat "he said, " "he said he said, " and what "she said she said, " andwhat "we girls did, " and what "you boys ought to do, " and what "wouldbe perfectly lovely, " and what "would be a lot of fun!" and sograndmother, good soul, grows drowsy, closes her door, and goes tobed. She does not know that they are about to sit down together on asofa--not a long, straight, cold, formal affair, but a small, rathersnuggly sofa, with the dish between them. No, girls never did that intheir grandmothers' days, so of course who would imagine they would doso now? Who, indeed? But there they are, and there is the dish betweenthem, and two hands reaching into the same dish, must of coursecollide. Collision is inevitable, and by carefully noting therepetitions of the collisions, one may logically infer that thecollisions are upon the whole rather pleasurable than otherwise; andwhen it comes to the last piece of fudge in the dish, --the very lastpiece, --the astral observer will see that there is just theslightest, the very slightest, quickest, most fleeting little tussleof hands for it, and much laughter; and then the young woman risesquickly--also note the slight pink flush in her cheeks, and she goesto her chair and folds her pretty hands in her lap, and asks:--

"Well, do you like my fudge, Neal Ward? Is it as good as BelvaLockwood's? She puts nuts in hers--I've eaten it; do you like it withnuts in it?"

"Not so well as this, " says the boy. 

The girl slips into the dining room, for a glass of water. See the eyesof the youth following her. It is dusky in the dining room, and theyouth longs for dusky places, but has not developed courage enough tofollow her. But he has courage enough to steady his eyes as she comesback with the water, so that he can look into her blue eyes while youwould count as much as one--two--three--slowly--four--slowly--five. Along, long time, so long indeed that she wishes he would look just asecond longer. 

So at the end of the evening here stand Neal, and Jeanette, even asAdam and Eve stood in the garden, talking of nothing in particular asthey slowly move toward the door. "Yes, I suppose so, " she says, asEve said and as Eve's daughters have said through all the centuries, looking intently at the floor. And then Neal, suddenly finding thelanguage of his line back to Adam, looks up to say, "Oh, yes, Iforgot--but have you read 'Monsieur Beaucaire'?" Now Adam said, "Haveyou heard the new song that the morning stars are singing together?"and Priam asked Helen if she would like to hear that new thing ofSolomon's just out, and so as the ages have rolled by, young gentlemenstanding beside their adored but not declared ones have mixedliterature with love, and have tied wisdom up in a package of candy orwild honey, and have taken it to the trysting place since thebeginning of time. It is thus the poets thrive. And when she was askedabout the new song of the morning stars, Eve, though she knew it asshe knew her litany, answered no; and so did Eve's daughter, standingin the dimly lighted hallway of the Barclay home in Sycamore Ridge;and so then and there being, these two made their next meeting sure. 

In those last years of the last century John Barclay became a powerfulman in this world--one of the few hundred men who divided thematerial kingdoms of this earth among them. He was a rich man who wasturning his money into great political power. Senates listened to him, many courts were his in fee simple, because he had bought and paid forthe men who named the judges; Presidents were glad to know what hethought, and when he came to the White House, reporters speculatedabout the talk that went on behind the doors of the President's room, and the stock market fluttered. If he desired a law, he paid for itand got it--not in a coarse illegal way, to be sure, but through theregular conventional channels of politics, and if he desired to stepon a law, he stepped on it, and a court came running up behind him, and legalized his transaction. He sneered at reformers, and mockedGod, did John Barclay in those days. He grew arrogant and boastful, and strutted in his power like a man in liquor with the vain knowledgethat he could increase the population of a state or a group of states, or he could shrivel the prosperity of a section of the country by hiswhim. For by changing a freight rate he could make wheat grow, wheregrass had nourished. By changing the rate again, he could beckon backthe wilderness. And yet, how small was his power; here beside him, cherished as the apple of his eye, was his daughter, a slip of a girl, with blue eyes and fair hair, whose heart was growing toward thelight, as the hearts of young things grow, and he, with all of hispower, could only watch the mystery, and wonder at it. He was notdispleased at what he saw. But it was one of the few things in hisconsciousness over which he could find no way to assume control. Hestood in the presence of something that came from outside of his realmand ignored him as the sun and the rain and the simple processes ofnature ignored him. 

"Jane, " he said one night, when he was in the Ridge for the first timein many weeks, --a night near the end of the summer when Jeanette andNeal Ward were vaguely feeling their way together, "Jane, mother saysthat while we've been away Neal Ward has been here pretty often. Youdon't suppose that--"

"Well, I've rather wondered about it myself a little, " responded Jane. "Neal is such a fine handsome young fellow. "

"But, Jane, " exclaimed Barclay, impatiently, as he rose to walk therug, "Jennie is only a child. Why, she's only--"

"Nineteen, John--she's a big girl now. "

"I know, dear, " he protested, "but that's absurdly young. Why--"

"Yes, " she answered, "I was nearly twenty when I was engaged to you, and Jennie's not engaged yet, nor probably even thinking seriously ofit. "

"Don't you think, " cried Barclay, as he limped down the diagonal ofthe rug, "that you should do something? Isn't it a little unusual?Why--"

"Well, John, " smiled the wife, "I might do what mother did: turn theyoung man over to father!" Barclay laughed, and she went on patiently:"It's not at all unusual, John, even if they do--that is, if theyare--you know; but they aren't, and Jennie is too much in love withher work at school to quit that. But after all it's the American way;it was the way we did, dear, and the way our mothers and fathers did, and unless you wish to change it--to Europeanize it, and pick--"

"Ah, nonsense, Jane--of course I don't want that! Only I thought someway, if it's serious she ought to--Oh, don't you know she oughtto--"

Mrs. Barclay broke her smile with, "Of course she ought to, dear, andso ought I and so ought mother when she married father and so ought mygrandmother when she married grandpa--but did we? Dear, don't you seethe child doesn't realize it? If it is anything, it is growing in herheart, and I wouldn't smudge it for the world, by speaking to hernow--unless you don't like Neal; unless you think he's too--unlessyou want a different boy. I mean some one of consequence?"

"Oh, no, it isn't that, Jane--it isn't that. Neal's all right; he'sclean and he is honest--I asked Bob Hendricks about him to-day, whenwe passed the boy chasing news for the _Banner_, and Bob gives him afine name. " Barclay threw himself into a chair and sighed. "I supposeit's just that I feel Jeanette's kind of leaving us out of it--thatis all. "

Jane went to him and patted his head gently, as she spoke: "That isnature, dear--the fawn hiding in the woods; we must trust to Jennie'sgood sense, and the good blood in Neal. My, but his sisters are proudof him! Last week Lizzie was telling me Neal's wages had beenincreased to ten dollars a week--and I don't suppose their father inall of his life ever had that much of a steady income. The things thefamily is planning to do with that ten dollars a week brought tears ofjoy to my eyes. Neal's going to have his mother-in-law on his side, anyway--just as you had yours. I know now how mother felt. "

But John Barclay did not know how mother felt, and he did not care. Heknew how father felt--how Lycurgus Mason felt, and how the father ofMrs. Lycurgus Mason felt; he felt hurt and slighted, and he could notrepress a feeling of bitterness toward the youth. All the world lovesa daughter-in-law, but a father's love for a son-in-law is an acquiredtaste; some men never get it. And John Barclay was called away thenext morning to throttle a mill in the San Joaquin Valley, and fromthere he went to North Dakota to stop the building of a competitiverailroad that tapped his territory; so September came, and with itJeanette Barclay went back to school. The mother wondered what thegirl would do with her last night at home. She was clearly nervous andunsettled all the afternoon before, and made an errand into town andcame back with a perturbed face. But after dinner the mother heardJeanette at the telephone, and this is the one-sided dialogue themother caught: "Yes--this is Miss Barclay. " "Oh, yes, I didn'trecognize your voice at first. " "What meeting?" "Yes--yes. " "And theyare not going to have it?" "Oh, I see. " "You were--oh, I don't know. Of course I should have felt--well, I--oh, it would have been allright with me. Of course. " Then the voice cheered up and she said:"Why, of course--come right out. I understand. " A pause and then, "Yes, I know a man has to go where he is called. " "Oh, she'llunderstand--you know father is always on the wing. " "No--why, no, ofcourse not--mother wouldn't think that of you. I'll tell her how itwas. " "All right, good-by--yes, right away. " And Jeanette Barclayskipped away from the telephone and ran to her mother to say, "Mother, that was Neal Ward--he wants to come out, and he was afraid you'dthink it rude for him to ask that way, but you know he had a meetingto report and thought he couldn't come, and now they've postponed themeeting, and I told him to come right out--wasn't that all right?"

And so out came Neal Ward, a likely-looking young man of twenty-one ormaybe twenty-two--a good six feet in height, with a straight leg, asquare shoulder, and firm jaw, set like his father's, and clean browneyes that did not blink. And as Jeanette Barclay, with her mother'sheight, and her father's quick keen features, and her GrandmotherBarclay's eyes and dominant figure, stood beside him in the doorway, Mrs. Jane Barclay thought a good way ahead, and Jeanette would haveblushed her face to a cinder if the mother had spoken her thoughts. The three, mother and daughter and handsome young man, sat for a whiletogether in the living room, and then Jane, who knew the heart ofyouth, and did not fear it, said, "You children should go out on theporch--it's a beautiful night; I'm going upstairs. "

And now let us once more in our astral bodies watch them there in thelight of the veiled moon--for it is the last time that even we shouldsee them alone. She is sitting on a balustrade, and he is standingbeside her, and their hands are close together on the stones. "Yes, "he is saying, "I shall be busy at the train to-morrow trying to catchthe governor for an interview on the railroad question, and may notsee you. "

"I wish you would throw the governor into the deep blue sea, " shesays, and he responds:--

"I wish I could. " There is a silence, and then he risks it--and thething he has been trying to say comes out, "I wonder if you will dosomething for me, Jeanette?"

"Oh, I don't know--don't ask me anything hard--not very hard, Neal!"

The last word was all he cared for, and by what sleight of hand heslipped his fraternity pin from his vest into her hand, neither everknew. 

"Will you?" he asks. "For me?"

She pins it at her throat, and smiles. Then she says, "Is this longenough--do you want it back now?"

He shakes his head, and finally she asks, "When?" and then it comesout:--

"Never. "

And her face reddens, and she does not speak. Their hands, on thewall, have met--they just touch, that is all, but they do not hastenapart. A long, long time they are silent--an eternity of a minute;and then she says, "We shall see in the morning. "

And then another eternal minute rolls by, and the youth slips the rosefrom her hair--quickly, and without disarranging a strand. 

"Oh, " she cries, "Neal!" and then adds, "Let me get you a prettyone--that is faded. "

But no, he will have that one, and she stands beside him and pins iton his coat--stands close beside him, and where her elbows and herarms touch him he is thrilled with delight. In the shadow of the greatporch they stand a moment, and her hand goes out to his. 

"Well, Jeanette, " he says, and still her hand does not shrink away, "well, Jeanette--it will be lonesome when you go. "

"Will it?" she asks. 

"Yes--but I--I have been so happy to-night. "

He presses her hand a little closer, and as she says, "I'm so glad, "he says, "Good-by, " and moves down the broad stone steps. She standswatching him, and at the bottom he stops and again says:--

"Well--good-by--Jeanette--I must go--I suppose. " And she does notmove, so again he says, "Good-by. "

 * * * * *

"Youth, " said Colonel Martin Culpepper to the assembled company in theballroom of the Barclay home as the clock struck twelve and brought inthe twentieth century; "Youth, " he repeated, as he tugged at thebottom of Buchanan Culpepper's white silk vest, to be sure that it methis own black trousers, and waved his free hand grandly aloft;"Youth, " he reiterated, as he looked over the gay young company at thefoot of the hall, while the fiddlers paused with their bows in theair, and the din of the New Year's clang was rising in the town;"Youth, --of all the things in God's good green earth, --Youth is themost beautiful. " Then he signalled with some dignity to the leader ofthe orchestra, and the music began. 

It was a memorable New Year's party that Jeanette Barclay gave at thedawn of this century. The Barclay private car had brought a dozen girlsdown from the state university for the Christmas holidays, and then hadmade a recruiting trip as far east as Cleveland and had brought back ascore more of girls in their teens and early twenties--for an invitationfrom the Barclays, if not of much social consequence, had a power behindit that every father recognized. And what with threescore girls from theRidge, and young men from half a dozen neighbouring states, --and youngmen are merely background in any social picture, --the ballroom was aspretty as a garden. It was her own idea, --with perhaps a shade ofsuggestion from her father, --that the old century should be danced outand the new one danced in with the pioneers of Garrison County set inquadrilles in the centre of the floor, while the young people whirledaround them in the two-step then in vogue. So the Barclays asked a scoreor so of the old people in for dinner New Year's Eve; and they keptbelow stairs until midnight. Then they filed into the ballroom, with itsfair fresh faces, its shrill treble note of merriment, --these old menand women, gray and faded, looking back on the old century while theothers looked into the new one. There came Mr. And Mrs. Watts McHurdiein the lead, Watts in his best brown suit, and Mrs. Watts in lavender tosustain her gray hair; General Ward, in his straight black frock coatand white tie, followed with Mrs. Dorman, relict of the late WilliamDorman, merchant, on his arm; behind him came the Brownwells, in eveningclothes, and Robert Hendricks and his sister, --all gray-haired, butstraight of figure and firm of foot; Colonel Culpepper followed withMrs. Mary Barclay; the Lycurgus Masons were next in the file, and intheir evening clothes they looked withered and old, and Lycurgus was notsure upon his feet; Jacob Dolan in his faded blue uniform marched inlike a drum-major with the eldest Miss Ward; and the Carnines followed, and the Fernalds followed them; and then came Judge and Mrs. Bemis--he agaunt, sinister, parchment-skinned man, with white hair and a graymustache, and she a crumbling ruin in shiny satin bedecked in diamonds. Down the length of the long room they walked, and executed anold-fashioned grand march, such as Watts could lead, while the orchestraplayed the tune that brought cheers from the company, and the little oldman looked at the floor, while Mrs. McHurdie beamed and bowed andsmiled. And then they took their partners to step off thequadrille--when behold, it transpired that in all the city orchestra, that had cost the Barclays a thousand dollars according to towntradition, not one man could be found who could call off a quadrille. Then up spake John Barclay, and stood him on a chair, and there, whenthe colonel had signalled for the music to start, the voice of JohnBarclay rang out above the din, as it had not sounded before in nearlythirty years. Old memories came rushing back to him of the nights whenhe used to ride five and ten and twenty miles and play the cabinet organto a fiddle's lead, and call off until daybreak for two dollars. Andsuch a quadrille as he gave them--four figures of it before he sent themto their seats. There were "cheat or swing, " the "crow's nest, " "skip tomy Loo, "--and they all broke out singing, while the young people clappedtheir hands, and finally by a series of promptings he quickly called themen into one line and the women into another, and then the musicsuddenly changed to the Virginia reel. And so the dance closed for theold people, and they vanished from the room, looking back at the youthand the happiness and warmth of the place with wistful but not eagereyes; and as Jacob Dolan, in his faded blues and grizzled hair andbeard, disappeared into the dusk of the hallway, Jeanette Barclay, looking at her new ring, patted it and said to Neal Ward: "Well, dear, the nineteenth century is gone! Now let us dance and be happy in thisone. "

And so she danced the new year and the new century and the new lifein, as happy as a girl of twenty can be. For was she not a Junior atthe state university, if you please? Was she not the heir of all theages, and a scandalous lot of millions besides, and what is infinitelymore important to a girl's happiness, was she not engaged, good andtight, and proud of it, to a youth making twelve dollars every weekwhether it rained or not? What more could an honest girl ask? And itwas all settled, and so happily settled too, that when she hadgraduated with her class at the university, and had spent a year inEurope--but that was a long way ahead, and Neal had to go to the Citywith father and learn the business first. But business and graduationand Europe were mere details--the important thing had happened. Sowhen it was all over that night, and the girls had giggled themselvesto bed, and the house was dark, Jeanette Barclay and her mother walkedup the stairs to her room together. There they sat down, and Jeanettebegan--

"Neal said he told you about the ring?"

"Yes, " answered her mother. 

"But he did not show it to you--because he wanted me to be the firstto see it. "

"Neal's a dear, " replied her mother. "So that was why? I thoughtperhaps he was bashful. "

"No, mother, " answered the girl, "no--we're both so proud of it. " Shekept her hand over the ring finger, as she spoke, "You know those'Short and Simple Annals' he's been doing for the _Star_--well, hegot his first check the day before Christmas, and he gave half of itto his father, and took the other twenty-five dollars and bought thisring. I think it is so pretty, and we are both real proud of it. " Andthen she took her hand from the ring, and held her finger out for hermother's eyes, and her mother kissed it. They were silent a moment;then the girl rose and stood with her hand on the doorknob and cried:"I think it is the prettiest ring in all the world, and I never wantany other. " Then she thought of mother, and flushed and ran away. 

And we should not follow her. Rather let us climb Main Street and turninto Lincoln Avenue and enter the room where Martin Culpepper sitswriting the Biography of Watts McHurdie. He is at work on his famouschapter, "Hymen's Altar, " and we may look over his great shoulder andsee what he has written: "The soul caged in its prison house of theflesh looks forth, " he writes, "and sees other chained souls, andhails them in passing like distant ships. But soul only meets soul insome great passion of giving, whether it be man to his fellow-man, tohis God, or in the love of men and women; it matters not how theecstasy comes, its root is in sacrifice, in giving, in forgetting selfand merging through abnegation into the source of life in thisuniverse for one sublime moment. For we may not come out of our prisonhouses save to inhale the air of heaven once or twice, and then goscourged back to our dungeons. Great souls are they who love the most, who breathe the deepest of heaven's air, and give of themselves mostfreely. "

CHAPTER XXIII

The next morning, before the guests were downstairs, Barclay, readinghis morning papers before the fireplace, stopped his daughter, who wasgoing through the living room on some morning errand. 

"Jeanette, " said the father, as he drew her to his chair arm, "let mesee it. "

She brought the setting around to the outside of her finger, and gavehim her hand. He looked at it a moment, patted her hand, put the ringto his lips, and the two sat silent, choked with something of joy andsomething of sorrow that shone through their brimming eyes. Thus MaryBarclay found them. They looked up abashed, and she bent over them andstroked her son's hair as she said:--

"John, John, isn't it fine that Jennie has escaped the curse of yourmillions?"

Barclay's heart was melted. He could not answer, so he nodded anassenting head. The mother stooped to kiss her son's forehead, as shewent on, "Not with all of your millions could you buy that simplelittle ring for Jennie, John. " And the father pressed his lips to thering, and his daughter snuggled tightly into his heart and the threemingled their joy together. 

Two hours later Barclay and General Ward met on the bridge by themill. It was one of those warm midwinter days, when nature seems to belistening for the coming of spring. A red bird was calling in thewoods near by, and the soft south wind had spring in it as it blewacross the veil of waters that hid the dam. John Barclay's head wasfull of music, and he was lounging across the bridge from the mill onhis way home to try his new pipe organ. He had spent four hours theday before at his organ bench, trying to teach his lame foot to keepup with his strong foot. So when General Ward overhauled him, Barclaywas annoyed. He was not the man to have his purposes crossed, evenwhen they were whims. 

"I was just coming over to the mill to see you, " said the general, ashe halted in Barclay's path. 

"All right, General--all right; what can I do for you?"

The general was as blunt a man as John Barclay. If Barclay desired nobeating around the bush, the general would go the heart of matters. Sohe said, "I want to talk about Neal with you. "

Barclay knew that certain things must be said, and the two men sat ina stone seat in the bridge wall, with the sun upon them, to talk itout then and there. "Well, General, we like Neal--we like himthoroughly. And we are glad, Jane and I, and my mother too--she likeshim; and I want to do something for him. That's about all there is tosay. "

"Yes, but what, John Barclay--what?" exclaimed the general. "That'swhat I want to know. What are you going to do for him? Make him adevil worshipper?"

"Well now, General, here--don't be too fast, " Barclay smiled anddrawled. He put his hands on the warm rocks at his sides and flappedthem like wing-tips as he went on: "Jeanette and Neal have their ownlives to live. They're sensible--unusually sensible. We didn't stealNeal, any more than you stole Jeanette, General, and--"

"Oh, I understand that, John; that isn't the point, " broke in thegeneral. "But now that you've got him, what are you going to do withhim? Can't you see, John, he's my boy, and that I have a right toknow?"

"Now, General, will you let me do a little of this talking?" askedBarclay, impatiently. "As I was saying, Jeanette and Neal aresensible, and money isn't going to make fools of them. When the timecomes and I'm gone, they'll take the divine responsibility--"

"The divine tommyrot!" cried the general; "the divine fiddlesticks!Why should they? What have they done that they should have that thrustupon them like a curse; in God's name, John Barclay, why should myNeal have to have that blot upon his soul? Can't they be free andindependent?"

Barclay did not answer; he looked glumly at the floor, and kicked thecement with his heel. "What would you have them do with the money whenthey get it, " he growled, "burn it?"

"Why not?" snapped the general. 

"Oh--I just thought I'd ask, " responded Barclay. 

The two men sat in silence. Barclay regarded conversation with thegeneral in that mood as arguing with a lunatic. Presently he rose, andstood before Ward and spoke rather harshly: "What I am going to do isthis--? and nothing more. Neal tells me he understands shorthand: Iknow the boy is industrious, and I know that he is bright and quickand honest. That's all he needs. I am going to take him into ourcompany as a stockholder--with one share--a thousand-dollar share, to be explicit; I'm going to give that to him, and that's all; thenhe's to be my private secretary for three years at five thousand ayear, so long as you must know, and then at the end of that time, ifhe and Jennie are so minded, they're going to marry; and if he has anybusiness sense--of course you know what will happen. She is all wehave, General--some one's got to take hold of things. "

As Barclay spoke General Ward grew white--his face was aquiver as histrembling voice cried out: "Oh, God, John Barclay, and would you takemy boy--my clean-hearted, fine-souled boy, whom I have taught to fearGod, and callous his soul with your damned money-making? How would youlike me to take your girl and blacken her heart and teach her thewiles of the outcasts? And yet you're going to teach Neal to lie andsteal and cheat and make his moral guide the penal code instead of hisfather's faith. Shame on you, John Barclay--shame on you, and may Goddamn you for this thing, John Barclay!" The old man trembled, but thesob that shook his frame had no tears in it. He looked Barclay in theeyes without a tremor for an angry moment, and then broke: "I am anold man, John; I can't interfere with Neal and Jeanette; it's theirlife, not mine, and some way God will work it out; but, " he added, "I've still got my own heart to break over it--that's mine--that'smine. "

He rose and faced the younger man a moment, and then walked quicklyaway. Barclay limped after him, and went home. There he sat on hisbench and made the great organ scream and howl and bellow with ragefor two hours. 

When Neal Ward went to the City to live, he had a revelation of JohnBarclay as a man of moods. The Barclay Neal Ward saw was an electricmotor rather than an engine. The power he had to perceive and to actseemed transmitted to him from the outside. At times he dictatedletters of momentous importance to the young man, which Neal was surewere improvised. Barclay relied on his instincts and rarely changed adecision. He wore himself out every day, yet he returned to his workthe next day without a sign of fag. The young man found that Barclayhad one curious vanity--he liked to seem composed. Hence the bigsmooth mahogany table before him, with the single paper tablet on it, and the rose--the one rose in the green vase in the centre of thetable. Visitors always found him thus accoutred. But to see himlimping about from room to room, giving orders in the great offices, dictating notes for the heads of the various departments, to see himin the room where the mail was received, worrying it like a pup, wasto see another man revealed. He liked to have people from SycamoreRidge call upon him, and the man who kept door in the outer office--afine gray-haired person, who had the manners of a brigadier--knew somany people in Sycamore Ridge that Neal used to call him the CityDirectory. One day Molly Brownwell called. She was the only person whoever quelled the brigadier; but when a woman has been a social leaderin a country town all of her life, she has a social poise that may notbe impressed by a mere brigadier. Mrs. Brownwell realized that hercall was unusual, but she refused to acknowledge it to him. Barclayseemed glad to see her, and as he was in one of his mellow moods hetalked of old times, and drew from a desk near the wall, which herarely opened, an envelope containing a tintype picture of Ellen. Culpepper. He showed it to her sister, and they both sat silent for atime, and then the woman spoke. 

"Well, John, " she said, "that was a long time ago. "

"Forty years, Molly--forty years. "

When they came back to the world she said: "John, I am up here lookingfor a publisher. Father has written a Biography of Watts, andcollected all of his poems and things in it, and we thought it mightsell--Watts is so well known. But the publishers won't take it. Iwant your advice about it. "

Barclay listened to her story, and then wheeled in his chair andexclaimed, "Can Adrian publish that book?"

"Yes, " she answered tentatively; "that is, he could if it didn't takesuch an awful lot of money. "

After discussing details with her, Barclay called Neal Ward andsaid:--

"Get up a letter to Adrian Brownwell asking him to print for me threethousand copies of the colonel's book, at one dollar and fifty cents acopy, and give seventy-five per cent of the profits to ColonelCulpepper. We'll put that book in every public library in thiscountry. How's that?" And he looked at the tintype and said, "Blessher dear little heart. "

"Neal, " asked Barclay, as Mrs. Brownwell left the room, "how old areyou? I keep forgetting. " When the young man answered twenty-five, Barclay, who was putting away the tintype picture, said, "And Jeanettewill be twenty-three at her next birthday. " He closed the desk andlooked at the youth bending over his typewriter and sighed. "Beengoing together off and on five or six years--I should say. "

Neal nodded. Barclay put his hand on his chin and contemplated theyoung man a moment. "Ever have any other love affair, son?"

The youngster coloured and looked up quickly with a puzzled look anddid not reply. 

Barclay cut in with, "Well, son, I'm glad to find you don't lieeasily. " He laughed silently. "Jennie has--lots of them. When she wassix she used to cry for little Watts Fernald, and they quarrelled likecats and dogs, and when she was ten there was an Irish boy--FinneganI think his name was--who milked the cow, whom she adored, and whenshe was fourteen or so, it was some boy in the high school who gaveher candy until her mother had to shoo him off, and I don't know howmany others. " He paused for a few seconds and then went on, "But she'sforgotten them--that's the way of women. " His eyes danced merrily ashe continued, while he scratched his head: "But with us men--it'sdifferent. We never forget. " He chuckled a moment, and then his facechanged as he said, "Neal, I wish you'd go into the mail room and seeif the noon mail has anything in it from that damn scoundrel who'strying to start a cracker factory in St. Louis--I hate to bother tosmash him right now when we're so busy. "

But it so happened that the damn scoundrel thought better of hisintention and took fifty thousand for his first thought, and NealWard, being one of the component parts of an engaged couple, wentahead being sensible about it. All engaged couples, of course, resolveto be sensible about it. And for two years and a half--duringnineteen one and two and part of nineteen three--Jeanette Barclay andNeal Ward had tried earnestly and succeeded admirably (they believed)in being exceedingly sensible about everything. Jeanette had gonethrough school and was spending the year in Europe with her mother, and she would be home in May; and in June--in June of 1904--why, thealmanac stopped there; the world had no further interest, and no oneon earth could imagine anything after that. For then they proposed notto be sensible any longer. 

In the early years of this century--about 1902, probably--JohnBarclay paid an accounting company twenty-five thousand dollars--moremoney than General Ward and Watts McHurdie and Martin Culpepper andJacob Dolan had saved in all their long, industrious, frugal, anduseful lives--to go over his business, install a system of audits andaccounts, and tell him just how much money he was worth. After a scoreof men had been working for six months, the accounting company madeits report. It was put in terms of dollars and cents, which arefleeting and illusive terms, and mean much in one country and littlein another, signify great wealth at one time and mere affluence inanother period. So the sum need not be set down here. But certaininteresting details of the report may be set down to illuminate thisnarrative. For instance, it indicates that John Barclay was a man ofsome consequence, when one knows that he employed more men in thatyear than many a sovereign state of this Union employed in its stateand county and city governments. It signifies something to learn thathe controlled more land growing wheat than any of half a dozenEuropean kings reign over. It means something to realize that in thoseyears of his high tide John Barclay, by a few lines dictated to NealWard, could have put bread out of the reach of millions of hisfellow-creatures. And these are evidences of material power--thesemen he hired, these lands he dominated, and this vast store of foodthat he kept. So it is fair to assume that if this is a materialworld, John Barclay's fortune was founded upon a rock. He and hisNational Provisions Company were real. They were able to make laws;they were able to create administrators of the law; and they were ableto influence those who interpreted the law. Barclay and his power weresubstantial, palpable, and translatable into terms of money, of power, of vital force. 

And then one day, after long years of growth in theunder-consciousnesses of men, an idea came into full bloom in theworld. It had no especial champions. The people began to think thisidea. That was all. Now life reduced to its lowest terms consists ofyou and him and me. Put us on a desert island together--you and himand me--and he can do nothing without you and me--except he kill us, and then he is alone; even then we haunt him, so our influence stillbinds him. You can do nothing without him and me, and I can do nothingwithout you and him. Not that you and he will hold me; not that youwill stop me; but what you think and say will bind me to your wishestighter than any chains you might forge. What you and he think is morepowerful than all the material forces of this universe. For what youand he think is public opinion. It is not substantial; it is notpalpable. It may not readily be translated into terms of money, orpower, or vital force. But it crushes all these things before it. Whenthis public opinion rises sure and firm and strong, no material forceon this earth can stop it. For a time it may be dammed and checked. For a day or a week or a year or a decade it may be turned from itschannel; yet money cannot hold it; arms cannot hold it; cunning cannotbaffle it. For it is God moving among men. Thus He manifests Himselfin this earth. Through the centuries, amid the storm and stress oftime, often muffled, often strangled, often incoherent, often raucousand inarticulate with anguish, but always in the end triumphant, thevoice of the people is indeed the voice of God!

Nearly a dozen years had passed since the Russian painted the pictureof John Barclay, which hangs in the public library of Sycamore Ridge, and in that time the heart of the American people had changed. Barclaywas beginning to feel upon him, night and day, the crushing weight ofpopular scorn. He called the idea envy, but it was not envy. It wasthe idea working in the world, and the weight of the scorn wasbeginning to crumple his soul; for this idea that the people werethinking was finding its way into newspapers, magazines, and books. They were beginning to question the divine right of wealth to rule, because it was wealth--an idea that Barclay could not comprehend evenvaguely. The term honest wealth, which was creeping into respectableperiodicals, was exceedingly annoying to him. For the very presence ofthe term seemed to indicate that there was such a thing as dishonestwealth, --an obvious absurdity; and when he addressed the students ofthe Southwestern University at their commencement exercises in 1902, his address attracted considerable attention because it deplored themodern tendency in high places toward socialism and warned thestudents that a nation of iconoclasts would perish from the earth. Butthe people went on questioning the divine right of wealth to rule. Inthe early part of 1903 Barclay was astounded at the action of a scoreof his senators and nearly a hundred of his congressmen, who voted fora national law prohibiting the giving of railroad rebates. He wasassured by all of them that it was done to satisfy temporaryagitation, but the fact that they voted for the law at all, as heexplained to Senator Myton, at some length and with some asperity, wasa breach of faith with "interests in American politics which may notsafely be ignored. " "And what's more, " he added angrily, "this is apersonal insult to me. That law hits my Door Strip. "

And then out of the clear sky like a thunderbolt, not from an enemy, not from any clique or crowd he had fought, but from the governmentitself, during the last days of Congress came a law creating aDepartment of Commerce and Labour at Washington, a law giving federalinspectors the right to go through books of private concerns. Barclaywas overwhelmed with amazement. He raged, but to no avail; and hiswrath was heated by the rumours printed in all the newspapers thatBarclay and the National Provisions Company were to be the firstvictims of the new law. Mrs. Barclay and Jeanette were going to Europein the spring of 1903, and Barclay on the whole was glad of it. Hewished the decks cleared for his fight; he felt that he must not haveJane at his elbow holding his hand from malice in the engagement thatwas coming, and when he left them on the boat, he spent a weekscurrying through the East looking for some unknown enemy in highfinancial circles who might be back of the government's determinationto move against the N. P. C. He felt sure he could uncover the source ofhis trouble--and then, either fight his enemy or make terms. It didnot occur to Barclay that he could not find a material, palpable, personal object upon which to charge or with which to capitulate. Buthe found nothing, and crossed the Alleghanies puzzled. 

When he got home, he learned that a government inspector, one H. S. Smith, was beginning the investigation of the Provisions Company'sbooks in St. Paul, Omaha, Chicago, and Denver. Barclay learned thatSmith had secured some bills of lading that might not easily beexplained. Incidentally, Barclay learned that an attempt had beenmade, through proper channels, to buy Smith, and he was nonplussed tolearn that Smith was not purchasable. Then to end the whole matter, Barclay wrote to Senator Myton, directing him to have Smith removedimmediately. But Myton's reply, which was forwarded to Barclay atSycamore Ridge, indicated that "the orders under which Smith isworking come from a higher source than the department. "

Barclay's scorn of Inspector Smith--a man whom he could buy and sella dozen times from one day's income from his wealth--flamed into apassion. He tore Myton's letter to bits, and refreshed his faith inthe god of Things As They Are by garroting a mill in Texas. While theTexas miller was squirming, Barclay did not consider Inspector Smithconsciously, but in remote places in his mind always there lived thescorned person whom Barclay knew was working against him. 

From time to time in the early summer the newspapers containeddefinite statements, authorized from Washington with increasingpositiveness, that the cordon around the N. P. C. Was tightening. InJuly Barclay's scorn of Inspector Smith grew into disquietude; for aletter from Judge Bemis, of the federal court, --written up in theCatskills, --warned him that scorn was not the only emotion with whichhe should honour Smith. After reading Bemis' confidential andambiguous scrawl, Barclay drummed for a time with his hard fingers onthe mahogany before him, stared at the print sketches of machineryabove him, and paced the floor of his office with the roar of the millanswering something in his angry heart. He could not know that thetide was running out. He went to his telephone and asked for a city sofar away that when he had finished talking for ten minutes, he hadspent enough money to keep General Ward in comfort for a month. NealWard, sitting in his room, heard Barclay say: "What kind of a damnbunco game were you fellows putting up on me in 1900? You got mymoney; that's all right; I didn't squeal at the assessment, did I?"Young Ward in the pause closed his door. But the bull-like roar ofBarclay came through the wood between them in a moment, and he heard:"Matter enough--here's this fellow Smith bullying my clerks out inOmaha, and nosing around the St. Paul office; what right has he got?Who is he, anyway--who got him his job? I wrote to Myton to get himremoved, or sent to some other work, and Myton said that the WhiteHouse was back of him. I wish you'd go over to Washington, and tellthem who I am and what we did for you in '96 and 1900; we can't standthis. It's a damned outrage, and I look to you to stop it. " In amoment Ward heard Barclay exclaim: "You can't--why, that's a hell ofa note! What kind of a fellow is he, anyway? Tell him I gave half amillion to the party, and I've got some rights in this government thata white man is bound to respect--or does he believe in taking yourmoney and letting you whistle?" A train rolling by the mill drownedBarclay's voice, but at the end of the conversation Ward heard Barclaysay: "Well, what's a party good for if it doesn't protect the men whocontribute to its support? You simply must do it. I look to you forit. You got my good money, and it's up to you to get results. "

There was some growling, and then Barclay hung up the receiver. But hewas mad all day, and dictated a panic interview to Ward, which Wardwas to give to the Associated Press when they went to Chicago the nextday. In the interview, Barclay said that economic conditions werebeing disturbed by half-baked politicians, and that values wouldshrink and the worst panic in the history of the country would followunless the socialistic meddling with business was stopped. 

The summer had deepened to its maturest splendour before Barclayacknowledged to himself his dread of the City. For he began to feel adefinite discomfiture at the panorama of his pictures on thenews-stands in connection with the advertising of the Sundaynewspapers and magazines. The newspapers were blazoning to the wholecountry that the Economy Door Strip was a blind for taking railroadrebates, and everywhere he met the report of Inspector Smith that theNational Provisions Company's fifty-pound sack of Barclay's Bestcontained but forty-eight pounds and ten ounces; also that Barclay hadbeen taking three ounces out of the pound cartons of breakfast food, and that the cracker packages were growing smaller, while the priceswere not lowered. Even in Sycamore Ridge the reporters appeared withexasperating regularity, and the papers were filled with divertingarticles telling of the Barclays' social simplicity and rehashing oldstories of John Barclay's boyhood. His attempt to stop theinvestigation of the National Provisions Company became noised aroundWashington, and the news of his failure was frankly given out from theWhite House. This inspired a cartoon from McCutcheon in the _ChicagoTribune_, representing the President weighing a flour sack on whichwas printed "Barclay's Worst, " with Barclay behind the Presidenttrying to get his foot on the scales. 

All of his life Barclay had been a fighter; he liked to hit and dodgeor get hit back. His struggles in business and in the business part ofpolitics had been with tangible foes, with material things; and hisweapons had been material things: coercion, bribery (more or lesssugar-coated), cheating, and often in these later years the roar ofhis voice or the power of his name. But now, facing the formless, impersonal thing called public opinion, hitherto unknown in his schemeof things, he was filled with uncertainty and indecision. 

One autumn day, after sending three stenographers home limp and wearywith directions for his battles, Barclay strayed into McHurdie's shop. The general and Dolan were the only members of the parliament presentthat afternoon, besides Watts. Barclay nodded at the general withoutspeaking, and Dolan said:--

"Cool, ain't it? Think it will freeze?"

Barclay took a chair, and when Dolan and Ward saw that he had come fora visit, they left. 

"Watts, " asked Barclay, after the others had gone, and the little manat the bench did not speak, "Watts, what's got into the people of thiscountry? What have I done that they should begin pounding me thisway?"

McHurdie turned a gentle smile on his visitor, knowing that Barclaywould do the talking. Barclay went on: "Here are five suits in countycourts in Texas against me; a suit in Kansas by the attorney-general, five or ten in the Dakotas, three in Nebraska, one or two in each ofthe Lake states, and the juries always finding against me. I haven'tchanged my methods. I'm doing just what I've done for fifteen years. I've had lots of lawsuits before, with stockholders and rivalcompanies and partners, and millers and all that--but this standingin front of the mob and fighting them off--why? Why? What have Idone? These county attorneys and attorneys-general seem to delight init--now why? They didn't used to; it used to be that only cranks likeold Phil Ward even talked of such things, and people laughed at them;and now prosecuting attorneys actually do these things, and peoplereelect them. Why? What's got into the people? What am I doing that Ihaven't been doing?"

"Maybe the people are growing honest, John, " suggested the harnessmaker amiably. 

Barclay threw back his head and roared: "Naw--naw--it isn't that;it's the damn newspapers. That's what it is! They're what's raisingthe devil. But why? Why? What have I done? Why, they have evenbulldozed some of my own federal judges--my own men, Watts, my ownmen; men whose senators came into my office with their hats in theirhands and asked permission to name these judges. Now why?" He wassilent awhile and then began chuckling: "But I fixed 'em the otherday. Did you see that article in all the papers briefed out of NewYork about how that professor had said that the N. P. C. Was an economicnecessity? I did that, Watts: and got it published in the magazines, too--and our advertising agents made all the newspapers that get ouradvertising print it--and they had to. " Barclay laughed. After amoody silence he continued: "And you know what I could do. I couldfinance a scheme to buy out the meat trust and the lumber trust, and Icould control every line of advertising that goes into the damnmagazines--and I could buy the paper trust too, and that would fix'em. The Phil Wards are not running this country yet. The men who makethe wealth and maintain the prosperity have got to run it in spite ofthe long-nosed reformers and socialists. You know, Watts, that we menwho do things have a divine responsibility to keep the country off therocks. But she's drifting a lot just now, and they're all after me, because I'm rich. That's all, Watts, just because I've worked hard andearned a little money--that's why. " And so he talked on, until he wastired, and limped home and sat idly in front of his organ, unable totouch the keys. 

Then he turned toward the City to visit his temporal kingdom. There inthe great Corn Exchange Building his domain was unquestioned. There inthe room with the mahogany walls he could feel his power, and stanchthe flow of his courage. There he was a man. But alas for humanvanity! When he got to the City, he found the morning papers full of astory of a baby that had died from overeating breakfast food made athis mills and adulterated with earth from his Missouri clay banks, asthe coroner had attested after an autopsy; and a miserable countyprosecutor was looking for John Barclay. So he hid all the next day inhis offices, and that evening took Neal Ward on a special train in hisprivate car, on a roundabout way home to Sycamore Ridge. 

It was a wretched homecoming for so great and successful a man asBarclay. Yet he with all his riches, with all his material power, evenhe longed for the safety of home, as any hunted thing longs for hislair. On the way he paced the diagonals of the little office room inhis car, like a caged jackal. The man had lost his anchor; the thingswhich his life had been built on would not hold him. Money--menenvied the rich nowadays, he said, and the rich man had no rights inthe courts or out of them; friends--they had gone up in the market, and he could not afford them; politics--he had found it a quicksand. So he jabbered to Neal Ward, his secretary, and pulled down thecurtains of his car on the station side of every stop the train madein its long day's journey. 

CHAPTER XXIV

It was nearly midnight when the special train pulled into SycamoreRidge, and Neal Ward hurried home. He went to his room, and foundthere a letter and a package, both addressed in Jeanette'shandwriting. The letter was only a note that read:--

 "MY DEAREST BOY: I could not wait to send it for your Christmas present. So I am sending it the very day it is finished. I hope it will bring me close to you--into your very heart and keep me there. I have kissed it--for I knew that you would. 

 "Your loving JEANETTE. "

He tore open the package and found a miniature of Jeanette done onivory--that seemed to bring her into the room, and illumine it withher presence. The thing bloomed with life, and his heart bounded withjoy as his eyes drank the beauty of it. His father called from belowstairs, and the youth went down holding the note and the miniature inhis hands. Before the father could speak, the son held out thepicture, and Philemon Ward looked for a moment into the glowingfaces--that of the picture and that of the living soul before him, and hesitated before speaking. 

"I got your wire--" he began. 

"But isn't it beautiful, father--wonderful!" broke in the son. 

The father assented kindly and then continued: "So I thought I'd situp for you. I had to talk with you. " The son's face looked aninterrogation, and the father answered, "Read that, Neal--" handinghis son a letter in a rich linen envelope bearing in the corner theindication that it was written at the Army and Navy Club inWashington. The lovely face in the miniature lay on the table betweenthem and smiled up impartially at father and son as the young man drewout the letter and read:--

 "MY DEAR GENERAL WARD: This letter will introduce to you Mr. H. S. Smith, an inspector from the Bureau of Commerce and Labour, who has been working upon evidence connected with the National Provisions Company. I happened to be at luncheon this afternoon with a man of the highest official authority, whose name it would be bad faith to divulge, but whom I know you respect, even if you do not always agree with him. I mentioned your name and the part you took in the battle of the Wilderness, and my friend was at once interested, though, of course, he had known you by name and fame for forty years. One word led to another, as is usual in these cases, and my friend mentioned the fact that your son, Neal Dow Ward, is secretary to John Barclay, and in a position to verify certain evidence which the government now has in the N. P. C. Matter. I happen to know that the government is exceedingly anxious to be exactly correct in every charge it makes against this Company, and hence I am writing to you. Your son can do a service to his country to-day by telling the truth when he is questioned by Inspector Smith, to my mind as important as that you did in the Wilderness. Inspector Smith has a right to question him, and will do so, and I have promised my friend here to ask you to counsel with your son, and beg him in the name of that good citizenship for which you have always stood, and for which you offered your life, to tell the simple truth. As a comrade and a patriot, I have no doubt what you will do, knowing the facts. "

Neal Ward put his hand on the table, with the letter still in hisfingers. "Father, " he asked blankly, "do you know what that means?"

"Yes, Neal, I think I understand; it means that to-morrow morning willdecide whether you are a patriot or a perjurer, my boy--a patriot ora perjurer!" The general, who was in his shirt-sleeves and collarless, rose, and putting his hands behind him, backed to the radiator to warmthem. 

"But, father--father, " exclaimed the boy, "how can I? What I learnedwas in confidence. How can I?"

The father saw the anguish in his son's face, and did not reply atonce. "Is it crooked, Neal?"

"Yes, " replied the son, and then added: "So bad I was going to get outof it, as soon as Jeanette came home. I couldn't stand it--for alife, father. But I promised to stay three years, and try, and I thinkI should keep my promise. "

The father and son were silent for a time, and then the father spoke. "And you love her with all your life--don't you, Nealie?" The son wasgazing intently at the miniature and nodded. At length the fathersighed. "My poor, poor boy--my poor, poor boy. " He walked to thetable on which were his books and papers, and then stood looking atthe girl's face. "You couldn't explain it to her, I suppose?" heasked. 

"No, " replied the son. "No; she adores her father; to her he isperfect. And I don't blame her, for he is good--you can't know howgood, to her. " Again they stood in silence. The son looked up from thepicture and said, "And you know, father, what the world would think ofme--a spy, an informer--an ingrate?"

The old man did not reply, and the son shook his head and his facetwitched with the struggle that was in him. Suddenly the father walkedto the son and cried: "And yet you must, Neal Ward--you must. Isthere any confidence in God's world so sacred as your duty to mankind?Is there any tie, even that of your wife, so sacred as that whichbinds you to humanity? I left your mother, my sweetheart, and went outto fight, with the chance of never seeing her again. I went out andleft her for the same country that is calling you now, Neal!" The boylooked up with agony on his face. The father paused a moment and thenwent on: "Your soul is your soul--not John Barclay's, my boy--notJeanette Barclay's--but yours--yours, Neal, to blight or to cherish, as you will. " A moment later he added, "Don't you see, son--don't yousee, Neal?" The son shook his head and looked down, and did notanswer. The father put his arm about the son. "Boy, boy, " he cried, "boy, you've got a a man's load on you now--a man's load. To-morrowyou can run away like a coward; you can dodge and lie like a thief, oryou can tell the simple truth, as it is asked of you, like a man--thesimple truth like a man, Neal. "

"Yes, I know, father--I see it all--but it is so hard--for hersake, father. "

The old man was silent, while the kitchen clock ticked away a minuteand then another and a third. Then he took his arm away from his son, and grasped the boy's hand. "Oh, little boy--little boy, " he cried, "can't I make you see that the same God who has put this trial uponyou will see you through it, and that if you fail in this trial, yoursoul will be crippled for life, and that no matter what you get inreturn for your soul--you will lose in the bargain? Can't you see it, Nealie--can't you see it? All my life I have been trying to live thatway, and I have tried to make you see it--so that you would be readyfor some trial like this. "

The son rose, and the two men stood side by side, clasping hands. Theboy suddenly tore himself loose, and throwing his hands in the air, wailed, "Oh, God--it is too hard--I can't, father--I can't. "

And with the miniature in his hand he walked from the room, andPhilemon Ward went to his closet and wrestled through the night. Atdawn his son sat reading and re-reading a letter. Finally he pressedanother letter to his lips, and read his own letter again. It read:--

 "MY DARLING GIRL: This is the last letter I shall ever mail to you, perhaps. I can imagine no miracle that will bring us together again. My duty, as I see it, stands between us. The government inspector is going to put me under oath to-morrow--unless I run, and I won't--and question me about your father's business. What I must tell will injure him--maybe ruin him. I am going to tell your father what I am going to do before I do it. But by all the faith I have been taught in a God--and you know I am not pious, and belong to no church--I am forced to do this thing. Oh, Jeanette, Jeanette--if I loved you less, I would take you for this life alone and sell my soul for you; but I want you for an eternity--and in that eternity I want to bring you an unsoiled soul. Good-by--oh, good-by. NEAL. "

The next morning when Neal Ward went out of the office at the mill, John Barclay sat shivering with wrath and horror. Every second stampedhim with its indelible finger, as a day, or a month, puts its stain onother men. 

Another morning, a week later, as he sat at his desk, a telegram fromhis office manager in the city fluttered in his hands. It read: "Weare privately advised that you were indicted by the federal grand jurylast night--though we do not know upon what specific charge--ourfriend B. Will advise us later in the day. "

It was a gray December day, and a thin film of ice covered themill-pond. Barclay looked there and shuddered away from the thoughtthat came to him. He was alone in the mill. He longed for his wife anddaughter, and yet when he thought of their homecoming to disgrace, heshook with agony. Over and over again he whispered the word"indicted. " The thought of his mother and her sorrow broke him down. He locked the door, dropped heavily into his chair, and bowed his headon his crossed arms. And then--

What, tears? Tears for Mr. Barclay?--for himself? Look back along therecord for his life: there are many tears charged to his account, butnone for his own use. Back in the seventies there are tears of MissCulpepper, charged to Mr. Barclay, and one heart-break for GeneralHendricks. Again in the eighties there is sorrow for Mr. RobertHendricks, and more tears for Mrs. Brownwell, that was MissCulpepper--all charged to the account of Mr. Barclay; and in theearly nineties there are some manly tears for Martin F. Culpepper, also charged to Mr. Barclay--but none before for his own use. Arethey, then, tears of repentance? No, not tears for the recordingangel, not good, man's size, soul-washing tears of repentance, butmiserable, dwarf, useless, self-pitying, corroding tears--tears ofshame and rage, for the proud, God-mocking, man-cheating, powerful, faithless, arrogant John Barclay, dealer in the Larger Good. 

And so with his head upon his arms, and his arms upon his desk, --agray-clad, gray-haired, slightly built, time-racked littlefigure, --John Barclay strained his soul and wrenched his body andtried in vain to weep. 

CHAPTER XXV

Down comes the curtain. Only a minute does John Barclay sit there withhis head in his arms, and then, while you are stretching your legs, orreading your programme, or looking over the house to see who may behere, up rises John Barclay, and while the stage carpenters aresetting the new scene, he is behind there telephoning to Chicago, toMinneapolis, to Omaha, to Cleveland, to Buffalo, --he fairly swampsthe girl with expensive long-distance calls, --trying to see if thereis not some way to stop the filing of that indictment. For to him themere indictment advertises to mankind that money is not power, andwith him and with all of his caste and class a confession of weaknessis equivalent to a confession of wrong. For where might makes right, as it does in his world, weakness spells guilt, and with all thepeople jeering at him, with the press saying: "Aha, so they have gotMr. Barclay, have they? Well, if all his money and all his power couldnot prevent an indictment, he must be a pretty tough customer, "--withthe public peering into his private books and papers in a lawsuit, confirming as facts all that they had read in the newspapers, in shortwith the gold plating of respectability rubbed off his moral brass, hefeels the crushing weight of the indictment, as he limps up and downhis room at the mill and frets at the long-distance operator for beingso slow with his calls. 

But he is behind the scenes now; and so is Neal Ward, walking thestreets of Chicago, looking for work on a newspaper, and finallyfinding it. And so are Mrs. Jane Barclay and Miss Barclay, as theysail away on their ten days' cruise of the Mediterranean. And whilethe orchestra plays and the man in the middle of row A of the dresscircle edges out of his seat and in again, we cannot hear John Barclaysigh when the last telephone call is answered, and he finds thatnothing can be done. And he is not particularly cheered by theknowledge that the Associated Press report that very afternoon issending all over the world the story of the indictment. But late inthe afternoon Judge Bemis, in whose court the indictment was found, much to his chagrin, upon evidence furnished by special counsel sentout from Washington--Judge Bemis tells him, as from one old friend toanother, that the special counsellor isn't much of a lawyer. Thepleasant friendly little rip-saw laugh of the judge over the telephonenearly a thousand miles away is not distinct enough to be heard acrossthe stage even if the carpenters were not hammering, and the orchestrascreaming, and the audience buzzing; but that little laugh of his goodfriend, Judge Bemis, was the sweetest sound John Barclay had heard inmany a day. It seemed curious that he should so associate it, but thatlittle laugh seemed to drown the sound of a clicking key in a lock--alarge iron lock, that had been rattling in his mind since noon. Foreven in the minds of the rich and the great, even in the minds of menwho fancy they are divinely appointed to parcel out to their lessdaring brethren the good things of this world, there is always achild's horror of the jail. So when Mr. Barclay, who was something ofa lawyer himself, heard his good friend, Judge Bemis, laugh thatpleasant little friendly laugh behind the scenes, the heart of Mr. Barclay gave a little pulse-beat of relief if not of joy. 

But an instant later the blight of the indictment was over him again. Hammer away, and scream away, and buzz away with all your might, younoises of the playhouse; let us not hear John Barclay hastening acrossthe bridge just before the early winter sunset comes, that he mayintercept the _Index_ and the _Banner_ in the front yard of theBarclay home, before his mother sees them. Always heretofore he hasbeen glad to have her read of his achievements, in the hope that shewould come to approve them, and to view things as he saw them--hissuccess and his power and his glory. But to-night he hides the paperunder his gray coat and slips into the house. She and her son sit downto dinner alone. This must be a stage dinner they are eating--thoughit is all behind the scenes; for Mr. Barclay is merely going throughthe empty form of eating. "No, thank you, " for the roast. "Why, Mr. Barclay did not touch his soup!" "Well, " says the cook, tasting itcritically, "that's strange. " And "No, thank you" for the salad, and"Not any pie to-night, Clara. " "What--none of the mince pie, John?Why, I went out in the kitchen and made it for you myself. " "Well, alittle. "

Heigh-ho! We sigh, and we drum on our table-cloth with our fingers, and we are trying to find some way to tell something. We have been abad boy, maybe--a bad little boy, and must own up; that is part ofour punishment--the hardest part perhaps, even with the curtain down, even with the noise in front, even with the maid gone, even when amother comes and strokes our head, as we sit idly at the organ bench, unable to sound a key. Shall the curtain go up now? Shall we sitgawking while a boy gropes his way out of a man's life, back throughforty years, and puts his head in shame and sorrow against a mother'sbreast? How he stumbles and falters and halts, as the truth comesout--and it must come out; on the whole the best thing there is tosay of John Barclay on that fateful December day in the year of ourLord 1903 is that he did not let his mother learn the truth from anylips but his. And so it follows naturally, because he was brave andkind, that instead of having to strengthen her, she sustainedhim--she in her seventies, he in his fifties. 

"My poor dear child, " she said, "I know--I know. But don't worry, John--don't worry. I don't mind. Jane won't mind, I am sure, and Iknow Jennie will understand. It isn't what even we who love you thinkof you, John--it is what you are that counts. Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, maybe you could serve your country and humanity in jail--by showingthe folly and the utter uselessness of all this money-getting, just asyour father served it by dying. I would not mind if it made men seethat money isn't the thing--if it made you see it, my boy; if youcould come out of a jail with that horrible greed for money purgedfrom you--"

But no--we will not peep behind the curtain; we will not dwell withJohn Barclay as he walked all night up and down the great living roomof his home. And see, the footlights have winked at the leader of theorchestra, to let him know he is playing too long; observe, howquickly the music dies down--rather too quickly, for the clatter ofcast iron is heard on the stage, and the sound of hurried footsteps isaudible, as of some one moving rapidly about behind the curtain. Therattling iron you hear is the stove in Watts McHurdie's shop; theyhave just set it up, and got it red hot; for it is a cold day, thatfifteenth day of December, 1903, and the footsteps you hear are thoseof the members of the harness shop parliament. 

Ah! There goes the curtain, and there sits Watts astraddle of hisbench, working with all his might, for he has an order to sewsleigh-bells on a breast strap, for some festivity or another; andhere sits the colonel, and over there the general, and on hishome-made chair Jacob Dolan is tilted back, warming his toes at thestove. They are all reading--all except Watts, who is working; on thefloor are the Chicago and St. Louis evening papers, and the Omaha andKansas City morning papers. And on the first pages of all of thesepapers are pictures of John Barclay. There is John Barclay in the_Bee_, taken in his Omaha office by the _Bee's_ own photographer--anew picture of Mr. Barclay, unfamiliar to the readers of mostnewspapers. It shows the little man standing by a desk, smiling ratherbenignly with his sharp bold eyes fixed on the camera. There is a lineportrait of Mr. Barclay in the _Times_, one of recent date, showingthe crow's-feet about the eyes, the vertical wrinkle above the nose, and the furtive mouth, hard and naked, and the square mean jaw, thatevery cartoonist of Barclay has emphasized for a dozen years. Andthere are other pictures of Mr. Barclay in the papers on the floor, and the first pages of the papers are filled with the news of theBarclay indictment. All over this land, and in Europe, the news ofthat indictment caused a sensation. In the _Times_, there on thefloor, is an editorial comment upon the indictment of Barclay cabledfrom London, another from Paris, and a third from Berlin. It was a bigevent in the world, an event of more than passing note--this suddenstanding up of one of the richest men of his land, before the frontdoor of a county jail. Big business, and little business that apes bigbusiness, dropped its jaw. The world is not accustomed to think ofmight making wrong, so when a Charles I or a Louis XVI or a JohnBarclay comes to harm, the traditions of the world are wrenched. Mensay: "How can these things be--if might makes right? Here is a casewhere might and right conflict--how about it? Jails are for the poor, not for the rich, because the poor are wrong and the rich are right, and no just man made perfect by a million should be in jail. "

And so while the members of the parliament in Watts McHurdie's shopread and were disturbed at the strange twist of events, the wholeworld was puzzled with them, and in unison with Jacob Dolan, half theworld spoke, "I see no difference in poisoning breakfast foods andpoisoning wells, and it's no odds to me whether a man pinches a fewounces out of my flour sack, or steals my chickens. "

And the other half of the world was replying with Colonel Culpepper, "Oh, well, Jake, now that's all right for talk; but in the realms ofhigh finance men are often forced to be their own judges of right andwrong, and circumstances that we do not appreciate, cannot understand, in point of fact, nor comprehend, if I may say so, intervene, and makewhat seems wrong in small transactions, trivial matters andpinch-penny business, seem right in the high paths of commerce. "

The general was too deeply interested in reading what purported to behis son's testimony before Commissioner Smith, to break into thediscussion at this point, so Dolan answered, "From which I take itthat you think that Johnnie down at the mill keeps a private God inhis private car. "

The colonel was silent for a time; he read a few lines and looked intospace a moment, and then replied in a gentle husky voice: "Jake, whatdo we know about it? The more I think how every man differs from hisneighbour, and all our sins are the result of individual weakness atthe end of lonely struggles with lonely temptations--the more I thinkmaybe there is something in what you say, and that not only John buteach of us--each of us under this shining sun, sir--keeps hisprivate God. "

"You'll have to break that news gently to the Pope, " returned Dolan. "I'll not try it. Right's right, Mart Culpepper, and wrong's wrong forme and for Johnnie Barclay, white, black, brown, or yellow--'tis thesame. "

"There's nothing in your theory, Mart, " cut in the general, foldinghis paper across his knee; "not a thing in the world. We're all partsof a whole, and the only way this is an individual problem atall--this working out of the race's destiny--is that the whole can'timprove so long as the parts don't grow. So long as we all are likeJohn Barclay save in John's courage to do wrong, laws won't help usmuch, and putting John in jail won't do so very much--though it mayscare the cowards until John's kind of crime grows unpopular. But whatwe must have is individual--"

Tinkle goes the bell over Watts McHurdie's head--the bell tied to acord that connects with the front door. Down jumps Watts, and note theplay of the lights from the flies, observe that spot light movingtoward R. U. E. , there by the door of the shop. Yes, all ready; enterJohn Barclay. See that iron smile on his face; he has not surrendered. He has been clean-shaven, and entering that door, he is as spick andspan as though he were on a wedding journey. Give him a hand or a hissas you will, ladies and gentlemen, John Barclay has entered at theRight Upper Entrance, and the play may proceed. 

"Well, " he grinned, "I suppose you are talking it over. Colonel, hasthe jury come to a verdict yet?"

What a suave John Barclay it was; how admirably he held his nerve; nota quiver in the face, not a ruffle of the voice. The general looked athim over his spectacles, and could not keep the kindness out of hiseyes. "What a brick you are!" he said to himself, and Jake Dolan, conquered by the simplicity of it, surrendered. 

"Oh, well, John, I suppose we all have our little troubles, " saidJake. Only that; the rack of the inquisitor grew limp. And ColonelCulpepper rose and gave Barclay his hand and spoke not a word. Thesilence was awkward, and at the end of a few moments the colonel foundwords. 

"How, " he asked in his thick asthmatic voice, mushy with emotion, "howin the world did this happen, John? How did it happen?"

Barclay looked at the general; no, he did not glare, for John Barclayhad grown tame during the night, almost docile, one would say. But hedid not answer at first, and Watts McHurdie, bending over his work, chuckled out: "Ten miles from Springfield, madam--ten miles fromSpringfield. " And then John sloughed off thirty years and laughed. Andthe general laughed, and the colonel smiled, and Jake Dolan took JohnBarclay's hand from the colonel, and said:--

"The court adjudges that the prisoner at the bar pay the assembledcompany four of those cigars in his inside pocket, and stand committeduntil the same is paid. "

And then there was a scratching of matches, and a puffing, and Barclayspoke: "I knew there was one place on earth where I was welcome. Themill is swarming with reporters, and I thought I'd slip away. They'llnot find me here. " The parliament smoked in silence, and again Barclaysaid, "Well, gentlemen, it's pretty tough--pretty tough to work allyour life to build up an industry and in the end--get this. "

"Well, John, " said the general, as he rolled up his newspaper and putit away, "I'm sorry--just as sorry as Mart is; not so much for theindictment, that is all part of the inevitable consequence of yourcreed; if it hadn't been the indictment, it would have been somethingelse, equally sad--don't you see, John?"

"Oh, I know what you think, General, " retorted Barclay, bitterly. "Iknow your idea; you think it's retribution. "

"Not exactly that either, John--just the other side of the equation. You have reaped what you sowed, and I am sorry for what you sowed. Godgave you ten talents, John Barclay--ten fine talents, my boy, and youwrapped them in a napkin and buried them in the ground, buried them ingreed and cunning and love of power, and you are reaping envy andmalice and cruelty. You were efficient, John; oh, if I had been asefficient as you, how much I could have done for this world--howmuch--how much!" he mused wistfully. 

Barclay did not reply, but his face was hard, and his neck was stiff, and he was not moved. He was still the implacable Mr. Barclay, therich Mr. Barclay, and he would have no patronage from old PhilWard--Phil Ward the crank, who was a nation's joke. Ting-a-ling wentthe bell over Watts McHurdie's head, and the little man climbed downfrom his bench and hurried into the shop. But instead of a customer, Mr. J. K. Mercheson, J. K. Mercheson representing Barber, Hancock, andKohn, --yes, the whip trust; that's what they call it, but it isreally an industrial organization of the trade, --Mr. J. K. Merchesonof New York came in. No, McHurdie did not need anything at present, and he backed into the shop. He had all of the goods in that line thathe could carry just now; and he sidled toward his seat. The members ofthe parliament effaced themselves, as loafers do in every busy placewhen business comes up; the colonel got behind his paper, Barclay hidback of the stove, Dolan examined a bit of harness, and the generalbusied himself picking up the litter on the floor, and folding thepapers with the pictures of Barclay inside so that he would not beannoyed by them. But Mr. Mercheson knew how to get orders; he knewthat the thing to do is to stay with the trade. 

So he leaned against the work bench and began:--

"This is a great town, Mr. McHurdie; we're always hearing fromSycamore Ridge. When I'm in the East they say, 'What kind of a town isthat Sycamore Ridge where Watts McHurdie and your noted reformer, Robert Hendricks, who was offered a place in the cabinet, and this manJohn Barclay live?'"

Mr. Mercheson paused for effect. Mr. McHurdie smiled and went on withhis work. 

"Say, " said Mr. Mercheson, "your man Barclay is in all the papers thismorning. I was in the smoker of the sleeper last evening coming out ofChicago, and we got to talking about him--and Lord, how the fellowsdid roast him. "

"They did?" asked Barclay, from his chair behind the stove. 

"Sure, " replied Mr. Mercheson; "roasted him good and brown. Therewasn't a man in the smoker but me to stand up for him. "

"So you stood up for the old scoundrel, did you?" asked Barclay. 

"Sure, " answered the travelling man. "Anything to get up an argument, you know, " he went on, beginning to see which way sentiment lay in theshop. "I've been around town this morning, and I find the people heredon't approve of him for a minute, any more than they did on thetrain. "

"What do they say?" asked Barclay, braiding a four-strand whip, andfinding that his cunning of nearly fifty years had not left hisfingers. 

"Oh, it isn't so much what they say--but you can tell, don't youknow; it's what they don't say; they don't defend him. I guess theylike him personally, but they know he's a thief; that's theidea--they simply can't defend him and they don't try. The governmenthas got him dead to rights. Say, " he went on, "just to be arguing, youknow last evening I took a poll of the train--the limited--theGolden State Limited--swell train, swell crowd--all rich oldroosters; and honest, do you know that out of one hundred andtwenty-three votes polled only four were for him, and three of thosewere girls who said they knew his daughter at the state university, and had visited at his house. Wasn't that funny?"

Barclay laughed grimly, and answered, "Well, it was pretty funnyconsidering that I'm John Barclay. "

The suspense of the group in the shop was broken, and they laughed, too. 

"Oh, hell, " said Mr. Mercheson, "come off!" Then he turned to McHurdieand tried to talk trade to him. But Watts was obdurate, and the mansoon left the shop, eying Barclay closely. He stood in the door andsaid, as he went out of the store, "Well, you do look some like hispictures, Mister. "

There was a silence when the stranger went, and Barclay, whose facehad grown red, cried, "Damn 'em--damn 'em all--kick a man when he isdown!"

Again the bell tinkled, and McHurdie went into the shop. Evidently acustomer was looking at a horse collar, for through the glass doorthey could see Watts' hook go up to the ceiling and bring one down. 

"John, " said the colonel, when Barclay had spoken, "John, don't mindit. Look at me, John--look at me! They had to put me in jail, youknow; but every one seems to have forgotten it but me--and I am a dogthat I don't. "

John Barclay looked at the old, broken man, discarded from theplaying-cards of life, with the hurt, surprised look always in hiseyes, and it was with an effort that the suave Mr. Barclay kept thechoke in his throat out of his voice as he replied:--

"Yes, Colonel, yes, I know I have no right to kick against thepricks. "

Watts was saying: "Yes, he's in there now--with the boys; you bettergo in and cheer him up. "

And then at the upper right-hand entrance entered Gabriel Carnine, president of the State Bank, unctuous as a bishop. He ignored theothers, and walking to Barclay, put out his hand. "Well, well, John, glad to see you; just came up from the mill--I was looking for you. Couldn't find Neal, either. Where is he?"

The general answered curtly, "Neal is in Chicago, working on the_Record-Herald_. "

"Oh, " returned Carnine, and did not pursue the subject further. "Well, gentlemen, " he said, "fine winter weather we're having. "

"Is that so?" chipped in Dolan. "Mr. Barclay was finding it a littlemite warm. "

Carnine ignored Dolan, and Barclay grinned. "Well, John, " Carninehesitated, "I was just down to see you--on a little matter ofbusiness. "

"Delighted, sir, delighted, " exclaimed Dolan, as he rose to go; "wewere going, anyway--weren't we, General?" The veterans rose, andColonel Culpepper said as he went, "I told Molly to call for me hereabout noon with the buggy--if she comes, tell her to wait. "

All of life may not be put on the stage, and this scene has to be cut;for it was at the end of half an hour's aimless, footless, foolishtalk that Gabriel Carnine came to the business in hand. Round andround the bush he beat the devil, before he hit him a whack. Then hesaid, as if it had just occurred to him, "We were wondering--some ofthe directors--this morning, if under the circumstances--oh, sayjust for the coming six months or such a matter--it might not be wiseto reorganize our board; freshen it up, don't you know; kind of getsome new names on it, and drop the old ones--not permanently, butjust to give the other stockholders a show on the board. "

"So you want me to get off, do you?" blurted Barclay. "You're afraidof my name--now?"

The screams of Mr. Carnine, the protesting screams of that oleaginousgentleman, if they could have been vocalized in keeping with theirmuffled, low-voiced, whispering earnestness, would have been loudenough to be heard a mile away, but Barclay talked out:--

"All right, take my name off; and out comes my account. I don't care. "

And thereupon the agony of Mr. Carnine was unutterable. If he had beena natural man, he would have howled in pain; as it was, he merelypurred. But Barclay's skin was thin that day, sensitive to everytouch, and he felt the rough hand of Carnine and winced. He let theold man whine and pur and stroke his beard awhile, and then Barclaysaid wearily, "All right, just as you please, Gabe--I'll not move myaccount. It's nothing to me. "

In another minute the feline foot of Mr. Carnine was pattering gentlytoward the front door. Barclay sat looking at the stove, and Wattswent on working. Barclay sighed deeply once or twice, but McHurdiepaid no heed to him. Finally Barclay rose and went over to the bench. 

"Watts, " cried Barclay, "what do you think about it--you, your ownself, what do you think way down in your heart?"

Watts sewed a stitch or two without speaking, and then put down histhread and put up his glasses and said, "That's fairly spoken, JohnBarclay, and will have a fair answer. "

The old man paused; Barclay cried impatiently, "Oh, well, Watts, don'tbe afraid--nothing can hurt me much now!"

"I was just a-thinking, lad, " said Watts, gently, "just a-thinking. "

"What?" cried Barclay. 

"Just a-thinking, " returned the old man, as he put his hand on theyounger man's shoulder, "what a fine poet you spoiled in your life, just to get the chance to go to jail. But the Lord knows His business, I suppose!" he added with a twinkle in his eye, "and if He thinks apoet more or less in jail would help more than one out--it is all forthe best, John, all for the best. But, my boy, " he cried earnestly, "if you'll be going to jail, don't whine, lad. Go to jail like agentleman, John Barclay, go to jail like a gentleman, and serve yourLord there like a man. "

"Damn cheerful you are, Watts, " returned Barclay. "What a lot of Job'scomforters you fellows have been this morning. " He went on halfbitterly and half jokingly: "Beginning with the general, continuingwith your travelling salesman friend, and following up with Gabe, whowants me to get off the board of directors of his bank for the moraleffect of it, and coming on down to you who bid me Godspeed tojail--I have had a--a--a rather gorgeous morning. "

The door-bell tinkled, and a woman's voice called, "Father, father!"

"Yes, Molly, " the harness maker answered; "he'll be here pretty soon. He said for you to wait. "

"Come in, for heaven's sake, Molly, " cried Barclay, "come back hereand cheer me up. "

"Oh, all right--it's you, John? What are you doing back here? I'm soglad to find you. I've just got the dearest letter from Jane. We won'ttalk business or anything--you know how I feel, and how sorry Iam--so just let's read Jane's letter; it has something in it to cheeryou. She said she was going to write it to you the next day--but I'llread it to you. " And so Mrs. Brownwell took from her pocketbook thecrumpled letter and unfolded it. "It's so like Jane--just good hardsense clear through. " She turned the pages hastily, and finally thefluttering of the sheets stopped. "Oh, yes, " she said, "here's theplace--the rest she's told you. Let me see--Oh: 'And, Molly, what doyou think?--there's a duke after Jeanette--a miserable, little, dried-up, burned-out, poverty-stricken Italian duke. And oh, how muchgood it did us both to cut him, and let him know how ill-bred weconsidered him, how altogether beneath any wholesome honest girl wethought such a fellow. ' And now, John, isn't this like Jane?"interposed Mrs. Brownwell. "Listen; she says, 'Molly, do you know, Iam so happy about Jeanette and Neal. We run such an awful risk withthis money--such a horrible risk of unhappiness and misery for thepoor child--heaven knows she would be so much happier without it. Andto think, dear, that she has found the one in the world for her, inthe sweet simple way that a girl should always find him, and that themoney--the menacing thing that hangs like a shadow over her--cannotby any possibility spoil her life! It makes me happy all the day, andI go singing through life with joy at the thought that the money won'thurt Jennie--that it can't take from her the joy that comes fromliving with her lover all her life, as I have lived. ' Isn't that fine, John?" asked Mrs. Brownwell, and looking up, she saw John Barclay, white-faced, with trembling jaw, staring in pain at the stove. Wattshad gone into the store to wait on a customer, and the woman, seeingthe man's anguish, came to him and said: "Why, John, what is it? Howhave I hurt you?--I thought this would cheer you so. "

The man rose heavily. His colour was coming back. "Oh, God--God, " hecried, "I needed that to-day--I needed that. "

The woman looked at him, puzzled and nonplussed. "Why--why--why?"she stammered. 

"Oh, nothing, " he smiled back at her bitterly, "except--" and his jawhardened as he snapped--"except that Neal Ward is a damnedinformer--and I've sent him about his business, and Jeanette's got todo the same. "

Mollie Brownwell looked at him with hard eyes for a moment, and thenasked, "What did Neal do?"

"Well, " replied Barclay, "under cross-examination, I'll admit withoutincriminating myself that he gave the testimony which indicted me. "

"Was it that or lie, John?" He did not reply. A silence fell, and thewoman broke it with a cry: "Oh, John Barclay, John Barclay, must yourtraffic in souls reach your own flesh and blood? Haven't you enoughwithout selling her into Egypt, too? Haven't you enough money now?"And without waiting for answer, Molly Brownwell turned and left himstaring into nothing, with his jaw agape. 

It was noon and a band was playing up the street, and as he stood bythe stove in McHurdie's shop, he remembered vaguely that he had seenbanners flying and some "Welcome" arches across the street as hewalked through the town that morning. He realized that some lodge orconclave or assembly was gathering in the town, and that the band wasa part of its merriment. It was playing a gay tune and came nearer andnearer. But as he stood leaning upon his chair, with his heartquivering and raw from its punishment, he did not notice that the bandhad stopped in front of the harness shop. His mind went back wearilyto the old days, fifty years before, when as a toddling child indresses he used to play on that very scrap-heap outside the back door, picking up bits of leather, and in his boyhood days, playing pranksupon the little harness maker, and braiding his whips for the townherd. Then he remembered the verses Watts had written about BobHendricks and him in that very room, and the music he and Watts hadplayed together there. The old song Watts had made in his presence inthe hospital at St. Louis came back to his mind. Did it come becauseoutside the band had halted and was playing that old song to serenadeWatts McHurdie? Or did it come because John Barclay was wondering if, had he made a poet of himself, or a man of spiritual and not ofmaterial power, it would have been better for him?

Heaven knows why the old tune came into his head. But when herecognized that they were serenading the little harness maker, andthat so far as they thought of John Barclay and his power and hisachievements, it was with scorn, he had a flash of insight into hisrelations with the world that illumined his soul for a moment and thendied away. The great Mr. Barclay, alone, sitting in the dingy littleharness shop, can hear the band strike up the old familiar tune again, and hear the crowd cheer and roar its applause at the little harnessmaker, who stands shamefaced and abashed, coatless and aproned, beforethe crowd. And he is only a poet--hardly a poet, would be a betterway to say it; an exceedingly bad poet who makes bad rhymes, andthinks trite thoughts, and says silly and often rather stupid things, but who once had his say, and for that one hour of glorious liberty ofthe soul has moved millions of hearts to love him. John Barclay doesnot envy Watts McHurdie--not at all; for Barclay, with all hisfaults, is not narrow-gauged; he does not wish they would call forhim--not to-day--not at all; he could not face them now, even ifthey cheered him. He says in his heart of pride, beneath his stiffneck, that it is all right; that Watts, --poor little church-mouse ofa Watts, whom he could buy five times over with the money that hasdropped into the Barclay till since he entered the shop--that Wattsshould have his due; but only--only--only--that is it--only, butonly--!

CHAPTER XXVI

And now as we go out into the busy world, after this act in thedawning of John Barclay's life, let the court convene, and thereporters gather, and the honourable special counsel for thegovernment rage, and the defendant sit nervous and fidgety as thehonourable counsel reads the indictment; let the counsel for thedefendant swell and strut with indignation that such indignitiesshould be put upon honest men and useful citizens, and let the courtfrown, and ponder and consider; for that is what courts are for, butwhat do we care for it all? We have left it all behind, with theragged programmes in the seats. So if the honourable court, in theperson of the more or less honourable Elijah Westlake Bemis, after thefashion of federal judges desiring to do a questionable thing, callsin a judge from a neighbouring court--what do we care? And if thejudge of the neighbouring court, after much legal hemming and judicialhawing, decides in his great wisdom--that the said defendant Barclayhas been charged in the indictment with no crime, and instructs thejury to find a verdict of not guilty for said defendant John Barclay, upon the mere reading of the indictment, --what are the odds? What dowe care if the men in the packed courtroom hiss and the reporters putdown the hisses in their note-books and editors write the hisses inheadlines, and presses print the hisses all over the world? For thefidgety little man is free now--entirely free save for fifty-fouryears of selfish life upon his shoulders. 

In the trial of nearly every cause it becomes necessary at some pointin the proceedings to halt the narrative and introduce certainexhibits, records, and documents, upon which foregone evidence hasbeen based, and to which coming testimony may properly be attached. That point has been reached in the case now before the reader. And as"Exhibit A" let us submit a letter written by John Barclay, Januaryseventh, nineteen hundred and four, to Jane, his wife, at Naples. 

 "As I cabled you this afternoon, the case resulted exactly as I said it would the day after the indictment. I had not seen or talked with Lige since that day I talked with him over the telephone, before the indictment was made public, but I knew Lige well enough to know how he would act under fire. I had him out to dinner this evening, and we talked over old times, and he tells me he wants to retire from the bench. Jane, Lige has been my mainstay ever since this company was organized. Sometimes I feel that without his help in politics--looking to see that pernicious legislation was killed, and that the right men were elected to administrative offices, and appointed to certain judicial places--we never would have been able to get the company to its present high standing. I feel that he has been so valuable to us that we should settle a sum on him that will make him a rich man as men go in the Ridge. Heaven knows that is little enough, considering all that he has done. He may have his faults, Jane, but he has been loyal to me. 

 "I hope, my dear, that Jeanette has ceased to worry about the other matter; he is not worth her tears. Don't come home for a month or two yet. The same conditions prevail that I spoke of in my first cable the day of the indictment. The press and the public are perfectly crazy. America is one great howling mob, and it would make you and Jennie unhappy. As for me, I don't mind it. You know me. "

And that the reader may know how truthful John Barclay is, let usappend herewith a letter written by Mrs. Mary Barclay, of SycamoreRidge, to her granddaughter at Naples, January 15, 1904. She writesamong other things:--

 "Well, dear, it is a week now since your father's case was settled, and he was at home for the first time last night. I expected that his victory--such as it was--would cheer him up, but some way he seems worse in the dumps than he was before. He does not sleep well, and is getting too nervous for a man of his age. I have the impression that he is forever battling with something. Of course the public temper is bitter, dearie. You are a woman now, and should not be shielded and pampered with lies, so I am going to tell you the truth. The indignation of the people of this nation at your father, as he represents present business methods, is past belief. And frankly, dearie, I can't blame them. Your father and my son is a brave, sweet, loving man; none could be finer in this world, Jennie. But the head of the National Provisions Company is another person, dear; and of him I do not approve, as you know so well. I am sending you Neal Ward's statement which was published by the government the day after the case was dismissed. I have not sent it to you before, because I wanted to ask your father if it was true. Jennie, he admits that Neal told the truth, and nothing but the truth--and did not make it as bad as it was. You are entitled to the facts. You are a grown woman now, dear, and must make your own decisions. But oh, my dear little girl, I am heartsick to see your father breaking as he is. He seems to be fighting--fighting--fighting all the time; perhaps it is against the flames of public wrath, but some way I think he is fighting something inside himself--fighting it back; fighting it down--whatever it is. "

Counsel also begs indulgence while he introduces and reads twoclippings from the Sycamore Ridge _Daily Banner_, of February 12, 1904. The first one reads:--

 "Judge Bemis Retires

 "Hon. E. W. Bemis has retired from the federal bench, and rumour has it that he is soon to return with his estimable wife to our midst. Our people will welcome the judge and Mrs. Bemis with open arms. He retires from an honourable career, to pass his declining years in the peace and quiet of the town in which he began his career over fifty years ago. For as every one knows, he came West as a boy, and before having been admitted to the bar dealt largely in horses and cattle. He has always been a good business man, having with his legal acumen the acquisitive faculty, and now he is looking for some place to invest a modest competence here in the Ridge, and rumour has it again that he is negotiating for the purchase of the Sycamore Ridge Waterworks bonds, which are now in litigation. If so, he will make an admirable head of that popular institution. "

In this connection, and before introducing the other clipping from the_Banner_, it would be entirely proper to introduce the manuscript forthe above, in the typewriting of the stenographer of Judge Bemis'scourt, and a check for fifty dollars payable to Adrian Brownwell, signed by Judge Bemis aforesaid; but those documents would only clogthe narrative and would not materially strengthen the case, so theywill be thrown out. 

The second clipping, found in the personal column of the _Banner_ ofthe date referred to, February 12, 1904, follows:--

 "Mrs. John Barclay and Miss Barclay are on the steamer _Etruria_ which was sighted off Fire Island to-day. They will spend a few weeks in New York, and early in March Miss Barclay will enter the state university to do some post-graduate work in English, and Mrs. Barclay will return to Sycamore Ridge. Mr. Barclay will meet them at the pier, and they expect to spend the coming two weeks attending German opera. Mrs. Mary Barclay left to-day for the East to join them. She will remain a month visiting relatives near Haverhill, Mass. "

It becomes necessary to append some letters of Miss JeanetteBarclay's, and they are set down here in the order in which they werewritten, though the first one takes the reader back a few weeks toDecember 5, 1903. It was posted at Rome, and in the body of it arefound these words:--

 "My dear, I know you will smile when you hear I have been reading all the Italian scientific books I can find, dealing with the human brain--partly to help my Italian, but chiefly, I think, to see if I can find and formulate some sort of a definition for love. It is so much a part of my soul, dear heart, that I would like to know more about it. And I am going to write down for you what I think it is as we know it. I have been wearing your ring nearly three years, Neal, and if you had only known it, I would have been happy to have taken it a year sooner. In those four years I have grown from a girl to a woman, and you have become a man full grown. In that time all my thoughts have centred on you. In all my schoolbooks your face comes back to me as I open them in fancy. As I think of the old room at school, of my walk up the hill, as I think of home and my room there, some thought of you is always between me and the picture. All through my physical brain are little fibres running to every centre that bring up images of you. You are woven into my life, and I know in my heart that I am woven into your life. The thing is done; it is as much apart of my being as my blood--those million fibres of my brain that from every part of my consciousness bring thoughts of you. We cannot be separated now, darling--we are united for life, whether we unite in life or not. I am yours and you are mine. It is now as inexorable as anything we call material. More than that--you have made my soul. All the aspirations of my spiritual life go to you for beginning and for being as truly as the fibres of my brain thrill to the sound of your name or the mental image of your face. My soul is your soul, because in the making the thought of you was uppermost. I know that my love for you is immortal, ineffaceable, and though I should live a hundred years, that love would still be as much a part of my life as my hands or my eyes or my body. And the best of it all is that I am so glad it is so. Divorce is as impossible with a love like that as amputation of the brain. It is big and vital in me, real and certain, and so long as I live on earth, or dwell in eternity, my soul and your soul are knit together. "

Three weeks later, on December 28, 1903, Miss Barclay wrote to Mr. Ward as follows:--

 "Your letter and father's letter were on my desk when we returned from our cruise. I have just finished writing to him, and I herewith return your ring and your pin. "

There was neither signature nor superscription--just those words. Anda month later, Miss Barclay wrote this letter to her GrandmotherBarclay in Sycamore Ridge:--

 "MY DEAR, DEAR GRANNY: I have told mother what you wrote of father, and we are coming home just as soon as we can get a steamer. We are cabling him to-day, and hope to sail within a week or ten days at the very farthest. But I cannot wait until I see you, dear, to come close into your heart. And first of all I want you to know that I share your views about the heart-break of all this money and the miserable man-killing way it is being piled up. I know the two men you speak of--father and the president of the N. P. C. But he is my father, and I must stand by him, and brace him if I can. But, oh, Granny, I don't want the old money! It has never made me happy--never for one minute. The only happiness I have ever had was when he was at home with us all, away from business--and--but you know about that other happiness, and it hurts to speak of it now. I have not read what you sent me. I can't. But I will keep it. That it is true doesn't help me any. Nothing can help me. It is just one of those awful things that I have read of coming to people, but which I thought never could possibly come to me. Oh, Granny, Granny, you who pray so much for others, now pray for me. Granny, you can't cut something out of you--right out of the heart of you, by merely saying so; it keeps growing back; it hurts, and hurts, and keeps hurting; even if you know it is cut out and thrown away. They say that men who have had legs cut off can feel them for months and even years if they are cramped when they are buried. The nerves of the old dead body reach through space and hurt. It is that way with me. The old dead thing in my heart that is buried and gone keeps cramping and hurting. You are the only one I can come to, Granny. It hurts mother too much, and she is not strong this winter. I think it is worry. She is growing thin, and her heart doesn't act right. I am terribly worried about her; but she made me promise to say nothing to father, and you must not, either; for he will see for himself soon. "

A few letters from Neal Ward to Jeanette Barclay, and a document sometwenty years old, which the reader may have forgotten, but which oneperson connected with this narrative has feared would come to lightevery day in that time--and then this tedious business of introducingdocumentary evidence will be over. The letter from Neal Ward toJeanette Barclay is one of hundreds that he wrote and never mailed. They were dated, sealed, addressed, and put away. This one was writtenat midnight as the bells and whistles and pistols and fireworks werewelcoming the year 1904. It begins:--

 "MY VERY DEAREST: Here I am sitting at the old desk again, in the old office of the _Banner_. I could only scribble you a little note on the train last night to tell you that my heart still was with you, and I did not have the time to explain why I was coming. It is a dead secret, little woman, and perhaps I shouldn't tell even you, but I feel that I must bring everything to you. Bob Hendricks wired me to come down. He has a mortgage on the _Banner_, and he feels that things are not being properly managed, so he persuaded Mr. Brownwell to give me a place as sort of manager of the paper at twenty dollars a week--a sum that seems princely considering that I was making only eighteen dollars in Chicago, and that it costs so much less to live here. Hendricks guarantees my wages, so that Adrian cannot stand me off. Hendricks has another motive for wanting me to come here. The waterworks franchise will come up for renewal June first of this year, and Mr. Hendricks is for municipal ownership. Carnine and the State Bank are against municipal ownership, because the water company does business with them, and as they control the _Index_, they are preparing to make a warm fight for the renewal of the old franchise. So there will be a hot time in the old town this spring. But the miserable part of it is this. The growth of the town has made it dangerous to use the present supply station. The water must not come out of the mill-pond any longer, as the town is tilted so that all the surface drainage goes into it, and the sewers that drain into it, while they drain a few hundred yards below the intake of the waterworks, cannot help tainting the whole pond. Mr. Hendricks has had an expert here who declared that both the typhoid and diphtheria epidemics here last fall were due directly to the water supply, and Mr. Hendricks is going to make the fight of his life to have the city buy the waterworks plant, and move the intake six miles above town, where there is plenty of clean water. Of course it will mean first a city election to get decent councilmen, and then a bond election to vote money to buy the old plant; the waterworks company are going to move heaven and earth to get an anti-Hendricks council elected and to renew the franchise and let things go as they are. So that is why I am here, dear heart, and oh, my darling, you do not know how painful it all seems to be here and not have you--I mean--you know what I mean. All my associations with the work here in the office and on the street are with my heart close to yours. Everything in the old town tells me of you. 'Saint Andrews by the Northern sea, a haunted city is to me. ' To-night I hear the music of the New Year's dance, and I can shut my eyes and feel you with me there. Oh, sweetheart, I have kept you so close, by writing to you every night. I come and lay my heart and all its thoughts at your shrine, and put all my day's work before you for your approval, just as I used to do. It is so sweet a privilege. 

 "Last night I dreamed about you. It was so real and your voice sounded so clearly, crying to me, that you have been with me all day. I wonder if while we sleep, we whose souls would struggle to meet through eternity, if through the walls of space they may not find each other, and speak to each other through our dreams. It is midnight here now, and you are just waking, perhaps, or just sleeping that sleep of early morning wherein the soul sinks to unknown depths. Oh--oh--oh, if I could but speak to you there, my dear! I am going to sit here and close my eyes and try. "

The next letter in the exhibit was written six weeks later and isdated February 12, 1904. It says in part:--

 "I must tell you what a bully fellow Bob Hendricks is. Judge Bemis sent a highly laudatory article about himself to the office to-day with a check for fifty dollars. In the article it develops that he is going to retire from the federal bench and come down here and buy the waterworks plant--on the theory that he will get a bargain because of the expiring franchise and the prospective fight. That fifty dollars looked as big as a barn to poor Adrian, so he trotted off with the letter and the check to Hendricks. Of course, the letter and the check together, just framed and put in the bank window, would make great sport of the judge; but Bob is a thoroughbred, and probably Bemis knows it, and figures on that in his dealings with him. I was in the bank when Adrian came in with the letter. He showed the check and the article to Hendricks, and you could almost see Adrian wag his tail and hear him whine to keep the check; Bob looked at the poor fellow's wistful eyes and handed it back with a quizzical little smile and said, 'Oh, I guess I'd run it; it can't hurt anything. ' The light that came into Adrian's eyes was positively beatific, and he shook Bob by the hand, and twirled his cane, and waved his gloves in a sort of canine ecstasy, and trotted to the cashier's window with the check like a dog with a bone. It is the largest piece of real money he has had in six months, the boys say, and he has spent it for clothes. To-morrow he will hurry off to the first convention in the city like a comet two centuries behind time. But that is beside the point; the thing I don't like is the coming of Bemis. I know him; the things I have seen him do in your father's business and when he was on the bench, make me shudder for decent politics in this town. He is shrewd, unscrupulous, and without any restraint on earth. 

 "I feel closer to you than I have felt since I put the barrier between us. For you are in this country to-night--I could go to the telephone there five feet away and reach you if I would. I looked to-day in the papers and saw that they would be giving Lohengrin at the Metropolitan Opera House, and knowing your father as I do, I think he will take you there. I can hear the music rising and see you drinking in the harmony, and as it swells into exquisite pain, and thrills through the holy places of your soul where are old memories of our love, sweetheart, maybe your spirit will go forth in God's strange universe where we all dwell neighbours, loosed from those material chains that bind our bodies, and will seek the heart that is searching for you out there in the highway of heaven. I seem to feel you now, dear soul--did the music fling your spirit free for a second till it touched my own? I am so happy, Jeanette--even to love you and to know that you have loved me, and must always love me while you are you and I am I. "

And now let us consider the final exhibit. It will be necessary toturn back the action of this story a month and a half and sit withJohn Barclay and his friend, former federal judge Elijah WestlakeBemis, before the fire in the wide fireplace in the Barclay home, onecold January night, a week after Barclay had gone free from the courtand the world had hissed him. They were talking of the judge'sbusiness future, and the judge was saying:--

"John, how did Bob Hendricks ever straighten out that affair in thetreasurer's office in connection with the first year's taxes of theold Wheat Company? What did he do with it finally?"

Barclay looked at the fire and then turned his searchlight eyes intoBemis's. There was not a quiver. The man sat there without a muscle ofhis parchment face moving. His eyes were squinted up, looking at thetip of his long cigar. 

"Why?" asked Barclay. 

"Well, " responded Bemis, impassive as an ox, "it would help me in mybusiness to know. Tell me. "

He spoke the last two words as one in authority. 

"Well, " answered Barclay, "one day back in the seventies, I wasappointed to check up the treasurer's book, and I found where he hadfixed it on the county books--apparently between two administrations. I recognized his hand; and it made the balance for the first time. "

Bemis smoked awhile. "What time in the seventies?" he asked. 

There was a pause. "In January, 1879. "

Bemis grinned a wicked, mean little grin and said: "That settles it. Ibelieve I am safe in buying the waterworks. "

"What are you going to do to Bob?" Barclay asked. 

"Nothing, nothing--absolutely nothing, if he has any sense and dropsthis municipal ownership tommyrot. Absolutely nothing. "

Again the grin came over his face, and at the end of a pause Barclaysaid:--

"Well, if not, what then?"

Bemis shut his eyes and crossed his gaunt legs, and began: "Think backtwenty years ago--more or less. Do you remember when I brought yourcar down here for Watts McHurdie and his crowd to go to Washington in, to the G. A. R. Celebration? All right; do you remember that I came tothe office and told you I saw Bob Hendricks waiting for some one atthe Union Station, when the train got into the city that morning?"

"Yes, " said Barclay, "you were so mysterious and funny about it, Iremember. "

"Well, " said Bemis, as he got up and poked a log that was annoying himin the fireplace, "well, I have a little document in my desk at home, that I got the night before in the Ridge, which will convince Bobbie, if he has any sense, that this municipal ownership business isn't allit's cracked up to be. "

Barclay, who knew from Jane something of the truth, guessed the rest, but he did not question Bemis further. "Oh, I don't know, Lige, " hebegan; "it seems to me I wouldn't drag that into it. "

Bemis turned his old face, full of malicious passion, toward Barclayand cried, "Maybe you wouldn't, John Barclay--you forget things; butI never do; and you're a coward sometimes, and I am not. "

The blaze of his wrath went out in a moment, and Barclay's mind wentback to that afternoon in the seventies when Hendricks picked Bemis upand threw him bodily from the county convention and branded him as aboodler. Barclay knew argument was useless. So he said nothing. 

"He has the county officers--every man-jack of them from thetreasurer to Jake Dolan, the janitor--and I couldn't get hold of thatbook by fair means without his knowing it. But I am going to have thatbook, John--I'm going to have that book. "

Barclay followed Bemis's mental processes, as if they were his own. "Well--what if he does know it?" asked Barclay. 

"Oh, if he knew I was after the book, he'd fix me, --have it destroyedor something; he could do lots of things or beat me some way. I've gotto get that book--get it out of the court-house--and there's justone way to get into the court-house, without using the doors and thewindows. " When Bemis had finished speaking, he gazed steadily intoBarclay's eyes. And Bemis saw the fear that was in Barclay's face. "Yes, I know a way into the court-house, John--it's mine by fiftyyears' right of discovery. I'm going to have that book, and get anexpert opinion as to the similarity of the handwriting in the book andthe handwriting of my own little document. My own little document, " hemused, licking his chops like a hound at the prospect. 

Now we will call that little document "Exhibit I" in the case of theLarger Good _vs. _ The People, and close thereby a long and tediouschapter. But we will begin another chapter in which the wheels ofevents spin rapidly in their courses toward that moral equilibriumthat deeds must find before they stop when they are started for theLarger Good. 

CHAPTER XXVII

The spring of 1904 in Sycamore Ridge opened in turmoil. The turmoilcame from the contest over the purchase of the town's water system. Robert Hendricks as president of the Citizens' League was leading theforces that advocated the purchase of the system by the town, as beingthe only sure way to change the water supply from the pollutedmill-pond to a clean source. Six months before he had leased everybill-board in town, and for the two months preceding the city electionthat was to decide the question of municipal purchase he had hiredevery available hall in town, for every vacant night during thosemonths, and had bought half of the first page of both the _Banner_ andthe _Index_ for those months--and all of this long before the townknew the fight was coming. He covered the bill-boards and the firstpages of the newspapers with analyses of the water in themill-pond--badly infected from the outlet of the town sewers and itssurface drainage. The Citizens' League filled the halls with speakersdemanding the purchase of the plant and the removal of the pumpingstation to a place several miles above the town, and four beyond themill-pond. Judge Bemis, with the aid and abetment of John Barclay, whowas in the game to help his old friend, put up banners denouncingHendricks as a socialist, accusing him of being the town boss, andcharged through the columns of the _Index_ that Hendricks' real motivein desiring to have the city take over the waterworks system was tomake money on the sale of the city's bonds. So Hendricks was thecentre of the fight. 

In the first engagement, a malicious contest, Hendricks lost. The townrefused to vote the bonds to buy the plant. But at the same electionthe same people elected a city council overwhelmingly in favour ofmunicipal ownership and in favour of compelling the operating companyto move its plant from the mill-pond. The morning after the electionHendricks began a lawsuit as a taxpayer and citizen to make thewaterworks company move its plant. The town could understand thatissue, and sentiment rallied to Hendricks again. Judge Bemis, at thehead of the company, although irritated, was not alarmed. For in thecourts he could promote delays, plead technicalities, and wear out hisadversary. It was an old game with him. Still, the suit disturbed thevalue of his bonds, and having other resources, he gleefully decidedto use them. 

And thus it fell out that one fine day in April, Trixie Lee, from thebedraggled outer hem of the social garment down by the banks of theSycamore, called to the telephone Robert Hendricks of the town'spurple and fine linen, who dwelt on the hill. He did not recognize hervoice, the first time she called. But shrewd as Judge Bemis was, andbad as he was, he did not know it all. He did not know that whenHendricks had received the first anonymous letter three days before, he had instructed the girls in the telephone office, which hecontrolled, to make a record of every telephone call for his office orhis house, and when the woman's voice on the telephone that daydelivered Judge Bemis's message, the moment after she quit talking heknew with whom he had been talking. 

"Is this Mr. Hendricks?" the voice had begun, rather pleasantly. Yes, it was Mr. Hendricks. "Well, I am your friend, but I don't dare to letyou know my name now; it would be all my life is worth. " And RobertHendricks grinned pleasantly into the rubber transmitter as herealized that his trap would work. "Yes, Mr. Hendricks, I am yourfriend, and you have a powerful enemy. " What with the insinuations inthe _Index_ and the venom that Lige Bemis had been putting intoanonymous circulars during the preliminary waterworks campaign, thiswas no news to Mr. Hendricks; so he let the voice go on, "They wantyou to dismiss that suit against the waterworks company that youbrought last week. " There was a pause for a reply; but none came; thenthe voice said, "Are you there, Mr. Hendricks--do you hear me?" AndMr. Hendricks said that he heard perfectly. "And, " went on the voice, "as your friend I wish you would, too. Do you remember a letter youonce wrote to a woman, asking her to elope with you--a married woman, Mr. Hendricks?" There was a pause for a reply, and again the voiceasked, "Do you hear, Mr. Hendricks?" and Mr. Hendricks heard; heard inhis soul and was afraid, but his voice did not quaver as he replied, "Yes, I hear perfectly. " Then the voice went on, "Well, they have thatletter--a little note--not over one hundred words, and with no dateon it, and the man who has it also has a photograph of page 234 of acertain ledger in the county treasurer's office for 1879, and there isan entry there in your handwriting, Mr. Hendricks; and he has had themboth enlarged to show that the handwriting of the note and of thecounty book are the same; isn't that mean, Mr. Hendricks?" Hendrickscoughed into the transmitter, and she knew that he was there, so shecontinued: "As your friend in this matter, I have got them to promisethat if you will come to the Citizens' League meeting that you havecalled for to-morrow night at Barclay Hall and tell the people thatyou think we need harmony in the Ridge worse than we need thiseverlasting row, if you will merely say to Mr. Barclay as you passinto the meeting, 'Well, John, I believe I'll dismiss that suit, ' youcan have your letter back. He hasn't got the letter, but he will besure to tell the news to a friend who has. " Here the voice faltered, and said unconsciously, "Wait a minute, I've lost my place; oh, hereit is; all right. And if you don't come to the meeting and say that, Ibelieve they are going to spring those documents on the meeting to putyou in bad odour. "

"Is that all?" asked Hendricks. 

"Well--" a pause and then finally--"yes, " came the voice. 

"Well, my answer is no, " said Hendricks, and while he was trying toget central the voice called again and said:--

"Just one word more: if you still maintain your present decision, acopy of that letter you wrote will be put into the hands of Mr. Brownwell of the _Banner_ before the meeting; I tell you this toprotect you. He and Mrs. Brownwell and Mrs. Barclay will be in townto-morrow evening on the Barclay car from the West on No. 6; you willhave until then to reconsider your decision; after that you act atyour own risk. "

Again the voice ceased, and Hendricks learned from central who hadbeen talking with him. It was after banking hours, and he sat for atime looking the situation squarely in the face. The reckoning hadcome. He had answered "no" with much bravery over the telephone--butin his heart a question began to rise, and his decision was clouded. 

Hendricks walked alone under the stars that night, and as he walked heturned the situation over and over as one who examines a strangepuzzle. He saw that his "no" could not be his own "no. " Molly must bepartner in it. For to continue his fight for clean water he must riskher good name. He measured Bemis, and remembered the old quarrel. Thehate in the face of the bribe-giver, thrown out of the countyconvention a quarter of a century before, came to Hendricks, and heknew that it was no vain threat he was facing. So he turned up theother facet of the puzzle. There was Adrian. For an hour he consideredAdrian Brownwell, a vain jealous old man with the temper of a beast. To see Molly, tell her of their common peril, get her decision, and bewith it at the meeting before Adrian saw the note, all in the twohours between the arrival of the train bearing the Brownwells and Mrs. Barclay, and the time of the meeting in Barclay Hall, was part ofHendricks' puzzle. He believed that by using the telephone to make anappointment he could manage it. Then he turned the puzzle over and sawthat to save Molly Brownwell's good name and his father's, human livesmust be sacrificed by permitting the use of foul water in the town. And in the end his mind set. He knew that unless she forbade it, thecontest must go on to a righteous finish, through whatever perils, over any obstacles. Yet as he walked back to the bank, determined notto take his hand from the plough, he saw that he must prepare to gointo the next day as though it were his last. For in his consciousnesson the other side of the puzzle--always there was the foolish Adrian, impetuous at best, but stark mad in his jealousy and wrath. 

And Elijah Westlake Bemis, keeping account of the man's movements, chuckled as he felt the struggle in the man's breast. For he was awise old snake, that Lige Bemis, and he had seduced many another manafter the brave impulsive "no" had roared in his face. Just beforemidnight when he saw the electric light flash on in the private officeof the president of the Exchange National Bank, Lige Bemis, libertinewith men, strolled home and counted the battle won. "He's writing hisspeech, " he said to Barclay over the telephone at midnight. And JohnBarclay, who had fought the local contest in the election with Bemisto be loyal to a friend, and to help one who was in danger of losingthe profit on half a million dollars' investment in the Sycamore Ridgewaterworks, laughed as he walked upstairs in his pajamas, and said tohimself, "Old Lige is a great one--there is a lot of fight in the oldviper yet. " It was nothing to Barclay that the town got its water froma polluted pond. That phase of the case did not enter hisconsciousness, though it was placarded on the bill-boards and had beenprinted in the _Banner_ a thousand times during the campaign. To himit was a fight by the demagogues against property interests, and hewas with property, even a little property--even a miserable littledribble of property like half a million dollars' worth of waterworksbonds. 

And Robert Hendricks--playfellow of John Barclay's boyhood, partnerof his youth--sat working throughout the night, a brave man, goinginto battle without a tremor. He went through his books, made outstatements of his business relations, prepared directions for theheads of his different concerns, as a man would do who might be goingon a long journey. For above everything, Robert Hendricks wasforesighted. He prepared for emergencies first, and tried to avoidthem afterwards. And with the thought of the smallness of this life inhis soul, he looked up from his work to see the hard gray lines of thedawn in the street outside of his office, bringing the ugly detailsfrom the shadows that hid them during the day, and he sighed as hewondered in what bourne he should see the next dawn break. 

It was a busy day for Robert Hendricks, that next day, and through itall his mind was planning every moment of the time how he couldprotect Molly Brownwell. Did he work in the bank, behind his work hismind was seeking some outlet from his prison. If he went over thepower-house at the electric plant, always he was looking among thewheels for some way of refuge for Molly. When he spent an hour in theoffice of the wholesale grocery house, he despatched a day's work, butnever for a second was his problem out of his head. He spent two hourswith his lawyers planning the suit against the water company, pointingout new sources of evidence, and incidentally leaving a large check topay for the work. But through it all Molly Brownwell's good name wasever before him, and when he thought how twenty years before he hadwalked through another day planning, scheming, and contriving, all toproduce the climax of calamity that was hovering over her to-day, hewas sick and faint with horror and self-loathing. 

But as the day drew to its noon, Hendricks began to feel a persistentdetachment from the world about him. It floated across hisconsciousness, like the shadow anchor of some cloud far above him. Hebegan to watch the world go by. He seemed not to be a part of it. Hebecame a spectator. At four o'clock he passed Dolan on the street andsaid, absently, "I want you to-night at the bank at seven o'clocksharp--don't forget, it's very important. "

As he walked down Main Street to the bank, the shadow anchor of thecloud had ceased to flit across his consciousness. Life had grown allgray and dull, and he was apart from the world. He saw the handbillsannouncing the meeting that night as one who sees a curious passingshow; the men he met on the street he greeted as creatures fromanother world. Yet he knew he smiled and spoke with them casually. Butit was not he who spoke; the real Robert Hendricks he knew wasseparated from the pantomime about him. When he went into the bank atfive o'clock, the janitor was finishing his work. Hendricks called upthe depot on the telephone and found that No. 6 was an hour late. Withthe realization that a full hour of his fighting time had been takenfrom him and that the train would arrive only a scant hour before themeeting, the Adrian face of his puzzle turned insistently towardHendricks. It was not fear but despair that seized him. The cloud wasover him. And for want of something to do he wrote. First he wroteabstractedly and mechanically to John Barclay, then to Neal Ward--anote for the _Banner_--and as the twilight deepened in the room, hesquared his chair to the table and wrote to Molly Brownwell; thatletter was the voice of his soul. That was real. Six o'clock struck. Half-past six clanged on the town clock, and as Jake Dolan opened thebank door, Hendricks heard the roar of the train crossing at the endof Main Street. 

"There goes Johnnie's private car, switching on the tail of her, " saidDolan, standing in the doorway. 

Hendricks sent Dolan to a back room of the bank, and at seven-twentywent to the telephone. "Give me 876, central, " he called. "Hello--hello--hello, " he cried nervously, "hello--who is this?"The answer came and he said, "Oh, I didn't recognize your voice. " Thenhe asked in a low tone, as one who had fear in his heart: "Do yourecognize me? If you do, don't speak my name. Where is Adrian?" ThenMr. Dolan, listening in the next room, heard this: "You say JudgeBemis phoned to him? Oh, he was to meet him at eight o'clock. How longago did he leave?" After a moment Hendricks' answer was: "Then he hasjust gone; and will not be back?" Hendricks cut impatiently intowhatever answer came with: "Molly, I must see you within the nextfifteen minutes. I can't talk any more over the telephone, but I mustcome up. " "Yes, " in a moment, "I must have your decision in a matterof great importance to you--to you, Molly. " There was a shortsilence, then Dolan heard: "All right, I'll be there in ten minutes. "Then Hendricks turned from the telephone and called Dolan in. Heunlocked a drawer in his desk, and began speaking to Dolan, who stoodover him. Hendricks' voice was low, and he was repressing theagitation in his heart by main strength. 

"Jake, " he said, talking as rapidly as he could, "I must be ungodlyfrank with you. It doesn't make any difference whether he is right ornot, but Adrian Brownwell may be fooled into thinking he has reason tobe jealous of me. " Hendricks was biting his mustache. "He's a ragingmaniac of jealousy, Jake, but I'm not afraid of him--not for myself. I can get him before he gets me, if it comes to that, but to do itI'll have to sacrifice Molly. And I won't do that. If it comes to hergood name or my life--she can have my life. " They were outside nowand Dolan was unhitching the horse. He knew instinctively that he wasnot to reply. In a moment Hendricks went on, "Well, there is just onechance in a hundred that it may turn that way--her good name or mylife--and on that chance I've written some letters here. " He reachedin his coat and said, "Now, Jake, put these letters in your pocket andif anything goes wrong with me, deliver them to the persons whosenames are on the envelopes--and to no one else. I must trusteverything to you, Jake, " he said. 

Driving up the hill, he met Bemis coming down town. He passed peoplegoing to the meeting in Barclay Hall. He did not greet them, but droveon. His jaw was set hard, and the muscles of his face were firm. As heneared the Culpepper home he climbed from the buggy and hitched thehorse to the block in front of his own house. He hurried into theCulpepper yard, past the lilac bushes heavy with blooms, and up thebroad stone steps with the white pillars looming above him. It was aquarter to eight, and at that minute Bemis was saying to AdrianBrownwell, "All right, if you don't believe it, don't take my word forit, but go home right now and see what you find. "

Molly Brownwell met Hendricks on the threshold with trembling steps. "Bob, what is it?" she asked. They stood in the shadow of the greatwhite pillars, where they had parted a generation ago. 

"It's this, Molly, " answered Hendricks, as he put his hand to hisforehead that was throbbing with pain; "Lige Bemis has my letter toyou. Yes, " he cried as she gasped, "the note--the very note, and toget it I must quit the waterworks fight and go to the meeting to-nightand surrender. I had no right to decide that alone. It is ourquestion, Molly. We are bound by the old life--and we must take thislast stand together. "

The woman shrank from Hendricks with horror on her face, as hepersonified her danger. She could not reply at once, but stood staringat him in the dusk. As she stared, the feeling that she had seen itall before in a dream came over her, and the premonition that someawful thing was impending shook her to the marrow. 

"Molly, we have no time to spare, " he urged. "I must answer Bemis inten minutes--I can do it by phone. But say what you think. "

"Why--why--why--Bob--let me think, " she whispered, as one tryingto speak in a dream, and that also seemed familiar to her. "It'styphoid for my poor who died like sheep last year, " she cried, "or mygood name and yours, is it, Bob? Is it, Bob?" she repeated. 

He put his hand to his forehead again in the old way she remembered sowell--to temples that were covered with thin gray hair--andanswered, "Yes, Molly, that's our price. "

Those were the last words that she seemed to have heard before; afterthat the dialogue was all new to her. She was silent a few agonizedseconds and then said, "I know what you think, Bob; you are for mypoor; you are brave. " He did not answer, fearing to turn the balance. As she sank into a porch chair a rustling breeze moved the lilacplumes and brought their perfume to her. From down the avenue came thewhir of wheels and the hurrying click of a horse's hoofs. At lengthshe rose, and said tremulously: "I stand with you, Bob. May God makethe blow as light as He can. "

They did not notice that a buggy had drawn up on the asphalt in frontof the house. Hendricks put out his hand and cried, "Oh, Molly--Molly--Molly--" and she took it in both of hers and pressedit to her lips, and as Adrian Brownwell passed the lilac thicket inthe gathering darkness that is what he saw. Hendricks was halfway downthe veranda steps before he was aware that Brownwell was running upthe walk at them, pistol in hand, like one mad. Before the man couldfire, Hendricks was upon him, and had Brownwell's two hands grippedtightly in one of his, holding them high in the air. The little manstruggled. 

"Don't scream--for God's sake, don't scream, " cried Hendricks to thewoman in a suppressed voice. Then he commanded her harshly, "Go in thehouse--quick--Molly--quick. "

She ran as though hypnotized by the force of the suggestion. Hendrickshad his free hand over Brownwell's mouth and around his neck. Thelittle old man was kicking and wriggling, but Hendricks held him. "Nothere, you fool, not here. Can't you see it would ruin her, you fool?Not here. " He carried and dragged Brownwell across the grass throughthe shrubbery and into the Hendricks yard. No one was passing, and thenight had fallen. "Now, " said Hendricks, as he backed against a pinetree, still holding Brownwell, "I shall let you go if you'll promiseto listen to me just a minute until I tell you the whole truth. Mollyis innocent, man--absolutely innocent, and I'll show you if you'lltalk for a moment. Will you promise, man?"

Brownwell nodded his assent; Hendricks looked at him steadily for asecond and then said, "All right, " and set the little man on his feet. The glare of madness came into Brownwell's eyes, and as he turned hecame at Hendricks with his pistol drawn. An instant later there was ashot. Brownwell saw the amazement flash into Hendricks' eyes, and thenHendricks sank gently to the foot of the pine tree. 

And Molly Brownwell, with the paralysis of terror still upon her, heard the shot and then heard footsteps running across the grass. Amoment later her husband, empty-handed, chattering, shivering, andwhite, stumbled into the room. Rage had been conquered by fear. For anagonized second the man and woman stared at one another, speechless--then the wife cried:--

"Oh--oh--why--why--Adrian, " and her voice was thick with fear. --

The man was a-tremble--hands, limbs, body--and his mad eyes seemedto shrink from the woman's gaze. "Oh, God--God--oh, God--" hepanted, and fell upon his face across the sofa. They heard a hurryingstep running toward the Hendricks house, there came a frightened, choked cry of "Help!" repeated twice, another and another sound ofpattering feet came, and five minutes after the quaking man hadentered the door the whole neighbourhood seemed to be alive withrunning figures hurrying silently through the gloom. The thud of feetand the pounding of her heart, and the whimpering of the little manwho lay, face down, on the sofa, were the only sounds in her ears. Shestarted to go with the crowd. But Adrian screamed to her to stay. 

"Oh, " he cried, "he sank so softly--he sank so softly--he sank sosoftly! Oh, God, oh, God--he sank so softly!"

And the next conscious record of her memory was that of Neal Wardbursting into the room, crying, "Aunt Molly--Aunt Molly--do you knowMr. Hendricks has committed suicide? They've found him dead with apistol by his side. I want some whiskey for Miss Hendricks. And theyneed you right away. "

But Molly Brownwell, with what composure she could, said, "Adrian issick, Neal--I can't--I can't leave him now. " And she called afterNeal as he ran toward the door, "Tell them, Neal, tell them--why Ican't come. " There was a hum of voices in the air, and the sound of agathering crowd. Soon the shuffle and clatter of a thousand feet madeit evident that the meeting at Barclay Hall had heard the news and washurrying up the hill. The crowd buzzed for an hour, and Molly andAdrian Brownwell waited speechless together--he face downward on thesofa, she huddled in a chair by the window. And then the crowd broke, slowly, first into small groups that moved away together and thenturned in a steady stream and tramped, tramped, tramped down the hill. 

When the silence had been unbroken a long time, save by the rumble ofa buggy on the asphalt or by the footsteps of some stray passerby, theman on the sofa lifted his head, looked at his wife and spoke, "Well, Molly?"

"Well, Adrian, " she answered, "this is the end, I suppose?"

He did not reply for a time, and when he did speak, it was in a dead, passionless voice: "Yes--I suppose so. I can't stay here now. "

"No--no, " she returned. "No, you should not stay here. "

He sat up and stared vacantly at her for a while and then said, "Though I don't see why I didn't leave years and years ago; I knew allthis then, as well as I do now. " The wife looked away from him as shereplied: "Yes, I should have known you would know. I knew your secretand you--"

"My secret, " said Adrian, "my secret?"

"Yes--that you came North with your inherited money because when youwere in the Confederate army you were a coward in some action andcould not live among your own people. "

"Who told you, " he asked, "who told you?"

"The one who told you I have always loved Bob; life has told me that, Adrian. Just as life has told you my story. " They sat without speakingfor a time, and then the woman sighed and rose. "Two people who havelived together twenty-five years can have no secrets from each other. In a thousand, ways the truth comes out. "

"I should have gone away a long time ago, " he repeated, "a long timeago; I knew it, but I didn't trust my instincts. "

"Here comes father, " she said, as the gate clicked. 

They stood together, listening to the slow shuffle of the colonelcoming up the walk, and the heavy fall of his cane. The wife put outher hand and said gently, "I think I have wronged you, Adrian, morethan any one else. "

He did not take her hand but sighed, and turned and went up the widestairway. He was an old man then, and she remembered the years when hetripped up gayly, and then she looked at her own gray hair in themirror and saw that her life was spent too. 

As the colonel came in gasping asthmatically, he found his daughterwaiting for him. "Is Adrian better?" he asked excitedly. "Neal saidAdrian was sick. "

"Yes, father, he's upstairs packing. He is going out on the fouro'clock train. "

"Oh, " said the colonel, and then panted a moment before asking, "Hasany one told you how it happened?"

"Yes, " she replied, "I know everything. I think I'll run over therenow, father. " As she stood in the doorway, she said, "Don't botherAdrian--he'll need no help. "

And so Molly Brownwell passed the last night with her dead lover. About midnight the bell rang and she went to the door. 

"Ah, madam, " said Jacob Dolan, as he fumbled in his pockets, and triedto breathe away from her to hide the surcease of his sorrow, "Ah, madam, " he repeated, as he suddenly thought to pull off his hat, "Idid not come for you--'twas Miss Hendricks I called for; but I haveone for you, too. He gave the bundle to me the last thing--poor lad, poor lad. " He handed her the letter addressed to Mrs. Brownwell, andthen asked, "Is the sister about?"

And when he found she could not be seen he went away, and MollyBrownwell sat by the dead man's body and read:--

"My darling--my darling--they will let a dead man say that toyou--won't they? And yet, so far as any thought of mine could sinagainst you, I have been dead these twenty years. Yet I know that Ihave loved you all that time, and as I sit alone here in the bank, andtake the bridle off my heart, the old throb of joy that we both knewas children comes back again. It is such a strange thing--thislife--such a strange thing. " Then there followed a burst ofpassionate regret from the man's very heart, and it is so sacred to amanly love that curbed itself for a score of years, that it must notbe set down here. 

Over and over Molly Brownwell read the letter and then crept out toher lilac thicket and wept till dawn. She heard Adrian Brownwell go, but she could not face him, and listened as his footsteps died away, and he passed from her life. 

And John Barclay kept vigil for the dead with her. As he tossed in hisbed through the night, he seemed to see glowing out of the darknessbefore him the words Hendricks had written, in the letter that Dolangave Barclay at midnight. Sometimes the farewell came to him:--

"It is not this man of millions that I wish to be with a momentto-night, John--but the boy I knew in the old days--the boy who ranwith me through the woods at Wilson's Creek, the boy who rode over thehill into the world with me that September day forty years ago; theboy whose face used to beam eagerly out of yours when you sat playingat your old melodeon. I wish to be near him a little while to-night. When you get this, can't you go to your great organ and play him backinto consciousness and tell him Bob says good-by?"

At dawn Barclay called Bemis out of bed, and before sunrise he andBarclay were walking on the terrace in front of the Barclay home. 

"Lige, " began Barclay, "did you tell Adrian of that note last night?"Bemis grinned his assent. 

"And he went home, found Bob there conferring with Mrs. Brownwellabout his position in the matter, and Adrian killed him. "

"That's the way I figured it out myself, " replied Bemis, laconically, "but it's not my business to say so. "

"I thought you promised me you would just bluff with that note and notgo so far, Lige Bemis, " said Barclay. 

"Did he just bluff with me when he called me a boodler and threw medownstairs in the county convention?"

"Then you lied to me, sir, " snapped Barclay. 

"Oh, hell, John--come off, " sneered Bemis. "Haven't I got a right tolie to you if I want to?"

The two men stared at each other like growling dogs for a moment, andthen Barclay turned away with, "What is there in the typhoid talk?"

"Demagogery--that's all. Of course there may be typhoid in the water;but let 'em boil the water. "

"But they won't. "

"Well, then, if they eat too much of your 'Old Honesty' or drink toomuch of my water unboiled, they take their own risk. You don't make abreakfast food for hogs, and I can't run my water plant for fools. "

"But, Lige, " protested Barclay, "couldn't we hitch up the electricplant--"

"Hitch up the devil and Tom Walker, John Barclay. When the wolves gotafter you, did I come blubbering to you to lay down and take a lightsentence?" Barclay did not answer. Bemis continued: "Brace up, John--what's turned you baby when we've got the whole thing won? Wedidn't kill Hendricks, did we? Are you full of remorse and going toturn state's evidence?"

Barclay looked at the ground for a time, and said: "I believe, Lige, we did kill Bob--if it comes to that; and we are morally responsiblefor--"

"Oh, bag your head, John; I'm going home. When you can talk somesense, let me know. "

And Bemis left Barclay standing in the garden looking at the sunriseacross the mill-pond. Presently the carrier boy with a morning papercame around, and in it Barclay read the account of Hendricks' reportedsuicide, corroborated by his antemortem statement, written anddelivered to Jacob Dolan an hour before he died. 

"When I took charge of the Exchange National Bank, " it read, "I foundthat my father owed Garrison County nine thousand dollars for anotherman's taxes, which he, my father, had agreed to pay, but had no moneyto do so. The other man insisted on my father forging a note tostraighten matters up. It seemed at that time that the bank wouldclose and the whole county would be ruined if my father had notcommitted that deed. I could not put the money back into the treasurywithout revealing my father's crime, so I let the matter run for a fewyears, renewing the forged note, and then, as it seemed aninterminable job of forgery, I forged the balance on the county books, one afternoon between administrations in 1879. Mr. E. W. Bemis, who istrying to force polluted water on Sycamore Ridge, has discovered thisforgery and has threatened to expose me in that and perhaps othermatters. So I feel that my usefulness in the fight for pure water inthe town is ended. I leave funds to fight the matter in the courts, and I feel sure that we will win. "

Barclay sat in the warm morning sun, reading and re-reading thestatement. Finally Jane Barclay, thin, broken and faded, on whom thewrath of the people was falling with crushing weight, came into theveranda, and put her hands on her husband's shoulders. 

"Come in, John, breakfast is ready. "

The woman whom the leprosy of dishonest wealth was whitening, walkeddumbly into the great house, and ate in silence. "I am going toMolly, " she said simply, as the two rose from their meal. "I think sheneeds me, dear; won't you come, too?" she asked. 

"I can't, Jane--I can't, " cried Barclay. And when his wife hadpressed him, he broke forth: "Because Lige Bemis made Adrian kill Boband I helped--" he groaned, and sank into his chair, "and I helped. "

When Neal Ward came to the office the next morning, he found Dolanwaiting for him. Ward opened the envelope that Dolan gave him, andfound in it the mortgage Hendricks had owned on the _Banner_ office, assigned to Ward, and around the mortgage was a paper band on whichwas written: "God bless you, my boy--keep up the fight; never saydie. "

Then Ward read Adrian Brownwell's valedictory that was hanging on acopy spike before him. It was the heart-broken sob of an old man whohad run away from failure and sorrow, and it need not be printed here. 

On Memorial Day, when they came to the cemetery on the hill todecorate the soldiers' graves, men saw that the great mound of lilacson Robert Hendricks' grave had withered. The seven days' wonder of hispassing was ended. The business that he had left prospered withouthim, or languished and died; within a week in all but a dozen heartsHendricks' memory began to recede into the past, and so, where therehad been a bubble on the tide, that held in its prism of light for abrief bit of eternity all of God's spectacle of life, suddenly therewas only the tide moving resistlessly toward the unknown shore. Andthus it is with all of us. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

In the summer of 1904, following the death of Robert Hendricks, JohnBarclay spent much time in the Ridge, more time than he had spentthere for thirty years. For in the City he was a marked man. Everytime the market quivered, reporters rushed to get his opinion aboutthe cause of the disturbance; the City papers were full of storieseither of his own misdeeds, or of the wrong-doings of other men of hiscaste. His cronies were dying all about him of broken hearts orwrecked minds, and it seemed to him that the word "indictment" was inevery column of every newspaper, was on every man's lips, andliterally floated in the air. 

So he remained in Sycamore Ridge much of the time, and every fairafternoon he rowed himself up the mill-pond to fish. He liked to bealone; for when he was alone, he could fight the battle in his soulwithout interruption. The combat had been gathering for a year; adespair was rising in him, that he concealed from his womenkind--whowere his only intimate associates in those days--as if it had been acrime. But out on the mill-pond alone, casting minnows for bass, hecould let the melancholy in his heart rage and battle with his sanity, without let or hindrance. His business was doing well; the lawsuitsagainst the company in a dozen states were not affecting dividends, and the department in charge of his charities was forwarding lettersof condolence and consolation from preachers and college presidents, and men who under the old regime had been in high walks of life. Occasionally some conservative newspaper or magazine would praise himand his company highly; but he knew the shallowness of all the patterof praise. He knew that he paid for it in one way or another, and hegrew cynical; and in his lonely afternoons on the river, often helaughed at the whole mockery of his career, smiled at the thought oforganized religion, licking his boots for money like a dog for bones, and then in his heart he said there is no God. Once, to relieve thepain of his soul's woe, he asked aloud, who is God, anyway, and thenlaughed as he thought that the bass nibbling at his minnow would soonthink he, John Barclay, was God. The analogy pleased him, and hethought that his own god, some devilish fate, had the string throughhis gills at that moment and was preparing to cast him into the fire. Up in the office in the city, they went on making senators andgovernors, and slipping a federal judge in where they could, but hehad little hand in it, for his power was a discarded toy. He sat inhis boat alone, rowing for miles and miles, from stump to stump, andfrom fallen tree-top to tree-top, hating the thing he called God, anddistrusting men. 

But when he appeared in the town, or at home, he was cheerful enough;he liked to mingle with the people, and it fed his despair to noticewhat a hang-dog way they had with him. He knew they had been abusinghim behind his back, and when he found out exactly what a man hadsaid, he delighted in facing the man down with it. 

"So you think John Barclay could have saved Bob Hendricks' life, doyou, Oscar?" asked Barclay, as he overhauled Fernald coming out of thepost-office. 

"Who said so?" asked Fernald, turning red. 

"Oh, " chuckled Barclay, "I got it from the hired girls' wireless newsagency. But you said it all right--you said it, Oscar; you said itover to Ward's at dinner night before last. " And Barclay grinnedmaliciously. 

Fernald scratched his head, and said, "Well, John, to be frank withyou, that's the talk all over town--among the people. "

"The people--the people, " snapped Barclay, impatiently, "the peopletake my money for bridges and halls and parks and churches and statuesand then call me a murderer--oh, damn the people! Who started thisstory?"

"See Jake Dolan, John--it's up to him. He can satisfy you, " saidFernald, and turned, leaving Barclay in the street. 

Up the hill trudged the gray-clad little man, with his pugnaciousshoulders weaving and his bronzed face set hard and his mean jawlocked. On the steps of the court-house he found Jake Dolan, smoking amorning pipe with the loafers in the shade of the building. 

"Here you, Jake Dolan, " called Barclay, "what do you mean by accusingme of murdering Bob Hendricks? What did I have to do with it?"

"Easy, easy, Johnnie, my boy, " returned Dolan, knocking the ashes fromhis pipe on the steps between his feet. "Gentlemen, " said Dolan, addressing the crowd, "you've heard what our friend says. Allright--come with me to my office, Johnnie Barclay, and I'll showyou. " Barclay followed Dolan into the basement of the court-house, with the crowd at a respectful distance. "Right this way--" and Dolanswitched on an electric light. "Do you see that break in thefoundation, Mr. Barclay? You do? And you know in your soul that itopens into the cave that leads to the cellar of your own house. Well, then, Mr. Johnnie Barclay--the book that contained the evidenceagainst Bob Hendricks did not go out of this court-house by the frontdoor, as you well know, but through that hole--stolen at night when Iwas out; and the man who stole it was the horse thief that used to runthe cave--your esteemed friend, Lige Bemis. "

The crowd was gaping at the rickety place in the foundation, and oneman pulled a loose stone out and let the cold air of the cave into theroom. 

"Lige Bemis came to your house, Mr. Johnnie Barclay, got into the cavefrom your cellar, broke through this wall, and stole the book thatcontained the forgery made to cover General Hendricks' disgrace. Andwho caused that disgrace but the overbearing, domineering JohnBarclay, who made that old man steal to pay John Barclay's taxes, backin the grasshopper year, when the sheriff and the jail were almost asfamiliar to him as they are now, --by all counts. Ah, John Barclay, "said the Irishman, turning to the crowd, "John Barclay, JohnBarclay--you're a brave little man sometimes; I've seen you when Iwas most ungodly proud of you; I've seen you do grand things, mylittle man, grand things. But you're a coward too, Johnnie; sitting inyour own house while your horse-thief friend used your cellar to workout the disgrace of the man who gave his good name to save yourown--that was a fine trick--a damn fine trick, wasn't it, Mr. Barclay?"

Barclay started to go, but the crowd blocked his way. Dolan saw thatBarclay was trying to escape. "Turn tail, will you, my little man?Wait one minute, " cried Dolan. "Wait one minute, sir. For what was youconniving against the big man? I know--to win your game; to win yourmiserable little game. Ah, what a pup a man can be, Johnnie, what amangy, miserable, cowardly little pup a man can be when he tries--anda decent man, too. Money don't mean anything to you--you got pastthat, but it's to win the game. Why, man, look at yourself--look atyourself--you'd cheat your own mother playing cards with matches forcounters--just to win the game. " Dolan waved for the crowd to break. "Let him out of here, and get out yourselves--every one of you. Thisis public property you're desecrating. "

Dolan sat alone in his office, pale and trembling after the crowd hadgone. Colonel Culpepper came puffing in and saw the Irishman sittingwith his head in his hands and his elbows on the table. 

"What's this, Jake--what's this I hear?" asked the colonel. 

"Oh, nothing, " answered Dolan, and then he looked up at the colonelwith sad, remorseful eyes. "What a fool--what a fool whiskey in aman's tongue is--what a fool. " He reached under his cot for his jug, and repeated as he poured the liquor into a glass, "What a fool, whata fool, what a fool. " And then, as he gulped it down and made a wryface, "Poor little Johnnie at the mill; I didn't mean to hit him sohard--not half so hard. What a fool, what a fool, " and the two oldmen started off for the harness shop together. 

Neal Ward that night, in the _Banner_ office alone, wrote to hissweetheart the daily letter that was never mailed. 

 "How sweet it is, " he writes, "to have you at home. Sometimes I hear your voice through the old leaky telephone, talking to Aunt Molly; her phone and ours are through the same board, and your voice seems natural then, and unstrained, not as it is when we meet. But I know that some way we are meeting--our souls--in the infinite realm outside ourselves--beyond our consciousness--either sleeping or waking. Last night I dreamed a strange dream. A little girl, like one of the pictures in mother's old family photograph album, seemed to be talking with me, --dressed so quaintly in the dear old fashion of the days when mother taught the Sycamore Ridge School. She seemed to be playing with me in some way, and then she said: 'Oh, yes, I am your telephone; she knows all about it. I tell her every night as we play together. ' And then she was no longer a little girl but a most beautiful soul and she said with great gentleness: 'In her heart she loves you--in her heart she loves you. This I know, only she is proud--proud with the Barclay pride; but in her heart she loves you; is not that enough?' What a strange dream! I wonder where we are--we who animate our bodies, when we sleep. What is sleep, but the proof that death is but a sleep? Oh, Jeanette, Jeanette, come into my soul as we sleep. "

He folded the letter, sealed and addressed it, and dated the envelope, and put it in his desk--the desk before which Adrian Brownwell hadsat, eating his heart out in futile endeavour to find his place in theworld. Neal Ward had cleaned out one side of the desk, and was usingthat for his own. Mrs. Brownwell kept her papers in the other side, and one key locked them both. As he walked home that night under thestars, his heart was full of John Barclay's troubles. Neal knewBarclay well enough to know that the sensitive nature of the man, withhis strongly developed instinctive faculty for getting at the truth, would be his curse in the turmoil or criticism through which he wasgoing. So a day or two later Neal was not surprised to find a longstatement in the morning press despatches from Barclay explaining anddefending the methods of the National Provisions Company. He provedcarefully that the notorious Door Strip saved large losses in transitof the National Provisions Company's grain and grain produce, andshowed that in paying him for the use of these strips the railroadcompanies were saving great sums for widowed and orphaned stockholdersof railroads--sums which would be his due for losses in transit ifthe strips were not used. 

Neal Ward knew what it had cost Barclay in pride to give out thatstatement; so the young man printed it on the first page of the_Banner_ with a kind editorial about Mr. Barclay and his good works. That night when the paper was off, and young Ward was working on thebooks of his office, he was called to the telephone. 

"Is this you, Nealie Ward?" asked a woman's voice--the strong, clear, deep voice of an old woman. And when he had answered, the voice wenton: "Well, Nealie, I wish to thank you for that editorial about Johnto-night in the paper; I'm Mary Barclay. It isn't more than half true, Nealie; and if it was all true, it isn't a fraction of what the truthought to be if John did what he could, but it will do him a lot ofgood--right here in the home paper, and--Why, Jennie, I'm speakingwith Nealie Ward, --why, do you think I am not old enough to talk withNealie without breeding scandal?--as I was saying, my dear, it willcheer John up a little, and heaven knows he needs something. I'm--Jennie, for mercy sakes keep still; I know Nealie Ward and Iknew his father when he wasn't as old as Nealie--did his washing forhim; and boarded his mother four winters, and I have a right to saywhat I want to to that child. " The boy and the grandmother laughedinto the telephone. "Jennie is so afraid I'll do something improper, "laughed Mrs. Barclay. "Oh, yes, by the way--here's a little item foryour paper to-morrow: Jennie's mother is sick; I think it's typhoid, but you can't get John to admit it. So don't say typhoid. " Then with afew more words she rang off. 

When the _Banner_ printed the item about Mrs. Barclay's illness, thetown, in one of those outbursts of feeling which communities oftenhave, seemed to try to show John Barclay the affection that was intheir hearts for the man who had grown up among them, and the familythat had been established under his name. Flowers--summerflowers--poured in on the Barclays. Children came with wild flowers, prairie flowers that Jane Barclay had not seen since she roamed overthe unbroken sod about Minneola as a girl; and Colonel Culpepper camemarching up the walk through the Barclay grounds, bearing hisold-fashioned bouquet, as grandly as an ambassador bringing a king'sgift. Jane Barclay sent word that she wished to see him. 

"My dear, " said the colonel, as he held the flowers toward her, "accept these flowers from those who have shared your bounty--fromGod's poor, my dear; these are God's smiles that they send you fromtheir hearts--from their very hearts, my dear, from their poor heartswherein God's smiles come none too often. " She saw through glisteningeyes the broken old figure, with his coat tightly buttoned on thatJuly day to hide some shabbiness underneath. But she bade the colonelsit down, and they chatted of old times and old places and old facesfor a few minutes; and the colonel, to whom any sort of socialfunction was a rare and sweet occasion, stayed until the nurse had tobeckon him out of the room over Mrs. Barclay's shoulder. 

General Ward sent a note with a bunch of monthly blooming roses. 

 "MY DEAR JANE (he wrote): These roses are from slips we got from John's mother when we planted our little yard. This red one is from the very bush on which grew the rose John wore at his wedding. Pin it on the old scamp to-night, and see how he will look. He was a dapper little chap that night, and the years have hardly begun their work on him; or perhaps he is such a tough customer that he dulls the chisel of time. I do not know, and so long as it is so, you do not care, but we both know, and are both glad that of all the many things God has sent you in thirty years, he has sent you nothing so fine as the joy that came with the day John wore this rose for you--a joy that has grown while the rose has faded. And may this rose renew your joy for another thirty years. "

John read the note when he came in from the mill that evening, andJane watched the years slip off his face. He looked into the past asit spread itself on the carpet near the bed. 

"Well, well, well, " he said, as he smiled into the picture he saw, "Iremember as well the general bringing that rose down to the officethat morning, wrapped in blue tissue paper from cotton batting rolls!The package was tied with fancy red braid that used to bind muslinbolts. " He laughed quietly, and asked, "Jane, do you remember that oldred braid?" The sick woman nodded. "Well, with the little blue packagewas a note from Miss Lucy, which said that my old teacher could notgive me a present that year--times were cruelly hard then, youremember--but that she could and did put the blessing of her prayerson the rose, that all that it witnessed at my wedding would bring mehappiness. " He sat for a moment in silence, and, as the nurse wasgone, he knelt beside the sick woman and kissed her. And as the wifestroked his head she whispered, "How that prayer has been answered, John--dear, hasn't it?" And the great clock in the silent hall belowticked away some of the happiest minutes it had ever measured. 

But when he passed out of the sick room, the world--the maddeningpress of affairs, and the combat in his soul--snapped back on hisshoulders with a mental click as though a load had fallen into its oldplace. He stood before his organ, and could not press the keys. As hesat there in the twilight made by the shaded electric lamps, thestruggle rose in his heart against the admission of anything into hisscheme of life but material things, and the conflict raged unchecked. What a silliness, he said, to think that the mummery of a woman over arose could affect a life. Life is what the succession of the daysbrings. The thing is or is not, he said to himself, and the gibberabout prayer and the moral force that moves the universe is for theweak-minded. So he took his hell to bed with him as it went everynight, and during the heavy hours when he could not sleep, he tiptoedinto the sick room, and looked at the thin face of his wife, sleepinga restless, feverish sleep, and a great fear came into his heart. 

Once as the morning dawned he asked the nurse whom he met in the hall, "Is it typhoid?"

She was a stranger to the town, and she said to him, "What does thedoctor tell you?"

"That's not the point, " he insisted. "What do you think?"

She looked at him for an undecided moment and replied, "I'm not paidto think, Mr. Barclay, " and went past him with her work. But he knewthe truth. He went to his bed, and threw himself upon it, a-tremblewith remorse and fear, and the sneer in his heart stilled his lips andhe could not look outside himself for help. So the morning came, andanother day, bringing its thousand cares, faced him, like a jailerwith his tortures. 

Time dragged slowly in the sick room and at the mill. One doctorbrought another, and the Barclay private car went far east and cameflying back with a third. The town knew that Mrs. John Barclay wasdangerously sick. There came hopeful days when the patient's mind wasclear; on one of these days Mrs. McHurdie called, and they let her seethe sick woman. She brought some flowers. 

"In the flowers, Jane, " she said, "you will find something fromWatts. " Mrs. McHurdie smiled. "You know he sat up till 'way aftermidnight last night, playing his accordion. Oh, it's been years sincehe has touched it. And this morning when I got up, I found him sittingby the kitchen table, writing. It's a poem for you. " Mrs. McHurdielooked rather sheepish as she said: "You know how Watts is, Jane; hejust made me bring it. You can read it when you get well. "

They hurried Mrs. McHurdie out, and when Jane Barclay went to sleep, they found tears on her pillow, and in her hand the verses, --thelimping, awkward verses of an old man, whose music only echoed backfrom the past. The nurses and the young doctor from Boston had a goodlaugh at it. Each of the four stanzas began with two lines that asked:"Oh, don't you remember the old river road, that ran through thesweet-scented wood?" To them it was a curious parody on something oldand quaint that they had long since forgotten. But to the woman wholay murmuring of other days, whose lips were parched for the waters ofbrooks that had surrendered to the plough a score of years ago, thehalting verses of Watts McHurdie were laden with odours of grapeblossoms, of wild cucumbers and sumach, of elder blossoms, and thefragrance of the crushed leaves of autumn. And the music of distantripples played in her feverish brain and the sobbing voice of theturtle dove sang out of the past for her as she slept. All through theday and the night and for many nights and days she whispered of thetrees and the running water and the wild grass and the birds. 

And so one morning when it was still gray, she woke and said to John, who bent over her, "Why, dear, we are almost home; there are thelights across the river; just one more hill, dearie, and then--" Andthen with the water prattling in her ears at the last ford she turnedto the wall and sank to rest. 

Day after day, until the days and nights became a week and the weekrepeated itself until nearly a month was gone, John Barclay, dry-eyedand all but dumb, paced the terrace before his house by night, and byday roamed through the noisy mill or wandered through his desolatehouse, seeking peace that would not come to him. The whole foundationof his scheme of life was crumbling beneath him. He had builtthirty-five years of his manhood upon the theory that the human brainis the god of things as they are and as they must be. The structure ofhis life was an imposing edifice, and men called it great andsuccessful. Yet as he walked his lonely way in those black days thatfollowed Jane's death, there came into his consciousness a strong, overmastering conviction, which he dared not accept, that his housewas built on sand. For here were things outside of his plans, outsideof his very beliefs, coming into his life, bringing calamity, sorrow, and tragedy with them into his own circle of friends, into his ownhousehold, into his own heart. As he walked through the dull, lonelyhours he could not escape the vague feeling, though he fought it asone mad fights for his delusion, that all the tragedies piling upabout him came from his own mistakes. Over and over again he threshedthe past. Molly Brownwell's cry, "You have sold me into bondage, JohnBarclay, " would not be stilled, though at times he could smile at it;and the broken body and shamed face of her father haunted him like anobsession. Night after night when he tried to sleep, Robert Hendricks'letter burned in fire before his eyes, and at last so mad was thestruggle in his soul that he hugged these things to him that he mightescape the greater horror: the dreadful red headlines in thesensational paper they had sent him from the City office whichscreamed at him, "John Barclay slays his wife--Aids a waterfranchise grab that feeds the people typhoid germs and his own wifedies of the fever. " He had not replied to the letter from the lawdepartment of the Provisions Company which asked if he wished to suefor libel, and begged him to do so. He had burned the paper, but theheadlines were seared into his brain. 

Over and over he climbed the fiery ladder of his sins: the death ofGeneral Hendricks, the sacrifice of Molly Culpepper, the temptationand fall of her father, the death of his boyhood's friend, and thenthe headlines. These things were laid at his door, and over and overagain, like Sisyphus rolling the stones uphill, he swept them awayfrom his threshold, only to find that they rolled right back again. And with them came at times the suspicion that his daughter'sunhappiness was upon him also. And besides these things, a hundredbusiness transactions wherein he had cheated and lied for money roseto disturb him. And through it all, through his anguish and shame, thefaith of his life kept battling for its dominion. 

Once he sent for Bemis and tried to talk himself into peace with hisfriend. He did not speak of the things that were corroding his heart, but he sat by and heard himself chatter his diabolic creed as adrunkard watches his own folly. 

"Lige, " he said, "I'm sick of that infernal charities bureau we'vegot. I'm going to abolish it. These philanthropic millionaires make mesick at the stomach, Lige. What do they care for the people? They knowwhat I know, that the damn people are here to be skinned. " He laughedviciously and went on: "Sometimes I think we filthy rich are dividedinto two classes: those of us who keep mistresses, and those of us whohave harmless little entanglements with preachers and collegepresidents. Neither the lemon-haired women nor the college presidentsinterfere with our business; they don't hamper us--not the slightest. They just take our money, and for a few idle hours amuse us, and makeus feel that we are good fellows. As for me, I'll have neither womennor college presidents purring around my ankles. I'm going to cut outthe philanthropy appropriation to-day. "

And he was as good as his word. But that did not help. The truth keptwrenching his soul, and his feet blindly kept trying to find a path topeace. 

It was late one night in August, and a dead moon was hanging in thesouth, when, treading the terrace before his house, he saw a shadowmoving down the stairway in the hall. At first his racked nervesquivered, but when he found that it was his mother, he went to meether, exclaiming as he mounted the steps to the veranda, "Why, mother, what is it--is anything wrong?"

Though it was past midnight, Mary Barclay was dressed for the day. Shestood in the doorway with the dimmed light behind her, a tall, strongwoman, straight and gaunt as a Nemesis. "No, John--nothing iswrong--in the house. " She walked into the veranda and began as sheapproached a chair, "Sit down, John; I wish to talk with you. "

"Well, mother--what is it?" asked the son, as he sat facing her. 

She paused a moment looking earnestly at his face and replied, "Thetime has come when we must talk this thing out, John, soul to soul. "

He shrank from what was coming. His instinct told him to fight awaythe crisis. He began to palaver, but his mother cut him short, as sheexclaimed:--

"Why don't you let Him in, John?"

"Let who in?" asked her son. 

"You know Whom, John Barclay; that was your grandfather speaking then, the old polly foxer. You know, my boy. Don't you remember me bendingover the town wash-tub when you were a child, Johnnie? Don't youremember the old song I used to sing--of course you do, child--as Irubbed the clothes on the board: 'Let Him in, He is your friend, let Himin, He is your friend; He will keep you to the end--let--Him--in!' Ofcourse you remember it, boy, and you have been fighting Him with allyour might for six months now, and since Jane went, the fight is drivingyou crazy--can't you see, John?"

The son did not reply for a moment, then he said, "Oh, well, mother, that was all right in that day, but--"

"John Barclay, " cried the mother sternly, as she leaned toward him, "the faith that bore your father a martyr to the grave, sustained mein this wilderness, and kept me happy as I scrubbed for your bread, shall not be scoffed in my presence. We are going to have this thingout to-night. I, who bore you, and nursed you, and fed you, and stakedmy soul on your soul, have some rights to-night. Here you are, fifty-four years old, and what have you done? You've killed yourfriend and your friend's father before him--I know that, John. You'vewrecked the life of the sister of your first sweetheart, and put fearand disgrace in her father's face forever--forever, John Barclay, aslong as he lives. I know that too; I haven't been wrapped in pinkcotton all these years, boy--I've lived my own life since you left mywing, and made my own way too, as far as that goes. And now you aretrying to quench the fires of remorse in your soul because your wifedied a victim of your selfish, ruthless, practical scheme of things. More than that, my son--more than that, your child is suffering allthe agony that a woman can suffer because of your devilish system oftraffic in blood for money. You know what I mean, John. That boy toldthe truth, as you admit, and he could either run or lie, and for beinga man you have broken up a God-sent love merely to satisfy your ownvanity. Oh, John--John, " she cried passionately, "my poor, blind, foolish boy--haven't you found the ashes in the core of your faithyet--aren't you ready to quit?"

He began, "Don't you think, mother, I have suffered--"

"Suffered, boy? Suffered? Of course you have suffered, John, " sheanswered, taking his hands in hers. "I have seen the furnace firessmoking your face, and I know you have suffered, Johnnie; that's why Iam coming to you--to ask you to quit suffering. Look at it, myboy--what are you suffering for? Is it material power you want? Well, you have never had it. The people are going right along running theirown affairs in spite of you. All your nicely built card houses areknocked over. In the states and in the federal government, in spite ofyour years of planning and piecing out your little practical system, at the very first puff of God's breath it goes to pieces. The men whomyou bought and paid for don't stay bought--do they, my boy? Oh, yourold mother knows, John. Men who will sell are never worth buying; andthe house that relies on them, falls. You have built a sand dam, son--like the dams you used to build in the spring stream when youwere a child. It melts under pressure like straw. You have no worldlypower. In this practical world you are a failure, and good old PhilWard, who went out into the field and scattered seeds of discontent atyour system--he is seeing his harvest ripen in his old age, John, "she cried. "Can't you see your failure? Look at it from a practicalstandpoint: what thing in the last thirty years have you advocated, and Philemon Ward opposed, that to-day he has not realized and youlost? His prescription for the evils may have been wrong many times, but his diagnosis of them was always right, and they are being cured, in spite of all your protest that they did not exist. Which of you haswon his practical fight in this practical world--his God or your God;the ideal world or the material world, boy? Can't you see it?" The oldwoman leaned forward and looked in her son's dull, unresponsive face. "Can't you see how you have failed?" she pleaded. 

They rose together and began to pace the long floor of the veranda. "Oh, mother, " he cried, as he put his arm about her, "I am solonely--so tired, so sick in the heart of me. "

They didn't speak for a time, but walked together in silence. Atlength the mother began again. "John, " she said, as they turned at theend of the porch, "I suppose you are saying that you have yourmoney--that it is material--solid, substantial, and undeniable. Butis it? Isn't it all a myth? Leave it where it is--in the shape ofsecurities and stocks and credits--what will it do? Will it bringJane back? Will it give Jeanette her heart's desire, and make herhappy all her life? You know, dear, that it will only make memiserable. Has it made you happy, John? Turn it into gold and pile itup in the front yard--and what will it buy that poor Phil Ward hasnot had all of his life--good food, good clothing--good enough, atleast--a happy family, useful children, and a good name? A good name, John, is rather to be chosen than great riches--than all your money, my son--rather to be chosen than all your money. Can you buy thatwith your millions piled on millions?"

They were walking slowly as she spoke, and they turned into theterrace. There they stood looking at the livid moon sinking behind thegreat house. 

"Is there more joy in this house than in any other house in town, John--answer me squarely, son--answer me, " she cried. He shook hishead sadly and sighed. "A mother, whose heart bleeds every hour as shesees her son torturing himself with footless remorse; that is one. Aheart-broken, motherless girl, whose lover has been torn away from herby her father's vanity and her own pride, and whose mother has beentaken as a pawn in the game her father played with no motive, nobenefit, nothing but to win his point in a miserable little game ofpolitics; that is number two. And a man who should be young for twentyyears yet, who should have been useful for thirty years--and now whatis he? powerless, useless, wretched, lonely, who spends his timewalking about fighting against God, that he may prove his own wisdomand nothing more. "

"Mother, " cried Barclay, petulantly, "I can't stand this--that youshould turn on me--now. " He broke away from her, and stood alone. "When I need you most, you reproach me. When I need sympathy, youscorn all that I have done. You can't prove your God. Why should Iaccept Him?"

The gaunt old woman stretched out her arms and cried: "Oh, JohnBarclay, prove your god. Tell him to come and give you a moment'shappiness--set him to work to restore your good name; command him tomake Jeanette happy. These things my God can do! Let your Mammon, " shecried with all the passion of her soul, "let your Mammon come down anddo one single miracle like that. " Her voice broke and she sobbed. "What a tower of Babel--an industrial Babel, you are building, John--you and your kith and kind. The last century gave usSchopenhauers and Kants, all denying God, and this one gives usRailroad Kings and Iron Kings and Wheat Kings, all by their worksproclaiming that Mammon has the power and the glory and the Kingdom. Oye workers of iniquity!" she cried, and her voice lifted, "ye wickedand perverse--"

She did not finish, but broken and trembling, her strength spent andher faith scorned, she sank on her knees by a marble urn on theterrace and sobbed and prayed. When she rose, the dawn was breaking, and she looked for a moment at her son, who had been sitting near her, and cried: "Oh, my boy, my little boy that I nursed at my breast--letHim in, He is your friend--and oh, my God, sustain my faith!"

Her son came to her side and led her into the house. But he went tohis room and began the weary round, battling for his own faith. 

As he stood by his open window that day at the mill, he saw MollyBrownwell across the pond, going into his home. He watched her idlyand saw Jeanette meet her at the door, and then as his memory wentback to the old days, he tried to find tears for the woman who haddied, but he could only rack his soul. Tears were denied to him. 

He was a rich man--was John Barclay; some people thought that, takinghis wealth as wealth goes, all carefully invested in substantialthings--in material things, let us say--he was the richest man inthe Mississippi Valley. He bought a railroad that day when he lookedthrough the office window at Molly Brownwell--a railroad threethousand miles long. And he bought a man's soul in a distant city--aman whom he did not know even by name, but the soul was thrown in "toboot" in a bargain; and he bought a woman's body whose face he hadnever seen, and that went as part of another trade he was making andhe did not even know they had thrown it in. And he bought a child'slife, and he bought a city's prosperity in another bargain, and boughtthe homage of a state, and the tribute of a European kingdom, as partof the day's huckstering. But with all his wealth and power, he couldnot buy one tear--not one little, miserable tear to moisten hisgrief-dried heart. For tears, just then, were a trifle high. So Mr. Barclay had to do without, though the man whose soul he bought wept, and the woman whose body came with a trade, sobbed, and the dead faceof the child was stained with a score of tears. 

They went to Jeanette Barclay's room, --the gray-haired woman and thegirl, --and they sat there talking for a time--talking of things thatwere on their lips and not in their hearts. Each felt that the otherunderstood her. And each felt that something was to be said. For oneday before the end Jeanette's mother had said to her: "Jennie, if I amnot here always go to Molly--ask her to tell you about her girlhood. "The mother had rested for a while, and then added, "Tell her I saidfor you to ask her, and she'll know what I mean. "

"Jeanette, " said Molly Brownwell, "your mother and I were girlstogether. Your father saw more of her at our house than he did at herown home, until they married. Did you know that?" Jeanette noddedassent. "So one day last June she said to me, 'Molly, sometime I wishyou would tell Jennie all about you and Bob. '"

Mrs. Brownwell paused, and Jeanette said, "Yes, mother told me to askyou to, Aunt Molly. " Tears came into the daughter's eyes, and sheadded, "I think she knew even then that--"

And then it all came back, and after a while the elder woman wassaying, "Well, once upon a time there lived a princess, my dear. Allgood stories begin so--don't they? She was a fat, pudgy littleprincess who longed to grow up and have hoop-skirts like a realsure-enough woman princess, and there came along a tall prince--thetallest, handsomest prince in all the wide world, I think. And he andthe princess fell in love, as princesses and princes will, you know, my dear, --just as they do now, I am told. And the prince had to goaway on business and be gone a long, long time, and while he was gonethe father of the princess and the friend of the prince got intotrouble--and the princess thought it was serious trouble. She thoughtthe father of the prince would have to go to jail and maybe the princeand his friend fail. My, my, Jeanette, what a big word that word failseemed to the little fat princess! So she let a man make love to herwho could lend them all some money and keep the father out of jail andthe prince and his friend from the awful fate of failure. So the manlent the money and made love, and made love. And the little princesshad to listen; every one seemed to like to have her listen, so shelistened and she listened, and she was a weak little princess. Sheknew she had wronged the prince by letting the man make love to her, and her soul was smudged and--oh, Jeanette, she was such a foolish, weak, miserable little princess, and they didn't tell her that thereis only one prince for every princess, and one princess for everyprince--so she took the man, and sent away the prince, and the manmade love ever so beautifully--but it was not the real thing, mydear, --not the real thing. And afterwards when she saw theprince--so young and so strong and so handsome, her heart burned forhim as with a flame, and she was not ashamed; the wicked, wickedprincess, she didn't know. And so they walked together one night rightup to the brink of the bad place, dearie--right up to the brink; andthe princess shuddered back, and saved the prince. Oh, Jeanette, Jeanette, Jeanette, " sobbed the woman, in the girl's arms, "right inthis room, in this very room, which was your mother's room in the oldhouse, I came out of the night, as bad a woman as God ever sent awayfrom Him. And your mother and I cried it out, and talked it out, and Ifought it out, and won. Oh, I won, Jeanette--I won!"

The two women were silent for a time, and then the elder went on:"That's what your mother wished you to know--that for every princessthere is just one real prince, and for every prince there is just onereal princess, my dear, and when you have found him, and know he istrue, nothing--not money, not friends, not father nor mother--whenhe is honest, not even pride--should stand between you. That is whatyour mother sent you, dearie. Do you understand?"

"I think I do, Aunt Molly--I think so, " repeated the girl. She lookedout of the window for a moment, and then cried, "Oh, Aunt Molly--butI can't, I can't. How could he, Aunt Molly--how could he?" The girlburied her face in the woman's lap, and sobbed. 

After a time the elder woman spoke. "You know he loves you, don't you, dear?"

The girl shook her head and cried, "But how could he?" and repeated itagain and again. 

"And you still love him--I know that, my dear, or you could not--youwould not care, either, " she added. 

And so after a time the tears dried, as tears will, and the two womenfell back into the pale world of surfaces, and as Molly Brownwell leftshe took the girl's hand and said: "You won't forget about the littlepudgy princess--the dear, foolish, little weak princess, will you, Jeanette? And, dearie, " she added as she stood on the lower steps ofthe porch, "don't--don't always be so proud--not about that, mydear--about everything else in the world, but not about that. " And soshe went back into the world, and ceased to be a fairy godmother, andtook up her day's work. 

John Barclay went to the City that night for the first time in twomonths, and Jeanette and her Grandmother Barclay kept the big housealone. In ten days he came back; his face was still hard, and the redrims around his eyes were dry, and his voice was sullen, as it hadbeen for many weeks. His soul was still wrestling with a spirit thatwould not give up the fight. That night his daughter tried to sit withhim, as she had tried many nights before. They sat looking at thestars in silence as was their wont. Generally the father had risen andwalked away, but that night he turned upon her and said:--

"Jeanette, don't you like to be rich? I guess you are the richest girlin this country. Doesn't that sound good to you?"

"No, father, " she answered simply, and continued, "What can I do withall that money?"

"Marry some man who's got sense enough to double it, and double it, "cried Barclay, harshly. "Then there'll be no question but that you'llbe the richest people in the world. "

"And then what?" asked the girl. 

"Then--then, " he cried, "make the people in this world standaround--that's what. "

"But, father, " she said as she put her hand on his arm, "what if Idon't want them to stand around? Why should I have to bother aboutit?"

"Oh, " he groaned, "your grandmother has been filling you full ofnonsense. " He did not speak for a time, and at length she rose to goto bed. "Jeanette, " he cried so suddenly that it startled her, "areyou still moping after Neal Ward? Do you love him? Do you want me togo and get him for you?"

The girl stood by her father's chair a moment and then answeredcolourlessly: "No, father, I don't want you to get him for me. I amnot moping for him, as you call it. "

Her desolate tone reached some chord in his very heart, for he caughther hand, and put it to his cheek and said softly, "But she loveshim--my poor little girl loves him?"

She tried to pull away her hand and replied, in the same dead voice:"Oh, well--that doesn't matter much, I suppose. It's all over--sofar as I am concerned. " She turned to leave him, and he cried:--

"My dear, my dear--why don't you go to him?"

She stopped a moment and looked at her father, and even in thestarlight she could see his hard mouth and his ruthless jaw. Then shecried out, "Oh, father, I can't--I can't--" After a moment sheturned and looked at him, and asked, "Would you? Would you?" andwalked into the house without waiting for an answer. 

The father sat crumpled up in his chair, listening to the flamescrackling in his heart. The old negation was fighting for its own, andhe was weary and broken and sick as with a palsy of the soul. Foreverything in him trembled. There was no solid ground under him. Hehad visited his material kingdom in the City, and had seen its strongfortresses and had tried all of its locks and doors, and found themfirm and fast. But they did not satisfy his soul; something within himkept mocking them; refusing to be awed by their power, and the eternal"yes" rushed through his reason like a great wind. 

As he sat there, suddenly, as from some power outside, John Barclayfelt a creaking of his resisting timbers, and he quit the struggle. His heart was lead in his breast, and he walked through the house tohis pipe organ, that had stood silent in the hall for nearly a year. He stood hesitatingly before it for a second, and then wearily lay himdown to rest, on a couch beside it, where, when he had played the lasttime, Jane lay and listened. He was tired past all telling, but hissoul was relaxed. He lay there for hours--until the tall clock abovehis head chimed two. He could not sleep, but his consciousness wasinert and his mind seemed limp and empty, as one who has worked pasthis limit. The hymn that the clock chimed through the quarter hoursrepeated itself over and over again without meaning in his brain. Something aroused him; he started up suddenly, and lying half on hiselbow and half on his side he stared about him, and was conscious of agreat light in the room: it was as though there was a fire near by andhe was alarmed, but he could not move. As he looked into space, terrified by the paralysis that held him, he saw across the face ofthe organ, "Righteousness exalteth a Nation, but sin is a reproach toany people. "

Quick as a flash his mind went back to the time that same motto staredmeaninglessly at him from above the pulpit in the chapel at WestPoint, to which he had been appointed official visitor at Commencementmany years before. But that night as he gazed at the text its meaningcame rushing through his brain. It came so quickly that he could notwill it back nor reason it in. Righteousness, he knew, was notpiety--not wearing your Sunday clothes to church and praying andsinging psalms; it was living honestly and kindly and charitably anddealing decently with every one in every transaction; and sin--that, he knew--was the cheating, the deceiving, and the malicious greedthat had built up his company and scores of others like it all overthe land. That, he knew--that bribery and corruption and vicariousstealing which he had learned to know as business--that was areproach to any people, and as it came to him that he was a miserableoffender and that the other life, the decent life, was the right life, he was filled with a joy that he could not express, and he let thelight fail about him unheeded, and lay for a time in a transport ofhappiness. He had found the secret. 

The truth had come to him--to him first of all men, and it was his totell. The joy of it--that he should find out what righteousnesswas--that it was not crying "Lord, Lord" and playing thehypocrite--thrilled him. And then the sense of his sinning came overhim, but only with joy too, because he felt he could show others howfoolish they were. The clock stopped ticking; the chimes were silent, and he lay unconscious of his body, with his spirit bathed in some newessence that he did not understand and did not try to understand. Finally he rose and went to his organ and turned on the motor, and puthis hands to the keys. As he played the hymn to the "Evening Star, "John Barclay looked up and saw his mother standing upon the stair withher fine old face bathed in tears. And then at last--

Tears? Tears for Mr. Barclay? All these months there have been notears for him--none, except miserable little corroding tears of rageand shame. But now there are tears for Mr. Barclay, large, man's size, soul-healing tears--tears of repentance; not for the rich Mr. Barclay, the proud Mr. Barclay, the powerful, man-hating, God-defyingMr. Barclay of Sycamore Ridge, but for John Barclay, a contrite man, the humblest in all the kingdom. 

And as John Barclay let his soul rise with the swelling music, he feltthe solace of a great peace in his heart; he turned his wet faceupward and cried, "Oh, mother, mother, I feel like a child!" Then MaryBarclay knew that her son had let Him in, knew in her own heart allthe joy there is in heaven over one sinner that repenteth. 

CHAPTER XXIX

It is written in the Book that holds the wisdom of our race that onewho is reborn into the Kingdom of God, enters as a little child. It isthere in black and white, yet few people get the idea into theirconsciousnesses. They expect regeneration to produce an upright man. God knows better than that. And we should know better too when it iswritten down for us. And so you good people who expect to see JohnBarclay turn rightabout face on the habits of a lifetime are to bedisappointed. For a little child stumbles and falls and goes the wrongway many times before it learns the way of life. There came days afterthat summer night of 1904, when John Barclay fell--days when he wouldsneak into the stenographers' room in his office in the City and tearup some letter he had dictated, when he would send a telegramannulling an order, when he would find himself cheating and gouginghis competitors or his business associates, --even days when he hadnot the moral courage to retrace his steps although he knew he waswrong. Shame put her brand on his heart, and his face showed to thosewho watched it closely--and there were scores of fellow-gamblers atthe game with him, whose profits came from watching his face--hisface showed forth uncertainty and daze. So men said, "The old man'soff his feed, " or others said, "Barclay's losing his nerve"; and stillothers said, "Can it be possible that the old hypocrite is getting asort of belated conscience?"

But slowly, inch by inch, the child within him grew; he gripped hissoul with the iron hand of will that had made a man of him, and whenthe child fell and ached with shame, Barclay's will sustained theweakling. We are so hidden by our masks that this struggle in theman's soul, though guessed at by some of those about him, was unknownto the hundreds who saw him every day. But for him the universe hadchanged. And as a child, amazed, he looked upon the new wonder ofGod's order about him and went tripping and stumbling and topplingover awkwardly through it all as one learning some new equilibrium. There were times when his heart grew sick, and he would have given itall up. There were hours when he did surrender; when he did a meanthing and gloried in it, or a cowardly thing and apologized for it. But his will rose and turned him back to his resolve. He found the bigthings easy, and the little things hard to do. So he kept at the bigthings until they had pushed him so far toward his goal that thelittle things were details which he repaired slowly and with anguishof humiliation in secret, and unknown even to those who were nearestto him. 

And all this struggle was behind the hard face, under the broad, highforehead, back of the mean jaw, beneath the cover of the sharp brazeneyes. Even in Sycamore Ridge they did not suspect the truth untilBarclay had grown so strong in his new faith that he could look at hisyesterdays without shuddering. 

The year of our Lord nineteen hundred and six was a slow yearpolitically in Sycamore Ridge, so in the parliament at McHurdie's shopdiscussion took somewhat wider range than was usual. It may interestmetaphysicians in the world at large to know that the McHurdieparliament that August definitely decided that this is not a materialworld; that sensation is a delusion, that the whole phantasmagoria ofthe outer and material world is a reaction of some sort upon theindividual consciousness. Up to this point the matter is settled, andmetaphysicians may as well make a record of the decision; for WattsMcHurdie, Jacob Dolan, Philemon Ward, Martin Culpepper, and sometimesOscar Fernald, know just exactly as much about it as the ablestlogician in the world. It is, however, regrettable that after decidingthat the external world is but a divine reaction upon the individualconsciousness, the parliament was unable to reach any sort of adecision as to whose consciousness received the picture. Mr. Dolanmaintained vigorously that his consciousness was the one actuallyaffected, and that the colonel and the general and Watts were merehallucinations of his. The general held that Jake and the others wereaccessory phantasms of his own dream, and Watts and the colonel, beingof more poetical temperament, held that the whole outfit was a chimerain some larger consciousness, whose entity it is not given us to know. As for Oscar, he claimed the parliament was crazy, and started toprove it, when it was thought best to shift and modify the discussion;and, therefore, early in September, when the upper currents of thenational atmosphere were vocal with discordant allegations, denials, accusations, and maledictions, in Watts McHurdie's shop the questionbefore the house was, "How many people are there in the world?" Forten days, in the desultory debate that had droned through the summer, the general, true to his former contention, insisted that there wasonly one person in the world. Mr. Dolan, with the Celtic elasticity ofreason, was willing to admit two. 

"You and me and no more--all the rest is background for us, " heproclaimed. "If the you of the moment is the colonel--well and good;then the colonel and I for it; but if it is the general and I--to thetrees with your colonel and Watts, and the three billionothers--you're merely stage setting, and become third persons. "

"But, " asked McHurdie, "if I exist this minute with you, and then youfocus your attention on Mart there, the next minute, and he exists, what becomes of me when you turn your head from me?"

Dolan did not answer. He dipped into the _Times_ and read awhile; andthe colonel and the general got out the checkerboard and plunged intoa silent game. At length Dolan, after the fashion of debaters in theparliament, came out of his newspaper and said:--

"That, Mr. McHurdie, is a problem ranging off the subject, into thetheories of the essence of time and space, and I refuse to answer it. "

Me Hurdie kept on working, and the hands of the clock slipped aroundnearly an hour. Then the bell tinkled and Neal Ward came in on hisafternoon round for news to print in the next day's issue of the_Banner_. 

"Anything new?" he asked. 

"Mrs. Dorman is putting new awnings on the rear windows of herstore--did you get that?" asked McHurdie. 

The young man made a note of the fact. 

"Yes, " added Dolan, "and you may just say that Hon. Jacob Dolan, former sheriff of Garrison County, and a member of 'C' Company, wellknown in this community, who has been custodian of public buildingsand grounds in and for Garrison County, state of Kansas, ss. , iscontemplating resigning his position and removing to the NationalSoldiers' Home at Leavenworth for the future. "

Young Ward smiled, but did not take the item down in his note-book. 

"It isn't time yet, " he said. 

"Why not?" asked Dolan. 

"Only two months and a half since I printed that the last time. Itcan't go oftener than four times a year, and it's been in twice thisyear. Late in December will time it about right. "

"What's the news with you, boy?" asked Dolan. 

"Well, " said the young man, pausing carefully as if to make aselection from a large and tempting assortment, but really swinginghis arms for a long jump into the heart of the matter in his mind, "have you heard that John Barclay has given the town his pipe organ?"

"You don't say!" exclaimed McHurdie. 

"Tired of it?" asked Dolan, as though twenty-five-thousand-dollar pipeorgans were raining in the town every few days. 

"It'll not be that, Jake, " said Watts. "John is no man to tire ofthings. "

"No, it's not that, Mr. Dolan, " answered Neal Ward. "He has sent wordto the mayor and council that he is going to have the organ installedin Barclay Hall this week at his own expense, and he accompanied theletter with fifty thousand dollars in securities to hire a permanentorganist and a band-master for the band; and a band concert and anorgan concert will alternate in the hall every week during the year. Igather from reading his letter that Mr. Barclay believes the organwill do more good in the hall than in his house. "

The general and the colonel kept on at their game. Dolan whistled, andWatts nodded his head. "That's what I would say he did it for, " saidMcHurdie. 

"Are the securities N. P. C. Stock?" asked Dolan, tentatively. 

"No, " replied Neal; "I saw them; they are municipal bonds of one sortand another. "

"Well, well--Johnnie at the mill certainly is popping open like achestnut bur. Generally when he has some scheme on to buy publicsentiment he endows something with N. P. C. Stock, so that in case of alawsuit against the company he'd have the people interested inprotecting the stock. This new tack is certainly queer doings. Certainly queer doings for the dusty miller!" repeated Dolan. 

"Well, it's like his buying the waterworks of Bemis last month, andthat land at the new pumping station, and giving the council money tobuild the new dam and power-house. He had no rebate or take back inthat--at least no one can see it, " said the young man. 

"Nellie says, " put in Watts, "that she heard from Mrs. Fernald, whogot it from her girl, who got it from the girl who works in the Hubrestaurant, who had it from Mrs. Carnine's girl--so it come prettystraight--that Lige made John pay a pretty penny for the waterworks, and they had a great row because John would give up the fight. "

"Yes, " replied Dolan, "it come to me from one of the nigger prisonersin the jail, who has a friend who sweeps out Gabe's bank, that heheard John and Lige dickering, and that Lige held John up for ahundred thousand cold dollars for his bargain. "

"The Associated Press to-day, " said young Ward, "has a story to theeffect that there is a great boom in certain railroad stocks owing tosome secret operations of Mr. Barclay. They don't know what he isdoing, but things are pretty shaky. He refuses to make a statement. "

"He's a queer canny little man, " explained Watts. "You never knowwhere he'll break out next. "

"Well, he's up to some devilment, " exclaimed Dolan; "you can depend onthat. Why do you suppose he's laying off the hands at the stripfactory?"

The young man shook his head. "Give it up. I asked Mr. Mason and thebest I could get out of him was a parrot-like statement that 'owing tothe oversupply of our commodity, we have decided to close operationsfor the present. We have, therefore, ' he said pompously, 'given eachof our employees unable to find immediate work here, a ticket forhimself and family to any point in the United States to which he maydesire to go, and have agreed to pay the freight on his householdgoods also. ' That was every word I could get out of him--and you knowMr. Mason is pretty talkative sometimes. "

"Queer doings for the dusty miller, " repeated Dolan. 

The group by the bench heard the slap of the checkerboard on itsshelf, and General Ward cut into the conversation as one who had neverbeen out of it. "The boy's got good blood in him; it will come outsome day--he wasn't made a Thatcher and a Barclay and a Winthrop fornothing. Lizzie was over there the other night for tea with them, andshe said she hadn't seen John so much like himself for years. "

Young Ward went about his afternoon's work and the parliamentcontinued its debate on miscellaneous public business. The generalpulled the _Times_ from Dolan's pocket and began turning it over. Hestopped and read for a few moments and exclaimed:--

"Boys--see here. Maybe this explains something we were talkingabout. " He began reading a news item sent out from Washington, D. C. The item stated that the Department of Commerce and Labour had scoredwhat every one in official circles believed was the most importantvictory ever achieved by the government outside of a war. The itemcontinued:--

 "Within the last ten days, the head of one of the largest so-called trusts in this country called at the department, and explained that his organization, which controls a great staple commodity, was going into voluntary liquidation. The organization in question has been the subject of governmental investigation for nearly two years, and investigators were constantly hampered and annoyed by attempts of politicians of the very highest caste, outside of the White House, trying to get inspectors removed or discredited, and all along the line of its investigations the government has felt a powerful secret influence shielding the trust. As an evidence of his good faith in the disorganization, the head of the trust, while he was here, promised to send to the White House, what he called his 'political burglar's kit, ' consisting of a card index, labelling and ticketing with elaborate cross references and cabinet data, every man in the United States who is in politics far enough to get to his state legislature, or to be a nominee of his party for county attorney. This outfit, shipped in a score of great boxes, was dumped at the White House to-day, and it is said that a number of the cards indicating the reputation of certain so-called conservative senators and congressmen may be framed. There is a great hubbub in Washington, and the newspaper correspondents who called at the White House on their morning rounds were regaled by a confidential glimpse into the cards and the cabinets. It is likely that the whole outfit will be filed in the Department of Commerce and Labour, and will constitute the basis of what is called around the White House to-day, a 'National Rogues' Gallery. ' The complete details of every senatorial election held in the country during twelve years last past, showing how to reach any Senator susceptible to any influence whatsoever, whether political, social, or religious, are among the trophies of the chase in the hands of the Mighty Hunter for Big Game to-day. "

When General Ward had finished reading, he lifted up his glasses andsaid: "Well, that's it, boys; John has come to his turn of the road. Here's the rest. It says: 'The corporation in question is practicallycontrolled by one man, the man who has placed the information abovementioned in the hands of the government. It is a corporation owningno physical property whatever, and is organized as a rebate hopper, ifone may so style it. The head of the corporation stated when he washere recently that he is preparing to buy in every share of thecompany's stock at the price for which it was sold and then--' Jake, where is page 3 with the rest of this article on it?" asked thegeneral. 

"Why, I threw that away coming down here, " responded Dolan. 

"Rather leaves us in the air--doesn't it?" suggested the colonel. 

"Well, it's John. I know enough to know that--from Neal, " said thegeneral. 

The afternoon sun was shining in the south window of the shop. Dolanstarted to go. In the doorway McHurdie halted him. 

"Jake, " he cried, pointing a lean, smutty finger at Dolan, "JakeDolan, if there are only two people in the world, what becomes of mewhen you begin talking to Mart? If you knew, you would not dodge. Inphilosophy no man can stand on his constitutional rights. Turn state'sevidence, Jake Dolan, and tell the truth--what becomes of me?"

"'Tis an improper question, " replied Dolan, and then drawing himselfup and pulling down the front of his coat, he added, "'Tis not amatter that may be discussed among gentlemen, " and with that hedisappeared. 

The front door-bell tinkled, and the parliament prepared to adjourn. The colonel helped the poet close his store and bring in the woodenhorse from the sidewalk, and then Molly Brownwell came with herphaeton and drove the two old men home. On the way up Main Street theyoverhauled Neal Ward. Mrs. Brownwell turned in to the sidewalk andcalled, "Neal, can you run over to the house a moment this evening?"And when he answered in the affirmative, she let the old nag amblegently up the street. 

"How pretty you are, Aunt Molly, " exclaimed Neal, as the gray-hairedwoman who could still wear a red ribbon came into the room where hesat waiting for her. The boy's compliment pleased her, and she did nothesitate to say so. But after that she plunged into the subject thatwas uppermost in her heart. 

"Neal, " she said, as she drew her chair in front of him so that shecould see his face and know the truth, no matter what his lips mightsay, "we're partners now, aren't we, or what amounts to the samething?" She smiled good-naturedly. "I own the overdraft at the bankand you own the mortgage at the court-house. So I am going to ask youa plain question; and if you say it isn't any of my business, I'llattempt to show you that it is. Neal, " she asked, looking earnestlyinto his face, "why do you write to Jeanette Barclay every day of yourlife and not mail the letters?"

The youth flushed. "Why--Aunt Molly--how did you know?--I nevertold--"

"No, Neal, you never told me; but this afternoon while you we're out Iwas looking for Adrian's check-book; I was sure we paid Dorman's billlast April, and that I took the check over myself. I was going throughthe desk, and I got on your side, thinking I might have left thecheck-book there by mistake, and I ran into the very midst of thoseletters, before I knew what I was about. Now, Neal--why?"

The young man gazed at the woman seriously for a time and then parriedher question with, "Why do you care--what difference can it make toyou, Aunt Molly?"

"Because, " she answered quickly, "because I wish to see my partnerhappy. He will do better work so--if you desire to put it on acold-blooded basis. Oh, Nealie, Nealie--do you love her thatmuch--that you take your heart and your life to her without hope orwithout sign or answer every day?"

He dropped his eyes, and turned his face away. "Not every day, " heanswered, "not every day--but every night, Aunt Molly. "

"Why don't you go to her, Neal, and tell her?" asked the woman. "Is itso hopeless as that?"

"Oh, there are many reasons--why I don't go to her, " he replied. After a minute's silence he went on: "In the first place she is a veryrich girl, and that makes a difference--now. When she was just ayoung girl of eighteen, or such a matter, and I only twenty ortwenty-one, we met so naturally, and it all came out so beautifully!But we are older now, Aunt Molly, " he said sadly, "and it'sdifferent. "

"Yes, " admitted Mrs. Brownwell, "it is different now--you are rightabout it. "

"Yes, " he continued, repeating a patter which he had said to himself athousand times. "Yes, --and then I can't say I'm sorry--for I'm not. I'd do it again. And I know how Mr. Barclay feels; he didn't leave mein any doubt about that, " smiled the boy, "when I left his office thatmorning after telling him what I was going to do. So, " he sighed andsmiled in rather hopeless good humour, "I can't see my way out. Canyou?"

Molly Brownwell leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes for aminute, and then shook her head, and said, "No, Neal, not now; butthere is a way--somehow--I am sure of that. "

He laughed for want of any words to express his hopelessness, and thetwo--the youth in despair, and the woman full of hope--sat insilence. 

"Neal, " she asked finally, "what do you put in those letters? Why doyou write them at all?"

The young man with his eyes upon the floor began, "Well--they're justletters, Aunt Molly--just letters--such as I used to writebefore--don't you know. " His voice was dull and passionless, and hewent on: "I can't tell you more about them. They're just letters. " Hedrew in a quick long breath and exclaimed: "Oh, you know what theyare--I want to talk to some one and I'm going to. Oh, Aunt Molly, " hecried, "I'm not heart-broken, and all that--I'm infinitely happy. Because I still hold it--it doesn't die. Don't you see? And I knowthat always it will be with me--whatever may come to her. I don'twant to forget--and it is my only joy in the matter, that I neverwill forget. I can be happy this way; I don't want to give any otherwoman a warmed-over heart, for this would always be there--I knowit--and so I am just going to keep it. " He dropped his voice againafter a sigh, and went on: "There, that's all there is to it. Do youthink I'm a fool?" he asked, as the colour came into his face. 

"No, Neal, I don't, " said Molly Brownwell, as she stood beside him. "You are a brave, manly fellow, Neal, and I wish I could help you. Idon't see how now--but the way will come--sometime. Now, " she added, "tell me about the paper. "

And then they went into business matters which do not concern us; forin this story business conjures up the face of John Barclay--thetanned, hard face of John Barclay, crackled with a hundred wrinklesabout the eyes, and scarred with hard lines about the furtive craftymouth; and we do not wish to see that face now; it should be hiddenwhile the new soul that is rising in his body struggles with thattough, bronzed rind, gets a focus from the heart into those glaringbrass eyes, and teaches the lying lips to speak the truth, and havingspoken it to look it. And so while John Barclay in the City is dailyslipping millions of his railroad bonds into the market, --slippingthem in quietly yet steadily withal, mixing them into the dailycommerce of the country, so gently that they are absorbed before anyone knows they have left his long grasping fingers, --while he istrading to his heart's content, let us forget him, and look at thisyoung man, that September night, after he left Molly Brownwell, sitting at his desk in the office with the telephone at his elbow, with the smell of the ink from the presses in his nostrils, with thesilence of the deserted office becalming his soul, and with hisheart--a clean, strong, manly heart--full of the picture of awoman's face, and the vision without a hope. In his brain are recordeda thousand pictures, and millions of little fibres run all over thisbrain, conjuring up those pictures, and if there are blue eyes in thepictures, and lips in the pictures, and the pressure of hands, and thetouch of souls in the pictures, --they are Neal Ward's pictures, --they are Mr. Higgin's pictures, and Mrs. Wiggin's pictures, and Mr. Stiggin's pictures, my dears, and alack and alas, they are thepictures of Miss Jones and Miss Lewis and Miss Thomas and Miss Smith, for that matter; and so, my dears, if we would be happy we should becareful even if we can't be good, for it is all for eternity, andwhatever courts may say, and whatever churches may say, and whatevercomes back with rings and letters and trinkets, --there is no divorce, and the pictures always stay in the heart, and the sum of the picturesis life. 

So that September night Neal Ward went back over the old trail aslovers always will, and then his pen began to write. Now in the natureof things the first three words are not for our eyes, and to-night wemust not see the first three lines nor the first thirty, nor the lastthree words nor the last three lines nor the last thirty lines. But wemay watch him write; we may observe how longingly he looks at thetelephone, as if tempted to go to it, and tell it what is in hisbreast. There it sits, all shiny and metallic; and by conjuring itwith a number and a word, he could have her with him. Yet he does nottake it up; because--the crazy loon thinks in the soul of him, thatwhat he writes, some way, in the great unknown system of receivers andrecorders and transmitters of thought that range through thisuniverse, is pouring into her heart, and so he writes and smiles, andsmiles and writes--no bigger fool than half the other lovers on theplanet who, talking to their sweethearts, holding their hands andlooking squarely into their eyes, deceive themselves that what theysay is going to the heart, and not going in one ear and out of theother. 

And now let us put on our seven-league boots and walk from September'sgreen and brown, through October's gold and crimson, into that seasonof the year 1906 when Nature is shifting her scenery, making ready forthe great spring show. It is bleak, but not cold; barren, but notugly, --for the stage setting of the hills and woods and streams, evenwithout the coloured wings and flies and the painted trees and grass, has its fine simplicity of form and grouping that are good to lookupon. Observe in the picture a small man sitting on a log in a wood, looking at the stencil work of the brown and gray branches, as itsshadows waver and shimmer upon the gray earth. He is pokingreflectively in the earth with his cane. His boat is tied to some treeroots, and he doesn't breathe as regularly as a man should breathe whois merely thinking of his next dinner or his last dollar. He delvesinto himself and almost forgets to breathe at all, so deep is hisabstraction. And so he sits for five minutes--ten minutes--half anhour--and save that he edges into the sun as the shadow of the greatwalnut tree above catches him, an hour passes and he does not move. Poking, poking, poking his stick into the mould, he has dug up muchlitter in an hour, and he has seen his whole life thrown up beforehim. In those leaves yonder is a battle--a bloody battle, and thingsare blistered into his boyish heart in that battle that never healover; that tuft of sod is a girl's face--a little girl's face that heloved as a boy; there is his first lawsuit--that ragged pile ofleaves by the twig at the log's end; and the twig is his first tenthousand dollars. All of it lies there before him, his victories andhis defeats, his millions come, and his millions going--going?--yes, all but gone. Yonder that deep gash in the sod at the left hides awoman's face--pale, wasted, dead on her pillow; and that clean blackstreak on the ebony cane--that is a tear, and in the tear is a girl'sface and back of hers shimmers a boy's countenance. All of JohnBarclay's life and hopes and dreams and visions are spread out beforehim on the ground. So he closes his eyes, and braces his soul, andthen, having risen, whistles as he limps lightly--for a man pastfifty--down to the boat. He rows with a clean manly stroke--even inan old flat-bottomed boat--through the hazy sunset into the dusk. 

"Jeanette, " he said to his daughter that evening at dinner, "I wishyou would go to the phone, pretty soon, and tell Molly Culpepper thatI want her to come down this evening. I am anxious to see her. Thecolonel isn't at home, or I'd have him, mother, " explained Mr Barclay. 

And that is why Miss Barclay called "876, Please--yes, 8-7-6;" andthen said: "Hello--hello, is this 876? Yes--is Mrs. Brownwell in?Oh, all right. " And then, "54, please; yes, 5-4. Is this you, AuntMolly? Father is in town--he came in this morning and has spent theafternoon on the river, and he told me at dinner to ask you if youcould run down this evening. Oh, any time. I didn't know you workednights at the office. Oh, is Mr. Ward out of town?--I didn't know. All right, then--about eight o'clock--we'll look for you. "

And that is why at the other end of the telephone, a pretty, gray-haired woman stood, and looked, and looked, and looked at a plainwalnut desk, as though it was enchanted, and then slipped guiltilyover to that black walnut desk, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out awhole apronful of letters. 

And so the reader may know what Molly Brownwell had in that packagewhich she put in the buggy seat beside her when she drove down to seethe Barclays, that beautiful starry November night. She put thepackage with her hat and wraps in Jeanette's room, and then came downto the living room where John Barclay sat by the roaring fire in thewide fireplace, with a bundle beside him also. His mother was there, and his daughter took a seat beside him. 

"Molly, " said Barclay, with a deep sigh, "I sent for you, first, because, of all the people in the world, it is but just that youshould be here, to witness what I am doing; and second, because Janewould have had you, and I want you to be with Jeanette when I tell hersome things that she must know to-night--she and mother. "

He was sitting in a deep easy chair, with one foot--not his lamefoot--curled under him, a wiry-looking little gray cat of a man whonervously drummed on the mahogany chair arm, or kept running his handsover the carving, or folding and unfolding them, and twirled histhumbs incessantly as he talked. He smiled as he began:--

"Well, girls, father got off the chair car at Sycamore Ridge thismorning, after having had the best sleep he has had in twenty years. "

He paused for the effect of his declaration to sink in. Jeanetteasked, "Where was the car?"

"What car?" teased the little gray cat. 

"Why, our car?"

"My dear, we have no car, " he smiled, with the cream of mystery on hislips. Then he licked it off. "I sold the car three weeks ago, when Ileft the Ridge the last time. " He dropped into an eloquent silence, and then went on: "I rode in the chair car to save three dollars. Ineed it in my business. "

His mother's blue eyes were watching him closely. She exclaimed, "John, quit your foolishness. What have you done?"

He laughed as he said: "Mother, I have returned to you poor buthonest. My total assets at this minute are seventy-five milliondollars' worth of stock of the National Provisions Company, tied up inthis bundle on the floor here, and five thousand dollars in theExchange National Bank of Sycamore Ridge which I have held for thirtyyears. I sold my State Bank stock last Monday to Gabe Carnine. I havethirty-four dollars and seventy-three cents in my pocketbook, and thatis all. "

The women were puzzled, and their faces showed it. So the little graycat made short work of the mice. 

"Well, now, to be brief and plain, " said Barclay, pulling himselfforward in his chair and thrusting out an arm and hand, as if to gripthe attention of his hearers, "I have always owned or directlycontrolled over half the N. P. C. Stock--representing a big pile ofmoney. I am trying to forget how much, and you don't care. But it wasonly part of my holdings--about half or such a matter, I should say. The rest were railroad bonds on roads necessary to the company, mortgages on mills and elevators whose stock was merged in thecompany, and all sorts of gilt-edged stuff, bank stock and insurancecompany stock--all needed to make N. P. C. A dominant factor in thecommercial life of the country. You don't care about that, but it wasall a sort of commercial blackmail on certain fellows and interests tokeep them from fighting N. P. C. " Barclay hitched himself forward to theedge of his chair, and still held out his grappling-hook of a hand tohold them as he smiled and went on: "Well, I've been kind of swappinghorses here for six months or so--trading my gilt-edged bonds andstuff for cash and buying up N. P. C. Stock. I got a lot of itquietly--an awful lot. " He grinned. "I guess that was square enough. I paid the price for it--and a little better than the price--becauseI had to. " He was silent a few moments, looking at the fire. Hemeditated pleasantly: "There was some good in it--a lot of good whenyou come to think of it--but a fearful lot of bad! Well--I've savedthe good. I just reorganized the whole concern from top tobottom--the whole blame rebate hopper. We had some patents, and wehad some contracts with mills, and we had some good ideas oforganization. And I've kept the good and chucked the bad. I put N. P. C. Out of business and have issued stock in the new company to ourminority whose stock I couldn't buy and have squeezed the water out ofthe whole concern. And then I took what balance I had left--everycent of it, went over the books for thirty years, and made whatrestitution I could. " He grinned as he added: "But I found it wasnearly whittlety whet. A lot of fellows had been doing me up, while Ihad been doing others up. But I made what restitution I could and thenI got out. I closed up the City office, and moved the whole concern toSt. Paul, and turned it over to the real owners--the millers andelevator men--and I have organized an industry with a capitalizationsmall enough to make it possible for them to afford to be honest forthirty years--while our patents and contracts last, anyway. " He putan elbow in the hollow of his hand, and the knuckles on his knee as hesat cross-legged, and drawled: "I wonder if it will work--" andrepeated: "I wonder, I wonder. There's big money in it; she's a deadmonopoly as she stands, and they have the key to the whole thing inthe Commerce Department at Washington. They can keep her straight ifthey will. " He paused for a while and went on: "But I'm tired of it. The great hulk of a thing has ground the soul out of me. So I ducked. Girls, " he cried, as he turned toward them, "here's the way it is; Inever did any real good with money. I'm going to see what a man can doto help his fellows with his bare hands. I want to help, not withmoney, but just to be some account on earth without money. And soyesterday I cleaned up the whole deal forever. "

He paused to let it sink in. Finally Jeanette asked, "And are we poor, father--poor?"

"Well, my dear, " he expanded, "your grandmother Barclay has alwaysowned this house. An Omaha syndicate owns the mill. I own $5, 000 inbank stock, and the boy who marries you for your money right now isgoing to get badly left. "

"You aren't fooling me, are you, John?" asked his mother as she rosefrom her chair. 

"No, mother, " answered the son, "I've got rid of every dirty dollar Ihave on earth. The bank stock I bought with the money the Citizens'Committee subscribed to pay me for winning the county-seat lawsuit. Asnear as I can figure it out, that was about the last clean money Iever earned. "

The mother walked toward her son, and leaned over and kissed him againand again as she sobbed: "Oh, John, I am so happy to-night--sohappy. "

In a moment he asked, "Well, Jeanette, what do you think of it?"

"You know what I think, father--you know very well, don't you?"

He sighed and nodded his head. Then he reached for the package on thefloor and began cutting the strings. The bundle burst open and thestock of the National Provisions Company, issued only infifty-thousand-dollar and one-hundred-thousand-dollar shares, litteredthe floor. 

"Now, " cried Barclay, as he stood looking at the litter, "now, Molly, here's what I want you to do: Burn it up--burn it up, " he cried. "Ithas burned the joy out of your life, Molly--burn it up! I have foughtit all out to-day on the river--but I can't quite do that. Burn itup--for God's sake, Molly, burn it up. "

When the white ashes had risen up the chimney, he put on another log. "This is our last extravagance for some time, girls--but we'llcelebrate to-night, " he cried. "You haven't a little elderberry wine, have you, mother?" he asked. "Riley says that's the stuff for littleboys with curvature of the spine--and I'll tell you it put severalkinks in mine to watch that burn. "

And so they sat for an hour talking of old times while the fireburned. But Molly Brownwell's mind was not in the performance thatJohn Barclay had staged. She could see nothing but the package lyingon her cloak in the girl's room upstairs. So she rose to go early, andthe circle broke when she left it. She and Jeanette left John standingwith his arms about his mother, patting her back while she wept. 

As she closed the door of Jeanette's room behind her, Molly Brownwellknew that she must speak. "Jeanette, " she said, "I don't know just howto say it, dear; but, I stole those--I mean what is in thatpackage--I took it and Neal doesn't know I have it. It's for you, "she cried, as she broke the string that tied it, and tore off thewrapping. 

The girl stared at her and asked: "Why, Aunt Molly--what is it? Idon't understand. "

The woman in pulling her wrap from the chair, tumbled the letters tothe floor. She slipped into her cloak and kissed the bewildered girl, and said as she stood in the doorway: "There they are, my dear--theyare yours; do what you please with them. "

She hurried down the stairs, and finding John sitting alone before thefire in the sitting room, would have bidden him good night as shepassed through the room, but he stopped her. 

"There is one thing more, Molly, " he said, as he motioned to a chair. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I wondered if you had forgotten it!"

He worried the fire, and renewed the blaze, before he spoke. "Whatabout Neal--how does he feel?"

"John, " replied the woman, turning upon him a radiant face, "it is themost beautiful thing in the world--that boy's love for Jennie! Why, every night after his work is done, sitting there in the office alone, Neal writes her a letter, that he never mails; just takes his heart toher, John. I found a great stack of them in his desk the other day. "

Barclay's face crinkled in a spasm of pain, and he exclaimed, "Poorlittle kids--poor, poor children. "

"John--" Molly Brown well hesitated, and then took courage and cried:"Won't you--won't you for Ellen's sake? It is like that--like youand Ellen. And, " she stammered, "oh, John, I do want to see one suchlove affair end happily before I die. "

Barclay's hard jaw trembled, and his eyes were wet as he rose andlimped across the great room. At the foot of the stairs he called up, "Don't bother with the phone, Jeanette, I'm going to use it. " Heexplained, "The branch in her room rings when we use this one, " andthen asked, "Do you know where he is--at home or at the office?"

"If the ten o'clock train is in, he's at the office. If not, he's notin town. "

But Barclay went to the hall, and when he returned he said, "Well, Igot him; he'll be right out. "

Molly was standing by the fire. "What are you going to say, John?" sheasked. 

"Oh, I don't know. There'll be enough for me to say, I suppose, " hereplied, as he looked at the floor. 

She gave him her hand, and they stood for a minute looking back intotheir lives. They walked together toward the door, but at thethreshold their eyes met and each saw tears, and they parted withoutwords. 

Neal Ward found Barclay prodding the fire, and the gray little man, red-faced from his task, limped toward the tall, handsome youth, andled him to a chair. Barclay stood for a time with his back to thefire, and his head down, and in the silence he seemed to try to speakseveral times before the right words came. Then he exclaimed:

"Neal, I was wrong--dead wrong--and I've been too proud and mean allthis time--to say so. "

Neal stared open-eyed at Barclay and moistened his lips beforelanguage came to him. Finally he said: "Well, Mr. Barclay--that's allright. I never blamed you. You needn't have bothered about--that is, to tell me. "

Barclay gazed at the young man abstractedly for a minute that seemedinterminable, and then broke out, "Damn it, Neal, I can't propose toyou--but that's about what I've got you out here to-night for. "

He laughed nervously, but the young face showed his obtuseness, andJohn Barclay having broken the ice in his own heart put his hands inhis pockets and threw back his head and roared, and then criedmerrily: "All we need now is a chorus in fluffy skirts and anorchestra with me coming down in front singing, 'Will you be myson-in-law?' for it to be real comic opera. "

The young man's heart gave such a bound of joy that it flashed in hisface, and the father, seeing it, was thrilled with happiness. So helimped over to Neal's chair and stood beaming down upon theembarrassed young fellow. 

"But, Mr. Barclay--" the boy found voice, "I don't know--themoney--it bothers me. "

And John Barclay again threw his head back and roared, and then theytalked it all out. He told Neal the story of his year's work. It wasmidnight when they heard the telephone ringing, and Barclay, curled uplike an old gray cat in his chair before the fire, said for old times'sake, "Neal, go see who is ringing up at this unholy hour. "

And while Neal Ward steps to the telephone, let us go upstairs on onelast journey with our astral bodies and discover what Jeanette isdoing. After Molly's departure, Jeanette stooped to pick up what Mollyhad left. She saw her own name, "Jeanette Barclay, " and her addresswritten on an envelope. She picked it up. It was dated: "WrittenDecember 28, " and she saw that the package was filled with letters inenvelopes similarly addressed in Neal Ward's handwriting. She droppedthe letter on her dressing-table and began to undo her hair. In a fewminutes she stopped and picked up another, and laid it down unopened. But in half an hour she was sitting on the floor reading the lettersthrough her tears. The flood of joy that came over her drowned herpride. For an hour she sat reading the letters, and they brought herso near to her lover that it seemed that she must reach out and touchhim. She was drawn by an irresistible impulse to her telephone thatsat on her desk. It seemed crazy to expect to reach Neal Ward atmidnight, but as she rose from the floor with the letters slippingfrom her lap and with the impulse like a cord drawing her, she saw, orthought she saw, standing by the desk, a part of the flutteringshadows, a girl--a quaint, old-fashioned girl in her teens, with--but then she remembered the dream girl her lover had describedin the letter she had just been reading, and she understood the sourceof her delusion. And yet there the vision moved by the telephone, smiling and beckoning; then it faded, and there came rushing back toher memory a host of recollections of her childhood, and of some oneshe could not place, and then a memory of danger, --and then it wasall gone and there stood the desk and the telephone and the room as itwas. 

She shuddered slightly, and then remembered that she had just beenthrough two great nervous experiences--the story of her father'schanged life, and the return of her lover. And she was a level-headed, strong-nerved girl. So the joy of love in her heart was not dampened, and the cord drawing her to the desk in the window did not loosen, andshe did not resist. With a gulp of nervous fear she rang the telephonebell and called, "54, please!" She heard a buzzing, and then a faintstir in the receiver, and then she got the answer. She sat a-tremble, afraid to reply. The call was repeated in her ear, and then she saidso faintly that she could not believe it would be heard, "Oh, Neal--Neal--I have come back. "

The young man standing in the dimly lighted hall was startled. Hecried, "Is it really you, Jeanette--is it you?"

And then stronger than before the voice said, "Yes, Neal, it is I--Ihave come back!"

"Oh, Jeanette--Jeanette, " he cried. 

But she stopped him with, "We must not talk any more--now, don't youknow--but I had to tell you that I had come back, Neal. " And then shesaid, "Good night. " So there they stood, the only two people in theuniverse, reunited lovers, each with the voice of the other soundingin his ears. For Mr. Dolan was right. There are only two people in theworld, and for these two lovers earth and the stars and the systems ofsuns that make up this universe were only background for the play oftheir happiness. 

As Neal Ward came back to John Barclay from the telephone, the youngman's face was burning with joy. 

"Who was it?" asked Barclay. 

The youth smiled bashfully as he said, "Well, it was Jeanette--shewas calling up another number and I cut in. "

"What did she say?" asked her father. 

"Oh, nothing--in particular, " replied Neal. 

Barclay looked up quickly, caught the young man's abashed smile, andasked, "Does she know you're here?"

"No, she thinks I'm at the office. "

Barclay rose from his chair, and limped across the room, calling backas he mounted the stair, "Wait a minute. "

It was more than a minute that Neal Ward stood by the fire waiting. 

And now, gentle people, observe the leader of the orchestra fumblingwith his music. There is a faint stir among the musicians under thefootlights. And you, too, are getting restless; you are feeling foryour hat instinctively, and you for your hat-pins, and you for yourrubbers, while Neal Ward stands there waiting, and the great clockticks in the long silence. There is a rustle on the stairs, at theright, and do you see that foot peeping down, that skirt, that slendergirlish figure coming down, that young face tear-stained, happy, laughing and sobbing, with the arms outstretched as she nears the lastturn of the stairs? And the lover--he has started toward her. Theorchestra leader is standing up. And the youth, with God's holiestglory in his face, has almost reached her. And there for an instantstand Neal and Jeanette mingling tears in their kisses, for thecurtain, the miserable, unemotional, awkward curtain--it has stuckand so they must stand apart, hand in hand, devouring each other'sfaces a moment, and then as the curtain falls we see four feet closetogether again, and then--and then the world comes in upon us, and wesmile and sigh and sigh and smile, for the journey of those four feetis ended, the story is done. 

CHAPTER XXX

BEING SOMEWHAT IN THE NATURE OF AN EPILOGUE

And now that the performance is finished and the curtain has been rungdown, we desire to thank you, one and all, for your kind attention, and to express the hope that in this highly moral show you may havefound some pleasure as well as profit. But though the play is ended, and you are already reaching for your hats and coats, the lights arestill dim; and as you see a great white square of light appear againstthe curtain, you know that the entertainment is to conclude with abrief exhibition of the wonders of that great modern invention, thecinematograph of Time. 

The first flickering shadows show you the interior of Watts McHurdie'sshop, and as your eyes take in the dancing shapes, you discern theparliament in session. Colonel Martin F. Culpepper is sitting therewith Watts McHurdie, reading and re-reading for the fourth and fifthtime, in the peculiar pride that authorship has in listening to thereverberation of its own eloquence, the brand-new copy of the secondedition of "The Complete Poetical and Philosophical Works of WattsMcHurdie, with Notes and a Biographical Appreciation by Martin F. Culpepper, 'C' Company, Second Regiment K. V. " The colonel, with histhumb in the book, pokes the fire in the stove, and sits down again todrink his joy unalloyed. Watts is working on a saddle, but his armsand his hands are not what they were in the old days when his saddlerywon first prize year after year at the Kansas City Fair. So he puffsand fusses and sighs his way through his morning's work. Sometimes thecolonel reads aloud a line from a verse, or a phrase from theBiography--more frequently from the Biography--and exclaims, "Genius, Watts, genius, genius!" But Watts McHurdie makes no reply. Ashis old eyes--quicker than his old fingers--see the sad work theyare making, his heart sinks within him. 

"Listen, Watts, " cries the colonel. "How do you like this, you oldskeezicks?" and the colonel reads a stanza full of "lips" and "slips, ""eyes" and "tries, " "desires" and "fires, " and "darts" and "hearts. "

The little white-haired old man leans forward eagerly to catch it all. But his shoulders slump, and he draws a long, tired breath when thecolonel has finished. 

"Man--man, " he cries, "what a saddle I could make when I wrote that!"And he turns wearily to his task again. 

Oscar Fernald paces in busily, and in half an hour Lycurgus Mason, whohas been thrown out of the current of life, drifts into his place inthe back-water, and the parliament is ready for business. They seeGabriel Carnine totter by, chasing after pennies to add to his littlepile. The bell tinkles, and the postman brings a letter. McHurdieopens it and says, as he looks at the heading:

"It's from old Jake. It is to all of us" he adds as he looks at thetop of the sheet of letter paper. He takes off his apron andceremoniously puts on his coat; then seats himself, and unfolding thesheet, begins at the very top to read:--

 "National Soldiers' Home, Leavenworth, Kansas, March 11, 1909. 

 "TO THE MEMBERS OF MCHURDIE'S PARLIAMENT, "_Gents and Comrades_: I take my pen in hand this bright spring morning to tell you that I arrived here safe, this side up with care, glass, be careful, Saturday morning, and I am willing to compromise my chances for heaven, which Father Van Saudt being a Dutchman always regarded as slim, for a couple of geological ages of this. I hope you are the same, but you are not. Given a few hundred white nighties for us to wear by day, and a dozen or two dagoes playing on harps, and this would be my idea of Heaven. The meals that we do have--tell Oscar that when I realize what eating is, what roast beef can be, cut thin and rare and dripping with gravy--it makes me wonder if the days when I boarded at the Thayer House might not be counted as part of the time I must do in the fireworks. And the porcelean bath tubs, and the white clean beds, and the music of the band, and the free tobacco--here I raise my Ebenezer, as the Colonel sings down in his heretic church; here I put my standard down. 

 "Well, Watts, I hear the news about Nelly. We've known it was coming for a year, but that doesn't make it easier. Why don't you come up here, Comrade--we are all lonesome up here, and it doesn't make the difference. Well, John Barclay, the reformed pirate, President of the Exchange National Bank, and general all-round municipal reformer, was over in Leavenworth last week attending the Bankers' Convention, or something, and he came to see me, as though he hadn't bid me good-by at the train two days before. But he said things were going on at the Ridge about the same, and being away from home, he grew confidential, and he told me Lige Bemis had lost all his money bucking the board of trade--did you know that? If not, it isn't so, and I never told you. John showed me the picture of little John B. Ward--as likely a looking yearling as I ever saw. Well, I must close. Remember me to all inquiring friends and tell them Comrade Dolan is lying down by the still waters. "

And now the screen is darkened for a moment to mark the passage ofmonths before we are given another peep into the parliament. It isMay--a May morning that every one of these old men will remember tohis death. The spring rise of the Sycamore has flooded the lowlands. The odour of spring is in the air. In the parliament are lilacs in asprinkling pot--a great armful of lilacs, sent by Molly Culpepper. The members who are present are talking of the way John Barclay hassloughed off his years, and Watts is saying:--

"Boys will be boys; I knew him forty years ago when he was at least ahundred years older, and twice as wise. "

"He hasn't missed a ball game--either foot-ball or baseball--for fornearly two years now, " ventures Fernald. "And yell! Say, it'ssomething terrible. "

McHurdie turns on the group with his glasses on his forehead. "Don'tyou know what's a-happening to John?" he asks. "Well, I know. Whoeverwrote the Bible was a pretty smart man. I've found that out inseventy-five years--especially the Proverbs, and I've been thinkingsome of the Testament. " He smiles. "There's something in it. It says, 'Except ye come as a little child, ye shall in no wise enter theKingdom. ' That's it--that's it. I don't claim to know rightly whatthe kingdom may be, but John's entering it. And I'll say this: John'sbeen a long time getting in, but now that he's there, he's having thede'el of a fine time. "

And on the very words General Ward comes bursting into the room, forgetful of his years, with tragedy in his face. The bustle andclatter of that morning in the town have passed over the men in theparliament. They have not heard the shouts of voices in the street, nor the sound of footsteps running towards the river. But even theirdim eyes see the horror in the general's face as he gasps for breath. 

"Boys, boys, " he exclaims. "My God, boys, haven't you heard--haven'tyou heard?" And as their old lips are slow to answer, he cries out, "John's dead--John Barclay's drowned--drowned--gave his life tryingto save Trixie Lee out there on a tree caught in the dam. "

The news is so sudden, so stunning, that the old men sit there for amoment, staring wide-eyed at the general. McHurdie is the first tofind his voice. 

"How did it happen?" he says. 

"I don't know--no one seems to know exactly, " replies the general. And then in broken phrases he gives them the confused report that hehas gathered: how some one had found Trixie Lee clinging to a treecaught in the current of the swollen river just above the dam, andcalling for help, frantic with fear; how a crowd gathered, as crowdsgather, and the outcry brought John Barclay running from his housenear by; how he arrived to find men discussing ways of reaching thewoman in the swift current, while her grip was loosening and her crieswere becoming fainter. Then the old spirit in John Barclay, that hadsaved the county-seat for Sycamore Ridge, came out for the last time. His skiff was tied to a tree on the bank close at hand. A boy was sentrunning to the nearest house for a clothes-line. When he returned, John was in the skiff, with the oars in hand. He passed an end of theline to the men, and without a word in answer to their protests, beganto pull out against the current. It was too strong for him, and wassweeping him past the woman, when he stood up, measured the distancewith his eye, and threw the line so it fell squarely across hershoulders. Some one said that as the skiff shot over the dam, John, still standing up, had a smile on his face, and that he waved his handto the crowd with a touch of his old bravado. 

The general paused before going on with the story. 

"They sent me to tell his mother--the woman who had borne him, suckled him, reared him, lost him, and found him again. "

"And what did she say?" asked Watts, as the general hesitated. 

The general moistened his lips and went on. "She stood staring at mefor one dreadful minute, and then she asked, 'How did he die, Philemon?' 'He died saving a woman from drowning, ' I told her. 'Did hesave her?'--that was what she asked, still standing stiff andmotionless. 'Yes, ' I said. 'She was only Trixie Lee--a bad woman--abad woman, Mrs. Barclay. ' And Mary Barclay lifted her long, gaunt armshalfway above her head and cried: 'Mine eyes have seen the glory ofthe coming of the Lord. I must have an hour with God now, Philemon, 'she said over her shoulder as she left me; 'don't let them bother me. 'Then she walked unbent and unshaken up the stairs. "

So John Barclay, who tried for four years and more to live by hisfaith, was given the opportunity to die for it, and went to his dutywith a glad heart. 

 * * * * *

We will give our cinematograph one more whirl. A day, a week, a month, have gone, and we may glimpse the parliament for the last time. WattsMcHurdie is reading aloud, slowly and rather painfully, a news itemfrom the _Banner_. Two vacant chairs are formally backed to the wall, and in a third sits General Ward. At the end of a column-long articleWatts drones out:--

"And there was considerable adverse comment in the city over the factthat the deceased was sent here for burial from the National Soldiers'Home at Leavenworth, in a shabby, faded blue army uniform of mostancient vintage. Surely this great government can afford bettershrouds than that for its soldier dead. "

Watts lays down the paper and wipes his spectacles, and finally hesays:--

"And Neal wrote that?"

"And Neal wrote that, " replies the general. 

"And was born and bred in the Ridge, " complains McHurdie. 

"Born and bred in the Ridge, " responds the general. 

Watts puts on his glasses and fumbles for some piece of his work onthe bench. Then he shakes his head sadly and says, after drawing adeep breath, "Well, it's a new generation, General, a new generation. "

There follows a silence, during which Watts works on mending some bitof harness, and the general reads the evening paper. The lateafternoon sun is slanting into the shop. At length the general speaks. 

"Yes, " he says, "but it's a fine town after all. It was worth doing. Iwake up early these days, and often of a fine spring morning I go outto call on the people on the Hill. "

McHurdie nods his comprehension. 

"Yes, " continues the general, "and I tell them all about the newimprovements. There are more of us out on the Hill now than in town, Watts; I spent some time with David Frye and Henry Schnitzler and JimLord Lee this morning, and called on General Hendricks for a littlewhile. "

"Did you find him sociable?" asks the poet, grinning up from hisbench. 

"Oh, so-so--about as usual, " answers the general. 

"He was always a proud one, " comments Watts. "Will Henry Schnitzler bestiff-necked about his monument there by the gate?" asks the littleScotchman. 

"Inordinately, Watts, inordinately! The pride of that man is somethingterrible. "

The two old men chuckle at the foolery of the moment. The generalfolds away the evening paper and rises to go. 

"Watts, " he says, "I have lived seventy-eight years to find out justone thing. "

"And what will that be?" asks the harness maker. 

"This, " beams the old man, as he puts his spectacle case in his blacksilk coat; "that the more we give in this world, the more we take fromit; and the more we keep for ourselves, the less we take. " And smilingat his paradox, he goes through the shop into the sunset. 

The air is vocal with the home-bound traffic of the day. Cars arecrowded; delivery wagons rattle home; buggies clatter by on thepavements; one hears the whisper of a thousand feet treading the hot, crowded street. But Watts works on. So let us go in to bid him aformal good-by. The tinkling door-bell will bring out a bent littleold man, with grimy fingers, who will put up his glasses to peer atour faces, and who will pause a moment to try to recollect us. He willtalk about John Barclay. 

"Yes, yes, I knew him well, " says McHurdie; "there by the door hangs awhip he made as a boy. We used to play on that accordion in the casethere. Oh, yes, yes, he was well thought of; we are a neighbourlypeople--maybe too much so. Yes, yes, he died a brave death, and thepapers seemed to think his act of sacrifice showed the world a realman--and he was that, --he was surely that, was John; yes, he was areal man. You ask about his funeral? It was a fine one--a grandfuneral--every hack in town out--every high-stepping horse out; andthe flowers--from all over the world they came--the flowers weremost beautiful. But there are funerals and funerals. There was MartinCulpepper's--not so many hacks, not so many high-stepping horses, butthe old buggies, and the farm wagons, and the little niggercarts--and man, man alive, the tears, the tears!"

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Punctuation has been changed to conform to contemporary standards. 

2. Table of Contents not present in the original has been added. 

3. Alternate spellings of "ecstacy" (inside quoted material, on page 318 and 361) and "ecstasy" (outside quoted material, on page 109) retained.